A Study on Peace, by Melkor Bauglir - Skaelds - The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth (2024)

Chapter 1: Lesson 1 : Free yourself from the Void

Chapter Text

Prologue

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The worst part is not the darkness.

Darkness, Melkor knows. He has wrapped himself in it since the dawn of times, ever since he had first sung the world. Darkness; he relishes almost in; for he knows of brightness, and knows of pain; and knows of a blinding light so enthralling that it had clouded even his mind.

Brightness, he could say, he fears. It is an irrational fear, one all the more sinuous that it cannot be fought by pure logic, one that creeps into his veins and whispers so well that he cannot hear anything else.

No, the worst part is not the darkness.

It is the silence.

Melkor is everything and nothing at the same time. He is sprawled, and yet curled so deep within himself, that he knows not what he precisely is. But the silence-!

It gnaws at him. It is a pain as he had never felt before.

Valar were not made for silence. They had been made for singing the world into shape; and they had been made to create when there had been naught, and they were not made for silence.

And Melkor, as much as he desires to separate himself from them, is subject to the same rules.

He can hear nothing but his own thoughts, everything so still, so devoid of anything. Even his voice has failed him, and when he opens his lips – or what he thinks are lips – only silence fall from them. His thoughts twist and twist until they begin to devour one another, until silence grows inside his mind as well.

He understands then; with a clarity so pure that it almost chase away the darkness, what exactly is the Void. He understands how cruel a punishment it is; how vicious a treatment.

Melkor never begged of his life. He never bent the spine, always stood proud and high, even as they had thrown him there.

But now?

Now, something unravels within him. Now that his thoughts are all that comfort him; he thinks of the world, and he thinks of himself above all else, and he thinks of the Void, and he thinks of the War, and he thinks of fiery hair and a laugh bubbling on even redder lips, and he thinks that he is tired.

He thinks of peace, and thinks of simple things. He thinks of rising his eyes to the sky, he thinks of the freedom of changing shapes, he thinks of the fire of his forges, he thinks of Mairon’s skin under his touch, the warmth of it. He thinks of the Silmarils and their light; he thinks of wine and its bittersweet taste, he thinks of the snow on the mountains, he thinks of stones under his feet, he thinks of shaping the world, and thinks of Mairon’s smugness whenever he is successful at yet another creation of his.

He thinks of what he had yearned for, and what he had thought to crave; and what he now wanted.

He thinks of freedom.

He thinks of peace.

And someone hears.

~*~

Melkor wakes up to chains dragging him on the ground.

Confusion seize him; and he blinks; and one second had there been only darkness, and the next, light, the next is he chained in the Halls of Mandos.

He clasps his eyes shut- unaccustomed to light. So many years, so many ages spent in the Void, and he knows nothing of light anymore. Knows nothing of sensations- and the chain around his neck, around his wrists, burns and burns and burns.

Melkor wants to claw at his own flesh to dislodge it. There is the chain against his flesh, and there is the pain in his ankles, and there is the light, and there are the sounds, there is thunder, and there is wind against him, and there is warmth, and there are sensations, and there is and there is and there is and he can not bear it. It is brutal- this newfound sensations, it is going from nothing to everything; and it is too much.

There is a voice calling him, he notices, when the world manages to fade only if a bit.

It says his name, and it says soothing words, and Melkor comprehends none of them. He is still tugging at the chains, at what binds him to what is physical, and the more he tugs on them, the more pain he feels.

Someone forces his eyes open.

Melkor blinks- and it is Námo which face him. Námo as he had been so many ages ago, Námo has he had been when Melkor had first been chained in his Halls. Námo how he had been then, ever the grim one.

And then, Námo speaks. “Lord Melkor, thou are to be released from your chains. Your three ages of imprisonment have just come to an end. Thee shall appear before Lord Manwë for a reassessment of your situation.”

The same words Námo had spoken this first time- the same words he had heard after the three ages of imprisonment, before he had sworn his repentance to Manwë.

Melkor doesn’t understand- Námo is speaking still, saying words he knows already of, and his eyes dart from a place to another, but everything is as he remembered it- and- He stops. His hands fall from where they had been tugging at the chains.

Ah.

He is still in the Void, he absently realizes.

He had not left it. It is merely his memories playing a trick on him; having tired of silence and darkness. It is perhaps the Void itself tugging at them, bringing them to the surface – only to retrieve them, and leave him with the grim realization that it had been all a dream.

Melkor laughs then- a broken, rasped, laugh that shakes him whole.

Námo stops.

He laughs until his lungs cry in pain, until his throat is raw and he lets out wheezing sounds. He laughs until his body shakes from it, until his breath fails him.

He laughs until he can not.

Melkor barely registers Námo kneeling in front of him. There are fingers on his forehead, but he cares not for them, knows the sensation to be merely phantomatic. Yet, he feels warmth; yet he feels their touch on his skin.

“I would not have thought this imprisonment to fare so poorly with you. It is a punishment, but not a cruelty, not something made to rob thee of your mind. Thou shall have to heal then, perhaps, before tasting freedom again.”

Melkor lets out breathless, silent, wheezes. This, he remembers not! How devious is his mind, how clever! To twist words separately heard into a sentence, to make him think them a reality!

“I shall not fall for it,” Melkor spits, when he finds his voice again. He tries to laugh again, only manages to gasp. “An elegant trap! To make me think free! I shall never be free! Begone! Leave me to the darkness!”

Námo watches him without a word. A frown bars his features, and he murmurs something that Melkor can not hear.

“Thou are truly unwell,” Námo says, at last.

“I should fare better should you shed this masquerade!” His words are weak, and he loathes how his voice has but coarse edges, how it breaks. “I recognize the ruse! Shed it all, Melkor!”

Námo marks another pause. “Melkor…?” he slowly repeats. “Who am I, for thee?”

Melkor shakes his head, breathless.

“Thee are nothing but a fragment of mine imagination,” he rasps. “Thou take the form of Mandos, Keeper of the Houses of the Death, but thou are nothing but a useless dream. Memories, stolen from mine mind. Thou can not fool your Master and Owner; and as you come from me, then so shall you obey mine orders! Begone, I say, and shed at once this dream you have clouded me with! Thou are I and I are Thee!”

A second pass; then another.

“You believe me to be a dream?” Námo murmurs. “Why you would believe such a thing, I cannot know. And what of the scenery? Is it only I who is but a dream, or is it all of this place?”

“Do not try to trouble my mind,” Melkor snarls, tugging on his chains. “I know of all of this to be a farce! I have many times expected betrayal- but for it to come from myself is a highest treachery than all I have witnessed!”

“But I am not a dream. This is true, I shall assure you. You are to be released.”

“Lies.”

Námo stands, then. There is concern clouding his face – and this, perhaps most than all, draws another wheezing laugh out of Melkor’s lungs. Never had any of the Valar felt anything close to concern for him, and this imagination of his is very poor indeed at creating a ruse.

“I shall talk about it with our Lord Manwë,” Námo says. “I have not foreseen such a situation. I should have thought… But none had ever been this confused before… You were faring well even a few weeks ago…”

Námo leaves.

The silence comes back- but it is not the one of the Void. It is a soothing silence, one that allows him to hear his own breaths. He hears of a great many thing, from the rattling of his chains to the words he can mutter to himself, from whatever noise haunts the Halls to the creaking of their wood.

Námo comes back, a few times. What passes for Námo, at least, in the troubled space that is his mind.

Melkor manages to deviate his wiles every time. He is weary; waiting for the dream to fade, for him to once again greet the Void; but the dream is persistent. It wants to break him, he realizes after a few days; but he shall never be broken.

Even captured, even weak as he is, Melkor is a being of pride. He will not be broken, and he will not allow himself to be- even if it is by his own mind. The firstborns taken as prisoners had many times an age said for one’s to be their greatest enemy; and Melkor is discovering as such. It is against himself that he is playing, against his own mind- and the game is the hardest he has ever known.

After Námo’s third or fourth visit, there is wind hustling in the Halls. Melkor stills. He had expected it, of course; knew of the most devious tricks his own mind would try to play against him. But as prepared as he had forced himself to be, he still feels dread and hatred tugging at his heart.

Manwë enters the Halls.

His brother is as he had last seen him. Draped in blue-silver silk, his features unreadable. He glides more than walks; and reaches for where Melkor is chained.

Melkor grits his teeth and tightens his jaw. He will not be riled by his own thoughts; and the Manwë that faces him is nothing but a mirage.

“I was told that you were unwell.”

Melkor says nothing.

A shadow flicker on Manwë’s features. “Am I a dream as well?”

Melkor says nothing.

“You ought to speak your mind,” Manwë murmurs. “Tis true that I have never truly understood it; but I shall have even less insight on it should you stay silent. Thou have nothing to benefit from feigning it all a dream for you will soon be released. Why would you believe so, then?”

It is a hard feat than to stay silent, but Melkor manages it. He bites the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from speaking- and he bleeds from the wound. It is truly a curious – and difficult to bear – thing than to once more have a proper hroä. He feels too much still; and everything that touches him he wishes to tear off.

But he knows pain, and knows discomfort, and bears the unsavory feelings all the same.

“I wish I would understand more of you,” Manwë says, after a second of silence. “I fear I have not- and I have spend those three ages wondering of what could have been. I mourn for you, brother. We were not made to fight; and while I understand that your desire of creation should not be bridled; it is your desire for destruction that I fear.”

Words never spoken to him. This is a whole new treachery made by his mind; to hear Manwë speak of their bond, and have sadness in his words rather than fury. Even as he had been freed (the real time), Manwë had been cautious of him. He had gazed at him, and said threats, not comforting words.

Melkor never knew he wished to hear such words, but he must, for why would his dream made them? He has since long convinced himself of nothing but hatred to be between him and Manwë; and his own hatred is as a bramble, dangerous to manipulate.

Rage flare in him, then; that his dream would make him realize things he had not wanted to realize.

“Begone, thee and your treacherous ways!” he seethes. “I see that you have taken a new path, but more than ever are you distancing yourself from reality! Thou might break mine mind but mine spirit shall reign free! I have not broken, and I shall not, so cease those schemes of yours!”

Manwë takes a step backward, startled. His expressionless features bear some of them for a moment,; surprise, incomprehension, realization, concern.

“I swear it on all that lives and shall live,” Manwë says then, approaching once more. “I am not a dream, brother. It ills me that you should think so. Your punishment was never meant to break your mind, and I fear of the consequences.”

“Speak your words of venom as much as you wish, I shall hear none of them.”

What passes as Manwë insists. “But what would you make believe it to be a dream?”

Melkor shakes his head. “I am not broken,” he hisses. “I am not!”

“I had not… I apologize for implying so. I merely wish to understand. It is something I have never seen before. Is it a ploy to inspire pity?” Manwë murmurs, almost as if to himself. “You do not need it. There is pity already in all of our hearts, for you bore a punishment that never existed before you. I had hoped… I had hoped that you would have seen the errors of your ways.”

Manwë marks a pause, then. Hesitation is readable on his face, and Melkor wants to laugh once more.

The more the dream deepens the more it fails to be stay true to reality. Manwë did not hesitate, did not ponder- he was, as much as Melkor, one for action or its very contrary, but never for the pit that lay between both.

“Do you wish still, war and dominion over Middle-Earth?”

“What I wish,” Melkor snarls. “-is for this dream to leave me be! What I wish is for it to break; and my mind to return to the Void and the truth of it! I care not for those lies and mirages, and if it persists in opposing me, then shall I break it myself!”

“You believe yourself to be in the Void…?”

“I know myself to be there.”

“Nobody has ever been in the Void, brother, and no one shall ever be. It is too great a punishment, far more cruel than anyone deserves.”

Melkor’s head is spinning. He is breathless, for having screamed, and for he is not yet used to the over-bearing sensations of this physical world.

“Then,” he murmurs, poison lacing his words. “Why have you damned me to it?”

Manwë says nothing. His features are back to unreadable, and he gazes at Melkor without any of his thoughts peering on his face.

Then, in a swift movement, he crouches before him and frees Melkor of his bounds.

It is so quick a motion that Melkor stay still even seconds after he has been set free. The chains clatter on the ground, where they had fallen, and with their disappearance comes his power at full force.

It hits him- and Melkor drowns in it. It had been years, ages, since he had felt this powerful- since he had regained what he had possessed. It runs through his veins and he is drunk on it all, this dizzying feeling of being whole again.

It is as if a crimpled limb had been returned, as if a wound had been healed. It is a wound deeper than all for it touches his fëa, touches what he is made of.

Melkor rises to his feet. His thoughts are but a ramble; chasing the other as a werewolf chases after his tail, and he can not properly think. His head is pounding, heart thudding in his chest, and he does not hear what Manwë is saying.

He falls to his knees. There is a whisper – and then a touch, words said next to his ear.

Black dances in his vision.

He tries to rise, only to fail. His breath is ragged and there is a burning under his flesh.

He tries once more-

And then he falls, black closing around him.

~*~

“He truly concerns me,” Melkor hears a voice say. “I had not thought one of the Ainur’s mind could fail so; when he had been well merely weeks ago. Can something be done?”

“Tis is the first time I hear of such a thing, my lord; but I shall do all that I can.”

“I fear for him. And I fear for us, that a Valar could be so easily broken.”

“Perhaps he is not. Merely confused. He has spent three ages bounded, my lord. It is not easy on the mind.”

“But to think he believes us to be a dream!”

“Perhaps it is an easier thought than the truth. Delusions prevent the spirit from healing, but sometimes… sometimes they do its very contrary.”

Melkor opens an eye. He is quick to take notice of his surroundings. He lays in a bed made of silk and furs alike- what he favor most than all for the latter reminds him of golden eyes and a quick-witted smile – and all around him speaks of Estë’s Island.

He has entered it only once; before the Darkening of Valinor, but wonders that his mind remembers it so well. It is a peaceful place, made for healing; and he had always sneered at it- for healing was for those too weak to gather themselves; and he would rather inflict pain than soothing.

To find himself there… He wonders what his mind tries to imply.

At the end of his bed stands Estë, Mistress of the place, and Manwë – who has yet to leave. Melkor’s jaw clench more at the sight of the mirage; and he feels his power bubble within his chest; reacting to Manwë’s presence.

“Hail to thee, Lord Melkor, Mightiest of us,” Estë says, her voice as a breeze in spring. “Have you rested well?”

It is then that Manwë takes his leave, without any other word. He fades to the wind; and Melkor is sufficiently distracted by the motion that it allows the Valar of Healing to move closer to him.

“It has been a very long time,” she comments.

“And it shall be even longer,” Melkor snarls. He clutches at the furs- knows that it is but a dream, but they are such a deep remembering of Mairon and his wolves that he clutches at them all the same, tries to seek comfort in their familiarity. “I am impressed, tis true. Summoning the Valar of Healing is a true feat; brings realism to the mirage.”

Estë tilts her head to the side. “You still believe it for all of this to be false, then.”

“I do, and I know as such.”

“I see,” she says, and speaks of nothing else.

She merely lets the second pass in silence, staring, but her lips resolutely closed. It unnerves Melkor, who slowly lets go of the furs. Rage creeps under his skin, a familiar ally. Anger at this situation he feels lost in; at this strangeness.

He is mightier than being weakened by dreams, crippled by them. Tis a domain he towers over, one that bears no strength in comparison to him.

“Tell me about this dream,” Estë murmurs.

“Wherefore?”

Estë hums. She sits in a chair close to the bed; and her fingers go to occupy themselves with braiding cotton yarns. “Indulge a curiosity of mine.”

“Tis a dream drawn from mine memories. Comfort perhaps, to escape the darkness of the Void. Comfort I did not ask for.” His voice is bitter, his words bitterer still. “I do not indulge in fantasies- have no care for it. Tis but a conflict between myself and I; one that I shall emerge triumphant from.”

Estë looks at him in silence. Her eyes are but jewels, a pale brown that betrays nothing of the soul that lays behind. Everything about her is soft, a softness he despises; from the brown hue of her skin to her silken hair. She wears them down; a likeness not shared by many, unbraided, and they are as velvety curtains around her face.

“Dreams, I find, are so very interesting,” Estë says at last. She seems to speak for herself, uncaring as if Melkor choose to listen or not. “Troubling, yet; for they blur the lines between their realm and the one of existence. But as all dreams are; there are details that can not be emulated. Shall I agree with you that I am one; how would thee distinguish me from the real one? Use of power, perhaps? Or perhaps something that your mind would not think of?”

Melkor stills. Unease curls within him, settles low in his stomach.

His mind is fiercer still than he thought it, though it should not come as a surprise. He is the Mightiest of them; Deceiver Above All; and it is no wonder that he would manage to deceive even himself. He knows not if it speaks of prowess or weakness that he should fall for it; for it is himself subduing himself.

Melkor thinks of it then. There are few things never witnessed by him; but an opposition between him and Estë is one of those.

Slowly, he raises his left hand. It is unmarred, unblackened by the theft of the Silmarils. It has been a long time since he had last seen it as such; and he takes a second to stare at it, wondering over the pale grey flesh. He curls his fingers, awed despite himself at the sensations. There are no rings to adorn them, but there hadn’t been at the time. He almost miss them- crafted by his Lieutenant himself; offered as tokens of affection.. It is so close to reality, so well-crafted, that pride joins his unease within his chest.

Even when falling prey to it is he delighted by his skills.

He summons what answers him best- the cold. He wants not for war; nor a true fight- merely to break the mirage. He is tired still- and remembers his last thoughts, when the Void had not yet lay this dream on him; thinking of tiredness and renewal.

Slowly, a hammer of ice forms. It is an instinctive shape; one that he knows best than all- and he takes a moment to wonder over its realism. The size, he lets it be a faint thing; for he wishes not to draw Estë’s rage – for all that it exists- but to break the veil placed on his mind.

Estë looks at him, and nods.

The movement is ingrained in his very fëa. Battle is a part of him as much as he is a part of battle, now, ages spent fighting, surviving, winning. In a second does he strikes his hammer on Estë- and if it is really himself wearing her features, then she shall be as quick in protecting herself from it. Never would he let himself be struck, even for the sake of deceit.

She does not.

The blow strikes Estë; and she falls from it- unarmed, but struck down all the same.

It startles Melkor- and the hammer vanishes from his grip.

Estë rises to her feet; and there is a wound on her shoulder. She says nothing about it; and in a swift gesture it is healed. But Melkor stares at it; at the implications of it; and his thoughts are a hurricane within the confines of his mind.

It is not a dream, he realizes.

He does not understand- it can not be a dream, not when he had never seen Estë use her healing, when he knows nothing of its doings, when never would he let himself be struck down; when he feels and hears so much; when it seems so little like the Void that it can not be it-

He is not in the Void. Somehow; by some incredulous feat, he is not in the Void.

Melkor has escaped it. He finds himself in the Years of the Trees, before even the first age, before the Silmarils, before the Darkening of Valinor, before War, before everything.

Another chance, another hope.

It bubbles in his chest, at first. A flicker that he can not truly feel- but it spreads. It spreads until he is laughing wildly; madly. Estë stares in concern but he can not bring himself to care; never had, and he laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

He barely registers Manwë appearing – and perhaps he had never left at all – and Estë coming to tower over him, their hushed words and panic; as he seems to lose himself in madness.

It is another chance. They bind him to the bed, as he is still laughing. He lets them- There is so much he wants; and the Silmarils have yet to be crafted-! No Fëanor, no Ungoliant and her treachery, no wound so deep that he will be eternally bound to his hroä, no Beren and Lúthien, no war, no defeat, no Void.

But what he wants- what he yearns for, is both what he had previously disregarded and what he had always wanted.

He wants the Silmarils and their light; he wants Mairon and his sharpness of tongue, he wants his power, and he wants peace.

He is tired of the fear, of the paranoia, of the anger, of the fight. He is tired of the Hunt, and the Siege, and he is tired of Victories and Defeats.

Over the years, Melkor has lost sight of his true desire. It is not war, nor power – for he is already the mightiest of them – it is not utter dominion over the lands he has created.

What had driven him, once, whispered to his blood, had been freedom.

~*~

There is a whisper that grows in the Halls of Angband.

It goes from orc to orc; carried by the thralls, whispered to prisoners, reaches even the great Balrogs in the pit of the fortress.

Our Lord is returning, our Lord is returning.

It reaches higher than the Balrogs, even. It climbs up and up and up, until it slithers inside the highest tower, the warmest chamber.

Mairon, Steward of Angband, Lieutenant of Melkor, Lord of the Orcs; stares as far as his burning eyes allow him. He has yet to be called by other names.

Unease grows inside him. A feeling of wrongness that wraps itself around his throat.

His Lord should have returned by now.

Yet, he hasn’t.

Chapter 2: Lesson 2 : Realize you want peace

Chapter Text

here we go again

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Some things do not change.

Melkor lies about the supposed dream. He says that he had seen things – a vision brought by Eru himself – and the name is as magma on his lips. He tells a tale of foreseeing and repentance, of a warning given. He speaks of a guilt he feels not, and asks for mercy.

He is destined to the Void, he says, wide-eyed, and so very genuine-like, and on this, he does not lie, and says that he does not want to see his dream come to pass.

Manwë is… relieved. It is an incredulous sight, but truly, there is no better word. It is relief that Melkor sees in his brother’s eyes, relief that flashes through his face as Melkor speaks of repentance and visions. He takes a step forward even- and Melkor is mildly afraid that he will do something of utter nonsense, like trying for contact- (perish the thought) but Manwë’s arms fortunately fall back to his sides.

It does not mean Melkor is left to his own devices, far from it. The two other Valar insist (and really it is less of a demand than an order) that he is to stay on Estë’s Island. He is to stay there until he heals- and it takes all his strength not to snarl that there is nothing to heal.

It is merely a way of keeping him on a leash- that much he knows. But – he admits it begrudgingly – it allows him to think.

One would have thought that ages spent inside the Void having nothing to do but think would have left him avoiding this particular process, but Melkor needs it. He confesses it solely to himself, in the vicinity of his mind, but he doesn’t know what to do. Not yet, at least.

He has grown complacent, he realizes, on Mairon’s ability for planning. The Void had brought him very little reason to scheme, and before that for years had Mairon done it for him. Melkor can not remember the last time he had orchestrated a long-term plan on his own- without the input of his Lieutenant.

It makes him seethe- facing the truth. Perhaps, he is slowly realizing, it even goes back to the Ñoldor themselves- those rumors he had whispered to their ears. Back to before the first age.

Melkor thinks; thus. This is a new opportunity, a new chance. He thinks on what he wants, now that he can properly lay his desires bare, and finds that his answer has not changed. Three things still : the Silmarils, Mairon, peace.

Mairon is the easiest to achieve. A strange thought- for it would be sure to infuriate whom it concerns, but it is the truth. Mairon, he is bound to, and it is not one-sided.

Peace, now- it can be attained. With difficulty, certainly – for there is still his armies waiting for him in Angband, Manwë’s uncertainty; variables that he can not plan; and- Melkor admits it, his own desires, as changing as the wind. But it can be- he wants to. And there is very little he did not managed to have when he settled his mind on it.

The Silmarils- Melkor can not give them up. He can not. He has gazed at their lights and found himself renewed, and even the memory of such a light tugs at his chest, make him yearn. It is a light akin to the Flame Imperishable he so sought; and if he can not have the latter, the former he covets more than anything that exists. It is as if there is a part of his fëa within those gems; calling for him- and deep within himself, he knows the reason for such a longing. Long had he been forsaken by Eru, and with it comes the lack of warmth, the lack of light, the lack of life. The Silmarils… they give him a taste of this warmth; what had been his in the beginning; what made him whole. They bring back to the surface a part of him that has been stolen, and now that Melkor had tasted it again, he can not live without it.

There is only one solution- thus. He needs to forge them- or at least assist Fëanor in their creation- and this time, perhaps not steal them; but either be gifted them or craft a fourth gem, one that would be solely his. Or should he steal them- Melkor grits his teeth. Should he steal them again- he will certainly not call for Ungoliant, this wretched creature, monster of the Void that passed as a spider when she was certainly not.

He has gone back enough in time that Fëanor has yet to craft them. It is a chance- one that he will not let pass. Melkor has yet to find a way on how to exactly possess them without another war, but he has time to think about it; time to elaborate a better-crafted plan.

In the meantime… Once more does he need to befriend the Ñoldor. Not in the eventuality of a war, this time; but to make himself agreeable to Fëanor, to get closer to the Silmarils. And well- if he is honest; it shall do nothing but good to have allies, even if he plans not to go to battle again. Should the Valar grow too cautious of him, to have Eldar testifying of his good faith is a worthy plan.

He goes to Estë; who is a strange kind of jailer, indeed. She never watches him; never asks of his thoughts; but merely provides a silent sort of presence, leaving gifts, food and drinks near him. Melkor has yet to touch it.

“I should believe myself healed,” Melkor announces. It suffers no contradiction. He does not bother with lying- Estë seems to have an unnatural ability to decipher the lack of truth within them. It makes him wonder why she had not been there, the first time. Perhaps she had thought it unworthy of her time. Perhaps she had not been asked to. “I have heard of firstborns walking the streets of Tirion-”

“You are not to leave the Island,” Estë tells him.

She watches him with a faint smile; hovering over her lips.

Melkor forces himself to patience. It is not an exercise he is very successful at, and his voice is gritted when he speaks again. “How different is it then, from the Halls?”

Estë cuts a grapefruit in two.

“Thy chains are lacking, I would say,” she says, and offers him the first half of the fruit. “I had hoped for the Island to be a far better sight than white halls.”

Melkor reluctantly takes it. He has never been one for food; had only found his grace in wine. He does not know what to do with it; and settles for holding it, insisting.

“Three ages have I been chained. Three ages have I been forced for idleness- and I can not bear it now, when I have the means to avoid it. I merely wish for a try- a wandering upon the streets. I find myself curious of their creations, and how they fare in Aman.”

Estë cuts her own half-grapefruit into small morsels. “It is made for eating,” she says, pointing at Melkor’s half. “I hold no quarrel against thy curiosity; but thou have to be willing to receive a welcome tailored to your precedent actions. Ainur shall grant forgiveness, but not forgetfulness, and many of the Eldar shall be weary of thee.” She narrows her eyes, then, and nibbles at one of her grapefruit’s morsels. “Now, eat.”

Melkor stares at the half-fruit; and with a sigh, crams it in his mouth. It is bitter; and juice falls on his chin; but he stares at Estë.

“Satisfied?” he asks, co*cking an eyebrow when he has swallowed the fruit. Melkor shall not go to the length of saying it good, but is not bad, he supposes. “If that is all- shall I be free to wander, then? Notify Manwë as far as you wish; but should he come in all his glory to retrieve me; tell him I would rather not be shackled again.”

Estë eats another of her morsels. She does it cleanly, far differently from how he had done it.

“By all means,” she says. “I shall tell our Lord to use the muzzle instead.”

She is laughing when Melkor leaves her; and he can already see how she is preparing for bed- for she sleeps most of her time. It baffles him, genuinely, that she would waste hours in doing so, when Ainur have little need for it.

Delight and self-satisfaction buzz deep in his chest as he walks, the thought of being soon close to the Silmarils again- and then another, that makes him halt in surprise. The city, Melkor also wants to gaze at. He wants to see the life of it; to walk through the streets, feel the light of the trees on his skin. He wants to feel the ground under his feet, and the fire of the forges, the songs-

Melkor shakes his head. It is foolish. Cravings brought by the Void, that will soon come to pass.

He longs for them all the same.

.

.

.

Melkor can not present himself as he is to the Ñoldor. They might not know yet of his hroä; but he still stands as he had been when chained in Mandos’ Halls: standing higher than all, his skin akin to the pale grey of thunderclouds, the ink markings on his chin, his black sclera broken only by ice blue irises. It is a testimony to his strength, to what he is, but Melkor can not walk in his true hroä- not when he seeks their companionship.

It had taken time, once, to win their hearts- and he had done so with the eldest way of the world, the use of a common enemy. Well-placed whispers and insinuations that had brought them closer to him, in order to face their owns, and Melkor can not use the same way. It is useful, certainly, for one who wishes to bring chaos and trouble- but when seeking peace, it can not be used.

He is quick to craft himself a disguise then- shamelessly taking inspiration from the earliest form of his Balrogs. He twists the skin until it reaches a common shade; pales his eyes until they resemble the dull grey of the Ñoldor, smooths the dark of his hair into a deep brown. It annoys him; childishly, he knows; to make himself stand a little lower; to break his height.

Melkor does it all the same; and soon can he pass for one of the Ñoldor. Even the markings on his face does he vanish; but the black pearl that adorns his ear- he does not. It is a gift- a symbol; of a bond like no other, recognition of his own imperfection (for what he lacked had been given to another fëa, made to complete him) and he is loathe to abandon it.

.

.

.

Tirion is brighter than Melkor remembers it.

Then again, he has been rather clouded by darkness recently.

Estë’s Island does not help; for it is clouded too, if only by mist – one that he is fairly certain to come from Nienna’s wailing. Her halls are close after all; and with her tears rises a fog that devours all; clouding the world in white and grey.

Melkor’s eyes dart from a place to another, unable to settle. He calls himself a fool for it, at first; before lowering his guard. He is supposed to pass as one of the Eldar, after all, and to have one wonder at the city would not be an eerie sight. He lets himself freely stare then; and his delight grows so well within his chest that it manifests in a laugh; as he lets the Trees’ light bathe him.

The Ñoldor walk freely in those streets; and there is much to gaze at. Craftworkers exposing their newly-made creations, selling them; songs whispered, exclaimed, shared; food and beverage freely exposed – and upon the sight of a grapefruit, Melkor is quick to pocket it; thinking of giving it to Estë. It will stand as a testimony of his wandering; that he has indeed gone to Tirion and its streets rather than nefarious purposes.

Melkor lets himself be dazzled by it; this atmosphere he knows nothing of- which is strangely easy to partake in. He is inconspicuous within the crowd, an Elda amongst many others; and it is so very strange a feeling to have eyes cross his and not dart away in fear.

He might just understand Mairon’s taste for disguises; if it is so troubling. All of those wandering here would wail and pale at the truth of him, and yet they offer him smiles and kind words. It is dizzying- this thought of anonymousness; to have knowledge that they have not.

It is the thought of holding a secret- he realizes.

His feet lead him to where his heart longs for: the forges of Tirion.

There is a strange feeling buzzing under his skin; and Melkor realizes with surprise that it is both excitation and apprehension. Fëanor, he despises and is awed by; for he is the one to have refused him so fervently and yet to have crafted the true wonders of this world.

It is no wonder then that he both desires and loathes seeing him again. He will- so very soon- and Fëanor’s eyes will rise to him, without any recognition in those grey irises, and Melkor will savor the thought of knowing.

He passes the gates of the forges.

Ñoldor of all kind work around the fires, the tools. There are sounds and smells unique to the place; bringing him back to years ago. He stops at the entrance, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of scents, of noise, of chatter and tools clinging against the other.

“Have you come for an apprenticeship?”

Melkor blinks. He turns his head to the right-

There is a Ñoldor watching him. “It can be overwhelming, at first,” the Ñoldor says, his kind face smiling. He wears a blacksmith's apron, dark brown hair braided according to the safety criteria. “All those sounds. I found myself troubled by them too when I first entered the place. The key lays in concentrating on just one of them, or have your thoughts be the most prominent ones.”

“Tis a craft I have already mastered,” Melkor says, surprised despite himself. “Tis was not the noise who troubled mine mind but the sheer life of the forges. Mine were… less so.”

The Ñoldor’s eyes lights up.

“You have come to lay your eyes on our work, then? Fresh insight will never be turned away.”

“Perhaps,” Melkor admits. “What have thou crafted then?”

The Ñoldor frowns then, and makes a wide gesture directed at Melkor. “There is no need for such formality between us- all of our craft are kin in this place. I would be honored for you to gaze at what I have made. Tis of poor quality, I am aware, for I am new at the craft- but your advice would be most welcome.”

Melkor laughs. He is pleased- strangely so; to have one of the Eldar seek his council. Long have they frowned at it; said for it to be wicked and foul; and it is but a delicious revenge to see one of them actively want it.

“Lead the path,” he says. He will use the opportunity to look for Fëanor – as the Prince of the Ñoldor is bound to be there. While he had eventually ended up tiring of the noise, of the attention his work brought; Fëanor has yet to have his own forges – or he shouldn’t, at least – and Melkor will surely find him here.

The Ñoldor gives him a curt bow.

“Which name do you wear?” the Ñoldor asks, working his way through the forge. It is hot there- hotter than Melkor remembers; and sweat drips on many foreheads. “I was given the one of Torthedir, for it had been foreseen that I would enjoy the beauty of the craft.”

Melkor’s mind spins- he had not thought of an epessë- no name to use for his disguise- his eyes dart to the Eldar surrounding him, their creations- a fleeting thought of how he was supposed to give council- and he blurts out: “Annatar, for I bring you knowledge and advice alike as gifts.”

“Tis a beautiful name,” Torthedir agrees, still smiling.

The Eldar and their fondness of it- Melkor can never comprehend. But he twists his own lips in what he hopes resemble this gifted smile; and know to make a poor rendition of it when the Ñoldor’s own smile vacillates.

“Tell me of the forge,” Melkor finally settles for. “Who comes here?”

Torthedir leads them to a smaller fireplace; where a hammer lays- abandoned. In truth, Melkor has little fondness for craftworking; merely enjoys its results. He knows far more than the Eldar, nonetheless, for he had been there when it had been first invented- and long had he spied on Aulë’s forges, be it for his work or whom worked underneath him.

It is true that he had given council to Fëanor – and this Melkor admits only to himself, not even his most faithful – but in truth, in real truth, Fëanor’s creations had been solely his owns. Whatever council he had given had enhanced, not shaped from scratch.

Tis is not a thought he enjoys on having; but ages spent in the Void made him realize that there is one he should never again lie to, and it is himself.

As little as he enjoys the creation part, far more versed in its opposite, Melkor can immediately find flaws on Torthedir’s works. He had spoken the truth when saying his work to be of a poor quality; not merely humbling himself, but perhaps it is because Melkor has only surrounded himself with perfection.

Be it Mairon, Fëanor or even – and he loathes to say it- Aulë; their work shared, if not anything else, the pursuit of utter perfection.

This Ñoldor’s work… not so much.

Melkor purses his lips; and is very tempted indeed to speak his mind. But there is expectation in Torthedir’s eyes – and he knows, intrinsically, that the Ñoldor just might be his way to Fëanor. He needs only one of them to trust him, after all; and it will spread as the most delicious rumor, until he is in the good graces of the Prince of the Ñoldor himself.

He takes Torthedir’s creation in his hands- barely resisting the urge of throwing in the fire.

“Which purpose lays in the heart of your work?” Melkor asks. He seizes the bracelet between his fingers- for it seems to be one; and inspects it under the light of the fire. “Which words did you whisper to it?”

Torthedir frowns, uncomprehending.

“What do you mean? I thought of the form- and sketched the visualization of my thought. There is no other purpose than being ornamental.”

Melkor hums. “May I?”

“By all means-”

Torthedir is not finished with his sentence that Melkor has seized the hammer. In one hit does he breaks the bracelet in three; using far more strength than any Ñoldor would have, but he pays no attention to Torthedir’s horrified gasp.

Before the Ñoldor can go either green with rage; or pale in sorrow; Melkor lays the three broken parts on the palm of his hand, and whispers: “Thou shall be the mountain when time shall be the wind against it; and in thy strength will thou bring some to thy owner as well; for thou are made to endure, and in thy power will draw that of others.”

Melkor is quick to file the broken pieces; taking advantage of his act to correct the errors of the Ñoldor, the imperfections in the metal. He works in silence; focused on what he is doing; and bears very little attention to Torthedir’s stares and gasps.

He needs only a few minutes for the bracelet to be whole once more; for the sole exception that it now hosts a fraction of his will. A flicker of his power, nothing that will not come back. There lays the most wonderful secret of the craft; to give it will is to give it strength, and there is a reason for which the Silmarils are rumored to host Fëanor’s very fëa. This- had been knowledge offered by Melkor.

Not even Aulë had thought of whispering his will into objects; had crafted them wonderful and things of beauty above all others, but never had he gave them power on their own. Never had he made them sentient- for it is imitating life; and it is imitating Eru himself, and it is blasphemy, Melkor supposes. A pity that he never cared much for blasphemy.

The bracelet is rather plain; and he has no taste for such silver-like metal, but it does its purpose. Melkor cools it before giving it back to Torthedir; leaving him to stare at it to his fill.

“Tis a fine work,” he says, although it is not. “You bear your name well; for your art will only grow in beauty.”

“What-” Torthedir gasps. “What have you done to it, Annatar? I have never seen anything like it-!”

Melkor tilts his head and smiles; though he is aware it most likely resembles a grin.

“I gave it life. It is there that lays the true secret of perfect craft; that you need not to consider your work as inanimate; but to give it the means to surpass its earlier condition.”

“You gave it life…”

The Ñoldor is watching him in awe, wide-eyed. He brushes a finger against the bracelet, and lets out a breath when he feels it pulse against his touch; warm, powerful. “I have never seen…” he whispers, again. “Tis a wonder! A discovery like none other!” He raises his eyes to Melkor, bedazzled. “How have you managed it?”

Melkor deflects the question as best he can, speaking of experiences and gifts brought by the Valar. He is in the midst of explaining himself when he realizes that they have brought attention to them; and that many Ñoldor have ceased their work in order to look in their direction.

A small group begins to form around Torthedir and He. Melkor begins to think that it has been a very poor idea- he had not wanted to bring attention to himself (although it pleases him very much) and there have yet to be a sight of Fëanor within the growing crowd.

He asks, then, since the question is burning his lips.

“Have the Princes not come to indulge their curiosities? I heard of the Prince Fëanor’s fondness for the forge-”

“Prince Fëanor?” one asks, frowning.

Many frown too. Melkor’s smile is tight on his lips, but he feels none of its mirth.

“Yes,” he insists. “I had hoped of having the chance of seeing his creations.”

A Ñoldor shakes his head.

“Prince Fëanor does not forge!” he says. Many other agree in hushed whispers. “He is a newly wed! He has other matters to tend to than the craft!”

Melkor’s smile slips from his lips. He becomes very still.

“Forgive me?”

“If the Prince has any liking to the Forge, he has yet to come speak of it,” Torthedir says. “I wonder where you heard such a rumor-”

Fëanor does not… forge?

Melkor’s fists twists at his sides.

“The Prince has just become a Father for the fifth time,” another Ñoldor provides, helpfully.

“Tis the Highness Curufinwë, who is just of twenty years of age!”

“He is said to look very much alike our Lord-”

“Our Prince has four other sons! Tis nothing like we have ever seen-”

“How would he gather time for the forge?”

Melkor does not hear the rest. His heart thud at his ears, blood pounding.

Fëanor

does

not

FORGE?

.

.

.

Melkor is seething.

He is in half a mind to march on Fëanor’s house and to drag him to the forges, his children be cursed to the Void.

It is in this state of fury that he escapes from Tirion – and the word is fitting; for Annatar’s attention is much demanded after this little feat of his- and makes his way to Estë’s Island. The Ñoldor manage to steal a promise from him, to come back soon and share more of his knowledge; and Melkor is quick in agreeing if it allows him to flee this instant.

It is in this state of fury; oblivious of his environment; that he makes a painful mistake.

Melkor has grown forgetful of caution, after those ages spent alone, without any need for it, and in his hurry he does not notice how the world shift around him. A humming- made as a warning- and when Melkor finally notices it, it is too late.

Tulkas stands before him.

Melkor comes to a stop. He is still wearing the disguise made for the Ñoldor; and sheds it at once, for the less Tulkas gaze at it, the less will he recognize him in a crowd. It brings him satisfaction, too, to see himself return to his rightful height, surpass even the one made to subdue him.

A childish kind of one, he is aware- but again, he never said for himself to be above such petty thoughts.

“I see thy lies at last, Melkor!” Tulkas shouts, eyes blazing in hatred. He holds his mass; made of spikes and chains-and it brings such a vivid memory in Melkor’s mind that he takes a step backward. Instinctively- foolishly. “Thee have torn away this falseness of thy; and lay bare thy true intentions.”

This had not happened before- Melkor had been pardoned in front of a crowd; and in this crowd both Ulmo and Tulkas had been most vehement in calling him foul, but Manwë had ordered silence from them. This time, no such thing had been done; his pardon brought in different conditions- and Melkor is not certain what to make of this encounter.

Rage – and deeper, fear – curls in his chest. He remembers, vividly; the severing of his feet. He remembers his weakness, unable to do anything, and he remembers his terror and dread, remembers how he had uselessly fought- oh, Tulkas, Tulkas he despises more than any thing that lives, in those shores or the ones of Arda.

Tulkas, he is not certain he could slay. It is the uncertainty that leaves him to rage, and fear, one so nasty and foul it eats away his thoughts and claws its way through his mind.

“Only good will brings me there,” Melkor snaps. “It is not to be punished, surely, to wander the streets of Tirion ?”

His hroä flickers; for he does not know if he needs to escape or to deceive. Fight, is the least wanted option, and he shall do nothing of it; even if his blood screams for it to happen.

Tulkas tightens his grip around his weapon. “Keep thy wicked lies for thyself, Belegurth.”

Great Death, he calls him, and Melkor laughs- for Tulkas knows nothing yet of the death he had brought. He knows nothing of the Great Dragons, and the War of Wrath, knows nothing of what he has done, and what he can do.

He is the Master of Lies, the Ruler of Men and Elves, the Black Foe of the World, the Elder King.

He is the rightful King of Arda-!

Melkor stops- But he is not.

Not anymore.

His rage grows deeper- but this time self-directed. He is quick to forget, quick to demand what is rightfully his. But it is not; and he wants not for it; and Melkor does not want war anymore. It is peace he seeks, and yet, why is it so that it is harder to pursue than its enemy?

Melkor closes his eyes, forces himself to patience. His attempts had fared poorly until then- but he needs success; more than ever. “I speak the truth,” Melkor says, as calmly as he can. “I have seen what have not yet come to pass; and I wish not for it. I wish not for war. We have no need for a quarrel-”

“Thou might say what pleases our Lord Manwë best but I shall not be deceived as well-” Tulkas growls. “He believes in thee- for he wishes more than all to have thee by his side, but he is misguided by his affection, and thou have not quit thy foul ways!”

Melkor laughs- despite himself. “My foul ways?”

Tulkas takes a step forward. He is as thunder amidst a storm, each footstep a strike of lightning in the sky. The ground rambles under him; and when he speaks, the earth itself shakes under the strength of his words.

Once it had been Melkor’s strength too.

He wonders what it speaks of him that he would wish to disregard it- no, it is not the truth. Melkor enjoys wielding raw power, enjoys the fear in their eyes when they realize their inevitable demise; but it comes not alone. It brings with it terror, and it brings pain; and Melkor is so tired of it. Tired of those years hiding in Angband, tired of the schemes, tired of the unending battles, of the destruction it brought, tired of seeing his own hroä grow weaker and weaker- and see his fëa follow its inevitable descent to the Void.

He is tired- and it tires him even greater than Tulkas would not see the truth of his words. For once he speaks honestly; for once does he is genuine about his want for peace- and that Tulkas can not see it; that he is so blinded by rage- it infuriates him.

Melkor takes a step forward; towering over Tulkas.

“Thou speak of what thou understand not, Bringer of War, and thou art so blind to thy own desires for battle that thou wouldst bring it to where there is no need for it!” Melkor snarls. His eyes are ablaze; blue flames from the very pits of Utumno. “I wish for peace, and I wish for quietness, and thou shall not take it from m-”

Tulkas moves quicker than the wind- for Melkor has no time to finish his sentence that Tulkas is upon him; one hand pinned over his throat; the second raising his mass over them.

Millenia of battle instincts are what allows Melkor to seize the second wrist in an iron grip, maintaining it in the air.

“THEE THICK-HEADED NUISANCE!” Melkor shrieks, positively furious. “Is it so strange a notion that I would not seek pain anymore ?-! Perhaps thou ought to spend less time smashing thy skull on thy enemies’ metal and use it for its primary function - intelligent thinking!”

“Thou think thyself clever, Belegurth, Black Enemy!” Tulkas roars back. The Valar tightens his grip on Melkor’s throat- strangling him into a breathless gasp- ““Thou think we are but blind to thy malice-! We are not! We see thou plainly, as thou art; under the disguise, under the wiles!”

Melkor’s talons sink into the Valar’s flesh; and Tulkas lets out a shout of pain, loosening the pressure on Melkor’s throat. He gulps air; frantically; strangled throat already bruising. It is breathless that he shouts, scrambling backwards: “Away thou miserable coward-! Thou speak of war and wiles but shall not do anything about it! Do it then! Slay me where I stand and report it to thy Lord! Take mine place in Mandos’ Hall if thou crave it so eagerly!”

“Perhaps I shall! Tis a punishment I shall joyfully endure if it is the penance for thy undoing!”

Melkor laughs- a mad laugh; and shakes his head.

“And forsake thyself in the eyes of Eru? Thou speak of mine wiles; but thee art no mightier- for thou art willing to bring thy own justice to Arda- disregarding Manwë’s orders- thy Lord!”

“Our Lord!” Tulkas roars.

“Thy lord,” Melkor sharply corrects; jaw tightening. “Thou forget thy place, Astaldo. Thee might be weary of I; but I stand at the One-Who-Rise-In-Might; and if not serve me thee ought at last to respect me.”

Tulkas snarls; and his grip is so tight on his mass that his fingers leave bruises on its metal; but he does not step forward.

“I will watch thee,” Tulkas warns him, his voice low and enraged. Fury is still ablaze on his features; but he seems to have found a hold on himself- and perhaps it is the thought of Eru that refrains him from striking; perhaps the reminder of Manwë’s orders; but he does not move farther. “I will watch thee; Belegurth, and if thou make only the slightest slip...”

Melkor snorts. “If this, then do as thou please.”

Tulkas’ jaw tightens as well.

“Thou truly believe thyself clever, Dark Enemy; but I am not as blinded by this wiles as the others Valar are. I have been made to destroy thee; never forget it.”

“Hardly, with thee breathing down mine neck.”

“Resort to mockery as thou wish,” Tulkas snaps. “Tis the weapon of cowards; and mine will be quick to strike when thou will shed thy disguise.”

Melkor takes a step backwards, prepared to flee. He can not fight, not when he is sure to lose control of himself, vanquish his chance at peace. “Do not hold thy breath on it,” he sneers, nonetheless, for hatred and rage still battle in his heart. “I shall see thou again, then, I suppose. Please do not come by; I tend to avoid torturing myself unnecessarily.”

He does not hear what Tulkas roars back; for he already has he changed his hroä; giving himself wings made to carry him above the lands of Aman.

.

.

.

There is wind against Melkor’s skin. He feels its breath against his very flesh; and when once would have frozen it in place, now relishes in its presence.

It is soothing, he supposes.

He lays in the middle of Estë’s Island; where he is sure not to be found: head resting on a stone, in his very own circle of snow. Unable to resist, Melkor has covered the grass in it; relishing in its biting cold. It burns at his flesh so very different from how the fire does; one that he will never tire of.

His eyes are closed; and all beasts have flown, leaving his breath to be the only breaker of silence.

Peace, he finds, is much harder to achieve than war. War- now, is an easy affair. A few heated words, a strike and two, and it is easily brought upon them. Peace, on the contrary- Melkor already regrets his decision.

It had taken all of his strength not to lose the little patience he had left; and it makes him rage to think of either Fëanor or Tulkas. He tries not to, then, and breathes. It is sure to anger him should he think of them, and he craves, desperately, for calm.

Perhaps, he thinks, it is time to relish in what he had missed from the Void.

He concentrates on the wind against his skin; its icy fingers on his flesh. He thinks of its rustling in the leaves, that humming that testifies of life. He had missed it- so very deeply that it makes him choke, and it is a wonder, it is, to just- to just be, once more.

He has left the Void, Melkor tells himself. He repeats the words under his breath, then a little louder, as if to inscribe them in the truth of the world.

He never thought of so- never thought of leaving until the Dagor Dagorath; and perhaps it was what he was meant to bring, in this release. Perhaps. He shall never know. But Melkor has never been good at doing what others expected of him, and he has no intention of beginning now.

A thought comes to him, then- and he brings his fingers to his pocket, retrieving the stolen grapefruit. Or was it merely a gift, if it had been free to take?

He hears it before he sees it; for he has yet to open his eyes.

“I have brought you a treasure of your own taste,” Melkor says; without moving. He resorts to the informal you; for he has decided this instant to plainly show his distinction between the deserving Valar and the ones that do not. Estë, he favors.

“A treasure?”

Ah. Melkor hides a grim wince- it is not Estë. His mind hesitates a second between retrieving his words, or gifting the grapefruit to Manwë all the same- and he settles on the second option. It is far better to surprise his brother than to admit he had not thought that it could be anyone else than Estë.

He opens his eyes then, and throws the grapefruit at Manwë.

Manwë catches it instinctively, and lowers his gaze to stare it in incredulity.

“A… fruit?” he asks, hesitant.

Melkor nods, wordlessly. “Gifted by the Ñoldor themselves. Or so I should guess. Taken by mine hands as a gift- but I suppose the debt had been more than paid.”

“What have you done…?”

“Ease your mind, no wiles that would demand of you to summon your armies,” Melkor says. “I gifted them council, tis all. On the arts of blacksmithing,” he precises, when something flickers on Manwë’s features.

Relief follows the uncertainty, so quickly that it becomes risible.

“What shall I do with it?” Manwë asks; twisting the fruit between his fingers.

“Well eat it, I would suppose,” Melkor murmurs. “Although you could clad it in jewels for all I care, but I have been said tis better for the eating.”

Manwë nods; and he looks for a few seconds at the fruit, unmoving.

Melkor raises an eyebrow, when it becomes clear that Manwë will not eat it. “It does not bite, for all that I am aware of.”

“I shall try it later,” Manwë says, some sort of effort at a compromise.

In truth, Melkor could not care less- for the gift had been intended for someone else, but nonetheless does he inclines his head in acknowledgement.

Manwë lingers for a few seconds where he stands, before taking a few cautious steps forward. He goes as far as to be only one step away from the snow, and Melkor has the fleeting want of pulling him within the circle, just as to give him a true reason for such cautiousness.

“While courtesy visits tend to be frequent amongst the Ñoldor, it is not our case, brother. What brings you to me?”

“I was curious about how you fared,” Manwë admits.

“Well. You might be on your merry way.”

Manwë does not move. “Tis not what I heard.”

Melkor is truly curious, now.

“And what reached your ears, pray tell?”

“Tulkas went to me-”

“Tulkas!” Melkor exclaims, laughing. “Tis true- you should keep a tightest leash on your beast, Lord of All Arda.” His words are but sarcasm, the title almost spat, and he stretches his arms wider beneath his head. “He came to bark, and surely tried to bite as well.”

“Many doubt of the truth of your repentance.”

“Mmh, certainly,” Melkor hums. “But those with the highest cries are Ulmo and Tulkas, are they not?”

Manwë startles; doubt and surprise flashing on his features.

“Ulmo did not go to you-”

“He has no need for it,” Melkor interrupts him. “I know of his thoughts. I would say them rooted in jealousy, certainly, for I know how he despises the loss of what he claims his. Tell him that he shall keep his little Maia of his, I care not for him.”

Manwë pinches his lips. “Ossë has nothing to do with it.”

“Not that they would tell you,” Melkor agrees. “In truth, the seeds of discord have sprouted in Ulmo’s heart, turning his gaze into a glare when comes the moment he lays it on I. But I said it, and will say it again, I have no care to attract the servitude of his Maia with flickering loyalty. Report that, if you wish.”

Manwë watches him for a second, or perhaps ten; before inclining his head.

“I shall tell him so then,” he murmurs. “If only to ease his mind.”

“Do so.”

Silence falls on them.

It is Melkor who breaks it, turning his head towards Manwë. He opens his mouth, finding himself blurting out what he had not meant to share, only to have Manwë do so as well.

“How shall I convince someone to abandon their children and forge for me-”

“My words were true that day, brother, I had missed you-”

Both stop.

Manwë stills. “How- pardon me?”

Melkor placates a very tight smile on his features, as Manwë’s words inscribe themselves in his mind. He ought to vanish them this very instant, and yet finds himself unable to do so, a foolish, idiotic, thing-

“Ah-I jest,” Melkor says, quickly, too quickly. “I find myself troubled, tis all, that a Master of the craft would have abandoned the fire of the forges in profit of the warmth of a home.”

Manwë gives him a long, piercing, look. “I hope,” he says, slowly. “-that you nourish not the want of separating one of the Eldar from their kin.”

“Nothing like that- I care very little of his kin. He shall do whatever he desires with them- what I desire, is his talent. Not to covet for myself,” Melkor adds, although he does want to covet the Silmarils for himself. “-but for it is a pity to let the flame of his imagination extinguish.”

“Do you desire to give him praise for his work, to watch him as he creates more of it; or to bind your talents together?”

Manwë’s tone is cautious, distrustful. Perhaps he is thinking of all the Maiar Melkor has stolen, perhaps he is thinking of Mairon, the Admirable, taken from the very forges of Aulë.

Melkor makes a scene of thinking about it.

“Neither,” he says. His lie falls smoothly from in between his lips. “I desire to talk to him, to see where lays what inspires him so. Say for it to be curiosity, if you will.”

Relief passes through Manwë’s gaze. It is surprising, truly, that he would be so prompt to trust Melkor’s words. Perhaps Tulkas’ words had had their fair share of truth; and Manwë truly is blind to the truth of Melkor. Perhaps he yearns so vividly for pardon; and peace, that he is willing to close his eyes on what should cause caution.

“If you truly wish not to disturb him, there is no need to wait for the forges. Send word for him, brother, or perhaps to his kin. Let him come willingly, should he wish so.”

To his kin…?

Melkor’s eyes light up. He springs on his feet- of course!

He had all but forgotten about Fëanor’s kin- for they never had been much of an interest to him. None had them had their Father’s talent for creation, not in his eyes, and he had been hasty in forgetting them. But there is one; one that holds the key to a passage to Fëanor, one that will surely permit a meeting-!

He laughs- out of delight; and it entirely out of habits he had thought forgotten that he locks Manwë in an iron embrace- two images overlapping. One with bright hair and brighter eyes; lips so frequently twisted in a scowl. Far too often had he done so with another; one with sweet suggestions on his lips and arched eyebrows, and Melkor forgets himself if only for a second. Manwë’s goes deadly still against him, baffled beyond measure, but Melkor does not notice it immediately.

He squeezes Manwë’s arms in his joy; and is on his merry way to lift him from the ground when he remembers where he is, who he is with. Disgust creeps up in his chest, claws his way to the top, until it tightens itself around his throat.

In a second is he ten steps away; and Mairon’s image fade- to leave only Manwë’s, speechless.

With reason, for it had been ages, nay, even more than that, since they had been so close. It goes back, perhaps, to the creation of Arda- when all had been thought a bliss.

Incredulity, incomprehension, hope, delight- all pass so very quickly on Manwë’s features that had Melkor not been looking for them he would not have seen them.

Melkor does not wait for Manwë to speak his mind. He flees, again, and makes sure of not being followed.

.

.

.

It is easier than expected to find Nerdanel’s workshop.

Melkor only has to ask of her to have a dozen Ñoldor pointing him the way; and he is pleasantly surprised at their eagerness to be of help.

He stands behind her door, and knocks, once.

She does not answer. Melkor begins to frown, and smoothen once more his clothing – having taken great care at being once more the inconspicuous form of Annatar.

He knocks a second time, then a third, when it does nothing.

Finally; the door swings on its hinges, by a few centimetres.

“What is it about?” Nerdanel asks, eyes narrowed – clay smeared on her face, neck, ears.

Melkor gives her his brightest smile.

“I am Annatar,” he introduces himself, bowing slightly. “-and I have come to gift thee my knowledge of the craft for I have heard that you are also a Master of it-”

“Indeed,” Nerdanel says, frowning. “I am- and I have little need for unsolicited knowledge. Have a good day.”

And with that, she slams the door in his face.

Melkor stands there for a few seconds, in genuine disbelief.

Well, he thinks, remembering Fëanor doing the very same thing.

It seemed the apple did not fall very far from the tree indeed.

Melkor in this chapter: I came here to have a good time and honestly I feel cheated out of it. I WANT A REFOUND.

Chapter 3: Lesson 3: take unsolicited advice on the matter

Chapter Text

Mairon’s nails are tapping on the parchment.

He is unaware of it; writing with his free hand. There is no other than him in the study he is staying into – and as his notes pour from his mind to the paper, he finds himself muttering what he is scribbling.

Physiological Study 5679 EF-78: infection has spread from the left ribs to the beginning of the pelvis, signs of necrosis are beginning to appear. Unstable patient: difficulty expressing himself, tremors, grunting, self-injury. Probability of success: 43%. Danger of the experiment: death of the patient, closure of the experiment. Risks: high.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It is instinctive- and should Mairon think of it; the reason would have him call himself foolish. It has been three ages and yet is he unused still of the silence; when there had been none with Melkor; and so does his own hröa fill the vacuum.

Even Tevildo, hideous feline beast, curled as he is a few meters away, is silent in his sleep. Mairon tolerates him, for a reason he can not fathom. There is no hidden love between He and Melkor’s creation, but he has surprised himself in recently letting them share places. Perhaps it is because one lost look to the beast’ dark fur reminds him of hair a similar shade; perhaps because he enjoys the familiarity of his hatred for the cat Maia.

And so- tap; tap; tap.

It is a sudden noise that jolts him awake from his thoughts- someone opening the door, slithering inside the office.

“Not now, Melkor,” Mairon immediately says, without thinking, without rising his head. “Give me a second- ah.”

He rises his gaze.

The captain of his Orcs is facing him. His features are unreadable; twisted beyond measure, but had he retained the fair ones of the Maiar, surprise and hesitation alike would have been written there.

“My apologies, my Lord,” Boldog says, his voice a low grunt.

As always upon his sight, Mairon feels satisfaction hums within his chest, whispers tales of power and greatness. It is unheard of, to have a Maia command others of his kind; but Mairon does it all the same. Tis the gift left by Melkor; to rule in his stead, and have all obey before him. Tis intoxicating a feeling, this obedience his authority provokes.

He thinks he can never tire of it.

“Speak,” Mairon says, pushing his notes away from him. “But speak fast, for I have much to do; and I will not waste it in useless chatter.”

Boldog inclines his head. “Tis is ready, my lord. The battalion of orcs. They have been formed to the art of war; as instructed, and they are much devoted.”

“Do they know of their Master?”

“They do, my lord. They have been gifted a sight on of our Master’s greatness- and they have pledged themselves to him in all ways that matter. They recognize his authority- and yours.”

“Perfect,” Mairon hums, terribly pleased. “You have done great; Boldog, and you shall be rewarded as such.”

The battalion of orcs. It had been Melkor’s desire, three ages ago; to make his own race of creatures. Alas; the gift of creation had been taken from him; and in their musing on how to make such a thing happen despite this impairment; Melkor had thought of twisting what had already been made.

Melkor never had the chance of looking upon what they had created together. What both of their mind had thought of; session upon session spent in another study – so very alike to this one – wondering on how to have true success.

He had been taken away by the Valar; imprisoned; and it had been up to Mairon to hide, to reconstruct, to do what he had been asked to. To continue the breeding of what would lead to orcs. The first age had been devoted to the fortress; to Angband itself; and how it stands tall now-! Tis was perhaps Mairon’s greatest pride as for now; a realm worthy of Melkor; a gift above all others.

Absently, Mairon twists the ring he wears on his left index. He does it often; a yearning for one that has yet to return; a reminder of their bond. Crafted in exchange for a single black pearl; and Melkor does not often tend to the arts of the forge; but this time he had.

The second age; he had begun to fill Angband with life. He had searched for the Balrogs; and he had called after the others Maia; searched for the Elves that had devoted themselves to his Master, the Underlings. The second age, Mairon had reorganized Melkor’s court.

And the third- the third, he had begun to prepare himself for war. He had focused once more on this new race Melkor so sought; and he had succeeded- and he had begun the preparations for strengthening their armies; making them so great and so terrible that Melkor could not be anything but pleased upon his return.

“Gather them together,” Mairon finally orders. “I wish to see them.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“On a second thought-” Mairon rises from his chair. Tevildo rises a half-asleep head towards them, yellow eyes watching their every move. Mairon pays him no attention- he needs the distraction; needs to supervise the progress they are making or he fear he will go mad with longing.

Melkor should be there already; three ages have come and passed; and yet he is not. Mairon fears of what it means. Is he imprisoned still? Is he scheming in Aman? Is he- and the thought freezes him more than all – uninterested in letting Mairon know of his condition? Is he tired of them, tired of their bond, of the pledge they had sworn to one another-

“We will do this now,” he says, one second short of snarling.

He barely registers his fingers morphing into talons, sinking into the wood of the back of his chair.

“Guide me to them,” Mairon continues; and in him runs a fear so deep he suppresses it with all his might. Tis is merely unwarranted dread- many reasons more plausible for Melkor’s delay. Perhaps is he still forbidden to leave Aman, perhaps does he bid his time, Deceiver above All.

“Yes, my lord.”

Yes, Mairon thinks. Tis is what must be: a deception in need of time to be most successful. He fears for nothing, and soon will Melkor return to his rightful place; and will Mairon once more be able to gaze at him and his heart-felt laughs.

Why then, a voice murmurs to his mind, as treacherous as can be; has he send no message? Why is he so silent; when there are so many ways he can convey his thoughts; why?

And such a voice, he can not quiet.

.

.

.

Nerdanel; Melkor admits it; shares the same stubbornness her thrice-damned husband is so well-known for.

He is… for lack of a better word, unused of it. He says it freely; and in admitting it to himself, finds its truth to infuriate him far more than had he said nothing at all. Melkor does not bode well being refused; had never quite agreed to it, and even less as of today. Even less when he is trying; when he is willing to bring a better future for both He and Arda, when he does not act by some ill faith.

Yet, Nerdanel refuses him all the same.

She refuses Annatar’s gifts; tools and delicacies, lay freely in front of her doorstep, refuses the awe he is certain to produce quite adequately. She refuses even his presence – and it is not out of hatred, nor anger, nor even faint dislike, but disinterest.

Disinterest.

She lays unfazed gazes on him; and is ever the polite one in declining his attentions; but it is disinterest that haunts her eyes. In truth, Melkor cares very little for she feels, rather than what she does. But what she does- what she does-! What makes him enrage; is that she denies him.

In all honesty, it is a wonder. Melkor had not been denied in many, many years. It goes back, he believes, to those cursed Fëanorians. So many things went back to them; should he even say. Even the little Mole, the Prince of Gondolin, the Traitor, had caved in. Melkor remembers him very well. Delicious, so fiercely wanting. It had not been torture that had make him surrender; very far from it- no, those of Fëanor’s blood did not answer well to physical agony.

It had been far more insidious: whispers very sweetly placed, promises of revenge and power- and how the little Prince’s eye had lightened up, then! He had tried to hide it, certainly, but Melkor was most used in recognizing temptation, and it had been greed, and envy, that had shone within the Princeling’s eyes. Sweet, so very very sweet, lures, and golden words; visions of what could be if the Princeling only wished so- and the price, the price-! Such a small tribute indeed; in contrary to what it offered.

But Nerdanel is not of those driven by greed and hunger alike- she is difficult to pierce apart; difficult, would he dare say, to understand. Melkor does not quite comprehend what she wishes for; what pleases her- rather than her craft, and he would suppose; those children of hers. They are out of touch, certainly. He wishes not to break her; and there are leverages that can not always be usen.

It certainly does not mean he abandons. Weeks pass quickly- and Melkor tries harder.

Melkor – Annatar - can be often found wandering the streets of Tirion. One of the Ñoldor, seemingly inconspicuous, and yet with eyes searching for fiery red hair. He learns, once more, of the Ñoldor and their ways; what drives them, and what they make of the haven of peace that had been gifted to them.

It is, against all odds, rather entertaining.

Annatar walks freely amongst them, and rejoices in it. He makes certain of keeping an iron control on his hroä, and this is an exercise far more difficult than he would have envisioned. It is not in his nature to stay true to one shape; not when he had been bound to one for so long; and he is quick to let it adjust to his thoughts, to his mind.

He is forced so, however- for Tulkas’ gaze is never far from Tirion. The Valar of Strength roams it in length, breadth and depth, as he must do for the rest of Valinor; and it is only in mastering his hroä that Melkor avoids to become the focus of his attention. Perhaps another Valar would have seen his fëa peek through his chosen disguise, but Tulkas had never been one for subtlety and surely expects for Melkor to don the one he is most known for.

When he returns, every night, on Estë’s Island- Melkor often finds her to be already in Irmo’s realm. She sleeps, and she dreams- and in it, he knows for her to meet her husband. It makes him want, more than once, to intrude in them- just because he would be able to. Curiosity gnaws at him; for he knows the Valar to be quite chaste and he fears very little intruding on a displeasing situation. Although, should he, nonetheless- Melkor is not quite sure he would be displeased. Entertained, certainly, perhaps even eager to join. It does not matter. He does not slip into her mind- for she is quite guarded by her Maiar; and he finds his own thoughts going to other considerations.

Weeks pass, again. Melkor learns of all that could be learned about the Ñoldor. It has been long since his thoughts had gone to them, longer since he had taken the time to learn of a foreign culture, and he finds that much had he forgotten. He learns, and so, knows best how to make Nerdanel yield-

Yet, she refuses him still.

.

.

.

“Tis a wonderful craft,” Melkor says; eyes wandering on Nerdanel’s creations, freely offered to the sight of all – exposed as they are on one of those markets the Ñoldor so favour. He seizes a bow; made of pale wood and singing strings. “A work of finery, indeed; elegant and deadly alike.”

Nerdanel gives him a long look. “I shall say so to my son, Celegorn; who has yet to come of age and yet is dabbling in blacksmithing.” She smiles, then. “It is his hands who crafted what you now hold, Annatar.”

Melkor grits his teeth; but his smile does not leave his face. The Elfling can not be more than fifty- a child- a child has done such work? Humiliation and anger alike flow down his veins; for now she believes that Melkor can not distinguish a child’s work from a master at the craft-! He feels his skin shift under him; driven by his anger; and abruptly clasps a hand over his wrist; where he can feel it fëa peak through- where his mood as begun to pour out of it; greying his complexion-

Nerdanel gives him another strange look; certainly due to the suddenness of his gesture; but already does another Ñoldo hold Nerdanel’s attention, and her eyes shift from Melkor to this new customer.

Melkor throws the bow with the other weapons, and storms off.

Claws pierce through the tip of his fingers, bleeding black tar.

.

.

.

“Lady Nerdanel ?” Melkor calls, upon entering the garden.

This time, he thinks, he will be successful at last. There is nothing left to chance- he has ensured himself that the Lady of Fëanor would not let another in need of help; asked of the Ñoldor if she was prompt to give her advice. All say she is; and Melkor has no reason to fail-

Nerdanel is sketching some figure; sitting across the fountain. She raises his eyes when he arrives- and in the pale brown of her irises, Melkor can read surprise, annoyance, and curiosity.

“Greetings. I was of the mind to offer a gift to the Valar,” Melkor says- very begrudgingly. The words almost burn his mouth, and it is only in thinking himself a Valar as well that he does not scowl. All Ñoldor pray to the Valar after all; and recognize their might- she certainly will assist him in his endeavor. “However, in order for the creation to be complete, I would require of a Master in the arts of sculpting- would you grace me with the honor of assisting me with this gift?”

Nerdanel stops her sketching.

“Greeting to you as well, Lord Annatar. Tis an honor, indeed, but one I fear not to be able to answer to. I work best when alone in my thoughts and world; and I fear such collaboration would rather hinder the process.” She lowers her gaze once more to her sketchbook. “May you enjoy your day.”

Melkor opens his mouth-

“I am afraid my decision is rather immutable,” Nerdanel says, without breaking her gaze from her work. “However, if you would wish so, I can direct you towards better suited sculptors-”

The grass shrivels and dies under Melkor’s footsteps when he leaves.

.

“I have found this material of an astonishing quality-”

“I work best with clay. Perhaps would it be of interest to the Guild?”

.

Melkor’s great cry of rage kills many of Estë’s fragile-hearted rabbits.

He buries them on the deepest pit of her island, and plays surprise when she asks of it. He tries, then, to recreate the foul creatures – only for it to spring a beak and claws; and he throws them into the seas- quite certain that they would drown.

(Melkor is unaware that they do not. It is Ulmo who finds them; and believes them to be a gift from Yavanna- calling them platypus.)

.

“Greetings Lady Nerdanel-”

“I must flee, Lord Annatar, but another time?”

.

There is now a pond made of ice and fire alike on Estë’s Island. Melkor will swear of having already seen it many times; and say nothing at all of great fits of anger. It is- in truth- a rather beautiful thing. Not that he would have any claim to it.

.

“I was wondering about the qualities of such-”

“Might I recommend asking the Guild Master? He is better suited than I to answer any question of yours.”

.

One of Estë’s mountains nearly spits fire. Melkor’s hroä fails him in his fury- and he becomes a great ball of black fire, so close to abandoning all control that it is a wonder he manages to get a hold on himself. It relishes smoke instead- for many trees have burnt - and upon Manwë’s visit, Melkor fervently denies having any interest in the landscape.

“It has been long since I have not wished to reshape Valinor,” Melkor says; and his scorn is convincing enough that Manwë gives an air of truth to it.

(Tulkas is not fooled, and tries to corner Melkor more than once, but he has become quite the master at avoiding the other Valar)

.

“Lady Nerdanel-”

“I have much to do- but perhaps a letter would best summarize any plea you might have-”

.

Estë finds him before Melkor’s rage turns her Island into a shrivelled land.

“On the contrary of what others might suppose, I have a genuine fondness for mine fate,” she tells him one day, entering the room.

Estë is, as always, clad in nothing more but simple orange robes. It is a strange sight for Melkor; when Valar and Maia alike so deeply yearn for gems and jewelry. Even her Maiar are clothed in brighter fabric than she is; wear golden tiara and silver bracelets. He is not immune to it either, but he judges all of it to be mere trinkets now that he had been exposed to the brightest gems of all- and he finds that he can no longer long for what pales so much in comparison.

Melkor closes his fist around what he had been toying with, a dagger of ice, and under the sudden pressure, reduces it to what it had first been: snow.

He waits for her to come closer, a scowl twisting his lips. He is in a foul mood; denied as he is by this wretch of a Ñoldo, arrogant beyond all measure, believing herself of a nobler disposition than him, so eager to refuse when she should have been honored-

“Pleasing to hear for Eru, I am certain- but I fail to see the relevance of such a statement,” he grits out, then.

Estë hums. “Is is, truly?”

“I would have expected better subtlety, if this means to chastise me on my thoughts regarding my own fate.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Estë defers; a laugh already blooming on her lips. “Thou might be very prompt to think mere words accusations; but I merely came with a plea.”

Melkor’s scowl fades for incomprehension. Such words, he has heard them more often than he can count; but never, ever, from a Valar.

“Which kind of plea?” he asks, eyes piercing.

“One,” she says; and her laugh truly bubbles on her features now, her amusem*nt warm and contagious. How strange. “One,” Estë repeats; giving him a long look. “-that would have thee warm thyself to mine Island. It shall not stand long, I fear, if thy angers continue to cripple it. A few rabbits are naught to be missed; but the landscape itself, I confess I enjoy tidying to.”

His angers…?

Melkor stills.

Of course, he thinks; almost furiously. Of course she would have noticed the destruction brought by his fits of rage- but then why stay silent-? One word and he would have been denied from the island; one word and Manwë would have confined him elsewhere. One word, and suspicion might have adorned once more Manwë’s features; turning his thoughts to doubt and caution yet again.

“I said nothing of it,” Estë is continuing, smiling. “-for I know it does not come from a will to harm; or at the very least, I shall hope so.”

A silence pass.

Melkor gaze at her in silence; frustration and anger building once more in his chest. He is unused to it all: to this patience he must now wear, to kind eyes gazing back; to this strange place between idleness and scheming. He schemes, but his schemes are not for nefarious ends; and what was once enemies now must become allies; and it confuses him.

Estë waits, patiently. She urges him not for an answer; merely humming to herself some notes Melkor does not recognize.

But again, long had it been since he had opened himself to the Songs of other Valar.

“It does not,” Melkor finally admits.

Estë taps her nails on her thigh. She says nothing to it; at first, merely inclining her head to acknowledge his words. It is after a few seconds that she turns towards him and asks:

“Then, what troubles thee enough to make thee relish control over thyself?”

The question is plain; and yet unnerves him. Relish control over himself? He has not-

But he has, Melkor realizes. Certainly not in the proportions he had been used to; for he knows that should have he been denied before entering the Void, his willingness to wait would have been quite short indeed. Perhaps a matter of seconds, perhaps a matter of naught at all.

But stretching his patience does not mean mastering it; and he is still unable to do so- passing his frustrations on what can not deny him: immovable objects.

He hesitates for a second- he does not wish to speak of his desires, but Estë’s gaze is patient- and in the absence of Mairon, never had he more wished for another mind to join him on his ruses.

“I fail to catch the interest of something I desire,” Melkor hisses, fingers sunken deep into the meat of his thighs. If it draws blood, he notices it not.

“And what have thou done to make it so?”

“What I have done ? It is her who denies me–! Her who refuses– when I bring gifts, and council, and praise galore!”

“Ah, but many have no liking to it,” Estë says, arching an eyebrow. “Have thou never found thyself aggrieved by the interruption of others?”

“It bears no resemblance,” Melkor counters, his lip curling with distaste. “It is for her better that I bring what I bring; and it is of utter nonsense to refuse it! This speaks of arrogance beyond measure, of a self-serving narcissism pushed to the extreme.”

Estë says nothing; a faint smile serving as an answer. She need to say naught- for Melkor’s features are contorted with barely hidden rage, and he jumps on his feet, pacing through the room.

“I have brought her all that could be offered, lest for a place at our side,” Melkor snarls, and Estë still stays silent, watching him as he walks back and forth. “I offered materials; and then what greater gift could I give than advice and council for a Master of the Craft wishing to perfect themselves! I asked for help and even then did she deny me! I gifted, and I begged, and I suggested; and still would she rather stand by herself!”

“Perhaps the Lady is better by herself.”

“She is not!” Melkor snaps, whipping around. “I need it!”

“…It?”

“Yes, it-! Tis not her that I covet,” Melkor scoffs. “For what use would I have for such skills? I need her to speak to a greater smith than her! She is the key–”

Melkor forgets himself– brought back to years prior; brought back to study rooms and Mairon watching him rant, Mairon watching him pace across the room, Mairon being silent and thoughtful- and in Estë’s silence does he believe it to share the same attributes than Mairon’s- made to reflect and offer a solution; rather than what it currently is: surprise and caution.

“She is the key,” Melkor repeats forcefully; bailing his left hand into a fist. “I might not be able to go to him without her- and if she denies me then I can not reach him; and there is so few left to offer now that she has refused all else! I need her to willingly seek my companionship– ”

“Or perhaps thou needst to leave the Lady alone if so she wishes.”

Estë’s voice breaks through Melkor’s ranting; cold, harsher than he had never heard it. He stops himself; pausing in the middle of the room.

Her kind features have been hardened into steel; and the look she rests upon him can be likened to the ice of his own gaze.

“It is a thing,” Estë slowly says, her gaze unforgiving. “-to seek one’s expertise; and to have another open the gates to the former. It is another,” The word cuts through the air like the sharpest of daggers. “-to relentlessly pursue one that have refused thyself.”

Melkor is surprised enough by her anger not to succumb to it himself.

“Nothing of the sort,” he scoffs, using her own words. “She has not refused mine attention- merely feels disinterest towards mine gifts. Tis worse than proper refusal !”

“Oh.” Estë marks a pause. The ice melts from her gaze. “The Lady is not harmed, then?”

“She can not be when she eludes me!” Melkor roars.

Estë falls silent again.

“Perhaps then,” she says after a second. “-it is a matter of proving thy worth to the Lady.”

Melkor halts in his frustrated anger. “Mine… worth?”

“She might be distrustful of what thee have to offer. Prove to her that thou give more than take.”

“For such a feat, I would need the blessing of Eru himself,” Melkor snarls. “And he is quite prompt to averting his gaze when it comes to I, as you aware.”

Estë hums, again. “Then thou are alone in thy endeavor.”

Melkor watches her in bafflement. Is she saying-

“Will thou not be of help?”

Estë shakes her head, settling deeper into her chair. She smiles, then. “How could I, if all of thy tries had been met with disinterest? I am not the Mightiest of us; and if I healing is mine realm, I know naught of convincing.”

“Any help might be appreciated,” Melkor insists, with a small distasteful grunt. “Regardless of your experience with it.”

“Nay, I believe any help I might be able to give on such a subject would rather prove itself a hindrance.”

“No help shall ever be given then if it is I who asks then-” Melkor laughs; shaking his head, and his laugh is bitter. “Easy it is indeed to promise and then never give! The Black Enemy shall repent but Eru forbid he asks of anything, for it shall not be answered!”

Estë makes a displeased sound, and guilt crosses her features.

“Please do not take it so,” she says, quietly. “It is only that I know naught of it, truly. It is you, Melkor, who is best versed at understanding lurking desires and inspiring might. Tis not I, who seeks only to repair; and has been instructed on naught but it. You alone share a part on all that is; and all that shall be; and tis a strength I can not advice you on.”

Perhaps it is the use of his name; when all Valar had called him Morgoth ever since Fëanor had come out with this terrible epessë. Perhaps it is the dropped formality, perhaps the genuineness of her guilt; or perhaps even the freely given praise.

In the end, it does not truly matter what it is. What matters is that his anger drops; and Melkor finds himself very tired all of a sudden.

“Then I shall draw my path alone,” he murmurs.

Estë shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “Not alone.”

She gives him another smile; and when she curls her fingers in the air, there is a flower bulb that blooms over them. “I might not be able to give proper advice; but I shall ever let my ears open should you want them to be so. I will listen, if unable to counsel.”

It is not much; upon what Melkor is used to. He has never wished for someone to merely listen- he orders advice and obedience alike from his servants. They are not to sit idle and gaze at him as he talks. To have Estë suggest such a thing-

He fails to see its value.

But he has sworn himself to achieve peace, and perhaps change might be one of the required steps.

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“Annatar!” Torthedir exclaims two days later upon seeing him; delight animating his features. “We did not await you so soon!”

Melkor has merely taken three steps into the forges, and yet already faces turn from all over the place to gaze at him. It is unnerving a sight, but he stays true to his disguise and offers them a nod, eyes wandering on the scene he faces.

“Never long can I stay away from such creativity,” he says, and it might be just true. Never long, that much he knows, can he stay away from doing something. Idleness is a bore, one he endures poorly, and Melkor fidgets with eternal want for action.

Torthedir laughs. Some Ñoldor join him in his mirth, curious little creatures that come to lay their eyes on Melkor.

“Come, come!” Torthedir eagerly says; and he wraps a tanned hand over Melkor’s wrist. His touch is warm, distasteful and Melkor jolts from it- at the very same time Torthedir does. “You are frozen!” the Ñoldo cries out, eyes widened. “Are you with illness…?”

Melkor snorts. “One that follows me since birth, if one as such exists.”

Torthandir’s eyes widen all the more; to impossible lengths.

“Does it not bother you?”

“I am quite used to it,” Melkor dismisses, arching a slightly grudged eyebrow. “But I have not come to discuss my health, and nor have you, blacksmith.”

Torthedir’s cheeks flush a bright pink.

“Yes, yes!” he cries out, again, whipping around to face the rest of the Ñoldor. “I have spoken of great length of you, and many are eager to see you at work. Will you grace us with another demonstration? Do you dabble in blacksmithing too or are you primarily a tinsmith?”

Melkor quickly thinks about it. Dabble is light a word; for if it had not been He who had forged Grond, leaving the task to Mairon’s abilities; he knows his way around a forge all the like. However, Annatar might not, and he has to muse on how gifted should his disguise be.

“All arts of the forge,” Melkor eventually says, for he can not pretend otherwise. He is but a proud being, and to feign ignorance would cost him as much as to be truly impaired by it. “I have been known for working with tin and bronze, tis true, but iron I know too how to subdue.”

Murmurs of awe echo amongst the Ñoldor.

Well, Melkor thinks, if Fëanor has yet to join them, perhaps their admiration is justified. He is, after all, the Master of All; and while finding little pleasure in the arts of the forge, it shall obey him as all should.

“What shall you do?” a Ñoldo asks; more curious than awed. “Torthedir has spoken of a secret of yours, giving life to the metal. Is it true that so could magic strengthen it?”

“I told you it is! I saw it!” Torthedir is quick to shout in protest.

More murmurs grace the Ñoldor. Torthedir turns, trying to face all of them.

“He did it,” he insists, shaking his head. “I saw it myself! He whispered words of power to the metal and it bend to his will; a true finery! I had never seen anything like this! We have much to learn from him!”

“Tis true,” Melkor simply admits.

Pride and smugness curl in his chest, purring under his flesh. He feels them as distant friends, reminding himself of their rightful claim to him, and he relishes in their presence.

Another wave of murmurs.

“Would you show us?”

Melkor looks at them, their eager faces- and finds that he somewhat wishes for it to never fade. He had forgotten what receiving entire awe felt like; when it was not poisoned by fear. It is a dizzying feeling, one that he wants to hold unto the longest he can.

“A sword, then,” Melkor tells them. “Which one of you will be my striker?”

Cautious eyes answer him. A striker’s task is merely to be directed by the blacksmith, striking the iron for him; and Melkor needs one of sufficient strength.

He lets his gaze wander on the few that took a step forward, slide on Torthedir’s hopeful features, and finally choose the one on his left- a little wider and taller than them all. He seems younger than them all, with a fair complexion and pale hair, but the determination that burns in his gaze is enough to convince Melkor of having made a fitting choice.

“You,” he orders, pointing a long finger at him before curling it. “Come to me.”

The Ñoldo exchanges a glance with one of his kin, supposedly the Master of the Forge. When the older Ñoldo inclines his head in agreement, the fair one take a few steps forwards, coming to wait next to Melkor.

“Will you be my striker?”

“If you wish me to, I shall be honored,” the fair Ñoldo says. “I too have heard of your last visit, and the magic you have woven into Torthedir’s craft.”

“Good,” Melkor says. “Then we shall make a sword, and you shall wield the hammer for me.”

The Ñoldo bows, and Melkor is pleased to see so. He is quick to fit his hroä to the safety criteria of the forge, tying his hair above his shoulders, thanking Torthedir from the tip of his lips upon receiving both gloves and apron.

Melkor chooses a bar of bainite steel for the sword, for longevity is to be chosen over performance. Breaking it would be a hard feat indeed, and he hums in pleasure upon lingering his fingers on the cold metal. It has been long indeed since he had versed himself in the arts of the craft, and he is surprised to realize he had missed it.

“Now,” Melkor begins, grabbing an iron stake. “Swords are usually made in a hurry; for it is made for war, and not decorative purposes. Quickness of work is imperative, and there is much that allows for it to happen.” In a few hits does he mark the edge of the bar, carving into the metal. “Marking the edges rather than the front allows you not to have to search for the marks later with thy eyes, but to be able to detect them simply by sliding the bar against a flat surface. Understood?”

Grey and brown eyes alike drink heavily from his movements, and Melkor hastens to heat the metal, plunging it into the fire. He does not like to wait, and quickens the process with a few sung words, adding degrees to the heat. He takes the bar away from the fire, then, and proceeds to slide it against the iron edge of a table – showing them how the marks are now easily felt.

He gestures for the fair Ñoldo to join him, and to begin striking the metal to shape it.

With a few words does he guide the Ñoldo into shaping it perfectly, and he finds himself muttering words of agreement and praise when his commands are eagerly obeyed. The Ñoldo pants slightly under the effort, but his determination does not leave his gaze.

When he is satisfied of the global shape of it, does he ask of the Ñoldor to hold the bar while he refines its edges with a rasp. “It must be done when the metal is hot still,” Melkor tells his public, smoothing the metal. “It allows to smoothen all imperfections and perfect its shape.”

He rises a finger for the fair Ñoldo to still, and brings once more the bar into the fire; heating it as he voices his reasoning. Soon does the rasp allow for the metal to be polished, and gives it a smooth surface; devoid of holes and dents.

Once he is once more satisfied of the rendering, Melkor allows the fair Ñoldo to hold the bar while he searches for a block brush. The one he finds has no handle, and he frowns at the sight, but has no time to add one to the brush- it shall do for now.

He tells them, however, to hasten in crafting one – for there is much danger in seizing it with bare fingers, as letting them slide under the brush is a quick, alas painful, mistake.

“Now,” Melkor says. “-to use it best is to slide the brush in one direction only; for doing it differently might harm its leaves.”

Again, murmurs echoes across the room. He pays little attention to it, and gestures to the fair Ñoldo to offer him once more the blade.

Together, they heat once more the blade and brush its length with the block brush, taking care of advancing back but not forth; sliding in one direction only. A few Ñoldor are too close, and the fair one gestures them away, but whispers and remarks grow and grow as they advance on their work.

The fair one resumes his work as a striker, bending the metal to their will; and they alternate between brushing it and striking it, polishing the blade.

“It is mostly useful for dislodging scales and detritus,” Melkor tells the Ñoldor, still brushing the blade. “Far too often does some of them slither on a blacksmith’s work, and if quick to poison it, are harder to dislodge.”

Melkor grabs a hammer then; and orders for the fair Ñoldo to move away from his path. He is quick in striking it, strong blows that shape the metal to his desires. “Useful too is smoothing the corners of your own work, be it done cold or hot, for its adds a beauty that impairs not on performance- and elven work is made of both danger and beauty is it not?”

Some Ñoldor laugh; the others too fascinated with the process to join the general mirth.

He commands for Torthedir to bring them wax-based oil, and is met with confusion.

“Have you not any of them?” Melkor asks, genuinely surprised.

“We fail to see how it would be of interest-”

Melkor sighs, barely refraining the scowl pulling at his features, and asks for simple oil, then, and bee’s wax of any sort. He will need to add turpentine to it later, It is not of his preference, but he might able to recreate it on such ingredients alone- and he makes a mark in his mind to find some proper wax-based oil.

He explains his mind then, when Torthedir brings back what he has asked of him, and proceeds to apply it warm to the metal work, blackening the metal with it. It is a dark oil, and it dyes the blade just the perfect shade of black, drying around it.

The smell of it, flower-scented and quite sweet, makes a few of the previously uninterested Ñoldor turn their heads towards him, now intrigued.

The fair one works quickly and in silence, two qualities that Melkor appreciates – for if he delights himself in being the general source of noise, he has very little liking to others doing so – and soon is the blade ready to be used.

It lacks, however, what is the heart of a sword – a proper handle and emblem. For it, Melkor chooses gold, for it is the metal he favors above all else, and does not bother himself with designing it elegant and beautiful. He makes it useful, easy to grasp, and spiked as to hurt a little both holder and receiver.

For the emblem, he hesitates- it would be easy indeed to put his own sigil, but it is a fool endeavor, and would unmask him quickly. He thinks of Mairon’s then- for he has yet to be associated with the flaming eye of his, and upon such a thought, is quick to implement it.

An eye it is, then. Some small token of affection; for the Lieutenant so many places away.

Silence reigns on the forge when both he and the fair Ñoldor raise the sword a last time.

It shines under the great light of the forge; reflecting it. It is bright enough that any gazing at it would see their own reflection gazing back, and dangerous enough that all know of its might. Tis a thing of beauty; but made for subduing enemies; and it is plainly shown on each of its features. The spikes inspire fear, but the gold creates envy; and such emotions are as a tool in the hand of its holder.

And the eye-! The eye speaks of a thousand tales, and more even, unknown as they are by the Ñoldor, but tis a sight that nonetheless causes fright and wonder alike.

Remarkable work, indeed, but Melkor had never been known for less.

“You have been of a great help,” Melkor eventually congratulates his striker, for lack of anything else to say. Why are they so silent-? He had gifted them hidden knowledge on the craft; and they have naught to say?

He is almost vexed by it; and a scowl begins to bloom on his features.

“Tis a wonderful work,” the Ñoldo replies. He has his gaze riveted on the sword; and delight and awe alike are written within his irises. “I never thought the blade could be so smooth-”

The Ñoldo has yet to end his sentence that the rest of the forge explodes in applause. Cheers and words of wonder erupt within the Ñoldor, and many press themselves closer as to gaze at the magnificence of such work.

Torthedir himself is quick to voice his awe, and there is smugness too in the way he relishes in the others’ admiration – for he is the one to have spoken of Annatar, and the first to have trusted his work.

Melkor is quickly surrounded by awed features and words of praise; and the dragon in his chest roars even louder.

Tis how it should be, he thinks, and peace has never seemed this enthralling. If seeking peace brings him such devotion; then tis a path he should have walked on long ago; instead of the one sending him to the Void.

In his euphoria, he does not notice a familiar face amongst the crowd, one intrigued by such cheers, and having come only to seek her kin.

“Tyelko!” a voice exclaims, and the fair Ñoldo – surrounded as he is by his sort – still hastens to turn around to meet it.

It is an elleth, one that Melkor knows very well indeed, for he had been trying to enter her good graces for days. Nerdanel is there, curiosity plainly written on her features, and she is quick in joining her son, standing by his side.

She presses a hand on his shoulder; and Melkor is suddenly reminded of words spoken to him days ago – how he had praised her work, and she had said it to come from one of her son.

Celegorm Turcafinwë- Melkor now remembers, and he looks in surprise at the fair Ñoldo. It is perhaps because he bears little resemblance to his kin that Melkor has not recognized him; but now that his mother stands to his side, he sees their shared blood written in their noses, in their cheeks, in the way they hold themselves.

“Naneth,” Fëanor’s son says; and his voice drips both delight and surprise. “You have come at a right time, indeed, for the Lord Annatar has crafted a true wonder- one that I had the chance to assist him in striking!”

Melkor opens his mouth-

“You have done this?”

He closes his mouth. There is a choice to be made here.

“Yes,” Melkor tells her, without any of the sweet undertones he had previously given her. “With the help of your son.”

Nerdanel says nothing at first. She gazes once more at the sword; and it reflects her fiery hair for a few seconds, before she turns it away.

“Perhaps I have misjudged you,” she murmurs, her voice strong all the same. “I would be honored to greet you in my shop, Lord Annatar.”

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.

To say Melkor elated would be doing him a disfavour.

He is, however, dripping with such self-satisfaction and smugness that he nearly truly drips it from his flesh – in the form of this tar his thoughts are made of. It is a hard feat indeed to take a hold on his hroä; and Melkor, despite all his efforts, is unable to refrain his grin from being a little toothy; a little too sharp around the edges.

He is on his way to Estë’s Island; for he just might give a use to her willingness to listen; when he hears it.

Melkor comes to a sudden stop.

It can not be, he immediately thinks.

But this song-!

He knows it- that much he is certain of, but not only is he familiar with it, it awakens memories in him. Memories made to bring warmth to a place where there had been none, memories he had held closely as the Void had claimed him. Tis a song that speaks of fire and steel; one that whispers to his blood and makes it sing in answer; one that he has known to associate with a specific dance, one that he knows should he fall asleep, should he fall deaf, should he fall dead.

It can not be- he dares not hope- but perhaps- perhaps.

Tis a song that speaks of Mairon, Lieutenant of Angband, Lord of the Werewolves.

Mairon had been known for being most devoted; more fierce in his pursuit of Melkor’s claim to Arda, and last time, last time, Melkor had been quick in sending a messenger to Angband- he had been quick to speak of his good health and quicker even to ask of Mairon’s. But this time- he, Melkor is realizing, he had forgotten.

Naught went to Angband, Melkor comes to understand. No new order; no demand; naught.

And thus- thus- it is no wonder that Mairon would have come to him instead.

Melkor sheds his shape at once.

He is but a great shapeless form; made of black fire and tar, and too many eyes, too many teeth, too many wings. He is aware that his shape drips on the forests he flies over, a rain made of thick, black, blood. It runs along what he is; and upon touching the ground consumes itself, leaving naught behind it- it devours itself as the truth of Melkor’s hroä does; this eternal hunger that suffices not even to itself.

He cares not for it. He is aware of what sight he must give- aware of the dread, the hope, the impatience- but he can not stop it, can not control it any more than others can; for it is the truth of himself; the core of his being; and Melkor flies, and flies, and flies, so eager to reach for the Song, to have it once more- he can almost feel it against him- tis a Song of fire he so craves- so close- so close-!

The Song leads him to a glade.

It hums louder there- and Melkor sinks into the ground upon his landing. Amongst the darkness does he manages to draw out a claw- a single one; and buries it deep into the earth. He drags himself forward – and the song is so loud now, firesteelburningcuriosityfirefire, and slowly does he succeeds in bending the truth of him into a shape.

It is a difficult process.

He needs three tries before enclosing all of himself into a proper flesh body; and even then does his skin retains the black hue of his tar. A deep, as a starless night, one. His hair, he lets grow, reaching for the ground despite his towering stature. His heart thuds in his chest, and he hears it louder than the rest; a soft thump that threatens to break through his ribcage.

Melkor stands, slowly. He is clad in black and gold; and the talons that protrude from his fingers have the sharpness and brightness of the noble metal. A royal sight; fitting for greeting once more his most devoted.

firesteelexcitation

The Song is close; he can feel it. He wants to laugh, feel it bubble on his lips- refrains from it with great difficulty. He should have never doubted of his Lieutenant’s devotion, should have expected for him to come, for him to brave Valinor-

In his haste, Melkor stumbles upon a quarry.

He opens his mouth- ready to welcome his Lieutenant back; when he stops- the song has turned wrong- he frowns- he can sense the wrongness of it all - there is firesteelfearsurpriseangeranger

Why is there anger there should not be anger-

Eight golden eyes meet his own gaze.

“Melkor.”

Aulë.

mairon in this chapter : love, why have you forsaken me?

Chapter 4: Lesson 4 : Do not voluntarily provoke fights

Chapter Text

“Aulë,” he says.

One word, one name; and yet bearing so more intent behind it. It is not even hidden, lay bare as Melkor says it: enunciating the syllables; stripping them of what they are, distorting them until they are but senseless noise.

In his surprise; in his frustration; Melkor reverts to what he knows best. His stance is guarded, his eyes sharpened, and his tongue quick to deliver striking blows.

Au- he says, and the voice is harsh; the voice is as a growl in the wind, as the werewolves had bared their teeth and snarled at Lúthien.

-Lë he says, and the voice is soft; the voice is a breeze within a storm; as a cloud of snow in the coldest night of winter.

“Melkor.”

Ah. Melkor meets his gaze with a smile of his own. It is less, should he speak of it properly; a true smile than a parody of it: lips twisted high enough that it is no grimace; teeth bared enough that it is no peaceful sight.

How amusing, he realizes; observing Aulë; that amongst all Ainur, it is the Father of Dwarves, the Vala of Blacksmithing, that has never ceased to call him by his name. Perhaps it is because Aulë, better than all; knows of the value of what is the truth of one. He who gives hidden names to his creations and says for them to keep it a secret. He, who has many times faced the Dark Enemy of this World; and yet never once calls him anything other than Mighty.

“I have heard of your release,” Aulë says. He is not one for formality; this Vala; and his speech is low; uneasy. He, too, favours another language in the truth of his heart.

So many similarities, Melkor thinks. It amuses him. His eyes never leave Aulë’s face- who has smoothened his own shape into something more of Arda, less of his self. It is two eyes now that face him; tanned, calloused skin, and fiery hair. Two eyes; that speaks of cautiousness and, oh.

Anger.

Melkor nearly laughs. He takes a step forward, and the earth shrivels beneath his steps. Is it not properly delicious? There is anger; that much he clearly sees. Anger refrained; contained; as moulted lava is dompted to serve better purposes. Anger; Melkor knows very well, comes always second, never first; and this means- this means there is another of those delightful emotions; one that is the root of all. Melkor wonders of its nature: fear, sadness, disgust-?

“Indeed,” Melkor replies, his voice a low purr. His eyes follow each of Aulë’s moves, not so different from a predator ready to pound. He spreads his arms, and his smile sharpens into a grin. “Ring the bells for the greatest of news, my friend, the beast is free.”

He takes another step forward. Aulë takes one too.

“I thought you confined, yet. Until healing. I have heard of ill news about your health-”

“Foul rumours,” Melkor cuts him off. He takes a second then, and corrects himself. “Visions.” His grin turns truly wolfish. “Weary you might be; but have I been made to resemble Eru’s the most- and he has found the errors of his ways. I tell you this, Maker, he has granted me a Sight above all. He has granted me Sight about things having yet to pass, and things having passed for none than I, and so are my gaze and will sharpened by it. ”

Pleasure runs along his skin. It is entirely too delightful to contemplate the growing horror in Aulë’s irises; and Melkor feels himself dizzied by it. “I am a changed being,” he says; and allows himself a curt laugh, then.

Unfortunately; Aulë is one of the hardest Valar to rile up. Perhaps it is because his heart is made of stones; as those Dwarves of his; perhaps for reasons unknown to Melkor.

“What are you doing here?” asks Aulë.

Melkor’s every feature drip smugness. “Is it not permitted to wander, now?”

“Steps are very seldomly random in where they take you,” Aulë says, lowly. His grip is tight on his hammer. Melkor is not certain to know if it is out of nervosity or anger. The tool is a thing of exquisite beauty; and Melkor burns with longing to claim it for himself. Aulë- he wants to take everything from him. “Yours, even less.”

“Perhaps I wished to see you.”

It has the merits of breaking Aulë’s composure. His neutral expression fractures; and the truth of his heart is now easily visible between the cracks. True rage, one that raises mountains, and leaves to the foulest of endeavours.

“You will not manage to anger me,” Aulë murmurs; already angered.

Melkor replies with a wry smile. “I have no need for it. You are already a brazier of it, Maker. I merely need to blow for it to catch fire. Tell me, should not be Valinor a place of peace, a place of the quietness of the soul?”

Aulë tightens, even more, his grip on his hammer. It is evident he is forcing himself to stay calm, but his rage peeks through his eyes; ignites them ablaze.

Melkor truly can not refrain himself. It is something else entirely than upon facing Manwë, upon facing Tulkas. He wishes for his words to drip poison, and his sentences to be like arrows to the heart. Aulë; Aulë; he despises, and envies; and feels jealousy curl deep in his bones.

Aulë is the one to truly bear what Melkor so ardently seeks. He is the Maker; his wishes and his desires see the light of day; he sculpts, and he creates, and he is being given to. Aulë, Melkor feels the need to challenge, to belittle; to prove inferior.

There is another reason, deeper; that he will not let reach the surface.

(Aulë is the one Mairon had been made for. Aulë is who lays the truest claim to him. Mairon has ties to Aulë that Melkor will never be able to sever. And he fears; so very deeply; a terror that infects his every thought; that one day, Mairon will recognize it as well.)

“You should not wish for a fight,” Aulë says. “You will be brought once more to Mandos’ Halls.”

“But I have done nothing to you.” Yet. “On which claims should you wish to bind me again? A few words? It is a thing to control the actions, now, but to spread it to the freedom of speech? Valinor takes less and less the features of a haven, and more of a cage.”

“Freedom of speech should not allow you to utter abominations.”

“Abominations-!” Melkor laughs, again. “Tis how you paint the truth, Maker? I knew how hard a feat it was for Valar to recognize it, but never had I thought to call it so foul!”

Aulë takes another step forward. They are very close to each other now; as two beasts circle themselves, eyeing the other for an opening.

“But what you call truth, I call your own, twisted, version of it,” Aulë replies. His features are as hard as stone, now; and perhaps it is truly what they are. But the true testimony to his anger is how the air is whirling around him. It means that Aulë is barely refraining his fëa. It seeks to escape from the fana he has crafted for himself; and in doing so, oscillates between the world of the seeing and the unseeing.

Should Melkor concentrate enough; his sight could rip the barrier that exists between the two worlds. He would see the truth of Aulë then; what is an Ainur; and more precisely, what is a Vala. For all that the Eldar understand naught of the distinction between Vala and Maia; there is one, and it is not one that can be explained nor taught; for fear of ripping the mind with no prospect of healing it.

“Truth should hold all of it, and not merely a portion,” Aulë continues. He takes another step, then; and they properly begin to circle around one another. “You please yourself in calling it so when it is naught but a parody of it; Melkor.”

“Or perhaps you delude yourself in calling it false because you refuse to see it as it is. What pleases you not, you disregard; and in doing so, calls only truth the parcels that bring warmth to your heart.”

“Ever words made to deceive. I often wondered what it brought you in the end; what greater purpose did it lay, except for the satisfaction of seeing order fall into chaos?”

Melkor tilts his head to the side. He watches, through languid eyelids. “Is that what you think? Its sole purpose, to bring me delight when others suffer from it?”

Aulë says nothing; but his gaze is evocative enough.

Well; it is true. If robbed of the ability to properly create; there are others ways for Melkor to bring something new to the world. It is, he admits it freely; a pleasure akin to no other to twist minds with a few sharp words; to see hope leave for doubt; and trust for cautiousness. He does create something, then. It is He who eludes such a response; He who orchestrates this spectacle of blind puppets.

“Is it,” Melkor continues; and his voice is as a purr. He takes a few indolent, sauntering, paces. “-what you think I did to Mairon?”

Aulë stills.

No.

Aulë’s fana stills. Aulë’s fëa, on the contrary; breaks through it.

Melkor wastes no time in slicing through the veil that blinds him. His own fëa bubbles under his skin; ready to be poured out; ready to spread and consume everything under him. His feet sink into the earth beneath him; on the verge of moulting, of letting him break free-

Aulë is revealed to him.

He is everything, and he is nothing at once. He is the little things; and Melkor sees Aulë’s eyes gaze at him from a leave on the ground; and he is in the tallest of them, and the sky is turned to brown and red and golden. It shivers and it settles; and it trembles; and it has suddenly an oak bark, an armour of stone; and it fades to triangles and circles; and the shape is of angerfiresteel, of dozen of eyes blinking back at him; of teeth sharper than blades; of squares and triangles, of scales; of fire and steel; of stones and circles.

It is not a thing that can be comprehended by any of the non-Ainur. Even the Maiar see only a portion of who they are; their eyes unable to see. And it, no doubt to be had about it; would bring them to insanity to have the ability to see.

The world is shifted. Melkor feels a great pressure in his chest; and he knows it is because he is trapped under the gaze of Aulë. It is thousands of eyes that belong to another; yet opening for him; yet allowing him to see. He faces the eyes and is them at the same time; and when they blink; he shivers; for it brings a great burning spreading across his skin.

It is a fire so great it burns even to withhold its sight; rocks that entrap him within their grip. Melkor tries to rise a hand; only for it to crumble. It fades to sand; and suddenly, there are thousands of mouths in the brazier that consumes him.

He is far from afraid. He feels- he feels triumphant. The word is cold on his tongue; where the world burns around him. He has managed, at last; for the Vala to loose himself in his anger; and it proves him he can still; he is still the Deceiver, still the Elder King; still Mightier-

“Y ̨̯̘̱͓̬͘ͅ O ̢̡̬̲̮̖̓́ U ̲͗ͤ̍ ̣ ̡ ̣ ͜ W ̢̱̮̤̖ͥͬ͜ I ̱̹̩̰ͦͥ͛ͅ L ̡̯̰̠͓͕͐̓ L ̞̙̺̫͐͐̏͢ N ̌ ̵̡̟̖̗̜̅ O ̐ ̈ ̒ ̂ ̲͆͝ͅ T ̐ ̳ ̴̟̬̲̠͢ S ̧̯̰͓̘͐ͭ͠ P ̷̨̢̹̼̟̪̔ E ̢̪̬̺̎ͣ͂͛ A ̨̹̙̯ͤͦ̽ͣ K ̙̫͊̅̊̚͢͜ O ̨̤̙̰̠̜ͨ̐ F ̵̴̰̜̲̖͂̾ H ͤ̍ ̌ ̃ ̡͕̮͛ I ̱ ̳ ͙̹͓̽͝ͅ M ̭ ̌ ̜̠̺ͮ͛͆ ! ̦ ̬̤̰̔ ̦ ̙͞ ”

(you will not speak of him)

“Not speak of him?” Melkor laughs; and his laugh seems to explode within himself; shot back to him; and he chokes on it for a second- “Tis he who sought me! Do you think I seduced him, Maker? Do you think I dragged him to Utumno, perhaps? Is this what he told you?”

“I̱̜̮̹ͧ̀͛͛ Ẁ̢̦̳͍̭̮ͥI͍̥͎̠̐̒͘͠L̻̫̞̱̥̘ͮ̇L̡̠̜̗̓́̂̈ N̸̠̯̰̥ͪ͂́O̭̹͍͙̩ͮ̐͢T̴̢̲̱̲̺͗̄ Ḩ̤̟͙̫̎̔͆Ḙ̻͚̻͚ͦ͛̚Ă̢̺̳̥͈̘̝R̨̫̪̠ͮ̇ͧ͜ Ṫ̴̰̻̰̏̉͆H̵̷͚̞̞̗̉̀Ḛ̯̰̻͇̒ͦ͝ F̹̬̞̣ͫ͗͢͠O̢̨̻̩̬ͦ̐̓Ŭ̴̡̩̻̗̖ͫĻ̙͚̪ͤ̇ͦͅ Ļ̧̛̬̝̖̻̇Ị̧̠̜͓ͤ͠͞E̢̯̜̣̜̗͊ͨŚ̨̭̺̻̱̈̃ Ó̱̱͇̝̞̏̈F̭̜̭̈̓̍ͣ͛ Y̨̯̦̘ͦ̄ͤͅǪ̢̢̪̻ͨ͛ͅU̷̢̝̜̮͚̫̔Ŗ̙̰̈̍̂͝͞ M̸̲͍̬̭͂͘̚O̢̰̱̣̙͑̂̌Ų̛̺̞̺͚͔͠Ť̵̤̱̘̪ͦ͝H̴̯̪̻̫͂͘͜ !̝̟̖͇̞̟̄̈́ I̡̪̟̠̙͊̔͠T̨̨̢̯̯̫̅̈́ S͔̯̖ͤ̈́͌͊ͅP̮͎̻͙̝͌͂̑E̟̺͕̗̟ͥ̎͘Ȃ̢̺̯̘ͥ͡͡K̷̬̤̥ͭ́̑͝S̶̶̡̻̟̯͆͘ N̸̜̗̥̬̈́̐͛O̢̫̣͎͍͍͛̄T̨̼̟̠̩̂͊͞Ḣ̢̩̲̙̮̈́͢I̶̟̺̻̓ͬͭͅN̺̞͕̹̻̎̋̇Ǵ̨̤͎̙̙̈̐ B̧̰̮̮̻̝͋͊U̯͎̩͕̞ͫ̾ͅŢ͔̮͔̒̀ͤ͞ P̵̦̺͓̬̲̫̽O̡̗͎͕̔̒̔͝Į̝̠̜̦̀̾͗Ś̥̰͎̺̉́͝Ǫ̼̳̤̯̥̎͆N̹̫̩̲̤͛̈́͒”

(I will not hear the foul lies of your mouth, it speaks nothing but poison)

“Delude yourself as you wish!” Melkor shouts, half delirious. He laughs again, and this time his entire body makes and unmakes itself; crumbles under the force of his mirth. He drifts away- and is remade; in an endless circle that leaves him breathless. “Tis is he who came to me! He who sought better than what you offered him! Him who asked for power; who asked for might!”

“Y̹̦ͥ̀O̳ͥ͐̓U̯̰̐͘ T̞̒͐͠W͐̏ͮ̇Ǐ̵̻̫S̟̅̓́T̂̈̐̈E̸̒̂ͪD̳͂́̐ H̴̟̭ͮI̹̐͐͠Ş̴̲ͭ M̷̹͗̄I̼̤̔̎Ņ̔̎ͣD̪͂ͦ̚.̭̻ͤͦ Y̺̽ͣ̆O̳̥͊̅Ůͮ̇̚ M̫̤ͧͨĄ̴̐̇D̵̏̉͂E̴̵̾̉ H̷̀ͤ̍Ǐ̃̒͝M̰̱̳ͦ C̹̽͠ͅR̭ͫ͗̌A̜ͮͦ̐V̻̦̓̔E̴̡̬̤ W̧̆ͫ̾Ĥ́ͤͅȦ̢ͦ̆T̨̧̛ͣ Ḣ̬̊́Ẹ̣̽ͤ Ḑ̐̇͠E̢ͫ͗͊S̛̯ͨ̉Į̉̂́R̭̼̈̃E̶̽́̏Ḏ̵̈̈́ N̋̍̈̓O̮̍ͣͦṪ̮̯ͦ”

(you twisted his mind you made him crave what he desired not)

“If that is what you wish to say to yourself,” Melkor gasps. “By all means; convince yourself of your lies! But he is well in Angband, and he has the place that should have been gifted to him from the start!”

Silence.

Melkor clasps a hand over the dozen of eyes that cover him, then, who pins him. It would be so very easy to get rid of them, to properly shed off his fana and display all his might; but he does not. There is a fine line between provocations and assault; and while the first is expected of him, the second would send him straight to the Void.

“H ̭̬͒̓ E ̲̱́̔ I ̒ ̀ ͗ͤ S ̲̍̑̚ W ̛̱ͨͥ E ̢̱ͬͧ L ̜ ̀ ̱ͦ L ̹ͥ ̦ ̀ ? ̳ ͥ͐̓ ”

(he is well?)

Melkor frowns. “He is,” he says; confusion wrapping itself around his tone. “What difference does it make-”

The world shifts, again.

Melkor sinks himself in the ground to hold his balance; for perish the thought of him falling to his knees in front of Aulë, of all Valar-

“Everything,” Aulë murmurs.

There is no fury in his voice, anymore; merely a lassitude that confuses Melkor. It is a deep tiredness, coupled with ache; and Melkor frowns-

“You are truly mighty,” Aulë says then; quietly. “-in provoking unsolicited anger in others. I did not come here to fight, Melkor. And perhaps, despite your foul words, neither did you.”

Melkor scoffs. “Preposterous-!”

“Is it, truly?”

“I never saw what it was that you envied so deeply in I,” Aulë tells him. He says it so plainly that it flares Melkor’s rage awake. “For it was yourself that desecrated the abilities that had been given to you. What is lost can be found once more; but only if one is willing to seek it.”

“It had been taken from me, not lost-!”

“Come visit me,” Aulë says; and it surprises him enough to leave him speechless. “Not today. Certainly not tomorrow. Come; once you are willing to talk. And we shall talk.”

Melkor opens his mouth; but he is not quick enough.

Aulë fades within the earth; and disappears.

It leaves Melkor to stand in the middle of the forest, feeling strangely empty. He shakes his head then; to get rid of the unwanted sensation, but it lingers. It lingers and spreads through him; until he is forced to anchor himself to his fana.

But even anchored to it: the feeling of emptiness does not fade.

.

.

.

Estë is distant.

Melkor has very little liking for it.

He wonders, at first, if it is truly the dead rabbits that bring such a grimness to her features- and upon the third day of getting very little smiles does he search for them in the seas. He roams the shores for days; growing more and more frustrated as he can not find their bodies; and is in half a mind to storm off to Mandos’ Halls to ask of their whereabouts when he finds one.

It is- surprisingly, alive.

Melkor eyes it with distrust. It watches him in return; truly hideous with its beak and palmed paws. It- well; there is no better word to say it; but it swims.

Melkor grabs it; and it squeaks.

“Hush,” he says; and strengthens his hold on the beast. It squirms, and its fur is wet, but Melkor’s grip has tamed dragons- this is nothing in comparison. “Behave.”

The thing squeaks louder. It tries to bite him; and Melkor glares at it; truly wondering if bringing it back would not anger Estë more. But the creature is, he supposes, a remains of what had been hers- and it is better than nothing at all.

He is quick to flee, before Ulmo sees him lingering on his shores.

During his flight, the nasty beast tries to bite him many times more. Melkor changes his mind, then, the creature is worse than dragons. They had recognized his might and commands; at least; while it is not sentient enough to recognize him as its better.

She is surrounded by her Maiar when he arrives; and Melkor is half of a mind to shoo them away. He forces himself to restraint; and hides the creature in a pocket of time, before waiting for Estë to dispense her last orders. She is, if he has understood it well; working with Námo himself to heal the souls in his halls. Some are of greater need of it than others; and Estë’s Maiar work at restoring their health.

She turns to him, expectantly, when her Maiar finally leave her.

“I,” Melkor begins, quite hesitantly. He stops himself, then. “I have heard of the misfortunes suffered by your pets.”

Estë arches an eyebrow, amused. Both are very aware of who is behind their ‘misfortune.’

“I brought another creature, to appease you,” Melkor continues.

A smile spreads on her lips, delighted. “Tis is most courteous of thee, Melkor. And where are they?”

Melkor retrieves the foul beast; and Estë’s eyes widen at its sight – but it is rapt awe, delighted surprise.

“I know nothing of this kind!” she exclaims, and she is quick to retrieve the creature from where he holds it. It bites her not, this treacherous beast; but curls in her arms. She laughs at the sight; pleased enough for her mirth to curl her lips upward. “Are you its maker?”

Melkor is loath to admit it- “Yes.”

“This is very kind of thee, Lord Melkor.”

Melkor bites down a laugh- how strange that such words were to be given to him.

“It is,” Estë continues, quietly. “Kindness does not need to be grandiloquent. It often manifests itself in the smallest things.”

Melkor watches her through languid eyelids. “Tis merely a beast. Hardly proper kindness.”

“Ah, but the one receiving the gift should be the sole decider of if it is akin to kindness or not.”

Melkor laughs this time.

“Then take it as you wish,” he says. “But keeps it away from my sight. I fear it holds very little value for its maker. Treacherous thing.”

But Estë smiles, and her grimness vanishes. This; at least, is a victory he finds sweet.

.

.

.

(Ulmo cries out upon discovering one of his new creatures has gone missing. He gathers the rest of them, and swears not to lose any other.

They will lay eggs the next season; and his anguish will be appeased by the arrival of six new creatures.)

.

.

.

Melkor waits before accepting Nerdanel’s invitation. He wants her to be unguarded; and the more time he lets pass, the more she will ease herself, walls crumbling down.

Thus, he avoids Tirion.

In truth, he avoids many places. Tulkas is ever watching for him; Aulë has uneased him in a way he can not explains, and Manwë gazes at him as if he desperately wants to say a thing but is unable to bring himself to speak of it.

He finds himself going to Mandos’ Halls; to Nienna’s realm. He wanders there, amongst the fog; and feels this strange, morbid, curiosity at the thought of seeing the Doors of Night again. He wants to see them, and he fears them more than anything that exists.

Twice does Tulkas nearly catch him; and Melkor has the satisfaction of seeing the Vala pace and rage at his own failure. He watches it from afar; having taken the shape of a bird; and his laugh reverberates with the cawing of the crows.

Estë is most pleased with her new beast. She feeds it crabs and shrimps; and Melkor’s gaze is positively disgusted.

He wonders, then, on how to pass a message to Mairon. Now that he dwells on it; he finds himself fool amongst fools to have thought the Maia to have come to Valinor. Melkor reaches for the black pearl that adorns his ear, the symbol of their bond; and tugs at it; absently. Mairon will have to wait. Before, he had seduced a Maia of Irmo, had charged Him to pass a message through Mairon’s dreams. It shall not do, now.

First, because he can not promise what had been promised to this Maia. Melkor remembers Him well- for he had not managed to escape to Angband during the Darkening; had been called traitor by his kin; and judged as such. Melkor does not know what had happened to him, after. He cares very little. Second, because he can not seduce other Valar’s Maia again; lest should he be thrown behind the Doors of the Night, again.

A message is not worth it.

(yet, there is a weight on his lungs, at the thought of Mairon waiting for never-coming news.)

.

.

.

When Melkor finally brings himself to go to Nerdanel’s shop; the days are reaching the end of the seven month since his… travelling. Time is a strange construct, for immortal beings; but Estë diligently marks each day. She says for it to be useful; when she wants to track the progress of the healing souls in Mandos’ Halls.

He is careful for naught to betray the truth behind his disguise. Annatar is the very image of a Ñoldo: he has tied his hair in the characteristic braids they prefer; and in his attire does he wear the colors they claim theirs.

Nerdanel is in the midst of sculpting a bust when he enters. He has only to say his name for the door to pivot on his hinges, and tis a magic that is useful indeed. Not quite what Angband – and Utumno before that – used, but he supposes others would find their means of protection barbaric.

Clay maculates her face, her neck, her fingers. Melkor contemplates her a second; worlds away with his neat attire. The Lady of Fëanor does not shy away from his gaze, however; does not even fake shame at the sight of her mess. She stands, and darts at him two piercing eyes; a glint of annoyance in them.

“My invitation was given weeks ago,” she says, in the guise of a welcome.

Melkor inclines his head to the side; and grins. “An expectation sweetened by the passage of time; then. You will not be as guarded.”

Surprise gleams in her irises. Melkor’s grin turns wolfish- tis what had always unnerved others in his manipulations. Often does he state them plainly; but sharing them with the own trapped by them does not detract from their truth.

“I suppose I am not,” Nerdanel replies; and arches an eyebrow. “You will have to wait, however. If you interrupt me in my work; then it is mere politeness to let me finish.”

“On the contrary,” Melkor says. He is truly pleased now; for it is better than he had thought. Fëanor is bound to pass by; if Melkor’s visit is unscheduled. But then- A frown bars his face; just a second. He has forgotten- it is not Melkor who visits. Fëanor has no reason to avoid him, as of now- and on the contrary, would have certainly come if he had known of a stranger in his Lady’s workshop. He swallows his frustration; then; and adds. “I would be honored to see you at work.”

Nerdanel considers him for a second; before humming.

“Cover yourself,” she tells him; and Melkor halts- what?

In front of his baffled expression, Nerdanel snorts.

“Cover yourself,” she repeats. “If you are to stay; you are bound to be covered by either mud or clay; and you have too fine clothing for it to be tainted so. Take an apron- the ones on the left; and cover yourself.”

Melkor’s gaze reaches for what she shows him. It is- dirty aprons; dried clay staining it; plain colours- he grimaces.

Nerdanel touches his shoulder. He does not jolt away from the touch, but it is very nearly so.

“Go on,” she says. “I won’t allow you further without an apron.”

It is to an extreme reluctance that Melkor ties the thing around him. He glares at it with the fire of a dozen volcanoes; but it does not ignite; and he is forced to don it. He does, however; sing under his breath a few words of Protection | Distance | Barriers.

Don it, certainly, let it touch the skin of his hroä, certainly not.

Nerdanel gives him a long look, and nods, satisfied as for now. She leads him through the workshop; and sits in front of her half-made bust. The lengths of her braids are covered too in dried clay, but she does not seem to care in the least.

A few minutes pass in silence; Nerdanel shaping her bust with delicate strikes; Melkor contemplating her without uttering a single word.

It is He who breaks the silence; loathing it to severe lengths. Far too long had he been exposed to it; in the Void; and never wants he to let it linger too long.

“Who is the subject of your creation?”

“Tis a gift for Elbereth Gilthoniel, the most beautiful of Valar,” Nerdanel says, her voice quiet. “She has blessed us yet with each of our wishes placed upon a star; and she is deserving of a proper proof of our gratefulness.”

Immediately, Melkor’s attention is piqued. His eyes snap towards the bust; and perhaps he can find some similarities between the clay and the fana of Varda. The sculpture does her a little too much honor; he thinks, for she is not this enchanting.

“You should modulate the right cheek,” Melkor blurts out before he can refrain himself. “It is slightly curved, in truth. Varda is not symmetrical. As fiercely as she does want perfection; she does not achieve it, not yet-”

Nerdanel halts in her sculpting. She turns to him, slowly.

“You have seen her?”

“Have all Ñoldor not?” Melkor bites in return. “She gives free sight to her. The Valar are not that difficult to find; for they stay in their assigned realms.”

Nerdanel contemplates him for a few seconds. Long enough that Melkor fears of having said too much; or too distantly from what the Ñoldor think; but then she returns to her work, and says:

“You would rather enjoy discussing with my husband.”

Melkor nearly chokes.

“Why is that?” he manages to asks; feigning indifference.

Nerdanel hums. She carves a little Varda’s right cheek before answering. “He too bares very little liking to the Valar. Tis a subject of controversy between us. He thinks them too idle and lazy.”

Not a far cry from the truth.

“It could be considered blasphemy,” Melkor says, slowly.

Nerdanel smoothen the left ear. She gazes a second at her work before adding touches to the eyes; slicing through the clay to adjust the irises. Only then, when she leans back with a satisfied hum, does she smile, giving him a brief glance.

“It could,” she agrees. “However, you seem to bare little love for them as well.”

Melkor wonders how she has managed to understand as much in only two given sentences. He hides his dislike poorly, it would seem; or perhaps is she more astute than he had been brought to think.

“This is a groundless accusation.”

“Is it?” asks Nerdanel, ever smiling.

“Your husband holds little love for the Valar, you say, and yet you carve a gift for the Lady of the Stars,” Melkor defers, watching her in rapt fascination. “Do you hold such little value to his word, or does he to yours?”

“You are not married.”

“I fail to understand-”

“You will, if you shall marry,” Nerdanel tells him. She turns to moisten her fingers into a bowl of water; and wipes them on her apron. Her features are not grim when she turns to him. “It is all a matter of understanding disagreements. I shall not change his mind; and he shall not change mine. Am I not free to do as I please, if it holds so little consequence for him? Is he not subject to the same constraints and liberties? We agree, at least, to not see of the same eye on the matter.”

Melkor rises his brows. “You agree- to disagree?”

She laughs then; and wipe some clay that has fallen on her left knee.

“Exactly, Lord Annatar,” she says. “We agree on disagreeing.”

Melkor’s fingers rise to his black pearl. He tugs at it; instinctively. What a strange notion. But then again- Mairon and He had had their fair share of fights. Usually resolved by a sharp order from Melkor; or by a sweet convincing by Mairon (Sauron had he been called then), silver tongue always at work. Never had they truly parted with two different opinions- or perhaps on one matter only.

The matter that has brought him there: three gems, shining brighter than the stars.

Agreeing on disagreeing. How peculiar. He wonders if it would work. No- Mairon would consider him strangely; asking of his health, should he tell them to part away with different opinions. He would believe him impersonated; or perhaps sick.

“I am married, I suppose,” he tells her; then. He is not certain why he says it. It is strange to voice it. Stranger even to tell it to the Enemy. “We certainly exchanged vows of loyalty.”

Her brow raises in surprise.

“Who is the lucky Elleth?”

“Not an Elleth,” Melkor sharply corrects. Not an Elf either; but she needs not to know of it.

Nerdanel gives him a long look. Long enough that Melkor feels defiance builds in his chest.

“Congratulations,” she says; then; and her lips part in a genuine smile. “I take it is a union of good health; if you have yet to disagree on things.”

Melkor laughs. “On the contrary; we disagree on many things. Tis merely that one tends to see the light the other is explaining after hours of snarling; and two opinions merge into one.”

Nerdanel’s eyes flicker to him.

“Marriage is both a blessing and a hardship, I find,” she says, “but the blessing lies in the lack of loneliness. Decisions; and thought, reflected by two minds rather than one.”

The discussion is taking a turn he is not certain to appreciate. Melkor hums for all answer, then; and returns to contemplating the half-made bust of Varda. She is taking shape with every stroke, and more and more can he recognize her features in the clay.

Nerdanel works in silence; then; breaking it every now and then as she bends to pick another tool and as she wipes her clay-tainted fingers on a cloth. Melkor’s gaze misses none of her movements; and he surprises himself in being quite intrigued by the process.

Sculpting is a craft he had never found much interest for; and he finds himself curious to observe its making.

He makes small suggestions, all about Varda’s features for he knows naught of the craft itself, as she advances; and is surprised in seeing that Nerdanel trusts them, modifying her work as he speaks. She is precise with her tools; a sharpness that would be most welcomed on the battlefield. Graceful movements can prove themselves deadly; as he knows best.

“Did you think about how you would wish our collaboration to work?” asks Nerdanel, a long time later.

If there had been a Sun, it would have been low in the sky. But it is Valinor; and there are two trees, and their light does not fade. Melkor finds himself gazing at them- strangely missing the Moon amongst the stars.

The Sun, he misses not- for it had been blinding and hurtful to gaze at. But the Moon had been pale in the dark of the night; and many times had he stared at it, words trapped behind his mouth.

“I shall not pretend to offer it to the Valar, not after our discussion,” Melkor eventually replies. “But a gift it shall be; if so you shall also wish; and I would wish for it to be brought before the King.”

“High-King Finwë?”

Melkor inclines his head. “It is he who lead us there. He who brought us a haven. I would wish to convey my gratitude as best I can.”

Nerdanel looks at him in surprise.

“He shall be very flattered by it, then,” she says.

Melkor smoothens his desire for a grin into a smile. It is a hard feat to do; but he has gazed at enough of them as for now to know how to mimic them. He is made for change, after all, is the very Vala of it. To say, Melkor thinks, distantly; that Eru Iluvatar had wanted for him to think himself devoid of a realm-

Melkor is not devoid of a realm. He does not merely partake in the realms of the others; but of course he does, for his own domain touches all. He is the Valar of Change and Chaos alike. He leads the Circle of Creation to Destruction; for both are meant to happen, endlessly trapped together. Neither can thrives without entraining the rise of its neighbour, and in wishing for their own manifestation does they partake in creating the other’s. He is Change, and he is Chaos, and both are equally a part of dreams, of healing; of the winds; of the stars; of the earth, of war, of the forests, of everything and anything the Valar have.

He leaves Nerdanel’s shop with satisfaction purring in his chest; when the hours pass and Nerdanel begins to yawn. Neither notice that they had not truly worked together, Melkor merely watching; and wondering.

.

.

.

Melkor returns the next day.

He finds Nerdanel in better disposition upon seeing him; and she is quick to drag him to a corner of her workshop; where lays only notes and frantic scribblings.

“We need to decide on what design we want,” Nerdanel tells him, thoughtfulness written on each of her features. “To associate sculpting and smithing is not easy work; but we might just manage to do something of beauty and use.”

“Use is a better purpose,” Melkor counters; crossing his arms on his chest.

Nerdanel raises a brow. “But beauty has his own as well. We can not make something lacking of grace.”

“Not lacking in grace, merely not shadowed by it. It needs to display its power, not be a façade of grace, revealing a utility inferior to its appearance.”

Nerdanel frowns, and grabs one of the booklets abandoned on the table. She fishes for a quill then; and grabs a ribbon to tie her hair in a quick, graceless, braid. “This I agree, but both can be mighty, indeed. What do you think of? A bust? A statue? A scene?”

Melkor taps his fingers on the table. His gaze trail on the prototypes displayed within the notes; and he finds something he quite likes after a little foraging; seizing it between the tip of his thumb and his index.

“This,” he says. “What is it?”

Nerdanel follows his gaze. She frowns. “An abandoned idea. I thought of how it could be to have the jaw be moveable, but I still lack the means-”

“No-” Melkor cuts her off. His gaze is riveted on the notes. A moveable statue- excitation runs through his veins, flowing as blood does. He is unable to tear away his eyes from what the hypothesis propose, and his mind goes to iron; and thinks of the delight it would be to have it move so- freely, truly sentient. But made by a matter of mechanism; the way a door pivots or a bridge is lowered. “No,” he murmurs. There is greed and excitation akin in his eyes. “I want to do this.”

.

.

.

Now, this, is very far from easily made.

Melkor surprises himself in thinking less of Fëanor’s arrival – although, he keeps glancing at the door, fidgeting in his impatience – and more about this project of them. It is, he supposes, a rather enthralling way to channel his frustrations, need for doing something. It allows him to think less of the Silmarils’ light; and how he so deeply longs for them, and more of techniques to make it work.

He sees, a few times, one of Fëanor’s offspring appear in the shop. Twice is it the fair one – and Melkor has already forgotten his name; he can’t quite bring himself to remember seven sons after all. A couple of times does he see Maitimo; too. Tis a name, he knows; and the very first time they face the other; Melkor is dripping with such radiant amusem*nt that the Elfling flees.

Maitimo Nelyafinwë- ah indeed, tis a name that marks his mind. He remembers him quite well indeed; how defiant he had been, how proud and angry. He had never broken; and in this grants himself a few scraps of begrudged admiration. Recognition at least, of his strength of will; when Elves were so weak creatures- fading upon the slightest trouble.

He sees a black-haired one; also; but knows not of which one it is. He resembles Fëanor, but not so much as to pass for a twin; and seems to have yet to put expressions on his delicate features.

Nerdanel does not introduce him. She is quick in speaking with them, instructing whatever needs to be said; and if Melkor raises a hand, once; lips curling in half a grin, half a snarl; they avert their gaze.

When Nerdanel returns to their shared work; she speaks not of it. She resumes their conversation as if she had never left it at all; and says naught of her sons.

So be it.

.

.

.

As always, Melkor feels his presence without needing Him to introduce himself.

He is, too, in better disposition than upon their last meeting. It does not mean he is content to see Him; as a mixture of hatredangerjealousyangerhatredhatred is still intertwined deep in his heart. Melkor can feel it weigh on his lungs; and every time he glances at Manwë does it make itself known again; spreading and spreading until he can feel nothing else.

“Brother,” Manwë says.

Melkor lets a few seconds pass before replying, indolent in this way he so favours. It is through sluggish eyelids that he looks at Manwë; as if the gesture is too much of an effort. “Who, now, has sent you as their guard dog? Is it Aulë?”

Manwë is far too used to his way of speech to take offence. Or perhaps he does; but shows nothing of it.

“I come to see how you fare,” Manwë says, features unreadable.

“It is truly the excuse that you bring upon each of your visits?” Melkor is truly amused, now. “Tell me the truth, now, which newly shaped mountain; which colour-changing blade of grass; which ageing beast guides you here?”

Manwë says nothing, but irritation flashes quickly within his blue irises.

How easy it is to rile him up; and how satisfying. Melkor hums; low in his throat; and pushes away the notes spread out before him. Manwë’s gaze is quick to dart to it; curious; and he takes a step forward, as if to consider it better.

Melkor snorts; and gestures at the notes. Either he makes a mockery of it; either Manwë forcefully takes them. “By all means, indulge your curiosity.”

“Are those… notes on sculpture?”

“A master of observational skills,” Melkor murmurs. “Tell me then, the true reason for your visit.”

Manwë contemplates him pensively, a matter of seconds.

“I did not know of your interest in the craft.”

“Many things escape the wisdom of your sight.”

“Then it is only up to you to speak of them,” Manwë replies. He inclines his head to the side; as one of those birds of prey of his; and says nothing for a few seconds, piercing in his consideration of Melkor.

Melkor tires of this game very quickly. He bites the inner flesh of his cheeks to keep his tone pleasant enough, unsnarling. “The reason for your visit, brother.”

“You are able to change your shape, are you not?”

Melkor’s irritation turns to confusion. He is; as a matter of fact; a welcoming change to the previous ages. He never ceases to wonder at it now that he has gained the ability back, and escapes his current hroä more often than any Valar does.

He stands; coming to circle his desk. He does not answer, merely stretches a hand in the air- and watches silently as it comes to take the form of a vulture’s claws.

Melkor rises his eyes to Manwë; and expects- well, he is not certain as of what he expects. He is certain, however, that what he does not, is to expect delight. For it is assuredly delight that colors Manwë’s features; and when he clasps his hands together, it is also delight that paints each of his movements.

“Come with me,” Manwë says. It is more of a command than a question; both of them so very unused to adding freedom of choice to their words. “Come fly with me, brother.”

It is- a surprising demand. An unexpected one as well; but Melkor is quite certain that something else lies behind the demand. It is not merely a demand for flying; but has an ulterior motive; that is yet to be divulged.

He considers the demand for a second. His first instinct is to refuse. Many reasons lay behind the refusal – lack of want; distrust; lack of time…

“Not very long,” Manwë continues. He has folded his hands under the fabric of his sleeves, hiding them from Melkor’s sight. Melkor knows what is hidden there however; pale, snow-white, light-inducing flesh. “Indulge me.”

Again, not truly a question.

Melkor is- curious. Manwë rarely asks of him; and if his brother nourishes fantasies of close kin and cheerful fraternity, he keeps them closely entrapped within his mind. To have him ask of Melkor; better yet, ask of a flight- it comes as a surprise.

It comes as a challenge; and Melkor has yet to shy away from one.

“Where?” he asks.

Manwë smiles. It is a blinding smile; one that he loathes; one that flares once more the ball of angerjealousyhatredhatredjealousy.

“You will see,” Manwë says. He adds, then, his smile turning into a sheepish grin: “Do you not trust me?”

Melkor laughs hysterically for minutes; after that.

.

.

.

They fly.

Melkor would like to say that he enjoys very little of it, that it is as much a pain as when his hands had touched the burning light of the Silmarils. He would like to say it a bore; to say it dull; to say it a waste of time.

He would like to say it naught.

But it has been so very long. He has never dared to do so, above Angband. Every gust of wind had settled a terror deep in his bones; had made him see Manwë in each of them, see his demise. To fly would have been a call to his own defeat; made him vulnerable to attacks. His latest flight; then; true flight, not merely going from one place to another but savouring it, dates from… Not even the Years of the Trees. Not even the Years of the Lamps.

There is a freedom in the flight; one that soothes the aches of his mind. There is so much to think of, to plan: from the craft of the Silmarils to its theft (or perhaps mere acquisition); from his armies in Angband to Mairon’s awaiting his orders; from Tulkas and Manwë’s cautiousness to the idleness he fakes at all time. So much to think of; and yet; in this flight; not a single of those thoughts manage to break the surface of his mind.

They take a halt on the northern coastland of Araman.

Melkor gazes at it, in silence. He remembers all too well his flight through the night; the destruction of the Trees; and how he and Ungoliant had escaped there-

Manwë lands next to him. Already does his fana rearrange itself into an Elvish-like one. He is quick to vanish all traces of the truth of him; but a few white feathers linger in his hair, on his clothing.

“Is it not a sight of beauty?” he asks, quietly.

Melkor looks at Araman.

He flexes his hands instinctively; raises his gaze to them- and he can feel them burning- he is ready to ask for ointment-

No- There is no pain. No burning.

He curls his fingers. He does it once, twice, then ten times. They obey him as willingly as the first time; unmarred, unwounded.

“Yes,” Melkor says, gaze riveted on his hands. “Yes, it is.”

Chapter 5: Lesson 5: Beware of what Sauron is doing in Angband

Chapter Text

Melkor walks through a cloud.

No, he realizes; eyes blown wide. It is the cloud who walks over him; and he feels as if a dozen feet trample him over, unaware of his presence, passing and passing and passing- his heart thuds in his chest- he can hear it louder than the rest of the world.

It is- a second- no.

It is irregular, nothing like its usual rhythm. Three heartbeats- followed by one- and then naught; and two, and five; and naught again, and nine, seven, three. Melkor stares at his own chest; subjugated by the uneven pulsing, and when he raises his hand to press it against his flesh- tis not a hand, anymore.

Where fingers should lay: pine cones have replaced them. Not brown as all made by Yavanna, but purple, then pink, then blue, then bright green; and then again does the circle begins. He wiggles them; bedazzled, and there are thorns falling from them.

He wiggles them again; staring for a few seconds as more and more thorn fall; enough to reach his knees, enough to cover the ground in them- and he wonders if he will drown in them, in they will entrap him as quicksand does; and in staring enough at them do they fade into rocks; and gems; and coins; and silver; and gold; a treasure that grows and grows and grows-

Melkor raises his head, and faces a monster.

Monster indeed, for he fails to see how else to describe it. The world shivers around it. A world of blue and purple; with stars as ever-expanding circles, waves of light that come and go as they please- and amidst it; strange beasts, brighter in colour than he has ever seen-

The one that faces him stares with eyes the size of the world. It is a beast made of wings and spider legs; made of scales and fur alike; one with a mouth wide open in a grin – and it laughs, and laughs; and laughs, making the world tremble around it.

There is a strange feeling blooming in Melkor’s heart. It makes his hroä shiver and his pulse quicken; and upon facing this world of pinks and blues and purples does he feel a strange weight on his lungs.

Tis fear; he recognizes, when the Monster passes through him without a second thought. Fear; announcing the premises of true terror; and it leaves him a little breathless; a little frozen in place. He can not move- his legs have stiffened into wood-

New monsters rise- each stranger than the precedent. The only similarity in them is their floating; and how they seem all to pass through Melkor as if he is not there; as if he exists not. This flares a deeper fear in his chest; and anger begins to raise as well – for he does not understand; and he likes not to be so lost; and this is such a strange sight-!

Melkor tries to move. He wills all his power in his hroä; to change it to fit his desires- but he is powerless there. Tis not a realm he reigns over, and he is bound to watch and watch and watch as the world around him change and twists- a deformed version of the truth; ugly, purple; psychedelic.

He feels his mouth slip then.

His eyes widen- in terror or horror he does not know- but he is unable to do anything other but watch. His mouth slips from above his chin to his throat; and upon reaching the highest point of his chest, disappears entirely.

He can not scream- can not shout- can not snarl-

There are invisible manacles forcing him to stay still. His eyes widen until they can not anymore; and in his irises are reflected the monsters of this world: great caterpillars the size of a fortress, a kaleidoscope of bright colors; winged beasts and open maws.

Melkor forces his eyes shut.

He feels something touch his skin; then; and he keeps them shut- tis is nothing like he has ever felt; not even Ungoliant had brought such fear in him, such incomprehension, such terror.

His eyes open.

There is a Vala facing him – crouched down on Melkor’s bed. His face is but centimetres away from his own; a face made of pale blue and bright purple; eyes rounded out to extremes, and a large grin spreading from one ear to the other.

“Hey there, Melkor !” a voice joyfully exclaims. “I so desired to meet you !”

Melkor opens his mouth. And then, he screams.

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.

.

Melkor is glaring at the Vala. He has scrambled away from the newcomer; taking refuge against the headboard.

The Vala – Irmo – is giving him a large, sheepish, grin; and has yet to leave. him. in. peace.

“Explain yourself,” Melkor hisses, terror quickly fading into anger.

Irmo co*cks his head to the side in visible confusion. “Explain myself?”

“Your presence. In my bedroom.”

“But I just said it. I desired to meet you.”

“In this state-?”

“Which better state than in the realm I control most?” Irmo cheerfully asks.

His sight alone dizzies Melkor, as he seems unable to settle on one palette, shifting endlessly between shades of purples and blues. A second and it is his hair that shines bright lilac, his cheeks turquoise; the next, and already he is his skin a deep mulberry, hair darkening to cobalt.

It is not the colors that disturb Melkor; but how they seem unable to settle, how they endlessly shift from one to another.

Irmo laughs then; a high-pitched sound; and gives him a long, considering, look. “You are but my host, as for now. Is it not in my wife’s domain that you rest? And are her possessions not mine; as mine are hers? She talked of you in length; and I was curious- very curious-! Curiosity as you know is a hard master for it lets you not forget it! What better time to indulge it than when you are so near I? I thought of you and here I am! Have you enjoyed the sight I have gifted you? The realm of dreams is I as I am it! Tis a great gift to see its true nature! It shifts and is ever-moving, as dreams tend to be! You control them not, and they control naught of you; lest you would wish for it to! I am no ill host, and you are no ill guest! Not as for now! Tell me; have you seen my brother’s halls as they should be displayed? Or have you seen them as he wishes for you to? They are so pale! So white! They deserve colour; and he will hear naught of it! Alas! Tis the affliction of the artist, to see opportunities where others see naught!”

Melkor blinks. Irmo seems to be waiting for an answer; but there is none to be given- not when his speech turns from one subject to another without building bridges between them. He jumps on them; and expects for others to follow such a line of thought.

“I had other considerations than the decor,” Melkor replies, at last.

“A pity!” Irmo cries out. “Consider it, next time!”

Melkor, the deceiver, known for his quickness of wit, has no retort on the tip of his tongue. He can only stare, dumbfounded, and perhaps a little weary.

“Now,” Irmo exclaims; full of an unsettling mirth he is alone to bear. “Dreams are enchanting, I should know as such, but the day is bright and lingering in a bed shall not help to its brightness! Did you enjoy the beasts of my realms? We should be on our merry way; Estë is waiting! I made the caterpillar for its transformation shall be magnificent, indeed! Have you tried this new confection of the first-borns; bread made of honey and chestnut flour?”

“I have not,” Melkor replies, choosing to focus on the last words heard. Irmo’s cheer and madness is bringing an ache to his mind; and the looks he gives him back are tainted by confusion and cautiousness alike.

Irmo frowns. It twists all of its features, and he springs to his feet, clasping his hands together. They sink into one another, merging. “Then you must have it, fair guest! Tis a true delight one that speaks to the soul and heart alike! Speed now, and follow me, lest it disappears before you have it!”

“I shall never recover, should it be so,” Melkor mutters, but leaves his refuge all the same. His movements are slower than Irmo would wish, tainted by a cautiousness that will not leave. He does not remember Irmo so- but then, it had been ages since they had met, and truly met never have they.

Melkor has very little liking to dreams, and their master even less. Dreams are a realm too far from his grasp for him to control it, and relishing control, he does not appreciate. And Irmo- Irmo with his strange mirth and mad eyes, he is glad to have avoided thus far.

He dresses, as Irmo watches, and there are a few quips on his lips desiring to be spoken- but he does not say them.

They step out of the bedroom; nearly pushed forward by Irmo in his eagerness to move, and Melkor has to need many steps aside to avoid unwanted contact. It makes Irmo frown; and his lips pout; but his twitching arms do not touch Melkor – not yet, at least.

“I am so very delighted to see you,” Irmo says, chatting as they make their way through Estë’s home. “I was so very curious, so very curious!” He clasps his hands again. When he separates them, two others fingers have bloomed on them. “Friends again, at last! I was distressed to see you kept so long in my brother’s halls; and many times did I wish to come; alas it was not permitted! But you here, at last, and we shall be good friends! Great friends!”

Melkor searches, almost frantically, for Estë. She has yet to make her apparition; and not even a Maia or two walks through those corridors, leaving him at the sole mercy of Irmo.

He eyes him with distrust, as they walk. He even choses to walk behind Irmo; in the hopes of having at least one means of defence. Fleeing, fighting, anything- Many times does his eyes wander to the sides, searching for an exit that does not come.

Meanwhile, Irmo continues his endless chatter.

He bounces more than properly walk, his gait light and cheerful. “She spoke of you, and I thought we had to be properly introduced as all Valar are friends in the eyes of our maker. How happy I am! You are a sight of might, indeed! Tell me, tell me, have you enjoyed my creations? They are such a thing of beauty-! I spent so much time thinking of them!”

Melkor thinks of the three-headed caterpillars he has seen in his dream; of their flickering purple and how they had passed through him; and finds them more horrifying than beautiful.

Fortunately Irmo speaks enough for both; and delights himself in receiving only a nod or a hum as an answer. “I would wish for Namo’s realm to shine brighter than it currently does- perhaps I should gift him a creation or two- perhaps even make it a surprise! Oh-!” He stops, turns towards Melkor. “I thought of this thing, just this instant! Gift wings to all creatures that wander the earth! Brighter shades! Brighter eyes! Will you give me your opinion on them? Opinions- everyone shares them only in the fact that they reside in everyone’s mind, but they are so changing from one another! Oh-! Delightful, delightful, indeed! Have you some of them? Do you think for yourself or do you only believe so? Are your thoughts truly yours, or do they exist for they are not shared by the rest? Do they come from thy mind, or from the fact that some others thought them or some others did not? Ah-! I want to see your mind, Melkor! Is your liking for destruction what you would call your most defining feature, or merely a consequence of who you are? You are and you think; and the line is so frail between it! So very delightful! Are you because you think, or do you think because you are?”

Melkor glances desperately at the corridors; but there is naught to help him escape, and he is far too confused by Irmo to try his hands at a fight-

And this time Irmo seems to be waiting for an answer.

“I am what I am; and my thoughts are merely what results from it,” Melkor tells him; trying to hide the distress in his voice.

It seems to please Irmo fortunately; and when he laughs, butterflies escape from his mouth.

“Well said, and well thought! Ah, we arrive!”

Irmo took care of passing a pink hand through his hair before opening the door; and he turns quickly to Melkor to give him a wink and a grin. “Am I fair enough for Estë’s sight?”

Melkor eyes the bright colors, the flowing fabric, the utter nonsense- “Yes,” he says. “I suppose.”

Irmo squeaks in delight; and opens the door.

Tis not a room Melkor has often visited; one made for eating and resting; one that he interests him not. He is careful upon entering it; slow movements, prudent gaze.

It is as nice as a room can be. Flooded by light; greenery used as decoration. Melkor trails his gaze on the room; as Irmo wastes no time in sauntering forward. Estë is sitting on an armchair, her newly acquired beast on her lap, and there is an open book held between her hands.

Irmo crosses the room to join her. He wears a wide grin that has yet to fade, and it manages the impossible, widening even more upon seeing Estë.

“Dearheart!” he cries. “I found our guest and brought him to you!”

Estë rises her gaze, darting it from Irmo to Melkor. He has yet to truly move, immobile on the doorstep, unsure of what to do, what to say. Tis a situation he has never faced, and he understands very little of what is happening- his gaze finds Estë’s, pleading for he knows not exactly what.

“Ah,” she murmurs, her eyes riveted on Melkor. “He found thee, at least. He told me of his desire to meet thee. He has been quite persistent in doing so-”

Irmo cheers, taking place next to her. “And I did! I entered his dreams!”

A flash of comprehension pass on Estë’s features.

“Ah,” she says, again. She absently brushes her fingers against her beast’s head, and it makes a squeak of delight. “Are thou well?”

Melkor does not answer. Help, his eyes say for him.

Estë grimaces, a matter of a second or two.

“Perhaps,” she begins, quietly. “It would be better to let our guest… acclimate to our home.”

“Nonsense!” Irmo cries.

He presses a kiss against her cheek, quickly and yet long enough for Melkor to avert his gaze. The Vala of Dreams is equally quick in sauntering away, foraging through the drawers to find what he had spoken off, humming as he runs from one piece of furniture to the other.

Melkor wants to turn on his heel and flee. It is Estë’s gaze that pins him where he stands, softly asking. He does not- he understands nothing-

At last, Irmo lets out a cry of triumph. “Let us have it !”

Melkor considers the choices that had brought him to this very instant. Perhaps, he thinks; and this is just a possibility; some of them had not been quite right.

.

.

.

This honeyed bread is- well; quite agreeable to the taste. Melkor does not make a habit out of eating; he has no time nor will to do it with the firstborns’ frequency; but this, he would say quite to his liking. It is soft enough to be torn apart; and sweet enough to leave a lingering taste in his mouth.

“So?” Irmo is quick to ask, leaning too much forward for Melkor’s preferences. “Do you enjoy it? Is it not a delight?”

“Tis good, I suppose,” Melkor mutters.

“Perfect, perfect. Per-fect-” and then Irmo laughs, more butterflies blooming from in between his lips, and repeats to himself, tasting the words: “Per-fect. Per-fect. Perfect.”

Very slowly, as if not to anger a dangerous beast, Melkor puts back the honeyed bread. There are other matters for him to tend to, and here he is, wasting his time with Irmo of all Valar-

Estë hums.

“Perhaps our guest has other considerations in his mind-”

“Nonsense!” Irmo cries again. He has made a quick affair of his bread, and is cheerfully munching on Estë’s, who had taken one look at his distress and gifted him hers. “Now we play!”

Melkor nearly chokes. “We- pardon me?”

“We play,” Irmo says; bearing the brightest grin possible. It reminds Melkor, fleetingly, of Glaurung after being given a nice round meal. “We can not consider to not offer our guest a game of owl-barnacle-!”

Owl-what? Tis must be a dream still, Melkor thinks, rather desperately. The longer his gaze rests on Irmo, the longer he is doubting his will for peace. It would be rather easy; he supposes; to whispers again ill-rumors the Ñoldor’s ears, to return to Angband-

Estë gives him a sheepish wince. “Tis a game of his own creation,” she says. “A dice game.”

A dice game? Interest grows in Melkor’s eyes. This he can work with; especially if there is betting being involved. He rather enjoys them, for there is a certain delight to be found in watching hope die for frustration, for rising anger in his opponent’s eyes, as he loses game after game.

“Only one,” Melkor tells him, then. “If I win, I shall be given something.”

Irmo clasps his hands with a cry of delight. “Yes! And If I win…” He pauses, pensively. “If I win, I want you to give me true insights on how to develop my creatures! I was thinking of a butterfly with arms-”

“You shall not win,” Melkor says, arching an eyebrow.

He tries to find Estë’s gaze for support, but she looks at none of them, enthralled as she is by her new beast. She feeds him little portions of honeyed bread; and her smile grows every time its tongue finds her fingers.

Melkor shakes his head. He passes a hand over the smooth fabric of his robes, and turns to Irmo. “What are the rules?”

Irmo’s grin stretches and stretches until it devours his features. “Tis very easy a game! The goal is to roll all three dice and achieve an owl-barnacle. Thou can make a blue-red to start with, but this is naught to be hopeful for, for it speaks of bad omens; as it call six bad draws for the rest, but in that case appeal shall be made and ask for a sixteen-raise-although this remains to be seen if it is advantageous if thou are under thirty-two points. On the other hand, and this is very important a thing to be aware of, Melkor, thou absolutely must not call an owl-barnacle after a raise of seven, twelve or fourteen. And then if two raises of nine follow each other in this case, the points count double, but only if the appeal was made and the own-barnacle fell evenly within the previous three rounds. To announce the owl-barnacle, thou shall have to slam thy fist on the table and shout, ‘Owl-barnacle!’”

Estë gives him another wince.

The Void, Melkor absently thinks, had been quite the peaceful rest in retrospect.

.

.

.

“Owl-barnacle! You lose!”

Melkor stares at the dices. They stay still; even with all his willpower. They do not ignite, they do not break, they do not crash into themselves.

He grits his teeth, and- “Another,” he orders.

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.

.

“Owl-barnacle! You lose!”

Melkor’s fingers are gripping the iron table, leaving their imprints on it. “Another!” he snarls.

.

.

.

“You lose!”

Estë has wisely retreated from the game. She has returned to her books, and periodically rises her gaze to them, only to safely tuck it back upon seeing Melkor’s growing anger.

“Another!”

.

.

.

“You lose-”

“Another!”

“You-”

“Another!”

“Owl-barnacle!”

“Another!”

.

.

.

Melkor stares at the dice. Again.

“-you lose!” Irmo cheerful voice is exclaiming.

He stands abruptly before he can do something as bad as reduce Irmo to ashes. It can not be. Tis a stupid game – with eccentric rules, but rules all the same, and he should have won by now.

He does not understand how he can lose, again, and again. There must be some cheating involved, a ruse, wiles of a sort. It can not be otherwise. Melkor glares at the game, and he bails his hands into fists-

“A rest, perhaps,” Estë murmurs. “T’was not fair of you, Irmo, to let it go for so long. You are but the creator of this game; and it is Lord Melkor’s first introduction to it.”

“No,” Melkor snarls. His glare finds Irmo, then; and he jabs a finger at his chest. “I have other affairs to tend to, but this is not finished. Wait for me. We will continue, and I will win.”

He does not wait for Irmo nor Estë to say anything. He turns on his heels and vanishes into a great ball of smoke. This is only the beginning, he swears to himself.

.

.

.

“You seem… displeased as of today, Lord Annatar,” Nerdanel tells him a few hours later.

Crafting swords is far easier than features. Melkor’s grip tightens on his hammer; and when he assures her that nothing is amiss; doubt still lingers on her face.

No matter, Melkor angrily thinks. Let her know of his displeasure then- it shall not stay there long. Irmo might have proven itself the better player but it is as such for now. There is no game Melkor has not won (except for the War of Wrath, his mind unhelpfully supplies) and this shall not be different.

.

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.

The routine he and Nerdanel fall into is a smooth one. She reminds him of Mairon in many instances; for how she seems to favour silence when working and yet minds not the noises he makes. Melkor hates silence, despises it with all his might. Silence he has known far too much- and he hums, and talks, and suggest, and speaks out loud thought meant to be for him only; and breaks in a thousand way the sacred silence required by the craftworkers.

If Nerdanel minds, she says nothing of it.

She, like Mairon again, does not like however to change her mind. She dwells long of any form her art should take, but when she decides on a thing, it does not change. She settles, and then works towards it. Melkor- not so much. He settles easily but changes his mind ten times before taking his tools, and when working again does his desires change. It is a hard task than to be satisfied by one outcome only; but he can do it, should he will so.

And now, he wills so.

He, who loathes patterns, finds himself enthralled by one.

Each night he dreams- and he becomes used indeed to Irmo’s strange imagination. He becomes more curious than afraid, though many creatures of his are mighty indeed in provoking terror and confusion alike. Each night he dreams – and finds himself in a realm he knows naught about; populated by strange beasts and laws that defy those of nature.

Each day he wakes – and more often than not either Estë or Irmo can be found on that peculiar island of theirs. Melkor has yet to truly win; and it both fills him with anger and newfound determination. Every new game is a way of working towards his victory, and the way it eludes him is so faint by now that winning is bound to happen sooner than later.

Each day he wakes – and enters Nerdanel’s workshop. Their common creation is shaped day after day, slowly beginning to resemble its final form.

Now, not each day is he cornered by Ñoldor seeking his advice, nor by Tulkas yearning for a fight, nor by Manwë, lips full of words he is still loath to say. Not each day; but well, many of them.

Life pass, slowly and yet so quickly that in truth Melkor sees very little of it.

He reminds himself that it is work of long-term, but he blinks and seasons have gone by. He opens his eyes to green leaves on the trees; and closes them to a land shrivelled by time. He blinks again and it is winter, summer, spring- and months come and go without letting themselves get caught.

There are many matters on his mind – the Silmarils that have yet to be crafted, Fëanor still absent from the forges; the Ñoldor having begun to call him a true lord of the craft, the incertitude about what Mairon is tending to in Angband, and many, many more. The list is long indeed, and Melkor finds that when one has much to think about; time flees dangerously from them.

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.

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The beast is truly invincible.

Estë’s beast.

He has made it far too strong, Melkor fears; when he watches the not-exactly-a-rabbit-like creature gnaw through an armchair. His gaze is distrustful, lingering on the creature. It is quick to run; quicker even to show its distaste for its creator.

The beast makes its way to Melkor- and he lifts his legs so that they no longer touch the floor, curling them up in the chair. Of course, the beast comes to him. It raises its ugly head- and the ugly beak it has- and squeaks.

Melkor half wants to blast it into the Void. He watches as the beast begins to gnaw at the wood of his own chair; and curls up tighter his legs. The beast deserves a name to be cursed with, Melkor thinks-

It is a nuisance and should be called as such-a cursed animal – ûnthaur, ûn meaning creature, -thaur a cruel, wretched, rabid thing. It is mindless, driven by its instincts, angry at Melkor for no reasons apparent, only worrying for its own well-being-

Melkor lights up and laughs. He has the perfect name for it!

Ûnthaur is still gnawing at the chair when he decides that ûnthaur is no name at all- and that there is one, far more fitting.

Melkor seizes the creature by the neck.

“Now, Fëanáro,” he says. “-Where are my Silmarils?”

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It is at the beginning of Melkor’s third year in Valinor that Nerdanel and He achieve their shared project.

It finishes in the hours of the night; the light of the trees is a faint glow in the distance. The rest of the elves must be asleep; the Ainur tending to their own affairs; and Nerdanel and Melkor gaze at what might be the finest work ever made by them.

There is another work- finer still, but Melkor has yet to see it come again to light. No matter. He will wait. He has nothing but time now.

In the meantime; his attention is riveted on what their common work has brought to life.

To say them delighted by it would be an insult. Even stern Nerdanel; with the stiffness in her heart and the disapproval in her eyes, smiles freely at its sight. She sighs, too; and sits- wiping her forehead with a clay-tainted cloth, and when she smiles again, it is so full of pride and wonders that Melkor feels it as well.

A true work of art.

A wolf of precious metal, cogs and gems; with eyes adorned with two rubies glittering with a thousand lights. Its gaping maw open in fangs of gold and silver surpasses Nerdanel in size, and its stature could rival that of Huan, Carcharoth, or even Gorthaur - the abhorred moniker - Lord of the Werewolves - the greatest creature Arda has ever known. And there is indeed Gorthaur in the orange glow of his metal fur, in the red eyes glowing in the darkness.

A tribute. A reminder. And the pleasure of knowing, at the expense of others, that the Mark of Gorthaur is destined to stand at the centre of Valinor - until the end of time. The Mark of Gorthaur - and by extension, the Mark of Melkor.

But it is not its size, nor the finery of the metal, nor even how thousands of gems that adorn its fur that make it the greatest of their work.

It is how it moves.

There is a small button hidden between the paws. A small one, almost unnoticeable.

“Shall we?” Melkor asks; pleased beyond measure.

Nerdanel grants him another of her scarce smiles. “We shall,” she says.

Melkor wastes no time in pushing the button-

The wolf opens its maw wider- stands up on his legs, and howls. The sound echoes in a rib cage made of cogs and wires, rising far into the sky - so close to the true howling of the wolves that they have to wait only a second before a distant howl answers theirs.

Melkor laughs.

He passes a hand over the head of the mechanical wolf; and is even more pleased to feel a pulse under his touch – the synonym of creation, of life. It is not sentient, of course, can not move further than what had been instructed through wires and mechanical commands. This matters not, Melkor thinks. Tis the finest craftsvalaship that he had made, and he has every right to be delighted by it.

“A fine collaboration indeed,” Melkor says.

Nerdanel considers him for a few silent seconds.

She is pleased too, that much is easy to read. It is written on her smiles, on the pride in her eyes, on the way her looks linger on what they had just made. It is almost a pity, Melkor can read in her gazes, to have it offered to another than them.

And what a gift-! Unique, that much is certain; destined to weave envy in the heart of others.

“It is,” she finally consents. “Perhaps we ought to do many more things together, Lord Annatar. I have seen, of course, that the praises of you were not unfounded- for you have brought many thoughtful insights on our works, and have been of precious advice, but…”

“But it is easier to speak of wonder-making than to truly do it,” Melkor finished, a grin dancing of his lips. His eyes shine with delight when he looks back, whereas hers are tainted by embarrassment. “Fret not, I find no fault in yours for that, Nerdanel, daughter of noble Mahtan.”

Mahtan- one of the most skilled metallurgists there is; or had been, once his knowledge had been passed to his son-in-law. The one who had most regretted his teaching, having seen the havoc they had wrought.

“Indeed,” Nerdanel says, her cheeks still a little reddened. “But it is an injure of mine own making, done to yours truly. I am pleased to know that my thoughts were corrupted by cautiousness and doubt.”

Melkor bows- not low enough to be proper, on a fine line between being a farce and well-meaning humor.

“You flatter me,” he tells her, too pleased to truly dabble into mockery. “Tis your mind who has refined what lacked the touch of a skilled elleth.”

It is her turn to laugh. “And back to flattery, Lord Annatar. Quick indeed it is to have it slither into words, is it not? But fret not in return, I have become most used of your honeyed words. They seem too sweet to be true most of the time but ring an air of honesty nonetheless.”

And indeed, it is because they have become most used in the company of another that Melkor takes no offence from her words. He is better suited to induce fear rather than confidence, that much he is aware of, and if Nerdanel can not see through all his lies, many of them are pierced apart by her gaze.

“Let us gift this to the King then,” Melkor says, as sweetly as his tongue allows him. “And when he shall be pleased by it, more of our works shall see the light of day.”

“Shall be pleased? Are you not very arrogant to be so sure of his pleasure?”

“Why should I not be?” Melkor replies, still grinning. “Tis fine a work enough for us who dabble in the craft, then it should be for the one who merely enjoys its result.”

Nerdanel arches an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting him to be ignorant in the art of metallurgy?”

“Even the mightiest can not know of all that exists,” Melkor says. “The Valar themselves find themselves bound to a sole domain, why should the firstborns be mightier in that?”

Nerdanel is silent for a few seconds.

“And yet,” she begins, before stopping herself. She sighs then, and passes a hand through her hair. “And yet, there are words of one having shared a part in all of their realms. Words of one having being released, and I wonder where his cursed steps lead him to now- if only to be aware of what to expect- and perhaps to ask so a great many things-”

The surprise hits Melkor as a sword. He is not certain, at first, that she speaks of him- and fear is quick to join the surprise, for she might have discovered the truth behind his disguise-

She is quick to speak again. “Forget it,” she says. “Tales- rumors. Outrageous things. I should have not said that.” She laughs, then, a little self-deprecating. “The curiosity of my blood will be our undoing, I fear. Let us not speak of it. The High-King will be most pleased, you are right.”

Melkor opens his mouth- but she hastens to stand to her feet, and in a hushed voice tells him of a need to retrieve something, he hears not precisely of what, and she flees from his sight.

She leaves him there, and Melkor is too surprised to follow her.

He had not thought the Ñoldor would wonder of his whereabouts. But again, Melkor had not hidden himself the last time, had walked freely amongst them. Now- they had heard only of a great enemy being released; and had yet to see of him.

Perhaps- Perhaps Melkor (Not Annatar) should see them. It would do wonders to his image; and the gaze they hold on him; if he took the time to go to them.

Melkor is dwelling on such thoughts when a faint voice calls through the shop.

“Naneth?”

Melkor stills- and cruel delight, as insidious as a snake, sets its claws into his heart.

He is quick to hide behind one of the sculptures, sinking into the shadows of the shop. He becomes one with it in a matter of seconds, and when he is fully merged with the obscurity, it is Maitimo itself, yet again the well formed, that steps into the shop.

Oh-oh. It had been far too long since Melkor had had true amusem*nt; and with Nerdanel gone, it is too golden an opportunity to miss it.

Maitimo stops into the wolf. He is young still; having reached adulthood by only a few years. There is a lack of concern on his features; a lack of scars on his skin, and a hand that is truly is. In truth, it is Mairon who had truly taken care of Fëanor’s son- Melkor has no time to thoroughly indulge in torture; and it is his lieutenant who has made an art of it.

Melkor’s torture is- he lacks words to truly explain it. It is not precise; it is not beautiful. It is quick and high-peaking; for he lacks the patience to play the long-term game. He does not altern between sweet caresses and harsh blows as Mairon does; nor does he shushes them only to strike them harder. Melkor has very little regard for the prisoners he has hold- Angband currently holds he supposes – but they had always been a means to an end. A mean, he desires to say, to soothe his anger. In their screams had he seen his own rage smoothen; and in their pain had he forgotten about his.

The difference is there perhaps: Melkor enjoys to destroy, while Mairon enjoys to break. A faint nuance, yet that speaks of thousands of words. Melkor seeks quick annihilation, of the body first and spirit after; while Mairon enjoys most when it is the spirit that fails. When terror turns to mindless devotion; when fierceness turns to meekness. Mairon wants them turned into slaves; seeking pain from their tormentor as much as love; while Melkor wants them to fear and fear only – no need for any kind of love on their part.

Maitimo touches the wolf, and jumps away when it moves- breaking Melkor’s out of this spiral of thoughts. Ah- again has he been lost in them, as he often did after the Silmarils. Tis a habit he most fiercely wants to break; and sinks shadowed claws into his own fëa to punish himself.

When Maitimo is completely enthralled by the wolf does he step out of the shadows.

He leans close enough to Maitimo to whisper in his ear. “A work of art is it not?”

Maitimo jumps, startled-

Melkor laughs.

“Thou wound me, Nelyafinwë,” Melkor says, humming low in his throat. “Am I so fearful a sight?”

Maitimo scrambles to make apologies. “-I had not seen you- I hope you will grant me forgiveness- I was surprised- I am deeply sorry-”

Melkor hums, again. “Apologies accepted, Elfling. What brings thee here?”

Maitimo’s embarrassment is eclipsed by cautiousness, eagerly returning to his features. They hold it so much better than half-hearted apologies, and Melkor’s delight springs at the sight. Defiance is truly a beautiful look on Maitimo’s eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Maitimo shoots back, before adding, reluctantly- “Lord Annatar.”

“I aim to steal what has yet to exist,” Melkor murmurs to himself; words that elven ears can not hear. What he does say is: “Thou have seen I a great many times and yet still wonder of mine presence?”

Maitimo pinches his lips. “I know of you to be a help to my mother’s works. It is very faint a knowledge. There must be something else you want. Is it Father’s approval you seek? To whisper in the ear of a prince? To have his attention?”

So little politeness! So little formality! It delights Melkor, for he remembers how beautiful a sight had Maitimo’s defiance been! Or should he say Maedhros, for he had been far from well-formed upon leaving Angband.

“Should I not got to him then?” Melkor asks, smiling. “Should I not whisper in his ear, rather than of his wife, who takes one sole look at one trying to mimic the courtiers and judges him a snake?”

He drops the formality- if Maitimo does not abide by it then neither shall he. If he is to be chastised by it, then so be it- the Ñoldor call him Lord all the same, believing for him to be one of the Teleri despite his Ñoldor-like fana. It is what has granted him this sort of cautious respect they give him. They know not where he stands in the nobility, only know of him to be a noble of a sort.

Maitimo frowns. “A.. courtier?” He repeats the word in Quenya; then tries an equivalence in Valarin. “What is it?”

Melkor has forgotten that the Ñoldor have yet to know of the ways of the mannish courts, with their courtiers, their advisers and their greedy hearts.

“A serpent of the foulest kind,” he replies, then, still smiling. “Do you trust so little the Lady Nerdanel’s mind that she would be fooled by honeyed words and hidden desires?”

Maitimo blushes furiously. “Of course not-!”

“Then you have naught to fear, Elfling,” Melkor murmurs. “I have an interest in the common work our minds might see, nothing less, nothing more. Tis not the Lady herself I seek, but her skillset, and cleverness. She is a married elleth; and as am I.”

The blush on Maitimo’s deepens. So young-! Tis a pleasure truly, to see him so easily flustered.

“I implied nothing of the kind,” Maitimo mutters.

“And I did,” Melkor says. “I did, and I say there is naught to fear. I fault you not for it, son of Nerdanel, for it is honorable of you to seek the protection of your kin.”

Maitimo says nothing, fidgets with his robes.

“It is,” he says, at least, on the defensive. “A stranger enters my mother’s shop; and wriggles himself into her good graces. Tis a reason for concern when we know naught of him!”

Melkor hums in agreement. “And you are right, indeed, to be concerned. Had it been anyone else than I, those concerns might have been warranted. But happily they are not; and you might worry yourself no longer with those.”

“I still know naught of you.”

“Then ask, Elfling. Ask; but I shall be honest; some questions are reserved to my betrothed only.”

The flush returns- to full strength.

“I had wanted to ask nothing of the sort!” Maitimo cries out.

Melkor grins. It is a wolfish grin, that devours his features. “Tis only in the nature of elven kind to be curious. Once more, I shall find no fault in you for indulging it. Ask, nonetheless, and I alone shall decide if thy mind dares more than mine tongue.”

Maitimo is of the deepest red.

“Where are you from?” he asks then, almost spitting his question.

Melkor’s grin deepens. “Why, from the hands of Eru himself. Crafted to wake as he had intended to.”

“I meant which culture, which house-”

“I came to Valinor after the Great War,” Melkor replies. “Many elves returned to Valinor within the Great March.”

Maitimo nods, slowly. “Your family- some elves had been hurt in the war-”

Melkor says nothing, patiently smiling.

Maitimo blushes again; shaking his head, and says: “Your- betrothed?”

“Still in Middle-Earth, I fear.”

“She did not follow you?”

“He did not follow,” Melkor sharply corrects. “Nor would I wish to; if He has no liking for it. We shall be reunited when the time comes.”

Maitimo somberly nods, and Melkor wonders if he thinks of his own grand-mother, still in Mandos’ Halls. Maitimo hesitates then- and asks another question.

“You were not a partisan of the Enemy… You are not?”

Melkor laughs, deeply. It is as if thunder is rumbling within his chest.

“I never followed Melkor,” Melkor says, grinning wide. “I was never one of His followers. Never one to subdue myself to Him.”

Maitimo’s gaze turn a little awed upon seeing the easiness in which Melkor’s name roll on his own tongue. Well. It is truth is it not? Melkor had never subdued himself to himself. He laughs again, without being able to refrain himself; and when Nerdanel returns; she finds her son watching Melkor with an apprehensive, awed look- and Melkor laughing until his lungs breathe fire.

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(Angband)

It is an army of might.

One made to endure, to strike fear in their enemies’ hearts. Banners made of torn cloth and bloody colors, sigils of bones and grinning maws. Each step taken is as a thunderclap ripping through the sky, each cry a clamor reaching even the highest of stars.

An army breed for battle, taken from the cradle to the training grounds. One that knows better of the sound of clashing metal rather than the sweetness of life; grunts of effort and pain rather than songs vibrating through the forests.

It is an army made to win.

And yet, it is not enough.

The thought had followed Mairon ever since he had first gazed at his forces. He feels it purrs, safely hidden in the vicinity of his mind. It gnaws at his determination; whispers words of failure and defeat. It goes as far as breaking apart the contingencies plans, finding creaks where they should be none and pointing them while laughing, widening the creaks.

While a displeasing instant to see pass; it allows Mairon to reshape them, to fill the crevices and smoothen their edges – until one could not even notice that there had been a creak. Tis the curse of an ever-stirring mind; never fully satisfied.

Years have passed by now, since Melkor should have been released from the Void. Another thought that tends to be both bitter and hopeful, one that never leaves him in peace. He twists the rings on his fingers, absently. His other hand finds Tevildo’s fur; and it truly is a testimony of their recent alliance that the beast says naught.

It does not purr; merely stays silent; but it is an implicit agreement as far as Mairon is concerned.

There is a rage within his heart. It is cold and burning at the same time, two forces that should not co-exist and yet manage to set his fury ablaze. It is alive too; for the way it curls and slithers within his chest could not speak of anything else.

Valinor. The word itself manages to condense the extent of his wrath; thrice-damned jailers, hypocrites, idle, lazy, self-righteous- and now, now, oath-breakers. They had sworn to release Melkor should three ages have passed, and they have, they have; and he is not. there.

His spymaster says naught of what is behind the golden gates of Valinor. Of course. There is naught to be known, when sneaking in is as impossible a task as being granted access by Eru itself. If no word comes out of Valinor then no word shall be known. It does not refrain Mairon from spreading his spies across the continent; and the more the better; letting their ranks grow and grow – under the merciless supervision of his spymaster.

Many of them has he sent to the Avari; those firstborns who have denied the Valar, who stayed in Middle-Earth. Since recently, an idea has begun to bloom in Mairon’s mind and if he could just fine-tune it… There is a seed to be planted; one that has been taught to him; and one he understands quite well indeed… He is indecisive. This, alone; frustrates him more than the finality of the thought.

Mairon has no need for hesitation. Cautiousness is a thing to be valued certainly; for there is no cleverness in rushing without thoughts on the matter, but the true hesitation- not seconded by valuable reasons…? The ones that fiddle in his mind are born of selfishness, and selfishness rarely pays when it comes to long-term manoeuvres.

Tis time that allows the river to break through the mountain; not sheer force.

“It is war then.”

The voice jolts him out of his thoughts. Mairon lowers his gaze to Tevildo; to where the beast lays, his golden eyes riveted on him.

“Tis war,” Mairon agrees, somber. He has no liking for it. It is a means to an end; for certainly if others would resort more to their reason than their emotions- he can not understand it, truly. Why is it so that such fiddle things would have such a hold on others’ heart when it is far more useful to be reasonable?

Tevildo’s gaze does not falter. Humor, however, passes through it, forcing Mairon to continue, a reluctant admission leaving his lips. “A march made to break through gates; not properly win.”

“I thought as such,” the beast says. “A pity that they would be used as canon-folder.”

It is Mairon’s flicker of confusion (for since when had the beast cared for anything other than its own well-being?) that prompts Tevildo to yawn; good humor tainting his gaze.

“A pity,” Tevildo says again; jumping on the stone wall. “-for the reputation of our armies. What to say of it; if not one made to return, less alone win? You wish for them to break through the gates- and then, you alone; or perhaps the Valaraukar will break the chains of our lord.”

“Their reputation?” Mairon laughs. “And what use have we for it; tell me, beast of feline descent? Would you better have the world think you powerful and have none of this supposed might; or view you as a lesser threat only for in truth to hide the extent of your might?”

Tevildo licks one of his paws, passing it behind his ear.

“And yet,” he says. “As charming as the second prospect is, the truth lays in a third matter – to have them doubt of strength and have it be as poor as they believe it to be.”

Mairon flushes with rage.

His fingers are as claws when he tightens around Tevildo’s neck, bringing him to his level. He has to force himself to feign mere discontent rather than the true inferno of his heart, and carefully schools each features into calm. His fingers grasps at the golden collar of the beast. “You say this, Prince of Cats, and yet sit idle on your paws when it comes to proving your devotion. Are you of a heart to join them, if they so lack might? Are you not one of the mightiest? Would you not bring them what they are so in need of?”

As struggling as Tevildo is to escape his grasp, there is no escape to be found. “My devotion,” Tevildo rasps. “-is useful elsewhere.”

Mairon lets him free. Tevildo hisses at him as soon as he touches the ground; golden eyes set ablaze.

“And yet this elsewhere I have yet to find,” Mairon says. But it is a honey-dripping smile he gives the Maia when he lowers again his eyes to him. Charming and poisonous alike. “Fret not, however. It is not to be said that none will come back home.”

“And how would it be made? Orcs are no challenges for Ainur.”

“They do despise Uruks,” Mairon murmurs. His finger comes to brush against his ring, the most precious of his jewellery. Strange is it not, that it is the one piece lacking the most power than enthrals him so. Its symbolism is far worthier than its usefulness. “They have no hesitation in striking them…”

Orcs, Uruks, no matter the name, they despise-

But.

“Elves, they do not,” Mairon breathes.

It is where the hesitation fades; where he settles – finally – on one decision. His eyes come to rest on the troops before him, the battalions ready for battle. From up there, it is easy enough to hear the clamours, the cries and the clinging of metal.

Elves, the Valar favour.

Elves, they have sworn not to hurt.

If Mairon should have Elves going to war for him; if he should have them take the sword against the Valar… Tis a thought he likes. He laughs, suddenly very pleased with himself. Delight is quick to overrun the anger; as his mind already looks at how to approach the elves, what to offer-

He will need to have words with Gothmog. They need more orcs. They need more Elves, and Mairon shall take of the latter. The former shall be over the supervision of the Lord of the Valaraukar. Mairon will need to be absent- a few years at most. Less than a decade, he hopes; for time he lacks as much as orcpower.

It seems it is time for him to properly meet the Elves.

Perhaps he should present himself as an envoy- or no better a refugee- someone having escaped Valinor. Or- perhaps something sweeter, perhaps something smoother. As a bearer of gifts.

Elves enjoyed gifts, did they not?

(in this chapter)

Maehdros : Mom?

Melkor, spluttering : Do I look like…??? Do i look like????

the prettiest irmo made by @the-ring-wasn't-even-pretty on tumblr, look at those fluffy earsss 💕💕💕💕

Chapter 6: Lesson 6 : What did we f*cking say about fights?

Chapter Text

“The Avari…” Mairon repeats slowly, tasting the word on his tongue. He hums then, a noise that comes from the back of his throat and leans back on his chair, eyes riveted on his spymaster. “Tell me more,” he orders.

His spymaster gives him a nod and a bow; in quick succession. He; as all the best amongst his kind; is an elf made to listen more than he speaks; and it reflects in the curt practicality of his sentences.

“They are hunters, my lord. Extremely cautious of strangers, and they venerate no gods other than those of the hunt. Other elves call them the Refusers, for they are the ones who were unwilling to follow the Great March. There are four tribes as for now: The Hwenti are in the deep forest of the South, the Kinn-lai favour the caves most, the Windan in Eriador-”

“And the fourth?”

“They went to Taur-In-Duriath, my lord, the forest of the southern silence. They call themselves the Kindi.”

“Taur-In-Duriath, you say,” Mairon murmurs. He has gone to such a forest, once, long ago. He remembers it quite vividly – the strange atmosphere that lurked there, a fog like no other else, whispers within the wind. Perhaps there… “Which are the most hostile to strangers?”

The spymaster, (Lamaender, ever the clever tongue, down to his very name) hesitates for a second. “In truth all of them. But those most opposed to strangers coming from Aman are the Hwenti. They judge them traitors, defectors.”

“It would not do us good then,” Mairon says, clicking his tongue. He crosses his hands on his lap; features turning thoughtful. “Eriador might be an interesting choice. It is close enough to Aman that my story might speak of truth, and there would be close enough to the Teleri that I might convince them as well to join our crusade.”

“Eriador is vast my lord,” Lamaender says. “Within it, I would suggest the region of Minhiriath.”

Mairon rises from his chair, wishful thinking still creeping up on his features. There are many settlements in Eriador tis true; but Mairon needs to appeal to those the readiest to go to war, those who have a flame for it in their hearts. He has no need for Teleri and their longing for the sea; their melancholy that serves as water on a possible inferno in their spirits.

What troubles him is that he knows very little about the Avari and their culture. If he is to infiltrate them; he needs to know everything he can about them, in order not to let the smallest mistake impair his plans. Mairon taps a finger against his lips; and asks. “The Windan are in Minhiriath? Tell me about their customs.”

“They are my lord. Minhiriath is, as you are aware, a region made of forests and the shore. The Windan had been known to settle near the Baranduin River; but they favour living in trees and caves.”

“And they too refuse the Valar as their gods?”

“They do, my lord,” Lamaender says. “Any of the Ainur, if I might say. They view badly being subjected to Powers, as they are outside of their own jurisdiction. They have their own views on justice, and culture, and the meaning of life.”

Mairon considers him for a second. It would be the best of options, perhaps. Taur-In-Doriauth, he is not sure to trust- and it is far too away from the shores to be of true help; far to forgotten. Mairon does not need a few elves, he needs an army of them- and in convincing first the Avari of Minhiriath would he manage to spread it to all those who lived in Eriador. Soon it would be Eriador as a whole that would stand against the Powers of the West, and Mairon would be there to collect a hard-won victory.

He does not intend for the elves to properly win; although. They are but a distraction; made to ensnare the Valar’s attention while Mairon and his armies free Melkor.

(or perhaps he is free already but has forgotten about his duty towards middle-earth, towards Mairon-)

No. Mairon can not allow himself to doubt. He has forsaken much, in his quest to support Melkor’s vision, but his loyalty he refuses to shed. What else if left of him if this too is cast aside? Melkor has a vision of freedom, one of a new world, one made for change. It is such a vision that had enthralled Mairon all those years ago; made him deny his first Master.

(he stays for other reasons now)

The… evolution in their relationship is a sweet surprise; but not what had prompted him to leave Valinor. Mairon will never be as vain as to leave for mere affection, and it was Melkor’s words that had tugged at his fëa, not yet his tongue. Mairon turns the ring on his finger, again. There are words inscribed there; as well as in his very soul; words spoken solely to the other, words of Power.

Lamaender is still waiting for his instructions.

“Tell me everything you know,” Mairon commands.

Lamaender bows again. “Instead of the ceremonies reserved for the Valar, the Windan honour the world three times per year, first when the leaves begin to bloom on the trees…”

As Lamaender speaks, Mairon’s mind both focuses on his words and wanders away. Tis the gift of all Ainur, to have their minds as clay in their hands; made to stretch and spread. Mairon hears what is to be heard about the Windan, and at the same time, thinks of another.

The absence of Melkor is as a tug in his very soul. He feels it every single day; as if a void that can not be filled. He keeps waiting for a familiar voice to interrupt him in his work, for his door to be flung open; for black tendrils to spread towards him, reaching for his fëa. It is Melkor’s vision that Mairon tells himself he follows; but is the Vala himself that his fana and fëa alike yearn for. It is the thundering laugh, the excitation in the eyes upon a new creation; the click of his tongue upon feeling annoyance, the intensity in the gaze, the sharp tongue and quick understanding-

Even what Mairon has thought annoyed him. The flaring greed, the lack of logic thought behind an action, always doing what his heart commands him and not his reason; always so quickly excited, so quick to want and have; so quick to bang at his door because he has a new idea that needs to be implemented right now, the quickness to anger – so infuriating yet so mighty to witness-

A towering fana over him; the familiar coldness of the skin; the breath against his own; the laugh and smirk tugging at the lips as his own are kissed, claimed, always demanding, always a burning furnace in his mind and heart; his hands trailing over Mairon’s flesh; the whispers and chuckles against it when he claims him thoroughly-

Mairon misses much more than the vision; and his heart swells and aches at the unwelcomed realization. He has kept telling himself the contrary for three ages; despite the ring on his finger and the pearl on Melkor’s ear. (is it there still? He could not bear it if it wasn’t) He has kept telling himself that his affection does not affect his thought process; that this bond would not make him lose reason.

And yet, Mairon thinks. He thinks he is beginning to.

.

.

Mairon gazes at his reflection.

He presses a clawed hand against his cheek, for the sole pleasure of seeing five moon crescent sink into the flesh – leave a mark. He tries to find himself in this reflection that shows no truth of him. Gone is all that is him; for the reflection that gazes back is all an Avari Elf.

It is all Annâtar.

The hand in the mirror reaches for a strand of hair – pale blonde, glittering at the stars in the sky. Cat-like eyes gaze back; made to see through obscurity, made to hunt through dark forests. Long fingers made to grasp at a bow – and it occurs to him that he will have to master such a discipline; and quickly. Smooth skin; to suggest innocence; smoother features even – fairer than the ones he has crafted for the truth of himself; a hint of vulnerability.

Mairon already loathes it. He tries to find himself in this fana; to very little avail. And- perhaps it is foolish of him, certainly he is; but he wants something familiar, something to remind him of his purpose – Mairon gives himself Melkor’s eyes.

Not the true version of them, of course; with the black sclera; nor even the truer version, unable to be contained in a flesh body. No, Mairon gives the irises a pale blue, as cold as the ice had been around Utumno, when Melkor had been with them-

He stares at the mirror, and familiar irises stare back.

Everything has been planned.

Everything will go perfectly. There is no room for mistakes, no room for failure. Everything shall go as he hasplanned-

And in the end, Mairon will bring them victory.

He wonders absently, quickly, of Melkor, as he passes pale fingers through his hair. Is he detained in a prison he can not escape? He is bound to the ground, muffled, hand tied behind his back? Or is he negotiating his release?

(or is has he forgotten about Mairon, tired of middle-earth and the promises they had crafted together?)

.

.

.

“Owl-barnacle! You lose!” Irmo beams.

Melkor smiles. It is a very wide and pinched smile; that widens far more than the laws of nature should have allowed. It reaches his ears, and widens farther behind them. He blinks then. And very slowly, grabs the dices.

He considers them a second; grin ever widening – and it reaches his throat now – before crushing them in his fist.

Dust fall from his hand.

Irmo gasps. His butterfly wings’ ears flap distressingly.

“No dices-” Melkor sweetly purrs. “-no defeat.”

“It does not matter! I have many more of them!”

Melkor’s smile vacillate.

“I have even different colours! Would you want another? Purple perhaps? Green?”

Melkor’s smile tries to catch itself at the edges of his lips.

“Pink perhaps?”

Melkor’s smile plummets to its death.

“No,” Melkor grits out. “I do not want them pink.”

.

.

.

This time he will win, Melkor orders himself. None of his orders had ever been truly refused; nor dismissed. Failed, certainly; and he can think of one instance or two- losing Tol-in-Gorhauth to the She-elf and her wild dog, the Song of the Powers of the West breaking through Angband’s doors…

“Seven against eight,” Melkor says – more of a hiss than proper speech. “I draw twice to restore the balance of the last pair; I count triple, and reverse the whole numbers against their opposite.”

Irmo nods cheerfully, and Melkor is so close, so very close to winning-

Irmo takes the dices from the table and throws them.

“Eighty!” he cheers, and he laughs. “Rule of The Subtraction of Equals in Times of Crisis, Melkor! Owl-barnacle! You lose!”

“Rule of the what?”

“The Subtraction of Equals in Times of Crisis,” Irmo repeats, dutifully. His beaming smile had widened; and his butterfly-like ears flutter in happiness. “I could explain it for you if you so would like, it is a very simple thing in truth! The bases lay on the application that all are equals when it comes to facing a crisis, reduced to the same desires – to see it end – and thus what made them more than the other is all subtracted until all are the same!”

Melkor closes his eyes. He wishes, more than anything, to push two fingers on his nose and sigh. Instead, he finds himself lingering far more than he should in the quietness of his mind (and how strange, how paradoxical for Him of All to say that, that he should prefer quietness to unbridled excitation) as Irmo talks and talks and talks.

This is naught but a rule, he reassures himself. Rules are said to be made for unmaking, and Melkor intent to prove it. A simple rule. He learns it; and then, he wins.

He opens his eyes and- his pulse race in his chest- Eru to the void!

Manwë is staring at him. “What is this?”

Melkor sinks his fingers into the meat of his thighs to refrain from jolting. He waits for a second, then another; for his pulse to smoothen, his heartbeat to return to normal. He keeps reminding himself of fragile those flesh bodies are, how startled by the slightest thing.

“A game!” Irmo exclaims; ever the joyful one.

He has been amusing himself by transforming the dices into small caterpillars, only to change them back into dices as soon as they begin to move.

He closes his fingers around one of the creatures; all eyes going to it; and when he opens them again, it is gone.

“Owl-barnacle,” Irmo continues, grinning. “Would you like to learn of it, Lord of the Winds?”

Manwë hesitates. He glances back and forth at Melkor – whose frustration appears plainly on his features – and the dices.

“Perhaps,” he cautiously says. “What are the rules?”

Irmo perks up. “The principle is to have enough points to call an own-barnacle…”

Melkor stands; interrupting him; all eyes turning to him.

“No,” he tells Manwë; perhaps the sole act of affection towards his kin. “Trust me, Lord of the Winds,” and he says the title with a mixture of mockery and jealousy; for self-righteous Manwë reigns over far more than the winds. “-you do not want to enter this game.”

Irmo splutters. “It is a fun game!” he cries out.

“It is madness.”

“There are rules and upon following those rules one wins-”

“I would if you did not keep changing them and adding more!”

“It is only a game of logic-”

“Lord of the Dreams, there is not one once of logic in thy mind-”

“Logic can be found in far more than you believe, and it is a narrow mind that blinds himself to where it lays.”

“Spring nonsense and poorly made philosophy at me as much as your heart desire, Olofantur, this game is a disguised attempt at inducing madness-”

“I would never do such thing!”

“Yet you do! You do! You are naught but madness! You are naught but confusion, and I understand naught of you!”

Irmo narrows his eyes. They are of a deep purple as of today; and within them shines a vision of galaxies yet undiscovered. “Do not say that, Melkor,” he says; his voice implacable. “Madness is not a light word, and is yet so quick at being given in that mouth of yours. It is not to be jested about; an illness that plagues the mind is of the worst kind.”

“Yet so fitting to your case,” Melkor curtly replies. He crosses his arms on his chest; defiance written everywhere in his stance. He refuses to let himself be wronged; and tis true that Irmo can not be pierced apart, understood; when he is so- so- incomprehensible-!

“Is the game such a matter of anger?” Manwë asks; half curious half confused.

“Yes.”

But the question prompts Irmo to smile again. “Certainly not! It is merely for your enjoyment- and mine, I confess- but if you do not wish to continue, I will not!”

He saunters forward then; and before Melkor can react; presses his hand against his.

“Only a word,” he swears; strangely intense in his pledge. “And I shall not ever both you with it.”

Melkor pinches his lips- and against his better instincts, reluctantly-

“No,” he grits out.

“No…?”

“No. I wish to continue.”

Irmo’s grin goes brighter than the trees. “The we shall!” he cries out and laughs. His laugh sends a flutter of butterflies to come out of his mouth; and he saunters back to his seat, gathering the dices into his hand. “Now? Another?”

“Perhaps you could teach me,” Manwë interrupts.

Melkor scowls. Of course, he bitterly thinks. Tis not a surprise at all; that the Lord of the Winds would see Melkor enjoy a thing and would wish to take it for himself. He should have known better. His hands bail into fists, and Irmo goes even brighter (this should not be possible) and Melkor knows that his time here has come to an end.

He turns on his heels.

“Brother!”

Melkor continues his way; forcing himself to think of ways to win to not think of jealousyangerbeingreplacedjealousybitternessjealousyjealousyreplacementreplacementanger-

“Stay with us,” Manwë’s soft voice erupts behind him.

Melkor hesitates-

“Please.”

Slowly, he turns.

Manwë is standing next to the game’s table. Hesitation flickers on his pale features; and in his eyes, something resembling- perhaps- hope?

“I would wish you to teach me this game as well,” Manwë continues, quietly. “You have played it many times, if I heard it right.”

Melkor’s glance goes to Irmo. He grins; and rises his thumb in the air, an unfamiliar gesture that Melkor does not understand. There is still hesitation in him, but he is a vain creature; and to be sought after, to be desired-

Well, he had never been quite able to reject it.

“Very well,” he says. “I will teach you as well; if you pledge to listen.”

Manwë’s smile has a touch of relief in it.

“Certainly, I will.”

Melkor hums; and comes to sit in his former seat. He swiftly retrieves the dices from Irmo and considers Manwë in silence for a second, before shaping his lips into a cruel grin.

“I hope defeat does not distress you much, brother.”

.

.

.

“HOW is this possible?” Manwë cries out.

He is fuming; cheeks tainted red; hair a far sight from his usual tidiness; and many many dices had been crushed between his fingers.

Irmo is happily munching on an apple; slicing frail cuts of it before eating them directly on the knife. More than once does he cut his tongue; and then laughs; for it is not blood than comes from the cut- but bubbles that rise through the air.

Melkor is- Well, Melkor is delighted.

He can not remember the last time he had been so amused; and there are many laughs bubbling in his chest. He truly can not help it but it is so delightful to see the Lord of the West fail to anger; fail and fail and fail.

Well. Perhaps he can understand why Irmo is so delighted by the game. Certainly, Melkor is loosing too; but he is not the sole one in his defeat; and watching Manwë grow more and more frustrated with each defeat is truly a delight.

“Patience brother,” Melkor sweetly tells him, clicking his tongue. “As Irmo elegantly explained to me; patience and length of time make more than strength and rage.”

Manwë’s glare is positively furious.

Melkor smiles; a very honeyed thing, and leans back in his chair. “Nothing will bring success, you are aware, for the one who does not possess those three things. The fear of the mightier, to appease the vices. The peace of the spirit, to convince the heart of others. And well patience; to endure adversity.”

Melkor truly relishes in this.

“Another,” Manwë grits out. He breathes to force himself to calm. “Please.”

“Oh it is not up to me,” Melkor says, still smiling. “We must be merciful. Magnanimous towards the defeated. Everything you wish, brother. It is the least we can offer you; in those merciless defeats of yours.”

The wind is blowing a little faster. Melkor wonders when it will turn into a true tempest.

Irmo is a little hesitant now; for he has begun to understand that he has unknowingly joined a feud long of millennia. “Perhaps a pause?”

“No,” two identical voices snarl back.

“Good, good, certainly,” Irmo says. “But, ah- perhaps I could leave thee to it, then, my lord?”

“NO”

“Alright; yes; certainly. Only one last then? I have duties to tend to- please-”

.

.

.

Melkor is still grinning when Nerdanel and He exit her shop; a week or so later.

A few heads are headed in their direction, intrigued by the draped charette that Melkor is pulling behind him. It is certainly a sight; three times as high as the common Ñoldo, clothed by a veil of silk and mystery.

It must weigh a ton, assuredly; but is nothing for Melkor and he does not even try to hide the easiness of such a pull. Nerdanel has more than once suspiciously glanced at him – for even for an Elf it requires considerable strength. He mostly grins; and continues to absently pull the charette, unbothered by her suspicion.

She can wonder all she wants; Melkor is on the path of having his wishes fulfilled. Tis the day his effort pays, the day he meets Fëanor. It must be after all- they are on their way to meet the High King of the Ñoldor, his Son and Heir can not be anywhere else than at his side.

A few Ñoldor come to join them in their march; forming a processing behind him.

Melkor is half in a mind to shoo them away; he has no taste for their curious whispers as for now; but Nerdanel tilts her chin higher; an unmistakable gleam of smugness haunting her eyes.

Oh-oh. It seems the Lady of Fëanor is a prideful being as well. Not bonded by blood, but the apple never falls far from the tree, it would seem. Her sons had been plagued by pride too; if he recalls well – and Melkor’s memories never fail him.

“If you so desired to gloat, we should have made it a public ordeal,” Melkor can not refrain from whispering to her; delighted by that new aspect she reveals. “Made them wait for it.”

Nerdanel pinches her lips, but she does not take offence. Melkor would have been greatly disappointed had she been for so little.

“No,” she replies. “The element of surprise arouses their curiosity more than if we had announced it.”

Melkor chuckles. “Eru, and where is this empathy that a Princess should have for her people?”

“Oh, do keep your bitter whispers to yourself. Tis not a lack of empathy; merely small amusem*nt at the curiosity of my people. Never shall a Ñoldo sleep without having their questions answered.”

“Indeed,” Melkor sneers, recalling quite vividly how Fëanor had trailed after him, once his interest had been caught. For all the stories say that he had been the one to pursue the Prince, the situation quickly changed when Fëanor learned that Melkor could offer him knowledge.

It had been a great test of his patience then; and Melkor never had much of it. Fëanor had pestered him with questions until a fire had burned in him; never quite satisfied with what Melkor said; always wanting more. Was it not for his wish to turn the Ñoldor against Valinor, and the greatness of Fëanor’s mind; he would have sooner than later reduced the High Prince to ashes.

Nerdanel gives him a curious look.

“Recalling memories,” Melkor tells her; for she will too pester him until he confesses the truth. Or a part of it, at the very least. “I know deeply of the curiosity of y- our kind.”

She hums.

The procession is growing bigger behind them. A few Ñoldor are now trying to touch the cloth that hides the charette from their views; and Melkor has to turn back and glare at them for them to backtrack with an unapologetic chuckle.

“Is your spouse of such a natural curiosity too?”

Melkor inhales. Ever since his laps in judgement, Nerdanel burns with the desire to know everything about Mairon. He can not divulge much, but indulges her in areas where he can; for he needs her trust more than anything. (Well almost more than anything- he still covets the Silmarils)

“Certainly not more than you,” Melkor says.

She has the audacity to laugh. “Forgive me,” she tells him; and it is only for the form for she seems not very sorry at all. “You are a being of mystery; and I find myself wondering who you have tied your fëa to.”

Or more precisely, Melkor bitterly thinks, who has tied his to him.

“He likes to discover things,” Melkor admits with reluctance after she ceases not contemplating him. He tugs a little harder on the charette, and it springs forward, scaring a few Ñoldor in the process. “He enjoys going to the end of it; never stopping before his curiosity is fully satiated. He never does things in half. I suppose you would see eye to eye on this.”

Nerdanel grins.

“I suppose,” she says, and then, plainly- “Maitimo told me he did not follow you to Tirion.”

Melkor grits his teeth- he is going to find this miserable little snitch and he’s going to make him scream-

“And what of it?”

“Do not get angry; please,” Nerdanel says, still unapologetic to have risen such a subject. “I find it curious tis all; that one of you would not indulge the other.”

“Then keep being curious.”

Nerdanel stops, forcing him to stop as well. “I angered you. I apologize, it was not my intention.”

“Was it not? You know very well of my reluctance to break the subject, yet chose to do so nonetheless. Which emotion did you expect, cesulùro?”

How Quenya is fascinating- Nerdanel’s eyes widen, just a fraction of a second. Melkor’s words had been made to hurt too; a construction made to hit deep: adjective + noun: root made of cesula (inquisitive, curious) and ùro (nasty, evil-seeking)

He calls her on her behaviour with a suffix usually given to his creations; one that looks at a thing and calls it evil.

Nerdanel shakes her head; and gives him a tight smile. “It was deserved Lord Annatar, I must admit. I will not break the subject again, my apologies, it was indeed a shortcoming of mine.”

Melkor says nothing, merely tilts his head to tell her he has acknowledged her words.

Silence reign over them as they make their way to the Palace. (how to call it differently when it had been built for show-off, to satisfy the vanity of the line of Finwë)

It is when they are only steps away from the stairs that lead to the Palace (to Finwë, to Fëanor-) that Melkor opens his mouth again.

“I did not choose to come without him,” he says.

Nerdanel stills.

“You do not need-”

Melkor continues, unbothered by her interruption. “I would have stayed had I been given the choice to. There were… circ*mstances.”

He can see how she burns to ask for more; for why then could his spouse not join him.

“He can not come,” Melkor says, and those are the last words he will tell her on the subject. “There are ties that bond him to Middle-Earth; and he can not come here.” He hesitates- and then- he can not understand why he says so much; perhaps because he is as equally eager to speak as she is to listen. “Many would not welcome him.”

Nerdanel… nods. “I understand,” she murmurs. ”Ill choices made in the middle of war are hard to bear, after the tempest pass.”

It is- surprisingly insightful of her. “Indeed,” Melkor says. “Indeed.”

They exchange a glance then; and she gives him one of her rarest smiles – not on the verge of a smirk as they often tend to be, but a genuine one, a little comprehensive. It makes his insides twist, not in a good way; as he wants to rip it from her lips to never see it again. Tis not the time to think of Mairon and despair; tis not the time to doubt himself; and Melkor hates her suddenly for the way a faint ache awakens in his heart.

Mairon will have to wait. Melkor has already seen once what the lack of Silmarils does to him, to know them to be there but out of grasp- he does not wish to repeat the experience. Tis not a mere fancy; a play game where he needs to have what is Fëanor’s just because it is made by him; it is being given a light that had been taken from him.

Tis the light of Eru himself; and ever since it had been ripped from him- ever since Melkor had been cast aside, ever since Eru had ripped the bond between them- his fëa bleeds, constantly. It knows that there is something lacking in him, and it tries to fix itself, to no avail. Melkor is mighty; but he is no Eru; and fixing this bond is not of his resort.

But the Silmarils could fix it. They were bright enough that they mimicked such a bond, bright enough to fix his very fëa and Melkor needs them.

“-bow.” Nerdanel is saying something to him-

Melkor blinks-

Finwë stands before them.

“Lord Annatar, bow !” Nerdanel furiously whispers to him; and she has to subtly pinch at his sides for him to drop into a graceless, awkward, bow. Melkor had never bowed to anyone, ever; and he finds the movement to rather strain the neck.

He risks a glance at who stands next to Finwë.

Feminine features- uninteresting, what about the rest- black hair; tanned skin; a high stature, sharp cheekbones- yes, perhaps- Melkor raises his eyes.

“Welcome Lady Nerdanel, my daughter-in-law, and Lord Annatar; master of the forge, ” Finwë greets just as Melkor meets the gaze of his son, the one standing proudly next to him.

The world seems to come to a stop.

“-brought today before me?”

Black eyes that meet Melkor’s. A deep black; so akin to those of his close kin; and they shine with unrecognition- a little curious, a little tired-

“Welcome your Majesty,” Nerdanel says. “We are but humble gift-givers today; for we bring before thee something of our creation; something made to honour the Kind that guided us to the Undying Lands, the Kind that protects and teaches us.”

Melkor feels a burn in his flesh. It flares brutally- pain like no other; a phantom memory, and his grip tightens so much on the charette that he needs to release his grip as not to set it ablaze; his flesh burns and burns and burns-

(he remembers wounds like no others)

(he remembers rage, and fear so deep a fear it had consumed him)

(he remembers stepping out of Angband; he remembers the cry of rages that had come from those elven lips)

(‘you killed my father!’)

(he remembers pain; and he remembers defeat; a defeat like no other for he could not truly heal from it)

(he remembers seven wounds)

Fingolfin stares at him; and Melkor is not certain he can contain his rage.

.

.

.

Melkor is boiling internally.

He does his very best to placate a mask of goodwill and humbleness on his features, but knows himself to do a very poor job at it. There is a rage in his heart that peaks on his face (the only one to have crippled him, to have come to wound him seven times the one to have struck him down and Melkor had limped until his defeat-) and he lets Nerdanel do all the speaking.

When the King of Elf (false King- answers to another-) talks directly to him, Melkor grits out answers that can not hide the edge of fury they contain.

They are all confused, but do a better affair than him at hiding it. He catches more than once Nerdanel widening her eyes, seemingly asking what he is playing at; and Melkor tightens more his jaw at each received glance.

Fingolfin (balthir-saucarya-ulcarindo-nasto-saura[1]) is the most confused of them; frowning slightly as he endures the heat of Melkor’s gaze.

In truth; it is the presence of the Maiar that prevent Melkor from doing something he would regret. There are many of them; watching from the crowd, and he does not need to turn around to know that a Vala is equally watching. He is not yet certain of who- his song voluntarily muffled – but it is either Manwë or Tulkas. Only they would have such an interest in the Ñoldor; only they would stand watch from so close, perhaps cautious of what would Melkor do should he hear of such a gathering.

Unbeknownst to them, he knows very well of it.

Nerdanel speaks, and Finwë speaks, and Fingolfin opens his wretched mouth to speak and speak, and Fëanor is not there. Melkor is growing tired of having to chase after the Ñoldo – surely his offspring can not be so attention-requiring, surely he must have other matters to tend to that his damn household-! – and the frustration adds itself to his rage.

Finally; at least; the wolf is uncovered.

Murmurs echo through the crowd- and even the Maiar are impressed. It soothes his rage enough to get a hold of his temper; to not let his fëa peak through his disguise. He dares to properly look at the King of Elves – avoids who is standing near – who has an expression of both awe and surprise on his features.

Nerdanel steps forward and pushes the button- and a loud wave of admiration and surprise runs amongst the crowd when the wolf beings to move; begins to howl.

It bows then; and his head is dipped low in front of Finwë.

“Tis an impressive gift,” Finwë whispers.

He knows it is, he has made it.

Finwë takes a few steps backwards then, and spreads his arms high in the air.

“Ñoldor of Tirion; Maiar of Aman, Valar that guide us above the clouds, all of you gathered here in this bright day, I welcome! I welcome you; and I demand that share my joy in welcoming as well two of the noble kind, two masters of the craft that allows us both to be awed and protected- Lady Nerdanel of House Finwë and Lord Annatar of the shores of Middle-Earth! I welcome them and I say, welcome them as well!”

Cheers and applauses; and Melkor can recognize the shouts of many of the forges.

“They have been brought before us today of their own volition; for they have brought to the court a gift like no others! A wonder of metal and gems; an innovation that shall be celebrated! Let us say that this day marks the day of our gratitude for the craft, our gratitude for the wonders that our kin is offering us! Let us say that this day marks the day of celebration for the craft! We shall recognize its worth and be humbled by it; and we shall give our thanks to the Valar and Eru Iluvatar who has permitted such a thing! Let us say that this day marks the day of forgery and craftsmanship! Let us not forget how the Eldar shape their future!”

More cheers; and in the loud exclamations Melkor hear a few of them praising their names. He glances at Nerdanel, who is bowing deep before the crowd; and utters a sigh before bowing as well, one hand pressed over his heart.

“As for now, this day will be marked as a day of celebration,” Finwë tells them. “A reminder for all – that our minds run quick and our fingers as well; and that nothing shall stand in our path should we decide to! We are beings of creations; beings of wonders, made to be so by the Lord who Rules over All There Is. It is a deeply sought remembering; and for this, Lady Nerdanel, Lord Annatar, I thank thee.”

Melkor hears Nerdanel faintly gasp next to him. The crowd is louder than ever.

“Thou must no thank us; your Majesty,” Nerdanel is saying, shaking her head. “Tis a gift made to honour thee, and we sought no contribution for it- no reward-”

Perhaps not, but Melkor will gladly have Fingolfin’s head as a reward.

“Indeed,” Finwë says. “You did not, my daughter-in-law; but you made us remember that we are beings of change, despite the Undying Lands; beings of evolution- as long as it shall take us. You sought no reward but I offer you one all the same.”

Fingolfin steps forward. “It is an honour for us, my lady; to be gifted such a fine creation. If I might- you are aware I dabble in all sorts of crafts myself and find myself wondering- what was the cause of such an inspiration? Why a wolf?”

Nerdanel smiles. “Perhaps it would be better to ask of the one who knows the answer better than I do. Lord Annatar…?”

Melkor faintly hears a cracking noise. He realizes after a second that it is his teeth that had shattered in his mouth; broken by the pressure inflicted on them.

“A symbol,” Melkor finds himself saying, out of gritted, shattered teeth. Blood fills his mouth; and he takes great care of swallowing it before answering- its metallic, sweet taste so deeply familiar. “A symbol of guardianship, loyalty, protection and cleverness. Fitting for our High King.”

Fingolfin nods slowly; and pleasure is written on both his and his Father’s face. Melkor wants to tear them apart.

“Fitting indeed,” Fingolfin murmurs. “You have done a magnificent creation, Lord Annatar. I thank thee for it.”

Melkor forces himself to bow, again.

He twitches, fingers fidgeting through the whole ordeal. There are more words being said after this; until finally, finally; they are dismissed. Nerdanel lingers there a little; wishing to speak with her kin, but Melkor is quick to disappear into the crowd under the pretence of meeting it.

Ñoldor of all ages press themselves against him, assaulting him with their insatiable curiosity; but Melkor answers to none, fraying himself a passage through it-

He is trembling- he will not control himself much longer-

The Maiar are beginning to send him strange looks; cautious ones- and Melkor’s hand are already a little grey at the edges- he can not stay he can not-

As soon as the crowd is left behind, as soon as no one can see him, Melkor flees; barely registering the Vala behind him, the one who has assisted the entire scene.

He flees; and runs; each step leaving frozen footprints in the stone streets-

A great force crashes into him.

Melkor comes crashing down on a stone wall.

He scrambles to his feet (what_how^.who_{hehadnotseenit}how^{whyhadhenotseenot}) and it is grey clawed hands that grip at the wall to steady himself; his disguise shattered by the impact.

“I knew it!”

Melkor whips around-

Tulkas is standing there, his fingers gripped tight around his hammer; features twisted in a snarl of pure, unabashed, hatred.

“I sensed it!” Tulkas growls. “I knew it was thee! Thou have been undiscovered at last! Thou shall not keep lying, Belegurth! I knew of it!”

This is not a good time. this. is. not. a good. time. Melkor is already enraged- and he trembles with fury; no use in hiding it now; and Tulkas makes just the perfect scapegoat- if he can not have Fingolfin, he shall have another enemy instead.

(you seek peace, control yourself, a voice murmurs. Melkor strangles it immediately)

“Then do what thou are best at, oh great strength of the West,” Melkor snarls. He stands, and his fingers twitch for action; for soothing this great anger of his heart-! “Or are thee too much of a coward to stand for thy words?”

Tulkas roars.

Melkor roars back; and thousands of teeth drip of a poison older than the world.

The ground shakes in front of his rage.

The walls tremble as well; as if he was beneath the earth; shaking it for the sole wish of causing its destruction.

They can not battle here- not when they are so close to the Ñoldor but they do not care, and they are as two titans trapped in a colony of ants; rage clouding their minds, features, purposes.

Valar are not creatures bound by a hroä. They are not as Eru has made the rest of his children; not firstborns who have a shape and stick to it; no secondborns who have little control over it. They are being made greater than those envelopes of flesh; made to spread and sing the world anew; made for be ^great and _terrible.

Melkor roars his rage and he is a being of claws and thousands of tongues, black eyes with tears like acid and poison dripping the length of sharpened teeth.

Tulkas roars his rage and he is a being of dozen of arms springing from his flesh, flesh tearing to accommodate to the new limbs, a mass made akin to a mountain, brute strength sending thousands of muscles stretching, tensing.

They clash at each other like two tectonic plates on the edges of the world.

anger_rage^furysodeepteethtearingoutflesh^teeth_eyespoisondripping^bulgingarms

Melkor tears out limb after limb, sending them crashing against the walls of Tirion, flesh that blackens into rot as soon as his tongues touch it. Tulkas screams in pain and it amplifies his rage; dozen of hands tearing Melkor apart- (painanguishmemorieshehadnotbeenabletowalkpainpainpainrage)

His poison drips on the ground; piercing through the stone, the earth-

He sinks sharp teeth into Tulkas’ flesh- bites out a chunk of his shoulder- his arm- his ribs-

He can not think, can not control himself- he had been so angry, so furious and he is not so angry at Tulkas – Tulkas just happens to be there – but Fingolfin had crippled him – had made an infirm out of him – and he had been unable to heal himself – unable to fix his hroä – unable to change it-

Tulkas’ fingers close around his tongues. Melkor cries out in pain- he twists himself- he screams and he snarls- but Tulkas’ grip is stronger, is as the gravitational strength of the earth and he can not bulge, he can not escape.

Tulkas tears out his tongues from his mouths.

Black blood falls on the ground, acidic.

Melkor screams.

“D̞̠̙̺̒͐͐͢Ǎ̵̡̫̟̘̖̗M̗̲̈̐̈̒͆͝Ń̴̳̥̬̲̐͢ Y̩̯̰͓̐͐ͭ͠Ǭ̷̢̹̺̟̔U̧̢̫̬̎ͣ͂͛ T̻͚̹̙̯ͤͦ̽O̢̥̙͊̅̊͢͜ T̨̫̤̠̙̰̠ͨH̵̰̰̜̲̉͂̾È̡̗͕ͤ̍̌͛ V̰̱̳͇͙̹̽͝O̭̜̠̺͗̌͛͢Į̦̬̰̦̙̓̔Ḑ̖͚͈ͫ̾̂”

(damn you to the void)

The world breaks in front of their rage.

Melkor changes himself to a being of fire^lava_stonemountain^burning_liquid

He wants to make himself elusive but nothing escapes the grip of Tulkas' hands; not even what is intangible. Those are hands made to subdue the intangible, made to tame lightning and set time right, made to catch chaos and make it fit a mould of its own choosing, made to seize the evil of the world and crush its neck.

But Melkor has been called the Great Enemy and it is not for naught. He, who has created the Great Winged Dragons of Arda, who had provoked the Darkening; who had seen Arda and imposed his will on it; who had seen the Song of All Beginnings and given it his own Rhythm.

One made to destroy, the other made to destroy the other.

They clash at the other and it is not them who break; but the world that surrounds them.

Melkor is tired and Melkor is furious, and he wants nothing more but to let this accumulated rage break free- free of its chains, free of his bounds. It roars to life: and manifests in the way his teeth pierce through Tulkas’ flesh; the way the acid poison of his tongues drip holes the sizes of lakes.

Melkor sends Tulkas’ tumbling away, crashing into the streets.

Tulkas is quick to rise to his feet-

A voice stops them both, a voice that thunders in their very minds, their very fëa.

“E ̯̰̞̻̫̐̒͐͐̏ͮ̇͘͠ ̌ ̵̟̅̓ ́ ̂̈ ̐ ̈ ̒ ̂ ̸̠̯̰̥̬ͪ͆͢ͅ N ̴̷̧̧̨̹̲̹̼̤̪̭̻̻͚̹̙̯͈̘̐͐ͭ͗̄̔̎̔̎ͣ͂ͦͤͦ̚͠ O ̴̨̫̤̊ͮ̇ͧͨ̐̇̏̚ ̉ ̵̴̵͂̾ ̉ ̷ ̀ ͤ̍ ̌ ̃ ̮̯̰̻̒͛͝ ͇ ͙̹ U ̭ͫ͗ ̌ ̜̻ͮͦ̐̓ ̦ ̴̡̬̤̔ ̆ ̧ͫ̾ ̂ ́ ͤ̇ͦͅ ̆ ̢͚̪̩ ̣ ̬̙̝̖ G̣ ̽ͤ ̣ ̧̢̯̐̇ͫ͗͊ͨ͠ ̉ ̛ ̉ ̂ ̨ ́ ̈ ̃ ̶̭̼̮̜̱̽́̏ ͇ ̢̝̞̜ H ̷̡̢̮̮̯̤̪̻̥̝̍ͣͦ̇ͦ̄ͤ̅́ͨ͛̀̓̓̔ ̈ ̯͚”̫̜͕̞̗̙͞

(enough)

Both Tulkas and Melkor still.

“C ̧̪̭̻̺̔̎ͣ͂ͦͤͦ̽ͣ̚ ̳̆ ̥̫̤̪̠̙̰̠̜̰͊̅̊ͮ̇ͧͨ͆̚ O ̴̵̾ ̉ ̷ ̀ ͤ̍ ̌ ̃ ̰̱̒ͦ͝ ̳ ̹̭̽ͫ͗͠ͅ ̌ ̢̨̜̺̩̬̰ͮͦ̐͆ ̦ N ̆ ̧ͫ̾ ̂ ́ ͤ̇ͦͅ ̆ ̢̨̧̛̬ͣ̇̊ ̣́ ̽ͤ ̣ ̧̧͓͈̭̜̐̇͜͠͞ ̣T̉ ̂ ̨ ́ ̈ ̃ ̶̭̼̱̽́̏ ̈ ̵̈́ ̋ ̍ ̈ ̨̮̮̯̘͚̓̍ͣͦ̇ͦ ̦ ̘̫͜ͅ R ̷̢̻̥̝͛̀̓̓̔ ̈ ̯̫ͤ ̈ ̍͝ ̂ ͫ ̳̆ ̸̷̢̬̭̮͎̗̞̱͂͋͘̚ ̣O ̨̛̺̇̚͠ ̌ ̼̤ͤ͛ ̌ ̵̵̴̨̩̯̪̝̟̘ͦ̅ͩ͂ͧ̾͘ ͇ ̖ ͇ ̞̟̫͙ L ̨̯̤̲̪͊̔̎̏̑̅̅̈́̓ͤ̈́͌͊́͛ ̳ ̀ ̮͙̝̥̟͔̺͕͌͂̑͐̾͛ Y ̂ ̻̲̏̑ͥ͡͡ ̃ ̷̶̶̫̞̞̻̱̜̠̲̗̥̬͔̫̔ͭ́̑ͪ̒̓̏̈́͛͘ O ̄ ̣ ͑͐͐̓ ̂ ̨̧̼̩̲͊̎̏ͫ̇̈́ͭ̓ ̆ ̶̯̺̻̟̹̝̙̞͕̓ͬͭ̍́ U ̺̽ ́ ̈ ̤̤̰̮̰̐͑̇̇͋͊̽ ̣̉ ̧̯ͫ̾͑͞ͅ ̌ ̧͚͔̮͔̩̹̒͞ͅ R ̵̷̭̪̽̔̒̔͘͝ ̃ ̝͑̒̀̾͗̏͞ ̈ ̡̥ ́ ͝ ̉́ ̞ ̳ ̨͎̺̺̰̟̯͆ S ̞ ̣ ̹̪͛̈́͒ ̦ ̷̵̝̜̯̬̐ͤͦ ̦ ͬ ̃ ̒ ́ ̴̍ ̣ ͥ ̂ ̷̧̩̠̺̟ ͇ ̟ͅ E ̸̞̮̞̩̥̇ͬ̽̒ͥ̀ͣͨͥ̅̊̚͘͡͠ͅ ̃ ̢̤͔̬̖͚ͤͧ̊͗͛͝ͅ L ̢̜̹̩̻̺̈́͋̽̒͑ ̃ ̸̡̺̪̱̞͊ͨ̽ ̈ ̧̨̪̰͒̓̍͡ ͇ ̢͚̭̭̙ F ̸̯ͬ̒͒̏͑ ̉ ̡̼ ̋ ̵̜̹̼̤̼̇̊͊̏ ̋̆ ̺̭̖̠͓̀͋̏̈́͜͞ ̦ ͅ ! ̸̢̺̱̰̞̥̜̹̰̹̍ͪͤͭ͌̾̾͋̐̄͗̾̐̎͞͡ ̀ ͇ ̤̩̘̘͎̯͞ C ̢̩̱̩̩̓ͫ͗̒ͮ͡ ̆ ̡ͬ̐͒̏̍ ̂ ̸̹ ̳ ̺̻̫̊ ̆̆ ̭̬͈͆͞ ̦ ̬͝ O ̷̸̟̝̠ͬ̇̅̅̔̍ͭ͌ͫ ̦̈ ̢̪̹̫̺̰̺̭͔̩̮̀̇̾̑̊ͮ́͜͞ N ̅ ̃ ̠̎̏ ́ ̋ ̢̮̼̝̟̐̊̈́͒̔̾̈́ͅ ̂ ̷̺̠̄ ̌ ̲̺͈̓ ̦͇ ̰͚̺̹ T ͅ ̳ ̶̸̶̻̱̺̹̫̝̎̀ͮ͒̍̓́̒ͩ̍ ̀ ̈ ̡̩̝̄ͤ̓͑ͧ ̦ ̮̻͆ ̣R ̷̝̯̹̭̽ͩͪͨͪ̽̏ͥͨͧ͠͡ ̃ ̺ͫͥͦ͑ ̦ ̡̠̞̯̫̫̫̱̔̇͐͆ O ̢̧̤̔ͪ ̉ ̸̢̡̧̛̜͗ͦ́̄͐͝ ̆ ̼̫̪̼̇͞͡ͅ ̦ ̡̗̺̤̱̝͍̞ L ̢̹́͋ͨͮ͝ͅ ̋ ̵̲͗ ̣ ͨ ̂ ̴̷̧̹̝̝͙̯̜̱̖ͮ̄̇ͤͪ͞͞ ͇ ̠͞ Y ̷̱ ̈ ̤̓ ̈ ̵̨̢̻̞̭̲̝̪̪̺͕̯͔̖̠̓ͭ̽ͬͥͫͦ̓̏ͩ͆͘͘͘ O ̵̸̭̮ͭͥͩ̾ͦ̓̊͘̚ ̆ ̰̲̎ ̋ ̛ͣ ̃ ̸̴̴ͣ̽͋̎ ̦ ̡̢̪̱̩̫͞ U ́ͤͪ ̳ ̧̠͋̾ͭ̏ͮͩͭ̏͝͠ ̋ ̬̾ͨ́̊͠ͅ ̂ ̴͈̥͍̱̗͚̻̔̾͝ R ̷̟̯̇͘͝ ̈ ̵̢̧̡̛̜̤̰̼̯̤̟͚͕̻ͬͧ̽ͩ̽̑̍ͥ̀ͪ̓͛̚͞ S ̵͒ ̋ ̨̫̝͂͌̔̐̓ ̋ ̴̻̮ ̉ ̶̸̡̛̪̥͓̤̘̒̊̽͊ͪ̇ͣ͛͢͝ͅ E ̸́͂͂͘ ̆ ̶̤̬̑ͨ̽ͫ̾ ̂ ̷̴̧̢̡̡̰̩̞̹̹̪̺ͪ̾̔͌̓̓ͮ͆ L ̜ ̳ ̵̥̹ͬ̎̅̓ ̉ ̶̥̻̤̑ͩ͋͗ͭ̔͐ͫ͗ͣ̎͌͝ ̉ ̡ ̣ ̢̖̯͚͛͝ F ̷̛̜̥̜̰̝͍̘̠͎͕̅̇̏͛̓̊ͦ̓̒ͦͨͧ̓ͣ̊̀͛͘͜͜͡͝͡ͅ O ̸̺̠̇̄͘͡ ̃ ̴̸̼̪̫̒̽ͣͫ̓ͥ̾ ̳ ̺ͧͥ͑ ̆ ̨̹̺̠̫͈̗̘̭̥ R ̶̯̱̫̟̠̽͋̍ͣ͋͒ͥ̑͒ͅ ̃ ̪́̾ͤ̒ ̈ ̪͌ͦ̑ͅ ̣ ̗ ̦ ̢̲̹̰͝ I ̥̯̒ ̀ ̐ ̈ ̀ ̩͑̇͒ ̉ ̞̞̥̩͍͚͈̤̜͓̙͑ͫ͛̓ͨͫͪͥ̍͊͂͛̚ S ̵̸̴̢̝̟̥̩̅ͨ̔́͂̐̇͞͞ ̌ ̉ ̯ ̳ ̭̲͋ͣ͌ ̀ ͈̹̥̠͌ ̣ ̨̟ͅ H ̧̟̅͌ ̆ ̸̶̧̨̫̲̠̪̱̩̩̻̪̖̎͌͗ͭ̅ͪ̇̅ͪ̐͂̾̀ͫ̑ͭ͝ A ̥̹̽͊ͤ ̦ ̶̬ͫ̍̈́ ̆̈̈ ̇ͥ ́ ̵̸̵̱̄̇́ ̃ ̛̰̓͜ ̣ ̻̟̹̙̺ͅ L ͞ ̳ ̴̰̟̹̟͗̇͂̽͊ͬ͒̚ͅ ̆ ̅͌ ̂ ̟̫̼͍ͥ̏ͫ̎͡ ͇ ̩͈̭̠̖͞ L ̥̹͌ͦ̀̇͘ ̦ ̔͝ ̆ ̢̰̊̐ͮ͊ͅ ́ ̬̻̟ͥ́ ̂ ̻̱̝̭̭̤̝̐̇͆͠ S ͊ ̀ ̶̢̤̹̰̪̰̩̝̠̫̐ͪͧ̇͌ͪ̔ͤ̑ ̉ ̆ ̤ͣ͂͠ ̣ ̧̡̙̥̺̰̖ E ̅̊ͧ ̃ ̪̮̲ͣ̍ ́ ̞̈́ ̦ ̯̜̝̾ͨͫͮ͊ͨͪ̓͡ ̆ ̛͓̤̩̖̘͆͞͝ͅ N ̸ͮ ̋ ́ ̆ ̵̵̢̞̩̤̏̒̒̽ ̳ ̏͗ ́ ̴̧̪̲̪̜̔̚ ̌ ̱ ̣ ̭̪̰̜̞̖ D ̸̭̲̻̺͗̑ͭͮ̚ ̦ ̞͞ ̋ ̬̩ ̂ ̟ͣͮ ̈ ̶̨̢̹̮̭̥̖̄͊ͫ͆͛͘ͅ T ̧̯̭̜̯̜͛̈́ͮ̽̐ͥͫ͊ͤ͋ͨ ́̀ ̌̂ ̧̢̬̮̯̬̠͚̻͚͂̇ͮ͛͢ H ̯̲͛ͧ̏͑͑ͅ ̆ ̟̹ͬ ̳̋̌ ̓ͮ ̈ ̵̷̶͒͗ͫ̍ ́ ̨̢̡̻̞͕̫ͭ͆͜ E ̴̡̲̯̝̲̼̺̄ͭ̊̎̚͠ͅͅ ̣ ̨̡̞̅̄ ̀ ̸̨̤̟̾ ͇ ̩ ͇ ̣ ̬̤̤͜ B ̡̜ ̌ ͠ ̆ ̾̀ͧ̏̚ ̦ ̀ ̨̡̛̤̻̺̭̟̠͍͍̓́́̒̍̀͛̾̄̊ͦ͆͛ O ͝ͅ ̂ ̛ͤ̈́͡ ̌ ̡̮ͭ̓̍̑̓͠ ̋ ̨͗͝͠ ̈ ̸̧̯̬̩̤̫̞̮͑̍ͬ͢͞ T ̬̺̱̑ͧͦ ̋ ̨̞̬̝͗ͤ͗ͭ̐̈́ͨ̚͡ ̂ ̇̽ ̋ ̶̭̮̹̍͗ ̣ ̢̮̥͍̯ H ͧͬ̚ ̈ ̴̨̡̥̫̟̥̼̼̺̼̰̯ͫ̊̈́͐͊́̅͒ͫ͘͜͝͡ͅ ͇ ̨̡̞͜ O ̢̨̛̝͗̈́ ̳ ̢̧̫̞̲̩̰̓̔̒ͥͬͣ̓́͌͑͘͝ ́ ̢̻̙̤ͥ ͇͇ ̢̬ F ̂ ̧̧̰̹̫̰̔ͭ̄̇̄ͅ ̆ ̴̧̢̯̰̬ͧ͗͌̀ ̃ ̶̻͙͑̑ ̣ ̡̗̹͢ ͇ Y ̶̹̠̭̞̈́̚ ́ ̛̯̟̱̅͌̏ͬͦ̓̎̍ͥ͐͞ ̀ ̢̢̝̜̪͓̤̲̓͘ ̦ ̰ O ̝ ̉ ̡̠̱͗̔ ̳ ̶̷̡̡̝̠̝̐͂ͭ͐̔ͫ͒͞ ̈ ̴̞ͭ ̀ ̫̬̘͜͢ ̣ ͕͢ Ủ ̟ͩ ́ ̹̻̰ͮ̽ͭ ̂ ̝̤̩ͩͭ̏ ̣ ̜ͬ͂͡ ̳ ̢̰͙͙̲̞ͪ̄ͭͪ ̣ ̰͜ T̀ ̈ ̮̻́͊͗̍͠ ̆ ̶̨̒͐̔ͩ̈́ ̀ ̧̭̮̹͎̲͙͎͙ͦͣ̅̒͛͢͜͡ ͇ O ̷̹̤̽̅ͫ͝ ́ ̻͊ ̋ ̰̝ ̂ ̶̶̩̭̾ͤ̚ ̈ ̃ ̂ ̹̥͕̖̝̯̤͙̾̄͞͝ T ͮͮ ̀ ̸̡̢̢̰̹̽ͣ͒ͦ͠ ̋ ̡̬̟̑ ̋ ̢̧̪̙̬̯͌͋͑ͤ̊͞ ̦ ̨̫͎ H ̢̛̪̠̩̬̫̲̹̪̞̪̞͓̺͈͈̊̽ͨ̅ͧͫ̎ͦͦ͐ͭ̀̊ͪ͐͂͛͞ ͇ E ̵̢̢̨̛͛ͧͩͫͮ̇́͞͞ ̃ ̵̧̱̇̇͂̾͌ ̋ ̴̩̰͙̗̍͑̄͛ ̣ ̙̫ H ̡̲̻̼̀ͬͧͣ̔ ̣ ̞̯̊ ̣ ̷̢̨̹̜̝̺̭̫̭͎̖̭͐̏̑̄͗ͥ͛̚͞ A ̴̨̧̼̼͌̓̐͊̓͗ͨͦ̇́͘͡͞͝͡ ̀ ̯̻̲̤̇̍̓ ̣ ̢̜̩̩ ̦ ̹͜ L ̶̹̺̯̰̓͋ͭ͒͐̇ͅ ̉ ̷̨̝̤̞ͥ͛̎ͥ̍ͦͥ̾͠ ̋ ̰͈͈̫̻͛͢͝ L ̶̯͊̄ ̌ ̢̨̺̼̪̬̟̰̝̠̲͚͙̗̓ͥ̄ͬͧͮͬͦͫ͋̅͑̅͛͛͡ ͇ S ̌̆ ̱̭̓̽ͅ ́ ̧̥̼̟̊͊ͧͦ̚ ̣ ͌͐ ̉ ̝͘ ̈ ͣ̐͡ ̂ ̖̝ ̣ ͇ ͕̰͕̪ A ̵̯̱ͬͦ̔ͭ̓ͭ̍ͣͭ͞͞͡ ̳ ͑̓ͬ͡ ̉ ̂ ̴̸̧̬̯̝̙̟͗ͮͥ͝ͅ ͇ N ͦ̅͌ ̈ ̟̩̼̬̮̒̇̅͋͂͘͘͞ ́ ̢̛̀ ̦ ͂ ̋ ̡̞̫̗̔ͫ ̣ ̦ ̞͙̩̮ D ̳ ̸͘ ̆̋ ̤̠ͬ̎ͨͥ ̳ ̥̽ͥ̎̇ ̦̈ ̨̨̜̻̱̩͙̺̖ͤ͗͑͌̈́͑ͨ͞ L ̷̨̡̭̲̹ͬ̓ͥͭͪ͗̀ͪ̅̾͂ͮ͡ ̃ ̋ ̴̨̲̬̟ͨͣͪͧ̽͡͝ ̣ ̨̥ E ̝̾ͥ͒͋ͬ̔͠ ̃ ̟̓̓̄͡ ́ ̶̞͙̲̞͈̰̐͊̇͑ͩ̔ͬͥ͋̎̓͆͠͝ T ̶̧̫̭̀ͫ ̀ ̼͌ͫ̍͊ͧ ̃ ̫̼ͤͪ̚ͅ ̣ ͪ ̈ ̶̤̫͔͍̱̰̲̹͚̰͂͝ M ̢̱ ̆ ̛ ̀ ͣ ̆ ̧̛̜̻̯̔̇̓̔̾͠ ̋ ̸̴̴̼͔̜̝̰̺̭͌̓ͬͦ͜͠ ̦ O ̛̞͊ ̳ ̼̮̬̩͐ͧ̐̅ͪͨ ́ ̹̩ ́ ̨̬ͬ͛̎͂̔ͭ͑ ̉ ̦ ̨͙̪̘͈̟ͅ R ̫̔ ̆ ̲ͣ̚ ̌ ̝̮̺̄͋̄̇͒ͮͦͮ͡͝ ̳ ̧̹̫̟͛͞ ̣ ̡̲̙͚̗̝̯͛ E ̵͛ ́ ̳ ̺̑͛ͩ̒ͨ ̆ ̶̵̫̱̩͒ͦͪ̅͘ ̋ ̸̡̤͚̮̪͚̭ͮ̚͜͠ͅͅ T ͪ͛͝ ̦ ̬̒͠ ̂ ̪̩̲̰ͮ̅̔̐ ̈ ̃ ̝̎ ̌ ̸̷̟̝̝̙̗̗͔̮̠͙ͩ̑͛ H ̈́ͦ̄ ̦ ̚͠ ̋ ̴̞̮̐̀ͧ͝ ̈ ̸͂ͤͥ ̳ ̨ͬͨ͡ ̆ ̸̧̥̈́͜ ͇ ̡̩̟͛͢ A ̜͛͘ ̦ ̴̴̫̇ͨ͐ͥ ̈ ̺ͨ̄͛ ̂ ̵̢̡̨̱̮̞͙̝̹͔͚ͪͤ̍̍͛͞͝ N ̱̻̑̔͞ ̣ ̧̢̧̡̹̮̪̲̊̓̄ͩͪ̚̚͠͞ ̦̋ ̧̛̭̩̩̮̥ͩͨ͛ͅ A ̛̬̯̞̟ͫͭ̊ͮ̎̍̚͘͠ͅ ̣̀ ͮ͞ ̀ ̨̡̹̥̽͝͠ ̃ ̲̠ ̦ ̤̤̭͍͜ D ͬͅ ́ ̩̠ ̉ ̞͂͞ ̆ ̴̧̝̭̥̐̒̑͛̑ͤ͡ ̳ ̨̨̯̮̩͍͈̤̻̠̒̏ͅ O ̪̻̠̭̄͌ͣͩ̔ ̈ ̵̶̼ ̋ ̍ ̀ ̌ ̶̜̓́͗̅̑̚͝ ̣̃ ̧̜͎̱͝ ͇ ̡͢ Z ̇̅̀ͬͭ͌ͤ̚͝ ̉ ̵̶̢̞̰̯̞̰̬͈̙̱̬̻̻̍̇͛ͥͣ̐̽̚͘͜͝ E ̀͝ ̂ ̶̥̮̯̝ͥͥͧ ̌ ̵̡̠̟̜̞̞͊͂ͦͫ̚ͅ ̋ ̓̎ ̣ ̞̮̠͛͝ ͇ ͆ N ̺ͤͭ͑͂̓̇̍̚ ̦ ̵̶̧̡̟ͮ̓ͤ̐͑ͅ ̌ ̪̼̠͂ͩ̽͜ ̣ ̨͔͚̪̺͞ A ̫ ̃ ̡̡̭ͫ͗̚ ̀ ̷̲͗ ̌̌ ̴̲ͤ̊ͅ ́ ͩ ̀ ̳ ̬̤̰̙̯̪̘̬̬͂ͭ̓̊ G̀̀́ ̛ͮͤ̚ ̌ ͛ ̌ ̟̍̇ͤ͠ͅ ̈ ̷̨̡̺̬̖̲̮̭͚ͣͧ͒̊͋͠͝͝͝ E ̷̵̷̡̢̲̰̞̩̲̬ͫ͐͊͑̍̎͋͘͞͠͝ ̈ ͧ ̋ ̡̲̮̤̻̠͚̬ͨ͑͘ S ̷̱̼̲̯ͣ͛̏̒͞ ̀ ̴̨̥̭̰̠̤̹̤̍̏͗ͪ͒ͩ͒͞ ̣ ͇ ̧͕̜͓̭ͅ P ̢̩̅͛ͮͪ͞ ̌ ̰̼̥͐ ̃ ̛̫̤̐ ̋ ̸̸̬͒͑ ̋ ͂͠ ̂ ̢̫͓̘̜̲̱̫ͥ A ̩̹̱̽̈́ͭ͠ ̳ ̀ ̺̱̽͞ ́ ̨̧̩̟̼̫̺̤͔̱̫ͧ̔̽̅̇ͭ̔ͪ͢͞ͅ S̀ ̨̛̑̓͡͠ ̉ ̛̻͞ ̋ ͒̇ ̃ ̥̥̱̺̱̅͗͒̒͡ ̌ ̧̙̤̙̪̍͆͜͢͞ S ̄ ̈ ̄͛͑ͧ ̣́ ͊̓ ̀ ̻͋ ̌̌ ̫̜ ̉ ̩̰̹̭̠̮̭̰͚̟̪͛̇̑̊͌͂ͦ B ̍ ̦ ͒ ̆ ̷̸̜̬ͨ͐̊͗ͨ͝ ̂ ̸̼͋ ̳̦ ̴̢̰̻̲̥̙̘̗̘̰̬̹̎͒̅ E ̶̡̯̻̄̍͛̅̄ͫ̚ ̉ ̵̨̮̝̜̻̭̑̏͒̍ͮ̔ͤ͠ ̌ ̧̪͔̥ ͇ ̘͝͝ F ̸ ̳ ̶̷̡̪̥ͨͧ̾͒̓ͬ̐́͂̄͐͞ ̀ ̳ ̞ͬ͐͠ ̀ ̞̠͕͈͕̞͙͔͙͆ O ̩̻̩ͫͦ͊̊ͪ̄͘͝͞ ̣ ̸̭̞̩̓͗ ̳ ̠̤͕̗̪̅̎͒̊͌͑ͅ ̦ ̱̭͝ R ̴̡̭ ̣ ̵̠̓́ ̌ ̧̢̤̲̩̞̰̹̱ͨ̑͛̑̀͛̔̒͘ ̉ ̖͞ ̣ ͜ ̣ ͓̙̪ E ̳ ̛̤̪ͥ͋̄͌̈́ͮ͒͘ ́ ̳̂ ̎ ̳ ̴̬͂͒ͭͦ ̀ ̠̩̫͕̫͍͚̰̟͚ͤ͠ Ỵ ̶̟̬̯̟̰ͩͧͨͥ͘ ̌ ̯̜̑ ̋ ̪̭̏ ̀ ̲́ͩ̓̎͛ ̌ ̧̱̮͕̺̥̝͞ O ̷̬̜͊͘͡ ̳ ̢̞̍ͫͫ͂̄ͩ́̀͘ ̦ ̸̟̯͛̄͡͝ ́ ̡̥ ͇ ̧̪̝̘̙̯ U ̱̹̇̽̏̽̎̏ ̌ ̷̛̬͊̑͛͘ ̦̈ ̰ͩͩ ̌ ̷̨̡̨̨̼̯̘͔̞̮̀̇ͅ R ̡̱̩̟̯̜ͧ͂̇̑ͬ̽ͦͮͤͨ̾̒ͤ͂ͪ̑ͬ͞͝ ̦ ̡̧̝̞͔͓̔͜͢͞ R ̵̵̶̴̵̛̱̜̯̥̜̒̍̎̇ͦ́̓́͗̽͂ͤ̏͝͠ ̂ ̸̠̬̲͕͔̱͜͢ E ̯ͬ̎ͥ͐̐ͦ̅ ̈ ̷̴̛̠̤ ́ ̞̻̈́͡ ̳ ̴̪̠͓͓̪͋͑ͫ͊ͮ͝ ͇ ̨̞̞ L ̷̰̬ͨ͋̐ ̳̌ ̻͊ ̦ ͥͫ̐ ̀ ̝͌ͭ̏͗ͫͨͧͭ ̈ ̨̞̺̗̥͔̈́͠ ̣ ̩̻ E ̢̜̻ ̂ ̛̭̬̺̲̞̫̐̔ͫ͋̐͌ͩͭ͛ ̀̀ ̨̧̨̛̪̤̩͍͎̟̯͕ͭͭ A ̷̸̷̡̛̲̤̭̰̱̇ͣͥͤͧ͗̓ͪ͡ ̈ ̶̤̹͡ ̈ ̃ ̨̟̺͍̗͂͆͜͜ͅ S ͥ͗ ̃ ̤̊ͅ ̆̋ ̵̴̨̛̲̥̮̫̪̹͒̍͊̐̊͋́̒ͣ͝͞ ͇ ͔̮̟͈̮͛ E ̞͘ ̈ ̸̮ͬ͒̒͡ ̂̂ ̨ͬ ̳ ̧̩̜̰̞̙̘̤̩̬̍̽̑̑̽̍̓ͤ̊̓͛̚ ”

(control yourself! Control yourself or I shall send the both of you to the halls and let more than a dozen ages pass before your release!)

Melkor snarls- he is on the verge of winning; on the verge of appeasing this rage that burns in him and he does not want to stop-

The owner of the voice – Manwë, sweet Lord of the Powers of the West, always so late to action, always so indolent when it comes to doing rather than saying – appears before him, too quick to be stopped; a hand larger than them hall simultaneously closing all of Melkor’s mouths.

“Thou will stop. I swear on Arda itself, Melkor, thou will stop or thou force mine hand; and I shall grant thee a greater punishment than the one first bestowed upon you. Thou will stop- brother; or I shall stop thee.”

The voice speaks directly to his mind; and he is made of ^fury_fear^pain_anger^terror_rage he can not stop; he can not stop himself-

Thousand blue eyes are facing him. They all blink in concert, and with each blink comes two words to his mind. The same words.

Stop yourself.

Melkor is shaking still. He shakes; but there is a hand amongst the eyes, amongst the tongues, amongst the mouths; and this hand grips at the _blue^white_pale^bright Vala in front of him.

A pale hand takes a grey one.

Melkor stops himself.

With great effort, he binds himself to his preferred hroä. He encloses the truth of him in those flesh bodies they have been instructed to take; and when his raises his eyes to look at Manwë – it is the elven-like fana of the Lord of the West he sees; and not the truth underneath.

Melkor is breathing hard.

There are whispers next to him. He blinks; with difficulty; and meets the stares of dozen of Ñoldor; wide-eyed, eyeing the destruction of their streets. They can not have seen the truth of them; or it would have destroyed their minds; but they see the aftermath of their fight-

“Close your eyes and cover your ears, if you please,” Manwë softly commands them.

All obey.

Manwë Sings. He Sings and the destruction circles back to creation; the broken stones mending themselves, the burnt ground brought back to life. All that wasn’t is suddenly again; and all there had been brought returns to the Void.

Tulkas rises to his feet. He is still shaking with rage; but Manwë turns to give him a look- and he bows; humiliation tainting his cheeks red.

“We will talk,” Manwë says.

Fear replaces the anger. Surely it means he will be chained again- Manwë had said about the Halls; perhaps not the Void- anything but the Void-

Melkor can not refuse.

“Yes.”

.

.

.

“You attacked Tulkas in the middle of Tirion. You were forbidden to enter Tirion. Estë should have kept guard of you. By all means, it speaks of a breach in our contract.”

Melkor says nothing. They are perched on top of a mountain; and he keeps waiting for the chains to come, the punishment to fall. He is prepared to flee should it be so- (and this time not to Ungoliant)

“You are very silent,” Manwë tells him, twisting a white feather between his fingers. “Have you naught to say for your defence?”

Melkor contemplates the feather for a second. It reminds him of when the Powers of the West had entered Angband, Eonwë’s trumpets announcing their arrival. The little Maia had sported white wings then; and Mairon- Melkor stops the train of thought there.

Now that the anger has fallen, there is nothing else but weariness.

Melkor rises his gaze to Manwë, first to properly look at his features; then his hands. “No,” he says. “I have not.”

“I could go to Tulkas and ask him about it.”

“I suppose you could.”

Manwë tightens his jaw. “Have you truly naught to say? No words to speak of the justification of your actions? No words to speak of your rights and Tulkas’ wrongs?”

Melkor opens his palm, and a second feather, a deep grey one, appears above it. “There are words, certainly; but none that I could say that would change the situation.”

“And which situation is it?”

“Ah, Mânavenûz, this is yours to tell.”

“If you are playing with me-”

Melkor laughs. He tugs at the feather, slowly tearing it apart. “For once, I might just say the truth.”

Manwë says nothing for a few seconds, considering him.

He sighs then.

“For once, I might just believe you.”

Melkor laughs, again; considerably bitterer. “And what luck I have! To have you believe in my words, on the edge of being imprisoned again! Tell me, what are you considering? You told me that no being should be destined for the Void; are you regretting such a promise? But then again, it would be far from the first time a Vala would go back to their words.”

“You remember…?”

Melkor arches an eyebrow. “Why would I not?”

Manwë does not answer. There is the slightest movement on his jaw instead; as if he is tightening it again; and his gaze returns to the land that is spread before them.

“I did not think…” Manwë’s voice is brittle when he speaks again. “You remember all that was said in Namo’s halls?”

Melkor frowns; trying to remember as best he can. He does not understand what good it does to raise the subject now; but focuses on what his memory tells him. He had been angry, that much he remembers; and confused- thinking it all a play of the Void. Manwë had come- told him words of self-pity and twisted regret – but the precision of those words he does not remember. Except for the promise of never going back to the Void. This; he remembers as if ingrained in his very soul.

He lies; as so very often. “Of course, I do.”

Manwë nods slowly, face twisting in an unreadable expression. “Good. Good. I did not want- I said the truth. I mean it, Melkor.”

Melkor hides his confusion as best he can. What did he say? Was it words of Arda? Of Valinor? What did his self-pity entail, again?

“I know,” Melkor replies; trying to convey an air of confidence in his words.

“I merely wish…” Manwë stops himself, and inhales. His words are very quiet now; barely audible. “I know you resent me for many things. Mostly for the role I have to play in the world. Also of this crevice growing between us- though I thought lately- I had hoped…”

Melkor stills. No. No. No, no, no, no.

“I will not imprison you.”

What?

“I saw the scene. A part of it, at the very least, taken from the minds of a firstborn. He attacked first, it would seem. I was-”

“-testing me?” Melkor grits out.

It elicits an unapologetic smile on Manwë’s features. “Indeed,” he says. “I was testing you.”

Melkor does not ask why. It is obvious enough; and his calm is too fresh to be overtaken by another fit of anger. He finishes tearing the grey feather apart instead; and finds the motion to calm his mind.

“What of the… destruction?”

“Repaired as you saw,” Manwë says, his voice too quiet for Melkor’s taste. It is not quiet as in shyness, but as in a strange sort of caution. Not even directed at Melkor himself- he can not quite express it. All he knows is that he does not fancy it. “Perhaps it would do both of you good to, ah, apologize to those you have wronged. It is their town Tulkas and you have destroyed after all.”

“Not together, I hope,” Melkor says, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

Manwë laughs. “No, indeed, not together. Think of it, nonetheless.”

Annatar certainly will apologize. Melkor is already thinking of what to say- which excuse bringing. He needs a tale made to induce compassion- understanding; and naught comes to mind for the moment. Well. He will find something.

“In the meantime-” Manwë begins, voice growing firmer.

Melkor braces himself for what is to come-

Manwë retrieves three dices from his pocket.

“Would you indulge me in a game of owl-barnacle?”

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.

.

Mairon is running.

He can hear their breath chasing him, can hear how they laugh together, thrilled with the chase. Them the predators, he hears, he the prey.

There is no grin stretching his lips. He can not afford it. Not when he is being so thoroughly watched.

Mairon takes care of sobbing as he runs; tears running down his cheeks. His right foot bumps against a root- and he falls-

The Uruks burst next to him a second later.

“We caught him!” the first one shouts. “We caught him!”

Mairon scrambles away, trying to rise to his height; stumbling in his haste. His vision is blinded by his tears, and he hiccups through his sobs- pleads on the verge of his lips-

“Please- please-!”

An Uruk laugh. “There is no supplication,” he says. “No pleading will hel-help-ngkkkk-help-”

The Uruk falls face first to the ground; an arrow embowed in his chest.

The rest of them draw their swords, but the elves of Minhiriath are faster. In a matter of seconds, black arrows have made a short kill of the Uruks.

Mairon watches with wide eyes; blood and tears staining his face.

An Eldar crouches in front of him. They consider him for a second in silence; from the tears to the red eyes; from the ripped clothes to the blood dripping on his cheek. They press a thumb on the wound, a little above his eyebrow; and Mairon cries out in pain.

“You were running from the orcs,” they say. They speak a bastardized version of Quenya; the vowels sharper than they should be.

Mairon makes sure to have his eyes widen in an expression of hope and terror. “Thank you,” he blurts out in Quenya. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The Eldar barks something to the Elves next to them; too quickly and too sharply for Mairon – who has not Quenya nor Sindarin as his first language – to understand.

The Eldar’s gaze returns to Mairon.

“We do not like strangers,” they say, slowly. “But we do like orcs even less. Come.”

Mairon slowly rises to his feet. He vacillates a little, and a hand comes to steady him.

“Quicker,” they tell him. “We can not linger. There are many orcs there.”

Mairon gives them a hesitant nod.

The Elves walk; he follows. It is a pity they have their backs turned to him.

They would have seen the cruel glee in his eyes had they not.

[1] Honestly, just a lot of Quenya words globally meaning ‘ you f*cking bastard you’re the deepest sh*t I know and I hate your guts’

Chapter 7: Lesson 7 : Take advice from life philosophies

Chapter Text

Mairon has been forcefully blindfolded; hands tied by some ropes that he had had no chance to examine, not properly at least, and is in now the midst of being led through the forest. He knows that tis still the forest; even with the blindfold in place.

Certainly, he could push past this little inconvenience, open eyes available to him only – that would allow him the Sight. He could- but Mairon does not want to risk it. It is a small price to pay, and very little could bring him harm; even incapacitated as he currently presents himself.

When Mairon’s steps grow hesitant; as he supposes an ill-faring prisoner’s are bound to be; a hand presses slightly on the curve of his back, prompting him forward. He hears them speak to one another; sounds too hushed for those ears he has made for himself. Here comes the downside of making himself a new hroä; Mairon is limited to its abilities. He has wished for elven ears, and elven ears he has; and when other elves decide not to be heard, they are not.

What he does hear is the sound of the forest. Birds chirping as they follow them; the creaking of the roots and the leaves as they run through it. Shuffling in the trees; and the sweet whisper of the wind that comes to cajole them.

Mairon’s mind fades to other matters. His fana moves without him being present to order it around; and Mairon is free to dwell as he likes on the plan laid bare before him.

The blindfold was a surprise – as well as their caution; but his spymaster had talked about their distaste for strangers. Mairon merely hopes that their love for their kin overcomes it.

They come to a stop; and Mairon has only a second to blink himself awake.

“Are you certain of it to be wise?” an Avari asks, voice as sharp as his daggers in the armoury. “They will not appreciate it – the King even less.”

“They might not,” Mairon’s saviour replies. “But who are we to abandon our kind to orcs? We swore to keep ourselves true and just; and if we let our cautiousness overrule our values, then we would be very little better than them.”

Them. Strange- vague notion. Mairon wonders if they speak of the orc; their kin in Valinor – or worse; the Valar themselves.

There is a pause before the first elf speaks again. “It is your decision to make; and your responsibility to endure.”

“It is, indeed. I will stand before the Kind and speak of my reasons- and if he does not finds them fair, then I shall be punished as he would see fit.”

Another silence, far more lingering. “I would not wish to see you punished; for an Eldar that we know naught about. For all we know, he could be of the Enemy’s ranks; a deserter.”

Mairon licks his lips. It is his turn to speak; even if they do not see of the same eye on the matter.

“I am not,” he says; quietly. “I shall explain myself before your Kind; if you would allow me- I must speak to him of urgent matters- but I am not one of the Black Foe’s. If there is anything valuable enough that shall be vowed upon; then I do it; on my fëa or the fate of Arda – I have never betrayed our kind.”

More whispers; inaudible to his ears.

“So shall it be, then,” his savior says.

A hand is pressed once more against Mairon, urging him to advance, and he complies without a world; following them in their path through the woods.

Mairon’s mind fades again as they make their way. He is aware of how his feet move; how his chest rises with each breath, how his pulse race behind his ribcage; but not of the words spoken to him, nor how he interacts with his surroundings.

He wonders, with evident irritation, if he will be put in a cell. He hopes not. There is very little he could achieve from there – and if even the toughest jailer could be sweet-talked to, it would be a delay in his plans that Mairon does not wish for.

Slowly, the world around him comes to be buzzing with life. Mairon tilts his head to the side for a second, contemplating what his senses are telling him. He can sense a few stares – and the ground under his feet has become harder, easier to walk on. They must have reached for whatever pass as their town; for the stares only grow in intensity; and the murmurs around him have unfamiliar voices.

Is he led through the town itself? It makes him want to laugh; a brief thinking of him being paraded around – even with no one to know the truth behind his disguise.

“I will retrieve your blind-fold,” his savior is saying, and Mairon smells enough of his wooden scent that he must already be very close. “A matter of protection, I am sure you understand it well enough. Can I trust you with staying calm?”

Mairon gives him a sharp nod.

“Good,” his savior murmurs; and in a quick gesture, unties the cloth around his eyes.

Mairon does not immediately open his eyes. He enjoys for a second the light of the trees on his eyelids; the black in his vision fading to a warm brown. He pops the bones of his neck then; stretching with a quick movement; and, finally, opens his eyes.

He had been right. He is in some sort of a forest village; akin to Oromë’s Maiar town- where Masuandë had once taught him how to carve through wood.

Huges trees- easily having the width of a river, wooden tree houses constructed around their girth. They must be sequoias, for their leaves break through the clouds; high enough to taunt the sky. A kaleidoscope of green, brown and yellow: fireflies serving as lights. Some of them entrapped in cages, some other let free to wander, flickering dots of light that could be caught with a flick of his wrist.

Carved doors within some of the trees, stairs made of wood and stone laying in front of them. Bridges and lianas between the branches, and if Mairon raises his head just so, he can see another dozen of eyes coming from up there – examining him in silence.

Mairon knows how to appreciate beauty; and it might be one he favours the less : wild, left to his own devices, soothed to obedience rather than ordered to, but a beauty all the same.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, not entirely lying.

“I am glad you think so,” his savior tells him, a faint twitch of his lips on his grim face. “Are you in good enough condition to meet our King?”

Mairon inspects himself. He is bleeding still- but they are superficial injuries. He had not wanted to be incapacitated; merely toyed with. He nods again.

His savior snaps his fingers then; and three Avari come to join them, urging Mairon to continue his way through the village.

Mairon does his very best to ignore the stares.

He is led to a tree – larger than all of them, heavily decorated. Mairon hums his appreciation, although keeps it light enough to be perceived as a noise of discomfort. When they reach for the stairs does he turn to his savior-

“Must I?” he asks, gesturing to his manacles, adding a whiny edge to his voice. “They’re hurting-”

His savior glances at him; and his features soften. “Bear them only a few moments longer. We can not show an intruder unbound to the King.”

Tears dwell in Mairon’s eyes; and he averts his gaze.

“I understand.”

“It will not be long. We are a closed group, but we are not unkind; and our King is no less just than others.”

A third nod, coated in hesitation and pain.

Mairon enters the tree.

He must blink to adjust himself to the sheer luminosity within it- so bright that it is painful to withhold. Everything fades to white for a second; and his pulse quickens in his chest. Mairon blinks again- once, then three, four, five times-

“Greetings, intruder,” a soft voice says.

Mairon forces himself to see through the white.

There is a King on his throne; his robes made of the smoothest silk; two daggers strapped to his waist clad in the richest purple Mairon had ever seen on and elf. There is very little to no embroidery on the fabric wrapped around him, all the attention converted to the silver scarf wrapped in lieu of a belt. He wears a crown of thorns and purple dwarf rhododendrons, and his skin is as untouched by the sun, a sickly white that borders on grey.

What attracts Mairon’s eyes is the markings on his face – they come from the top of his forehead and descend low on his skin, until the top of the bridge of his nose. They seem as green vines inscribed into the flesh, and when his eyes meet Mairon’s, he refrains taking a step forward in surprise. His eyes are of the deepest pine green, the very same color as the tree’s leaves in summer, and they are piercing enough that Mairon instinctively knows them to be far more acute than they should be.

“My son tells me you have been rescued from an orc attack,” Morwë, King of the Windan, King of half the Avari, tells him. “What would lead you to such a situation?”

Mairon smiles, and takes a step forward.

“My king,” he says, one knee on the ground. “I come with the foulest of news; the most painful of them all.”

The King’s eyes widen, but Mairon lets him have no chance to speak first.

“The Valar have betrayed their promises. They have turned against the Elves of Valinor; have subdued us, and forbid us to ever leave to warn you. They have broken our trust; and they plan to break yours- my King, the Hoard is on its way to conquer Middle-Earth.”

.

.

.

“I have heard of interesting rumors,” Estë says as soon as Melkor sits in her garden, a smile twitching on her lips.

He is aware of what she will say next even before the words leaves her mouth. Melkor takes to glare bitterly at Feanoro in lieu of replying; the beast nested comfortably on her lap. It has taken a liking to Estë that it not without reminiscing him of Glaurung’s earlier days, and for a second, he nourishes the thought of reviving his dragons.

It is a foolish thought, and he kills it in the nest before he can dwell more on it. Dragons had been bred for battle, and there is no use of them in all-peaceful Valinor. If there is no war, there is no use for them, and Melkor is intent of keeping the prospect of war far away.

“It is said that Tulkas and thee came to a disagreement,” Estë insists. Her expression is one of a mixture of amusem*nt and curiosity; one that is so very close to the Ñoldor’s that Melkor would have believed her to be one of their kind. “An aggressive one; if I so might say.”

“We fought,” Melkor says, rising an eyebrow. “We would have destroyed all of Tirion had Manwë not cared for the firstborns’ comfort.”

Estë hums, one hand caressing the head of her beast.

“And you do not?”

Melkor stares at her. “Why should I?”

”They are a part of our world; equally important as we are. Everyone has to play their parts – no matter how different they are to one another.”

He looks at her for a second; then two, momentarily surprised out of being able to have coherent speech. Melkor knew, of course; of the fondness of the Valar for the Eldar – although most of them kept careful distance, unwilling to trouble themselves with who they considered to be above themselves – but to say them equal?

“They are not our equals,” Melkor eventually says, his sharp tone suffering no contradiction. “They are easily replaceable in a way we are not; why should I care if thousands of them are waiting behind the seas? There is always the opportunity to make more of them should a pan of their population disappear.”

Estë hums again; and her soft gaze wanders on the horizon for a few seconds. “Ah, but perhaps I made a poor work out of my words. Would you indulge me?”

Melkor hesitates- his own gaze falls to the beast napping on Estë’s lap; and it is utterly pointless- she most evidently has opinions he shares not; and they shall not change merely because of a few words spoken.

But he finds himself curious, nonetheless, to know of what she has to say.

“Explain,” he says, more of a command than anything else.

Estë gives him a small, pleased, smile. "If there were no diversity in this world of ours, how could it exist? If everyone had the same desires, the same abilities, the same faculties - how would the seed of imagination, of creativity be born? Eru created us - and we created in turn. If Aulë had not given life to the dwarves; would we have explored the depths of the earth as they did? If Eru had not breathed awake the firstborns and secondborns would we have disposed of all the wonders their imagination brought forth?"

"It does not change that they could be easily replaceable."

“Are they, truly? One mind is not akin to another- and each life taken before its time is knowledge not given to the world, is a bloom slayed in the nest.”

Melkor scoffs; derisively. “And which knowledge could they give; with such narrow views on Arda? Do we know possess all the knowledge already; or should we kneel before them, humble ourselves but naught but their pride?”

“You have crafted something with a Ñoldo,” Estë has for only answer, still smiling.

Melkor furrows his brows. “I did, indeed. Is there a point…?”

Estë laughs then, a small laugh, made faint not to wake the creature resting on her.

“You are very impatient,” she says. “I fault you not for it; it is as you have been made, after all- and I am not without flaws as well. Let me continue my thought: you have crafted something with a Ñoldo. I have heard of it: a moving sculpture of wood, gems, and metal is it not? Had you solely thought of all the process or had the Ñoldo been of useful insight?”

She- Ah. It is tricky a question; and Melkor allows himself to think of it for a second. His fingers fidget despite himself, tapping on his right knee.

“Another could have thought of what she told me,” he settles on, frowning.

Estë’s smile widens. “Ah, but could they? To each their gifts, is it not? Each Eldar killed is future creation, future knowledge disappearing. Each one of them is able to teach you something that you knows not; or perhaps not teach entirely but offer insight that would allow your own thoughts to bloom into proper creations. A second look is more often than not helpful. Lady Nerdanel and thee created a work of fine beauty; but had she been there, would have your thoughts been pushed in the right direction? Would another of the Ñoldor give you the same words she had?”

Melkor stays silent for a few seconds. He does not enjoy how her words are not devoid of sense; how they ring true.

He humects his lips then; and stares at her. “You are not pushing for me to care for them by means of empathy.”

The returning smile Estë gives him is full of affection. It makes him stiffen; unused to such brightness given to him. It is not akin to the affection Mairon has for him; (the love) it is something else entirely. It is something lesser in intensity, yet no less genuine; something warm and that confuses him as naught other had ever done.

(it is friendship that brightens her eyes; but Melkor knows naught of it)

“Of course not,” Estë admits. “For what use? Empathy can only be useful if there is a reason for it; and if you see none, then so shall it be.”

It is… not what he had expected.

“You wish for me to consider them as important enough,” Melkor tries to resume. “because of the potential knowledge they would offer me? And what if I have no use for further knowledge? What if the one I currently have is sufficient enough?”

“Knowledge is power,” Estë merely replies. She gives Feanoro’s another caress on the head; and the creature fidgets in his sleep. “Is it not?”

Melkor is forced to concede this point.

“Power, as often said,” she continues. “-but also a myriad more of emotions. Respect, to begin, awe. Knowledge leads the way to teaching; and is the bond between a mentor and their willing students not one of respect and admiration? Each Eldar is another scrap of knowledge you have yet to acquire – and the better part is that it is one that is eternal; and blooms into a multitude of others. That acquired knowledge, shared again, leads to admiration.”

Melkor stares at her for a few seconds. She is smiling still- but never had he expected to hear such words from the Vala of Healing; who gave smiles as if they were greetings, soft words always on the tip of her lips.

It is… an interesting consideration. He never had great fondness for the elves (a…merrier way of telling of their true feelings for them) but admiration- admiration, he loathes to say, but he craves it. He craves it so deeply that it had burned through his heart; that Melkor had raised his very own species for them to gaze at him and recognize his might, his worth.

He thinks of it. There will be a time when he will have to present himself to the Ñoldor; and this time…. This time perhaps instead of indulging fear, he could provoke awe.

Melkor thinks of it; and does not notice the way Estë has kept smiling. She brushes the top of the head of her creature, and if Melkor had risen his eyes to look at her; properly look at her; he would have seen the smug satisfaction on her features.

Estë might be the Vala of Healing; but healing never was limited to one form – and it had always been far easier to tug at already present interests rather than creating new ones. Melkor might never consider Eldar as proper beings; but if he finds something of value in them, if he limits the casualties based on self-interest alone-

Well. It is sufficient enough.

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.

.

It is in a confused state of mind that Melkor walks through Tirion, a few days later. He takes great care in waiting for Tulkas to be elsewhere occupied – not that he should be troubled again by the Vala of Strength, at least according to Manwë.

He bears a great gift in his hands, a circlet of the purest gold. It is a work of delicacy; having taken days instead of hours; and Melkor had found himself pacing around it, fretting over every single detail, until it had been to his liking.

He has not yet departed of it, and yet loathes the thought of it. It is his; made by his very own hands; and if he had a choice in the matter-

But he has none. Melkor is lucky enough; terribly so, that neither Finwë nor his wretched son had taken offence to his impoliteness. He knows as such, and thus has pretty lies ready to be given, repeated enough in his mind to become believable.

Melkor waits in front of the great doors of the House of Finwë. He has announced his demand for an audience a few days prior, and had received a letter specifying the date and hour only the previous evening.

After what seems to be an eternity, an unknown Ñoldo comes to fetch him, murmuring words about protocol and bowing that Melkor immediately erases from his mind. He will apologize properly; the way Kings do – with a gift mighty enough to erase whatever offence he would have provoked – but he will not humiliate himself.

Melkor is led in front of the King. Very fortunately, he is alone on his throne; no treacherous, slithery, son to take place at his side.

“High King,” Melkor greets, his voice barely above a murmur. “I have come to offer thee a gift, and come to present my amends for the inexcusable behaviour of our previous encounter. It is true that I am responding to another, but I have shown a lack of grace and delicacy born solely of mine own wrongdoing.”

Finwë considers him for a few seconds. He makes a gesture then; for Melkor to approach and present his gift.

Melkor seethes internally but graces the King with a polite smile. He takes a few steps forward, before bowing, and presenting the circlet.

“It is made of the finest gold…”

Finwë comes from his throne, close enough to take the circlet from Melkor’s hands. It is truly barely that Melkor does not tighten his grip around the gift, that he lets the Enemy take what is his.

“It is, indeed,” Finwë says, humming. “A finery; as thy other gift. But it is not a gift I expected from thee, Annatar of the Vanyar. What had troubled thee so that thou would gaze at us with such distress in thy heart?”

Melkor’s sweet lies press against his lips, eager to be said.

“Faults of mine own volition,” Melkor replies. “Memories; painful to withhold. I have let mine heart behind the seas, and long had I resented the world for such a situation. Long have I resented the Valar, mighty Powers of our land; and, foolishly, long have I resented the High Kings for being their close confidants.”

Finwë laughs at that. “Close confidants, thou say ! Alas, we are not! And is thy heart more at ease now that we meet once more?”

“It is, my King. It was a fault of mine; and I shall never apologize enough for it.”

“Good,” Finwë tells him, his smile sharp. “I would have loathed implicating Ingwë if his subjects prove themselves graceless in the presence of a King. But let us not speak more of it! It is indeed a great gift thou are brought me, Lord Annatar; and for that, I shall thank thee.”

Melkor’s own smile is the very picture of strained when he silently accepts Finwë’s gratitude. Peace, he thinks, could be achieved with a casualty or two could it not? Or perhaps what Estë had told him had been the truth; and it is patience that Finwë and his Sons are teaching him.

He smiles then; when his mind supplies beautiful pictures of broken necks, bashed brains, and bloodied throats. Seven wounds given back perhaps, for the beauty of irony.

Once more Melkor realizes that peace is much harder to achieve than war.

.

.

.

“You did- what?”

Melkor crosses his arms on his chest. “I did apologize.”

Torthedir watches him with huge eyes, seemingly stunned out of forming coherent sentences. He blinks first, then tries to speak- only to swallow.

“Lord Annatar,” he eventually manages to stutter. “-tis not-! Our King can not be summoned as you did- you- thou can not erase an offence with a gift!”

“And why not, pray tell?”

“Tis not our way of doing!” Torthedir cries out. “Offences are settled by letter of apology, by conveying your goodwill to make amends, and by using a third party! Not by appealing directly to the King!”

Is it not...? Melkor has certainly never demanded letter of apologies. Although, it might be important to say that he had never either forgiven an offence – for it was usually punished by either death, torture, or demotion to a lower service. Langon comes to mind, a name he had not thought of in millennia, a herald hunted through the endless night of the mountainous region of Thangorodrim.

Melkor scowls, straightening to his full height. “He accepted it, there is naught more to be said.”

Torthedir is still staring at him, wide-eyed, gasping.

“And he accepted it?”

“The High King was most pleased by my gift, as unusual a process it might be for you,” Melkor bluntly says, arching an eyebrow. “The matter is classified.”

Torthedir shakes his head. “He accepted it,” he repeats, slowly.

“Yes,” Melkor snaps, too short of patience for repeating words already said. “All is perfectly well, I gave him a present worthy of a King, he accepted it and gave me his thanks, I can now proceed to do more of my existence than please Elven Kings-”

Torthedir makes a distressed noise at that, and Melkor sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are we to proceed with the hammer, yes or no?”

He has decided to redeem himself to the Ñoldor’s eyes by assisting them in whatever projects their minds had given them, and in front of the unknown had taken only three steps inside the forge before aiming straight for Torthedir. Better the evil you knew than the one you did not, and Melkor lacked too much patience to assist another Ñoldo.

Torthedir squeaks a yes, and Melkor all but grabs the tools from his hands before marching straight for the fireplace.

This, at least, allows him to think of naught else but the clinging of the iron. The clinging of iron… the fire that burnt deep underneath it… scales that he had been so careful in crafting… Mairon’s eyes, watching him from under reptilian eyelids…

His fingers tighten around the hammer. Melkor will not create the dragons again. They have no use in Valinor. They will be a hindrance to his plans.

He will not.

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Melkor’s knock on Nerdanel’s workshop’s door is more of a forced habit than a real gesture of politeness. He lets his fist fall once against the wood, waiting a grand total of half a second before opening the door.

“Yes,” Melkor says, loud enough that it should reach Nerdanel wherever she is. “-I am acutely aware that the rumour should have reached you by now. Indeed, it is true that I have visited the High King, and that I have gifted him a golden circlet in lieu of an apology.”

He makes his way through the shop, briefly wondering if his words meet nothing but the wind- but it can not be; Nerdanel has enchantments guarding the door, when the workshop is left empty. He would not have been able to enter had no one been there.

“I have thus apologized, and it is an apology well-received, and according to all laws of reason, your anger at my poor reaction upon facing Fingolfin Ñolofinwë should not subsist.”

No answer. Melkor begins to frown, wondering if her anger is great enough that she would refuse him her companionship. Of course, he does not seek it; merely tries to apply what Estë has been conveying- and he is curious, indeed, to see what other delights could their shared minds create.

“It is a poor manner of conveying your anger, Lady of Fëanor,” Melkor says, his voice carrying through the many rooms of the shop. “I have come as a friendly hand, and it is you, was it not, who first demanded of us a collaboration. Would it take merely a few heated glares to Fingolfin Ñolofinwë for thee to change thy mind?”

“A few heated glares thou say? And why is that?”

Melkor ^freezes.

It is as if a great wave of ice has suddenly engulfed him. It lays its claim on his lungs and devours them whole – no air passing through his lips. He is breathless, and he is frozen still; and deeper claws the ice in his soul. It makes its way through his fana, corrupts all that it sees. Melkor can not breathe; and suddenly, finds that he can not move either.

(A few heated glares thou say? And why is that?)

(why is that?)

(why is that?)

(why is-)

(why-)

(Why should you confine yourself to what Eru requires of you?)

An anger that rumbles in a gaze of fire. The elves made so inferior to the beings before their creation - and yet, and yet - the imperishable flame, a glint of its power in his eyes - the heart teeming with questions, the heart stirred with an anger - an anger so familiar –

(Is he not the one who created you, leaving you complete freedom of yourself?)

And questions, thousands of questions on the lips. Someone who could understand so easily- a shared glance, the recognition of a mutual understanding. An initial admiration- a respect so not easily earned- An Elf, a Power, ostracized by his own, looked upon warily for his grief- everything seen as an act of defiance-

(You only owe him the first breathing, but if you are not the one who required it, what true debt do you really owe him?)

And how it had so quickly turned to anger! To anger, and to hatred, always quick to follow its footsteps- an hatred so deep it could not come from true indifference, one that had burnt through minds, through blackened hands.

Melkor freezes, and Fëanor takes a step forward.

“I have heard of thee, Annatar of the Vanyar,” Fëanor says; his sharp voice breaking the silence. His grey eyes find Melkor’s, and although piercing with their ever-burning fire, unrecognizing. No heat, no rage, no hatred- merely suspicion; and perhaps, perhaps, interest. “Tell me, then. Why is it that thou seem to enjoy my wife’s company so very much? Why is it that thou sent heated glares at Fingolfin? Tell me, Annatar, because I suddenly find myself a very curious being.”

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Fëanor faces him. He is as unchanged as when Melkor had last seen him; and yet so blatantly different. Eldar do not change with time, as secondborns did; but there is a youth on Fëanor’s features that had long been gone when the Balrogs had stricken him down. His facial expression is free of the hatred that had guided his days; face smoothened by its absence; and the fire that burns deeps within his gaze is one of determination and not yet of spite.

Black hair worn long and free; not yet burnt to ashes as Gothmog’s whip had done. Skin devoid of scars; the same way Melkor’s is yet untouched. But the most striking distinction lies in the brightness of his eyes – an ambitious outlook on what life has to offer him – so different from the manic insanity that had pushed him to swear that faithless oath of his; to name him Morgoth and slay his way through the Teleri-

Melkor is not sure if he misses it, or if he relishes in this new Fëanor – unmarked, a blank canvas to once more shape to his will. It is certainly different; and a distinction that had grown so closely with time that had Melkor not seen this version of him, he would not have remembered how Fëanor had once been.

Fëanor Curufinwë, the only Ñoldo, the only firstborn to have caught Melkor’s attention. The only one to have burnt so brightly that Melkor had had no other choice than turn his gaze to him; the only one who had dreamt, who had been ambitious enough to impose his mark on the world. The only one who had understood what it meant to find yourself thinking so differently from the rest; who had gazed at his peer and felt naught but contempt; for their laziness, their satisfaction with their current situation-

Fëanor Curufinwë, the only one to have gazed an equal fire back; who had agreed to his words and dissatisfaction; a furnace for a mind, never satisfied, never satiated, never appeased. The only one who had truly understood what it meant to want more.

Mairon is the other half of Melkor’s feä; the flame he had so sought. He is the perfect complement of what Melkor is; what he had not realized to miss; what made him whole. Mairon has his hroä and feä in a tight clutch; never to be released, the one who makes Melkor’s inside turn to ash and a deep fire run along his skin. The one he will ever go to in the end; the one that shall never be replaced.

Fëanor… Fëanor is not one to complete him; but one to share such a deep understanding on matters of the world that it allowed them a deep intrinsic contemplation. Fëanor, Melkor had once thought; is the one who resembles him the most.

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Melkor has been forcefully sat into a cushiony chair. He has taken care in laying his hands deadly still on his lap, weary that they should turn into their natural form (long black claws, made to gouge eyes out-) should his control slip.

“Explain thyself,” Fëanor grits out. He has his arms crossed on his chest, tone a low threat. “Thou have spent considerable time in this workshop. With mine wife.”

Melkor almost laughs. “Your wife?” he replies. “It is not her I sought.”

The look Fëanor sends him is one of incomprehension.

“Not now, at least,” Melkor continues, greedily drinking Fëanor’s confusion. For an Eldar so self-assured of every of his steps, it is a strange, petty, revenge than to see him as this. “At first, I found myself curious and perhaps sceptic of the talents Lady Nerdanel was said to have with the craft. I sought her, then, for I wished to see for myself if such rumours spoke of the truth – or an embellishment made to appease her ego.”

“Appease her ego-! And who are thee, Annatar, unknown if not for thy discourtesy to thy betters, to ask her to prove herself to thee!” Fëanor snaps; mouth twisting uglily. “A Vanyar appearing out of nowhere, proclaiming himself lord on the basis of low-grade offerings alone, coming to question Ñoldor nobility!”

Melkor tightens his fists; the tip of their nails sinking into his flesh. He will not lose his calm- “Not to question it,” he says, sharper than he would have liked. “-to assess it.”

Fëanor laughs incredulously.

“Assess it? And on which basis?

It is the condescendence that does it for Melkor; that riles him up in a way few things truly could. But the contempt, the doubt of his abilities; to have Fëanor of all Eldar believe him incompetent-

“I might not be of Ñoldo nobility but mine skills surpass those of thy House,” Melkor all but scowls; his gaze turned a burning glare. “Or have thou not seen the pleased gleam in thy Father’s eyes? Is it not a gift of my own making that pleased him so? More than one, but two, that filled noble Finwë with such satisfaction?”

Fëanor springs forward-

“And thou believe so?” he snarls, face a few centimetres away from Melkor’s. “It is that thou are straying astray by misunderstanding politeness for interest; tis but the look of a gracious king that thou hast interest! His; and of one all but ignorant of the ways of the forge! Tis not mine eyes, Annatar, that thou have attracted to thy work. Before thou speak of thyself as better than mine House; perhaps it is advisable to measure yourself against the true strength it contains!”

“Tis a challenge then,” Melkor snarls back.

There is a gleam in Fëanor’s eyes- one that does not bode well. But it is a gleam that is sent back by Melkor’s very own gaze; the same echoed between two different beings.

And then Fëanor nods.

“Yes,” he says; voice strained tight. “A challenge.”

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After a curt deliberation, it is Fëanor who suggests for them to compete at the mightiest discipline in his book, blacksmithing. Melkor would have much preferred for a sparring session- but he is acutely aware that should he control slip, all his chances of getting the Silmarils would be lost.

It is dizzying almost, to know them so close. Fragments of a thought yet, only alive in Melkor’s – and perhaps Fëanor’s – minds; but now so very close. They will see the light of day, and shine brighter than it; and they will his.

“Free creation of our choosing or are we to settle on a particular piece?” Fëanor asks, eyes sparkling with determination, already so sure of winning.

Melkor can barely wait to crush those expectations.

“Neither,” Melkor says, sly smile curling his lips. “We shall improve something of poor quality. The poorest, in fact, and make it an object of beauty.”

Fëanor opens his mouth- only to close it. He considers the proposition for a few seconds, clearly deluded in thinking that his opinion would matter, before nodding. “Tis acceptable. How to find something so badly made?”

Melkor thinks of the forge, before shaking his head. While some creations are poorly made; they are not so terrible that they would be judged irredeemable. They need to find something fit only to be thrown away; and salvage this.

“The scrapyard,” Melkor finally settles on. “Where broken swords and weathered armour are discarded, before the metal is melted down again.”

A glint flashes in Fëanor’s eyes. “We shall have no right to melt what is given to us. Salvaging it in the state we find it. Melting it into something other could hardly be considered.”

Surely he hopes that it would make Melkor reconsider the challenge, recognize Fëanor’s worth- Melkor nearly laughs at it.

“Perfect,” he hisses. “No melting. We shall dispose of the same amount of hours. The identic materials at our disposition. Naught shall be different except for skill.”

“Naught but skill,” Fëanor agrees; arms crossed, brow arched high in defiance.

Melkor can barely wait.

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.

“A tie!” the master of the forges exclaims.

“A- what?”

“It can not be!”

The master of the forges gives them a sheepish smile, bowing low. “Those are both works of wonders, Lord Fëanor, Lord Annatar – in all truth, I can not judge one to be above the other, for both are marvels as we have seldomly seen.”

In his right hand does he present the Sword of Fëanor – metamorphosed from a rusty metal glaive; covered in silver to sharpen its dangerousness, words of power whispered within it. The Call of Death, as Fëanor had named it in Quenya, and a thing of enthralling beauty. A creation that Melkor is forced to admit to being quite remarkable, as reluctant as he is to say it.

In his left hand does he display the Mass of Melkor - at the beginning nothing more than a vulgar circle of bronze and rust, transformed to resemble it in nothing. Melkor is quite prideful of it; a dangerous beauty made to endure and give back, black spikes reminding him of his former armor. It catches the eye and does not let it go, humming songs of cautiousness, death, and wonders.

Fëanor is openly scowling; brows drew in frustration and anger, but when he turns to Melkor, it is to say: “It would appear that thy judgement on the work of others is founded on proper credentials.”

Melkor grits out his teeth- very reluctantly inclining his head. “As is yours. Few would have salvaged such a rotten disappointment. Fewer would have made it such a marvel.”

They exchange a look – and it is fleeting, but in this disinclined respect does he find a glimpse of familiarity; memories of times together, Melkor whispering both secrets and poison into his ear. For a second, Melkor finds in Fëanor’s eyes what he had so sought in him; resistant admiration, made all the more delicious that it was so unwilling.

“Another challenge,” Fëanor then demands, sharply. “We might have found ourselves a tie there; but I will not end our competition on such a disappointment.”

“Speak of your proposition, then.”

Fëanor trails his eyes on the room, contemplating his options. He snaps it back towards Melkor after a second – “Chemistry. Or did thee only narrow thy field of interest to one specific ability?”

“On the contrary. Chemistry will do just fine,” Melkor snarls.

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.

.

“A tie, I am afraid-”

“Not this time as well!” Fëanor cries out. “I accepted it willingly in blacksmithing, but this can not be!”

Melkor is on the vials in two seconds, seizing them from the head chemist’s hands. “It requires an expert eye on the subject and yours ought to be deficient if it can not see the better between them-”

He eyes the vials-

“A tie,” he eventually grits out, fingers tightening dangerously around the vials.

“Poetry!” Fëanor shouts; reaching Melkor in three steps to shove his finger into his sternum. “Poetry and I shall win!”

“Poetry,” Melkor hisses. “-and I shall win!”

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.

.

“It seems that I can not-”

“Judge them once more!”

“It is truly a tie-”

“ONCE MORE.”

“My lords, I can not possibly-”

“Tinsmithing!” Melkor snarls at Fëanor.

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“Both works are truly wonder-inducing-”

Fëanor does not wait for the Ñoldo to finish, whipping to face Melkor. “Bows-making!”

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“I have never seen such delicate craftsmanship- both works are marvellous-”

“Jewelry!” Melkor scowls.

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“It is truly remarkable…”

“Have thee any prior experience in coinsmithing?” Fëanor asks.

“This necklace is such fine a work, Lord Fëanor… and thee, Lord Annatar, those earrings are made of beauty itself… I could not think of calling one less than the other…”

Melkor tightens his jaw. “All can be made-”

“-but the winner is indubitably thee, Lord Annatar.”

They still.

Melkor requires a few seconds for his mind to wrap itself around the thought. He freezes at first, unbelieving of what had been said (six times had they competed; and so many more before that- and it is jewellery which does the trick? Jewelry?)

Fëanor, he, marches to the Ñoldo designed as judge and executioner. He seizes the earrings from his grasp, fury twisting his features. His eyes narrow in suspicion, and he pinches the earrings between his thumb and index, staring at them as if they had done him a personal offence.

And they have, Melkor is slowly coming to realize, they have !

The Ñoldo is still speaking, simpering words of praise, but neither Fëanor nor Melkor hear any of them. Melkor has his gaze riveted on Fëanor, and Fëanor has his on the earrings, and in both their hearts rises a different kind of disbelief.

“Thou,” Fëanor begins- only to stop himself. His expression is sour; and Melkor’s is so coated in smugness that the beginnings of a self-satisfied laugh bubble in his chest. “Thou have won.”

“So I had foreseen,” Melkor says, slowly.

Fëanor twists his lips in a scowl, bitterness and disgust reigning free over his features. He lets a few seconds pass, still staring at the earrings, before seeming to shake himself out of his stupor. In a second does he throw the earrings to Melkor, seizing instead the necklace – and Melkor has barely the time to react that Fëanor locks the necklace in an iron grip, crushing it in his grasp.

The necklace falls to the ground, distorted beyond salvation.

“It would seem fate has designated a winner,” Fëanor bitterly says. “If not in the art of everything, then at least in the competition between us. Ah! Allow me to congratulate thee, for it is one well deserved.”

“Congratulations well met,” Melkor replies; and if there is the lingering of his pleasure on his lips, neither speak of it. “If flattery is easily given from fools, it is a harder task to obtain from those with true talent within their possession, and so I also express my thanks to you, Prince Fëanor, for proving to me the breadth of your skills.”

At this, a gleam of pleasure shines in Fëanor’s eyes. He considers Melkor with a different look than the one he had previously given him, inclining his head.

“Nerdanel did not speak untruthfully, neither on thy silver tongue nor thy ability for the craft,” Fëanor says, slowly. Curiosity joins the pleasure, a familiar motion. “Tell me then, Lord Annatar, and answer mine inquiry for it is one born out of recognition of thy works’ worth; who is the artisan behind thy talents? Where have thou learned of the craft, and who was thy master in it?”

Melkor can not say that there is none but him. Or perhaps he can; if the truth is twisted beautifully enough.

“None other than time and mine own curiosity for the craft,” Melkor says, trailing his fingers on the wooden table between them. There is such a smug satisfaction roaring in his chest over Fëanor gazing once more at him with ill-disguised awe; and ugly jealousy. “Self-taught; I would say.”

“Self-taught…” Fëanor repeats in a murmur. “Tis a wonder then…”

Tis time- and Melkor feels a peculiar excitation as what has yet to come. Carefully, he rises his gaze to meet Fëanor’s. “Knowledge is meant to be shared, nonetheless.”

“One victory does not make thee the bearer of knowledge; Vanyar,” Fëanor scoffs, so prompt to take offence. “Another eye, perhaps more advised, might have judged differently.”

“But tis this one that was given to us; and this decision we have to respect.”

Fëanor tightens his jaw. “True,” he admits. He narrows his eyes then. “Nerdanel has told me of thy penchant for sharing knowledge; if it is in the sense that thou adopt the position of the teacher. Is this thy intention?”

His intention, Melkor desires so ardently to say, lays in three gems brighter than the world.

Instead, he gives Fëanor a long look.

“Long have I waited to find one my equal in the rightful view given to the world,” Melkor says, more genuine than he had been in an eternity.

Tis what the Void does to one, he supposes; and perhaps the lack of hatred in Fëanor’s gaze troubles him more than he would have liked. “Long have I waited for mine ambitions to be met in the heart of another, mine dreams shared, mine desire to shape mine fate eagerly echoed. I have not sought Lady Nerdanel for her prowess, as skilled as she had proved herself to be. In truth… In truth, I have sought thy house for the flame in thy eye, Fëanor Curufinwë.”

Fëanor stares, agape.

He blinks then – and his youth is painfully reminded to Melkor; the way he needs time to recompose himself, the way his confusion lingers long after Melkor’s words. Melkor remembers another Fëanor, one made out of grief and rage, one settled deep in a path few could follow; and the difference is all the more noticeable now that he faces his younger self once more.

“What would it entail?” Fëanor eventually asks, doubt filling his eyes.

Melkor grins at that, a wolfish grin that devours his features whole.

“Precisely what we would make of it. Naught less, naught more.”

Fëanor hesitates – and once he had hesitated too, both wanting fiercely a guiding hand and despising the thought of it. There lies the tragedy of the Curse of Fëanor, Melkor thinks, how he aches for guidance, yet loathes to be commanded.

It is not without reminding him of another, a brighter flame, so very different and yet similar in the ardour of their hearts.

“I have the hardest time with criticism,” Fëanor warns, defiantly.

Melkor’s grins stretches wider. “Wonderful, so do I.”

Fëanor grimaces.

“I tend to follow mine own mind above all else.”

“Then tis great a thing that tis advice I offer, not commands.”

“I will probably disregard time and basic needs to immerse myself in mine work.”

“What worth have they compared to the craft?”

“Thou will regret such an offer,” Fëanor says; but his hesitation is beginning to fade. “Thou will change thy mind. Tis but a fleeting desire.”

“Ah,” Melkor tells him, the memory of the Silmarils deep in his mind, even after millennia. “You will find that I do not, Fëanor Curufinwë.” His grin borders on dangerous, but neither care for it. “In all truth, I do not.”

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The heat would be painful for any other than Melkor. Under him, the heart of the volcano stirs, spitting out its lava at regular intervals.

Melkor closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. The air tastes of sulfur and ashes, lingering on his tongue until Melkor can not distinguish himself from it. His eyes water under the flying cinders, his elven disguise poorly armed against the rising temperatures. It is of no matter, no matter of all.

Melkor lowers his eyes to what lays in his hands.

Three eggs, their surface shimmering – iridescent. Immobile for the moment between his fingers, but it only would only require a breath of life, a few notes of Power, for them to shudder under his touch.

He grins, then.

And, for the first time in millennia, Melkor Sings.

Chapter 8: Lesson 8 : Understand thy foe (but not too much)

Chapter Text

Mairon is not certain to be a guest or a prisoner. He is even less certain that it matters in the end – for he is humouring them all. He weaves bonds made of lies and fanned by fear, relishing in the silkiness that coats them all. Sweet; so very sweet words; yet bearer of greater meaning, feeding on the delicious fear that lurks in their hearts.

The King has ordered for him to be treated as a guest. How very sweet. He had gazed at Mairon from under his heavy brow; and said for the matter to need reflection.

Mairon has not heard a word from him ever since. It matters very little; for he knows of what agitates him. The King is torn apart between his allegiances and his fears – so very cautious of strangers, and yet knowing deep inside of his heart that the favor of the Valar can be as fickle as the wind. It is a lingering fear in all of the Eldar’s hearts: for them to be subdued by the very ones they call Powers; for their freedom to be stolen away from them.

Morwë, King of the Windan, does not want to believe Mairon. The Powers are Just, it is said, and yearn for the safety of their kind. But Mairon knows best how to twist such devotion, and it is easier than he had thought to murmur words of doubt, of betrayal.

And he does play the role of the refugee beautifully. He makes a play of shivering upon lingering touches, eyes darting to the ground, voice faint as if wanting to disappear beneath the earth.

The Windan are of a suspicious kind. They trust difficultly, and are cautious of strangers wandering upon their territories – but as all elves, they bear an empathy that dwells and dwells in the bosom of their hearts. Compassionate; and proud; and to see a second-born reduced to such a state... Doubt begins to plant roots in their minds.

They do not say it aloud, certainly. Lips closed; but eyes speaking much louder than anything could ever do. Distrust follows doubt; and wounded pride; and already does their gazes soften when looking upon Mairon.

It is not enough for them to go to war; most certainly; but it is something. What has roots eventually blooms; and this distrust is doomed to blossom into something delicious.

How Melkor would have enjoyed it, Mairon tells himself. He thinks of it late at night; staring at the stars shining bright above him. How he would have laughed when hidden from their sights, relishing in the easiness of their malleable minds. How he would have grinned to see the firstborns turn against the Powers, and said for the Lord of the West to be unprepared for what awaited him.

It is a small comfort, but one nonetheless.

He traces familiar patterns on the skin of his hands; reminiscent of how another had done it for him. He repeats mantras since long learned; of victory and purpose; and thinks of a time when he will finally open Valinor’s golden gates.

He does not expect to face the Valar, not truly. They have shown their liking for inaction; after all- nay, what he sends the Windan against are the elves, their own kind. Beautifully poetic; and so very fitting. They will believe their own kin to have become traitors; perpetuating the enslavement of their kind, and they will fight.

Mairon laughs softly to himself when he is alone. It is better a revenge than orcs; and Melkor will be so terribly pleased when Mandos’ Halls will be broken apart.

(or will he?)

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His saviour visits him not very long after. The Prince, whom Mairon had been told twice the name and yet forgotten it immediately. He gives Mairon a long look that speaks nothing of his thoughts before urging him to follow.

Mairon, who rather relishes in the peace of mind of the absence of overseeing all of Angband, is loath to abandon his comfort. He is sprawled in cushions, his major concern being the hesitation between two sorts of fruits.

Alas, the Prince studies him for a moment, and says for Mairon to follow.

Mairon can not refuse him, and rises to his feet, albeit reluctantly.

The Prince keeps silent as he walks through the village, Mairon as a shadow in his wake, and a great many eyes come to rest on them. They make their way through it, and which each step does Mairon’s curiosity grow. He has very little way to help himself; curiosity is as deep in his blood as the rest of him; but he manages to keep a tight control over it.

He follows, as obediently as it is required of him; never one to take offence for playing a role. Once or twice does he want to speak, but abstains himself from doing so, flickering eyes asking the questions his lips can not.

The Prince leads him to a path leading outside of the village; and Mairon tightens his fingers in a fist. He has no weapons on him, but it should not be of a great matter, for the truth of him is far more dangerous than all weapons could be.

It is when they start to really wander off, reaching a clearing that Mairon loses patience.

“Wherever are you leading me to?” he asks, accelerating his pace to reach the Prince’s level.

The Prince stops to give him a glance, a faint smile crossing his lips. “Patience,” he says. “We are almost there.”

Mairon forces a sheepish smile on his features. “Almost where?”

The Prince merely hums (and Mairon thinks that such disrespect would not have been tolerated in Angband-)

He takes his frustration in patience then; much forced to. Another couple of minutes pass, before the Prince stops in the middle of the clearing.

He raises a hand to motion for silence then, and crouches low on the ground. Mairon studies him in silence, perplexed beyond measure, and then the Prince brings two fingers to his mouth and whistle.

“What is the meaning of this-”

Mairon has barely the time to voice his thoughts when three beasts come running into the clearing; strong muscled shoulders and paws made for velocity, stopping centimetres away from them.

Mairon recoils in surprise- but the Prince merely laughs.

“Come here,” he says, softly- and while Mairon is not certain to know whether he speaks to him or the beasts, it is them who come to nudge their muzzle against his palm.

Beasts- nay, wolves, Mairon realizes. Grey wolves; each easily half the size of a moose, so high that they reach the bottom of his waist.

Is it really why he had been brought here? He hides a sneer behind a cough. To witness animals playing with the Prince?

“Come here,” The Prince repeats, and this time he knows it is for him.

Mairon takes a careful step forward. “Are they yours?”

“They are their own,” the Prince is quick to rectify, watching Mairon from under his heavy brow. “Their own masters; as all creatures of the forest are. They do not obey, but they answer.”

Mairon considers the wolves with a sharp eye. They are, he supposes, strong enough to warrant respect. And if not made to obey, at least do they understand the power roles at play; bowing deep before the Prince.

He advances a hand, curious despite himself.

One wolf darts his yellow irises to the Prince – and upon receiving a quick nod, reaches for Mairon. Strong paws that mark the ground beneath them; a mouth full of sharp teeth made to tear through flesh.

Mairon pass a hand over the fur of his muzzle, quite surprised to find it so soft. The wolf lets out a low whine, nudging harder against his palm; and Mairon finds himself genuinely appreciating it. There is something pleasing in having such a beast recognizing his strength; his dominion over them.

He slips a thumb in between the wolf’s jaws, putting to light the yellow fangs hidden inside it. Mairon makes a soft noise of pleasure upon seeing their size, large enough to pierce through his hand should the beast fancy it.

“I thought it would please you to witness them,” the Prince softly says, his voice echoing behind Mairon. “They do a quick work of the orcs upon meeting them. None of those wretched creatures could reach you there; I assure you.”

Mairon snaps his eyes back to the Prince. The wolf makes a faint whine of protestation, but Mairon shushes him by gripping his tongue.

“They are strong enough to dispose of Ur-” he stops himself, just in time. “-orcs?”

The Prince laughs. “Certainly they are. Strong, and willing enough.”

Mairon lets go of the wolf’s tongue, returning to sweet caresses on the top of his head. Interesting. Uruks were made to be far more resilient than elves, and if such beasts managed to tear Uruks apart-

His gaze turns speculative, interested.

“How many of them answer your calls? Only those three?”

The Prince is too occupied with avoiding the paws of the remaining two wolves to immediately reply. He lets out another laugh; retrieving a piece of dried meat from his pockets to give to the beasts, before turning to Mairon.

“Seven,” the Prince tells him. “The remaining four must have gone with the Hunt, for they delight in accompanying us, knowing perfectly well that a part of the spoils will be given to them.”

Sufficiently trained to be helpful then, Mairon thinks. Once more does his gaze dart back to the wolves; the premises of a plan emerging in his mind.

Beasts… He had not thought of it. Angband had Balrogs, certainly; and Trolls, and Goblins, but to have trained beasts to answer them- Mairon quite likes the idea. He passes a hand over the throat of the wolf; eliciting a growl that he shushes with a sharp glance.

Very soft fur; he thinks; and the thought brings a smile to his lips. Had the Prince not been there, Mairon would have gifted meat to the wolves – perhaps do they even relish in the elvish kind.

The wolf nudges his head closer to Mairon’s palm.

Beautiful creatures.

Wolves – made to answer him; made for war. Mairon likes more and more the idea as seconds pass; as the wolf licks his fingers.

A laugh bubbles from in between his lips – out of genuine surprise and affection.

“Thank you,” he says, and it is sincere.

The Prince returns him a faint smile.

“You are welcome,” he tells Mairon. “It pleases me that you appreciate them.”

The wolf is nibbling on Mairon’s fingers, not too harshly as to draw blood. They could, nonetheless.

“I do,” Mairon murmurs; a grin spreading on his lips. “Certainly, I do.”

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.

.

“Would those be eggs?” Irmo asks, squinting as he leans forward.

Melkor does not wait for the words to finish falling from in between his lips to land a protective hand over the dragons’ eggs; ready to defend them with all his might should Irmo- should Irmo-

But then- “Magnificent!” Irmo croons, eyes blown wide in amazement. One of his butterflies’ Maiar lands on his hair, and Melkor’s attention is diverted to it for a second; a small second, yet enough for Irmo to reach a hand towards the eggs.

“Wonderful! Those colours! Iridescent!” Irmo cries out; gasping in front of the eggs. “When have you created such a wonder-! Why should you hide them from our gazes!”

Melkor blinks, and briefly thinks that the Vala of Dreams never ceases to confuse him. He has a short moment of hesitation, but before Irmo’s bright enthusiasm, thinks the better of it and steps backwards. He wonders if Irmo is aware of the gift Melkor is giving him; the proper sight of dragons’ eggs. Never mightier was a creature in all Arda – and Irmo has the chance of seeing it before them all.

Perhaps he does, for Irmo’s beam increases tenfold; reverberated in every parcel of his skin. His colours brighten, almost to the point of blinding others; and he crouches in front of the eggs – staring reverently.

“A work of art,” Irmo murmurs; as his gaze jumps from one egg to the next. “I have never seen before such metallic hue; and you have highlighted a need I was not aware I had. Are they to hatch soon?”

Melkor gives him a sharp nod.

When Irmo’s look turns insistent, he reluctantly adds: “At any given time. I suspect them to be rather greedy creatures; and to favor the warmth and safety of their shell rather than the world they have yet to discover.”

“A fault they can not be blamed for!” Irmo says, laughing. “Would we not have preferred to indulge longer in the bliss of ignorance, had we been given the choice?”

Melkor’s gaze lingers on the eggs instead of immediately answering. Dragons have no place in Valinor – sweet golden Valinor. Perhaps they will never reach their full potential there, never become the great beasts of terror and war they had first been intended to be.

Perhaps it is not much of a shame. Melkor remembers it vividly; Mairon’s voice- and the fear in it, when Mairon never feared. “-the field is lost, everything is lost, the black one has fallen from the sky-”

So much time; so many years spent watching the dragons evolve from hatchlings to beasts of war; only for them to fall so easily-? For them to fall from the skies they were supposed to reign upon; Kings slain in their own domains; a parallel so deep that it ignites a flame in Melkor’s heart.

Melkor’s gaze hardens.

“They will not be given much of a choice either,” he says. “I will indulge them for now; but eventually will they need to leave those shells- be it by their own will and forced by mine hand.”

Irmo hums, passing a cautious hand over one of the eggs. “Do not. They will see the truth- that no shelter is worth ignorance. Caution has not to be confused with cowardice; and if they know naught of the world how could it be the latter? Let them relish in their warmth as for now; for soon enough will they want to explore Aman and all it has to offer.”

That much is true. Melkor remembers the dragons’ earliest days- eager to know of everything, eager to claim everything as theirs.

“Perhaps,” he murmurs. “But wander too far they should not, for they will be seen poorly by the one who judges the skies to be solely his own.”

“The skies…?” Irmo’s confusion is mixed with excitation. “Would you mean by that-?”

Melkor inclines his head. “They will fly. Or they will not. Indeed, have I suggested wings in the Song of the Creation; but it was up to them to choose to have them or not.”

Irmo darts an eye at them and considers them for a moment. “They will,” he eventually says, strong of a confidence that should not be there. “I can sense their longing for flying.”

It is Melkor’s turn to be surprised.

“You can sense such things?”

Irmo laughs; a bright, crystalline laugh that forces the butterflies in his hair to fly away.

“Certainly, I can! Desires and dreams are so closely intertwined, and one seldomly can be found without the other. What are dreams if not reflections of the desires of your heart? Wants, expressed in a realm where everything is possible, where all can be offered to thee!”

Melkor’s fingers claw into his palms. “Can you then, sense mine?”

Irmo makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. “Some of them,” he admits. “Natural longings are the easiest to recognize-” and in a second does he jab a pointy finger in Melkor’s stomach; eliciting a sound half between a snarl and a shriek. “-but the hidden ones are all the more delightful to be uncovered! Alas-! Privacy you value more than all of us; dearheart, and abilities do not necessarily give the right to use them.”

Melkor crosses his arms on his chest – more to block another sudden attack than to express discontent. He does not even comment on the epessë; the dearheart so freely given. Irmo has taken to call him as such recently; and said that pet names were “made to facilitate contact with others, and establish a healthier relationship, with no necessary romantic intent.”

Melkor had merely blinked and nodded his assent. Irmo is a strange one; stranger even that who had lurked within Angband, and Melkor chooses not to dwell too much on his shenanigans lest his head aches.

“You are able to turn a blind eye to them, then?”

Perhaps he had been wrong in cajoling Ossë, the first time. Desires, when uncovered, lead the way to leverage – as the little Prince Mole had so beautifully shown. If Melkor had coaxed a Maia of Irmo to his side, perhaps Irmo himself…

But then Irmo spins on himself, arms raised above his head.

“Blindness!” He laughs; and butterflies spin as well around him. “What is blindness? So great a number of meanings in a single word! The inability to see is not only represented by its physical aspect, and should I call myself blind if my eyes see beyond the confines of the world but remain unable to perceive the nature of the words entrusted to me? Or on the contrary, if my eyes are hidden by a veil but my glance is more astute than another on the funds of truth which the hearts conceal, am I not much more clear-sighted?”

Ah, yes. It was why Melkor had not chosen Irmo, nor any of his siblings to assist him in his conquest of Arda.

“-and if I see the truths just as well as the roots of the trees far below the ground; in the enchanted gardens of Yavanna, but refuse to open my eyes to what lies within I, am I not blind also?”

Melkor lets out a long exhale. “Irmo. Are you able, in truth, to refrain yourself from seeing through our hearts should you desire so?”

Irmo stops spinning. He co*cks his head to the side, and grins. “Should I wish to, dearheart, I could tug them out of your heart and leave you helplessly longing for them for all eternity – unable to remember what is it that you so yearn for. I could increase them; leave you panting for breath, unable to do anything else than think of them – always, forever. Driven by them, a lust that could not be extinguished; that would blind you, indeed, to everything else that exists. I could vanish them entirely, and you would never remember having ever desired. And then; certainly, I can refrain myself from unfolding your dreams and desires for I and all to see.”

Melkor stares, vaguely aware that he is gasping.

In the distance, a hunting horn resounds.

Irmo laughs then- and clasps his hands, all four of them. “Do you hear it?” he cries out; “-the clamour that rises from the forest! Oromë must be back from his Hunt!”

He gives a wink to Melkor then. “But as I expressed, dearheart, abilities do not necessarily come with the right to use them. I can, certainly, but shall it mean I should? Is their existence not sufficient enough in themselves?”

And with another crystalline laugh is he gone, morphed into one of the winged insects he so favours.

Melkor watches him fly away, surely to meet Oromë and his Hunt, perhaps to beg for furs- unable to shock himself out of his stupefaction.

He had never given much thought to the Valar’s abilities, not when they made so seldom use of them, and now- had Irmo been such a valuable asset, truly? Were they all?

Estë’s words come to mind, suddenly. As if lurking beneath the surface, merely waiting for the perfect moment to make themselves known. How she had wished for him to consider the Ñoldor important, for they were rich with a knowledge he knew naught about. How she had said for each of them to be more than what he thought of them, useful in their very own way.

Melkor’s gaze falls on the eggs. One of them stirs slightly; enough to make his presence known, but not to hatch.

“War,” he tells them, “-has never troubled me the way peace does.”

.

.

.

“Have you ever wondered how harsh the world would be if all had followed mine example?” Melkor asks Manwë the very next week; the latter having come to the Island under yet another pretence.

Melkor does not comment on them, anymore. It had been flying, then trying the dice game (and he has yet to win this wretched thing, but he will not give up-!) a white pelt brought by Oromë’s expedition in Arda; bringing a new fruit of Yavanna’s creation for Melkor to taste; and so on. It seems that Manwë desires to keep an eye on him, to ensure that Melkor is trying neither to escape nor to stage another war. So be it.

Manwë, sitting in front of him, staring at the chess board, rises his eyes for a second. Confusion is plainly written on his features.

“All? Art thou speaking of the Ainur?”

Melkor gives him a non-committal hum. “The firstborns perhaps too.” Then he reconsiders, sharp teeth cutting at his lips. “No, they do not matter. Indeed, the Ainur.”

“And which example should it be?” Manwë hesitantly asks, eyes riveted on the chess pieces.

Melkor waits for Manwë to make his move; his Tower moving to the left, before answering.

“Rebelling against Valinor. Exploring the depths of their powers.”

Manwë hums then, a very soft sound that is naught like Melkor expected as a reaction. “What use would it be to wonder about what is not?”

“Because it could be,” Melkor insists. Something moves beneath the clothes that cover his chest and if he knows for it to be the eggs; hidden against the warmth of his flesh; he does not let it be known by Manwë. “If they so choose; Arda would not stand against it. I had – and have – the advantage of might, but number is a worthy adversary of it.”

And with his words, Melkor knocks the bishop off the board, replacing it with his knight. “Namo’s loss, for example; could severely hinder Valinor.”

Manwë frowns, furrowing his brows.

“I do not understand your point,” he admits, and leans backwards, defensively crossing his arms. “Are you speaking of your future plans? I thought-”

“Naught of the sort,” Melkor interjects, a tad too sharply. “Indulge my curiosity. Are you prepared for such an eventuality? What to make of it?”

Manwë contemplates him for a few seconds, eyes darting from the board to Melkor. He exhales then; a soft sight that goes through his nose, and leans forward to push a pawn two spaces ahead. “It is not an eventuality,” he faintly says. “The Discord you Sang in the beginning was yours and yours only; even if it reached Maiar of others. I can not say for Maiar. You have shown that they can be coaxed to your side,” and the disappointment is strong in his tone. “-but true Powers can not be influenced.”

“Suppositions,” Melkor insists.

Manwë inclines his head. “Truth. Eru spoke to us of our purpose when all began; and we can not fray from it. That you could; that you can; merely means that it is your purpose.”

A muscle twitches in Melkor’s jaw. He tastes blood from where his teeth are nibbling at his lips. “You believe that all I did was not out of mine own volition?”

“Perhaps.”

“Serving him, perhaps? Was it what you repeated to yourself, when you threw me into the Void? It is his purpose?”

Manwë frowns. “I did not-”

“Then let me assure you of it, brother,” Melkor snarls as he jolts to his feet; sinking claws into the table. “-I did it for I wanted it. I-! Not to satisfy Eru’s vision! For mine own pleasure and naught else! I destroyed your works because they were flawed with your vision of perfection! I did it because I wanted my own creations to exist- not merely have to gaze foolishly at yours! I did it because I wanted change; and I wanted discord; and you all were mindlessly satisfied with your neat little perfection! There was no beauty in it!”

Melkor does not let Manwë the time to answer. Not when he is certain to utter words of nonsense; of self-righteous beliefs and lies made to satisfy one-self. It is a thing to imprison Melkor for his crimes; and crimes-! Crimes! Such a laughable word, when all he did was wishing for his own vision to be given to Arda. But it is a thing; and he understands it; but to believe that naught he did was his truly-?

He had given freedom to men; and he is not a slave unaware of his condition! Some decisions were better than others, some truly poor, but all his.

Melkor breaks the board game before vanishing from Manwë’s sight. He can not stay or is bound to lose what little control he retains- and already does the furnace of his heart spread to his fana.

It is a petty thing than to break the board, but he can not bring himself to care. Sulkily does he think: let him attribute this action to Eru, if He is truly the one behind everything.

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.

A board game waits for him on Estë’s table, a mere few hours after Melkor has left. He returns from the confines of the Island, a little (much more) calmer than before. There is something soothing beyond measure in closing his eyes in the midst of a glade; appreciating all the details that the Void had made him realise he had missed. The breathing of the wing against his skin; the cold grass under his feet; even the endless sounds of the world.

Taken for granted; when they were not. He closes his eyes and relishes in the cracking of the wood; the life swarming in its midst. Little details; perhaps foolish of him; and yet which soothe him much more than words ever could.

Melkor does not immediately go to the board game. Instead, he takes care of pulling out the eggs; immediately noticing a fissure on the first of them. Soon; very soon, will they hatch.

When the eggs are properly taken care of, Melkor makes a few steps towards the board game.

There is a letter attached to it. Nay- not a letter. A note; with a few words scribbled on it.

He frowns, picking up the note.

You asked of me why was I not prepared for this eventuality. I should ask why am I not prepared for you to break your pledge.

The reason is trust.

I trust them; and I trust you; to see that Eru Ilúvatar’s vision is not one to be feared, nor rejected, but one to have been thought for the purpose of our own well-being.

I do enjoy our games. I dare hope that you will find this board satisfactory enough; it was made by Aulë’s hand. I must confess to having pressed him for it far more than should have been appropriate.

Mânawenûz

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.

.

“I do already know how to forge,” Fëanor snarls, crossing his arms on his chest.

Melkor does not pinch his nose, nor does he exhale through it. He does not, but it comes very close to. Infinite patience is overrated a thing, he fears; one that had never boded very well with him.

Once more has he donned his Annatar form, and it is great a thing for he has hardened his features for them not to reveal too easily the emotions lurking beneath them. A smile is thus frozen on his lips as he stares at Fëanor (who had arrived three hours late, pretexting an emergency of a sort with Curufin. Who is Curufin? Melkor has not the slightest idea.)

“It is not a matter of learning from scratch, but improving what already exists,” Melkor says, very slowly. “I am merely suggesting that we are to collaborate, for I to see the flaws imperceptible to thy eye.”

“There are no flaws in my work,” Fëanor shoots back. “I thought of your guidance to be there to share secrets, Annatar, but it seems that I was misguided- for if all you are able to do is gaze at mine own work, then your assistance is not required.”

Eru helps him. Melkor has not prayed for Eru for ages. Fëanor is causing him to break such a resolution.

The Silmarils, he tells himself. A greater purpose. The Silmarils.

“I will not share what is already known,” Melkor tells him, his smile beginning to strain. “Tis why I need to review your work, see how you operate, to see what has to be corrected- and then, secrets.”

“Naught has to be corrected.”

Melkor contemplates the idea of the Void. It begins to become more and more appealing.

“Indulge me,” he insists through gritted teeth.

Fëanor sighs. It is a heavy sigh, as disdainful as a sigh can be, and Melkor half desires (nay, truly desires) to tear his wretched tongue out of his mouth. He can not recall if Fëanor had been so infuriating the first time; but he is quite certain that not. He had been so eager to learn, eyes wide on the prospect of knowing more; of filling the flame of his ambition. He had been so eager to listen too; so eager to spit poisoned words about the Valar that it had delighted Melkor like naught else-

Ah. He understands. There lies the problem. Annatar is no Valar. He is an Eldar; an equal- nay, a subordinate, and Fëanor’s pride refrains him from accepting advice from one he judges as inferior. Melkor, in his condition as a Vala, had flared reluctant admiration, but admiration all the same; and Fëanor had felt no wound to his pride in accepting the teaching of a Power.

“What I will tell you,” Melkor says, “-has been taught to me by the Valar.”

Fëanor’s gaze sharpens.

“Is it so?”

“It is not mine knowledge,” Melkor continues, sweet lies easily falling from his lips. “-or if it is, it had not always been so. Think not of I as a Master, but an intermediate agent of the Valar, who have been kind enough to teach me their knowledge of the craft.”

Fëanor studies him for a second. “Very well,” he finally says. “I will allow you to watch over I while I work. There are rules to respect, nonetheless. Silence is imperative. Questions are not tolerated.”

Melkor swallows back spitting words of anger. He inclines his head in acquiescence, instead, and watches as Fëanor’s defensiveness smoothens into surprise.

“Lead the way,” Melkor tells him.

And Fëanor does. He leads them to his private forges – and Melkor had been wrong; perhaps had he been truly forging all this time, merely in privacy. All this time waiting for naught, when Fëanor had been working. His teeth grit against the other upon discovering as such.

Fëanor, ever the curious one, demands silence yet burns to ask of everything. Questions fall easily from his lips; to which Melkor does his very best to answer without straying too far from the truth. Each answer causes another string of questions to follow; and before long does they have again fallen into the familiar pattern of reflection upon the other’s ideas.

Melkor will never admit it, not even under duress, but he had missed it. Missed the way Fëanor took the time to think of what Melkor told him, acquiescing, pondering, suggesting. Missed the way most of their ideas seemed complementary, great minds thinking alike; the sharp excitation of having another understand their way of thinking.

Fëanor is never one to abandon suspicion, but soon is he as well enthralled by their discussion – hands flaring alive, eyes and voice burning with enthusiasm. Wide gesticulations made to enhance his points; and the fierce nods when Melkor highlights a point of interest.

Soon do they breathlessly admire an object of their creation. Guided by Melkor silken advice, remembered out of a time that had come to disappear for none but him, crafted by Fëanor’s hands. They gaze at their work, tired in a way only true labour can elicit, satisfaction purring deep in their chests.

“They do not understand the true value of it,” Fëanor is telling Melkor, shaking his head. “They are content with such a stagnation, and I can not fathom why.”

“Because it is easier,” Melkor says.

“Easier!” Fëanor sneers. “Easier does naught for thee. Easier lulls into complaisance, and into slothfulness.”

Melkor remembers how reluctant the great Powers of the West had been upon taking action. How they had let him do as he wished in Arda; only moving when urged by all sides, when Melkor had twisted himself beyond recognition.

Slothfulness, indeed.

“You are not as I thought you to be,” Fëanor then says, sucking in a sharp breath. He is considering Melkor heavily now, grey eyes piercing by their intensity. “You come from the Vanyar, you say? Brought back with Oromë?”

Melkor can not allow him to dwell more on such a matter. He gives him a curt nod in lieu of an answer.

“Back when Valinor was said to be the promised land,” he says, a little bitterer than he should have.

Fëanor gives him an acute look. “Said only?”

Melkor makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. He can not speak the truth of his thoughts on Valinor, too stagnant for his likes. Yet- long had he thought of the land with disdain colouring it, hatred even; but now that he wanders it again, details that he had first overlooked now appear clearly to him. Details which twist slightly his view of the place, causing it to be not entirely dislikeable.

It would be lying to himself, at this point, not to admit that he very much enjoys Estë’s Island. It is a soothing place, one with the possibility of becoming more, and Melkor is not ashamed in saying it to his taste.

Estë has often told him for him to be free to implement changes as he liked; “as long as it did not hinder the functioning of the place” and Melkor had made great use of such permission. Already is he leaving small touches of himself over the Island – frost on the leaves when the morning comes, mangroves within the forests of the island, geysers in the rocky plains - and within them, geodes stuffed full with gems of all kinds.

“Perfection loses much of its appeal upon implemented,” Melkor eventually says. “-and has such a fickle and changing definition that what may seem ideal to one is hardly so for another.”

Fëanor’s lips twist in a sneer. “Perfection,” he repeats, and all his previous joy fades from his features. “Valinor is hardly perfection. Not when there is one who claims us for himself; one who sets greedy claws in what should not be in his possession; and refuses them freedom-”

Melkor frowns. While most used to be the receiver of such anger, it is the first time he has been said to refuse freedom. He had proclaimed himself the giver of it, on the very contrary, and even lost in the fear and fury brought by the silmaril’s theft, never had he refused it to one.

Outrage slithers slightly in his tone.

“Refuse them freedom…?”

“Imprisoning them in his Halls!” Fëanor cries out of red anger, bailing his hands into fists. “Refusing them safe passage to what lays outside of them!”

Wait.

Melkor does not have halls.

Fëanor is not referring to him.

“And what to say of those who rejoice in such an imprisonment! Replacing the lost ones! Forgetting their memory! Erasing it in favour of another!”

Namo? Is he referring to Namo? And his Elleth mother?

It is Namo and Finwë who elicit in Fëanor such anger?

For once, Melkor is speechless. He had remembered, certainly, Fëanor’s anger for his mother, how quickly had she been replaced by another. Melkor had used such anger, towards his half-brothers who he judged not kin; fueling it.

But had he been truly angry towards Namo? Melkor can not remember it.

“Namo is merely the guardian of the Halls,” Melkor says, furrowing his brows. “He has no say in who leaves or enters them.”

“He does!” Fëanor viciously snarls. “He does, else She would have returned to us! I can not believe she would choose to remain there!”

Melkor darts a glance at the doors. Calculates for a second how swift an escape he could make, should Fëanor spontaneously combust. There is naught to be said that would soothe Fëanor, and truly for once is Melkor utterly speechless. All that he could say would ignite a flame in the Ñoldo’s heart and Melkor is not yearning for war this time.

“There is much to change in Valinor,” he settles on, quite desperately.

Fëanor exhales, before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Indeed. My apologies,” he says; and the words are said through gritted teeth. “I should not have said this. It is not your battle to fight.”

He swiftly changes the subject then; a strained question about which metals made for the best alloy, one that Melkor is quite relieved to receive.

The curious edge of his gaze does not fade, nonetheless, even long after Fëanor has calmed himself. Melkor had never much thought of Míriel, if he had to be quite honest. Now- he wonders which one would prevail in Fëanor’s mind: Míriel or the Silmarils.

It is hard a question. His sons had not prevailed over the gems; but it had been in the midst of his fury, of his distress. Melkor ponders over it. Perhaps should he promise Míriel’s release (and he would go to the Halls himself to retrieve her should the need arise) against the Silmarils.

Now that is a thought.

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.

“I do not trust his good faith,” Ulmo is saying, his sharp blue eyes riveted on Manwë. “It is easy to part with fine words, but much less easier to act on them - and despite his supposed repentance, Melkor nearly destroyed Tirion, and twice opposed Tulkas. He has stood against Eru Iluvatar's work from the start, and will not be deterred. I do not believe it. I can not believe it.”

“Is it truly what you have seen that prompts you to speak as such? Or previous grievances clouding your judgement?”

Ulmo sends a dark look to Estë. She speaks softly, but firmly; and for once are her lips devoid of a smile as she looks upon the Vala. “Perhaps you are clouded as well; by your desire to see good in all that exists. Melkor is of no such sort – he is irredeemable.”

“Nothing is irredeemable,” Estë says.

“It is a testimony of your good nature to believe so, and you are to be honoured for it, but it is simply not the truth.”

“And who are you, Lord of the Seas, to so fervently affirm that you are the holder of all truths?”

“He is not,” Tulkas intercepts, heavy brows furrowing. “We meant no disrespect, my lady. Forgive us if you took it as such. Merely that your gaze is one made for healing and forgiveness, and that in your pardon is included all you can look at. Melkor is undeserving of your graces, when he has proved again and again that he mocks them.”

Estë makes a soft noise in the back of her throat; and when she darts her gaze to him, it is as dark as clouds tend to be when storms arrive.

“Do not speak on former beliefs. My forgiveness does not blind me to the true nature of beings.”

“He has broken our trust!” Ulmo exclaims, jumping to his feet. “Had our Lord Manwë not been there he would have destroyed all of Tirion! And for what? For his mere pleasure!”

“Cornered beings tend to bite; it is not their fault but that of those who urge them to defend themselves,” Estë insists; and her gaze hardens even more. “I have seen your taunting, Tulkas, and how you lurk around mine Island. I sense you, and he does it as well; and your inquiry is thick and resentful. Tis a gaze that bears years of accumulated anger; and how could it be received with anything else but defensiveness?”

“Anger well deserved!”

“He has spent three ages in Namo’s Halls!” Estë snaps; jumping too to her feet. Her tone is harsh and biting, and it freezes both of the Valar in place – stunned out of action. Estë was known for her infinite patience; her ability to endure and forgive- and to have her so infuriated- “What more do you ask, Tulkas, Ulmo? Which punishment would you wish for him? What would satiate your greed? Death perhaps? The Void?”

It is Manwë’s turn to intercede. “Enough,” he warns.

It has been going for far too long; he thinks. He is tired, so unbelievably so. He is tired and he wishes to understand, wishes for Eru to answer him; if only for this one time. He does not know what to do, what to think, and he is so terribly exhausted.

Melkor is his brother. He can not quite explain it to Tulkas and Ulmo, to any of the Valar, in truth. It is a bond that will never be broken. The other Valar’s siblings' bonds have none of this intensity shared between Manwë and Melkor; this feeling of the other being the other half of their fëa. They had been made as reflections of the other, in the beginning, a whole separated in two halves.

He does not understand him, it is true. He wishes, so very fervently that he could, but he does not. Melkor’s motivations are as much a mystery to him as they had always been; and Manwë can not wrap his head around why he would wish to desecrate the work of others. Why he would wish to destroy; why he would wish to claim all his; when the world was not for them to take. Why he acts so, why he thinks so. What pleases him, and what does not.

He wants to, nonetheless. He wants to understand him; to be of a comfort when he can; to share understanding looks and faint smiles. He wants to say all of this to him, as well; but Manwë never truly can.

His words freeze on the tip of his lips when he tries to. He never quite know what to say; always fearing for it to be the wrong thing. He tries to comfort, only to realize that he had been angering Melkor – and his heart is so full of unsaid feelings that he chokes on them.

Manwë wants to tell him so many things. That he does not understand, but loves him nonetheless. That he wishes to understand. That he could listen, if only Melkor gave him the opportunity to.

Those words never pass the barrier of his lips.

“No living being will be sent to the Void,” Manwë says for all to hear and all to obey. He remembers, quite vividly, Melkor’s anger, rage, terror when he had asked why Manwë had sent him there. It haunts him, sometimes. To witness the one who feared naught subject to such abject terror- Manwë wonders of if the three ages had not been too harsh a punishment; too constrictive for a mind made to wander. “Do not joke on such matters.”

“He heals on mine Island,” Estë insists. Her voice is softer than her previous fit of anger, and she sits back in her seat, a faint exhale passing through her lips. “I, best, know the changes he has endured. He does not deserve such hatred. His kindness is faint, but it is there nonetheless; and if nurtured the right way, could continue to grow.”

“He does not deserve kindness,” Ulmo seethes.

“Every being does. Or do you believe yourself Eru Ilúvatar himself, to lay claim on such matters?”

Manwë makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, growing frustrated. His voice thunders in the throne room, as clear as a cloudless sky. “Enough of this fight. Tulkas,” the Vala immediately rises, one fist over his heart. “Take a step forward and lay out your position.”

Tulkas inclines his head.

“Long have I observed him,” Tulkas begins, growling. “-And long have I witnessed how prone is he to anger and destruction. He wanders alone for his thoughts to be his sole companions; and in doing so refuse the peacefulness Estë has offered him. He is quick to shed the fana we have sworn ourselves to; and takes on the true form Eru has prompted us not to use! His foul nature is so that it spreads to what lays around him- freezing the very ground that had been offered to us! His heart is blackened; and he blackens the world with each of his poisoned words! Thou speakest of forgiveness, Lady Estë, but had he not killed thy very companions- those rabbits of thee? He killed them for naught else than his mere pleasure, his amusem*nt!”

“He replaced them,” Estë says, voice tight. “He asked for forgiveness, realized the wrongdoing of the act, and replaced them. He did not kill them out of pleasure.”

“You will have your time to lay your position, Lady Estë,” Manwë softly says. He turns to Tulkas, then. “Have you truly witnessed something that would warrant action?”

Tulkas growls then. “He is of the foulest kind; aware of mine eyes on him! He has not yet acted on his evil; but he will!”

“He has done naught that would warrant punishment then.”

“Not yet,” Tulkas admits; anger twisting his features in a sneer.

“Very well,” Manwë murmurs. “Lady Estë, if you would please indulge us…”

She gives him a sharp nod, rising once more from her seat. She does not press a fist against her heart, nor does she bow, but her gaze is piercing.

“You entrusted him in my care,” Estë quietly begins. “When the three ages passed, and his torment came to an end, you entrusted him in my care. You did not release him to freely wander. Why is that?”

Ulmo grits his teeth. “It is our Lord’s turn to ask questions.”

Manwë silences him with a raised hand.

“He was in a poor state,” Manwë confesses. “He thought to have been thrown into the Void, all of it a delusion of his wounded mind. He needed proper healing.”

Estë inclines her head and smiles. “Indeed, my King. He needed proper healing. Healing is never a straight line from wounded to perfect health. It is harsh a thing; and often disregarded for it is too painful to endure. Yet he has agreed; and continues to do so; and willingly submits himself to it. Healing does not imply a sudden transformation, tis a process, my lord. Long had he been lost in his own thoughts, in the belief that none would be willing to lend a helping hand. Long had be believed to be utterly alone; and in such loneliness does a mind tend to become self-destructive. What of us? What of the Valar, who had been tasked by Eru to be protectors, to be kind? How to expect such kindness if we do not prove it first? How could we demand for another to display features we do not wish to display ourselves?”

“There is a time for healing, and a time for war,” Tulkas cuts her off; muscles twitching in his jaw.

“Indeed, and it is the time for the first,” Estë says. “He is not irredeemable. Certainly not. He has been lost, however, and it is for us to help him find the path back again. I do mean a twist of who he is, my King, for true nature could never be changed. Lord Melkor will always be what he has been made to be, what he has designed for himself, and what he desires to be. It is not necessarily at the expense of what we seek. Perhaps there lies the most important question of all. What do we seek, my King? What is our purpose?”

Estë does not wait for either Ulmo or Tulkas to interrupt her. She smiles at them, the soft smiles she gives the world, and they do find in their hearts the will to intercede.

“I understand your fears,” she murmurs. “They are only natural to hold; when you are so fiercely protective of the world Eru has demanded for us to care for. I could never seek to tell them foolish. But they are misplaced; my dears; for they have no longer reason to exist.”

Manwë considers her for a few seconds.

“And what do you believe we seek, Lady Estë?”

She smiles, again. It is one of an unspeakable gentleness; and when she returns to her seat, silence lingers for a moment.

“Why of course, we aim to see our world grow, witness it live its own experiences, and evolve.”

Estë hums then; and leans back in her seat.

“Who better for it,” she asks of them, smiling. “-than the very Vala of Change?”

Irmo's & Melkor's art inspired by the fic made by @thelien-art on tumblr, absolutely amazing 💜💜

and a fanart with Melkor & the platypus by @fingonbestboy, i love it so much it's hilarious & beautiful 💕💕💕

Chapter 9: Lesson 9 : Keep tight track of the schedule

Chapter Text

Mairon has his eyes riveted on the wolf facing him.

For beasts answering only, not obeying, it is terribly docile a thing. It pants, and gazes at Mairon with keen intelligence in its eyes, and tilts its way just so, making him wonder if it truly understands each of his words.

(Mairon has grown terribly fond of it, albeit would never admit it out loud)

He has taken to come in the clearing at each of his free moments; spending hours with the wolves – with this specific wolf in particular. This one is the most promising so far; never one to refuse Mairon’s call; running to greet him as soon as Mairon reaches the clearing. He has serrater teeth than his kin, eyes more acute, and Mairon – for having seen him press a deer to the ground, tearing through his flesh to eat it alive – judges his claws to be the sharpest of them all.

Mairon pulls a morsel of meat from his pocket; dangling it in front of the wolf.

“Sit,” he quietly orders.

The wolf does not move.

Mairon’s lips tighten into a hard line. “Sit.”

The wolf yelps; and plops to a sitting position. The gesture warrants it the morsel of meat, thrown to him; and it gulps the meat in two quick bites.

“Perfect,” Mairon praises it; and reaches a hand forward.

The wolf nudges its head against Mairon’s hand; and Mairon wipes the blood from its chin, before bringing it to his own lips. He grimaces slightly- it tastes poorly, far from a fresh one, and wipes the rest of it against his palm.

A canine tongue comes to lick it, evidently not as difficult as Mairon is.

“It would do you great to have the ability for intelligent speech,” Mairon tells it, caressing the top of its head. “How useful would it be… I wonder if it can be done. Would it require a twist of the fëa, or to bred and train thy kind until one of thee can formulate words? Both, perhaps.”

The wolf does not answer, most obviously, instead pressing his two front paws on Mairon’s knees. Mud taints his clothing- and Mairon frowns at the sight, but says nothing. It is of no true importance, really. Clothes can be washed; but forever would the wolf remember his displeasure.

It does neither of them good to grow angry over such trivial things. The wolf needs to understand the importance of Mairon’s anger- and he shall not waste it on frivolities.

He smiles, a genuine one; as he intertwines his fingers with the wolf’s fur. It is truly soft to the touch; a softness he delights in feeling. He should have given wolves his full attention long before- but so many matters had been of importance in Utumno and then Angband, so much to think of…

Mairon’s mind is never truly at ease. There is too much to be done, too much to organize, and to settle. He thinks, and those thoughts order themselves by ranks of priority, before he works through them one by one.

Alas sometimes do they shift position, and always do a few others appear in the midst of them.

He sighs, and presses a finger against his eyes. He can not falter. He can not vacillate, nor abandon. Melkor waits for him, depends on him. Mairon opens his eyes then, letting them fall upon his ring.

He kisses it slightly; imagining someone different under his lips, and closes his eyes once more.

He has been given a task, perhaps the most important of all; and Mairon will stay true to his purpose.

Mairon does not know how much time has he passed in the clearing when he opens his eyes again. The wolf has long disappeared; but he is not alone. There is an Eldar instead, one of the hunters, looking sharply at him.

“I called for thee,” the Windan says.

“Mine apologies,” Mairon murmurs. “I lost myself in my thoughts.”

The Windan says naught more of it, but his eyes do not lose their sharpness.

“The King demands for thee. He has asked of thee to meet him under the great tree; and to keep silent on your encounter. None other than He and thou will meet.”

Despite his stern torn, there is curiosity burning in the gaze of the Windan. Mairon does not feel the will to indulge it.

“I will come,” he says. “Lead the way.”

The Windan inclines his head. Mairon does not ask for his name – for he is sure to forget it; and is disinclined to pretend for courtesy. Instead, they walk in relative silence – for it can never be truly so in the midst of a forest – as they make their way back to the village.

True to his words, the Windan leaves him a few meters away from the tree. He wanders away with a last inquisitive look; and Mairon watches him go for a few seconds, ensuring that they will not be spied upon. Only when is he certain that the Windan has truly gone; and that he can no sense him near, does he finally move. Mairon passes a hand over his tunic to smoothen the fabric, and forges a hesitant expression on his features.

Indeed, the King is waiting for him.

He has his eyes riveted on the great tree, his back facing Mairon. How easy would it be to summon a dagger and stab him, memories of warfare flooding through Mairon’s mind. A second, perhaps two; and the King would have no time to react, no sound falling through his lips, choking before falling forward.

Mairon smiles, and reaches for the King.

“You called for me, your majesty,” he quietly introduces himself.

The King does not immediately turn. “Come forth.”

Mairon obeys, and takes place near the King, eyes going also to the tree that faces them. He can no find beauty in it, in the bark damaged by time, in the roots plunging into the depths of the earth.

But he supposes the Windans do.

“It is beautiful,” Mairon murmurs. “The flora does not accept any difference in the golden plains of Valinor. Anything that deviates from the model is eliminated, and no room is left for the uniqueness of their beauty to flourish.”

The King inclines his head. “There is beauty in uniformity,” he mourningly says. “But there is a different one in uniqueness, and neither is lesser than the other. If difference is not to be resented, neither is it to be valued beyond what is common.”

“It is not a matter of being celebrated over the latter; but being accepted as well.”

The King turns to him, at last. “That much is very true, indeed. Come forth, I have thought of the matter you have raised to me.”

“Have you taken a decision, then?”

The King hums. “I have,” he admits. “Fey, I thought of you when you first presented yourself to me. Grim, alas broken by the suffering you spoke our kind is enduring. I do not wish to believe the Powers to abandon the values that have always driven them, but neither did I want to dismiss your distress. I have come to a conclusion, and a decision, and I will tell you of it.”

Mairon inclines his head in a bow.

“It is all I desire,” he says, “and if you would be so kind, all I deserve. Neither do I wish for war, for war indeed brings misery and death in his trail-! War, in Valinor! Never had we thought of it, for it was promised as the undying land, a golden haven for us to reach! Broken promises alas, made out of treachery, when our eyes had been blinded by those who had sworn to keep them sharp!”

“Take comfort in my words, since comfort you so ardently seek, and are just in seeking it; in the depth of your grief for our kind. If the Valar truly broke their oaths sworn to us, I cannot say for now, but I will be made sure of it. No longer will we discuss those counsels of cautiousness, and I shall act in the name of our people.”

Mairon manages a quiet sigh, filling it with hope. He conveys all his distress for Melkor on his features, under the guise of caring for the Eldar.

“And which act shall it be?”

The King presses his eyelids shut for a second.

“One of prudence,” he finally says, opening his eyes again. “I will send for a spy, one to be mine eyes and ears in Valinor, and upon his return will I swiftly act. Perhaps you have been mistaken, perhaps you have not – all this shall be witnessed by one I trust and know.”

Mairon sucks in a sharp inhale of breath. He can not-! All is lost if a Windan reaches Valinor, if they discover the malice in his words-!

“My lord,” he says, insisting. “-The time press; and such an envoy might be enslaved as well!”

“He shall not.” The King’s voice is cutting, sharper than a dagger. “We know of the woods; and making ourselves scarce and pass unnoticed. We know how to disappear within the leaves, and have our sight gaze farther than nature and Eru have given us.”

Mairon’s thoughts are frantic-

“He will be caught,” he says, imploring. “The Valar feel the very fëa, not the fana itself, and none can go unnoticed before their keen eyes!”

The King studies him for a long time. His thoughts are unreadable on his features, closed to none other than him.

“We know of the fëa and its secrets. Any envoy of I will not be seen, I assure you. Let go of your fears, for you have done what could be done, and it is for us now to ensure that our people are safe indeed.”

“Tell me, at least,” Mairon pleads, almost madly. “Who is it that you have sent? Who is it that will measure himself to the Powers? Who?”

“I can not compromise their safety.”

“I would help them know what they have to fear! What awaits them! They do not know, they do not understand, they can not prepare themselves-”

The King’s features harden. “You speak out of turn, Annatar, I assured you of their cautiousness-”

Mairon falls to his knees.

(he can not allow it, he can not or all is lost, or Melkor is lost, and he can not betray him as such, he can not, he will not, he needs to free him, he needs- he needs-)

“Allow me to help them,” Mairon all but begs. “I beg of thee, your majesty, allow me to warn them of what will await them. Tell me naught but their name, and I will say to them what lurks in Valinor, and in safety will they come back to us.”

The King tells him.

.

.

.

Mairon is running through the woods.

He has so very little time- the envoy has already gone- he needs to go faster- faster, faster, faster.

His fana falls to pieces around him. He needs to go faster; and so wills it in his very fëa, power glittering over his feet, over his ankles. Faster, faster, faster.

Mairon runs.

No coherent thought inhabits his mind, frantic terror meddling with purpose; and one order forced above everything else: to reach the envoy before he leaves for Valinor. Before he reaches the coast.

_terror ^purpose _run ^run _run ^terror _purpose

He can not bring in himself to care about being noticed, being seen. The purpose is greater than anything else; prompting him to move forward, to close the distance between him and the elf.

He finds him – at last, sensing him only a few meters forward. So close- and Mairon’s fëa sings a song of delight, of relief, of terror. He is so close- and Mairon runs. He runs until he is breathless; but no breath escape his lips, runs until his lungs ache, but no more does he possess lungs of any sort.

He runs until a clawed hand closes around the Windan’s ankle.

The Windan falls with a great cry, taken by surprise. He falls forward, and Mairon is upon him in a second- hand ready to- to-

“Annatar-?” The Windan blurts out, eyes wide wide wide.

There is fear, and incomprehension in the Windan’s eyes- and Mairon recognizes him, his face if not his name bringing back memories. It is one of the few who had been immediately kind to him, who had smiled and given him sweet reassurances.

Mairon’s hand fall at his side.

_purpose ^fear _terror ^purpose _devotion ^love _fear ^fear _fear ^fear _fear ^{for melkor} _{for melkor} ^{for melkor}

Mairon closes his eyes when he slices through the Windan’s throat. There is a terrible gargling sound; and tears dwell up in his eyes. They burn under his eyelids, and a choking sound suddenly starts him.

Mairon snaps his head to try finding out where it comes from-

The sound intensifies.

Where- where does it come from-

And; oh. It is him. It is him who is choking on dwelling tears. His hand is trembling, hot blood tainting it. He needs to clean it- he will not be kept dirty-

Mairon takes a wobbling step, only to fall to his knees. He can not- no; he needs to clean himself- he can not see- his vision has grown troubled because of the tears-

He retches, before vomiting in the grass. His head is spinning. He had no other choice- he needed to free Melkor from Aman- he needed to- he needed- Mairon sobs, wreaking sobs that shake his chest whole.

Mairon sobs, and then, when the tears can not keep coming, he laughs.

.

.

.

It is as always unnerving to witness how Valinor delights in stagnation. Had long ago Melkor not managed to convince Manwë (and through him, the rest of the Valar) to implement seasons as well as nights, Valinor would still be trapped in its earlier eternal spring. Although those seasons are a poor comparison to the ones lived in Arda: for if the colors are brighter indeed in summer and spring, they merely endure a slight shift for the two others, do not properly change.

While in Arda, autumn speaks of ember-red leaves falling from the trees, greyer clouds, the perfumery of scents coming from deep within the forest taking a huskier edge, plump rains enriching the soil, it is not quite the same there. Autumn in Valinor speaks of a slight golden hue to the leaves, a slight cooling in the breezes, shadows lingering a little longer than before. No true cold from the sky, no fading sunlight turning pale under the breath of death.

Autumn in Valinor is merely a spring turned a little duller, a little more quieter. And in his steps, winter: which differs only from autumn in the silence it entails. Winter does not speak of heavy snow there, merely a soothing of the ever present humming of the wildlife: insects buzzing a little less, winds a little stronger, fauna a little more lethargic.

There is no intensity to it: none of the harsh puffs of wind Melkor had so favored, none of the frozen bites of the cold, none of the decay so indispensable to life. It is as a quiet day of spring in Arda, yes, rendered more peaceful; yet spring nonetheless.

Alas, Melkor makes do with it. He has all the time he would need to whisper insisting demands in Manwë’s ears – and if he is to stay, he assuredly will. There is beauty in the end of life; when it comes to crumble only to bloom again. Winter does not speak of despair but renewal: every beginning in need of an end.

It is easy then, to fall prey to such stagnation oneself. Tis harder to see in the company of Estë and Irmo: always vibrating with a gazillion things to fill their days with, but it is painfully obvious with the rest of the Valar.

So very rarely for example do they set foot in Tirion. Tirion-! The city of the Ñoldor, the favourite in Manwë’s heart; the city of the innovators. It should warrant attention, presence, interest. Yet it does not.

It is up to Melkor then, to act when others do not. Upon first being released from the Void had he begun to wander there : in search of Fëanor amongst the blacksmiths. He continues to do so, even long after having found him.

Under the guise of Annatar, Melkor wanders the streets of Tirion. His features are well known to the Ñoldor by now: thanked by the very King in front of a crowd; often found wandering with Nerdanel or Fëanor; more often even assisting the Ñoldor in the forge. He does not cease to, even when he has no need for it, and begins to wonder if perhaps it is for his own satisfaction.

There is something soothing in the manual work: no thoughts allowed to wander if good work is to be found, focused on naught else but what is under his hands. Many times does he allow some Ñoldor to assist him – and if he favors Torthedir’s help, he is not averse to others. Melkor does not find Fëanor’s son again- at least not the one who is so infatuated with Oromë, Turcafinwë. He finds Maitimo, however, and while the Noldo is over cautious of Melkor – he sometimes asks the permission to assist Melkor in his works.

Melkor holds a fraction of his former hunger when he gazes at Maitimo. It is not so much the elf in himself but what he represents: Melkor’s former glory. Gazing upon Maitimo makes him think of Angband and Power; of being the King of Arda, of having armies at his command, of ruling. And as much as Melkor tries to repress the thought, he can never truly forget the euphoric sensation of being the one to hold power.

Alas it can not come without war, without endless battles – and those, Melkor refuses. He has been given a chance, and he will not waste it. He is allowed to dream, nonetheless, and to wonder.

What troubles him is the uncertainty of knowing if it is the power he misses, or the realm. The latter could be achieved: for if all Valar were given one, surely Manwë would agree on offering one also to Melkor. The Helcaraxë comes to mind – lands that could be rendered truly beautiful under his care. The former, however… It all depends on which kind of power Melkor desires to exercise. Complete dominion will never be granted to him, that much he has come to realize – not without war, at least. Partial dominion- would it satiate his hunger? Would it satiate Mairon, when they would be reunited?

And within it, another thought tugs at his mind – the one of the dragons. They have yet to hatch, and Melkor is growing more and more frustrated as days pass. As weeks pass. Are they truly so reluctant to gaze upon the world, or is something hindering their arrival?

Is Valinor hindering their arrival?

Melkor breathes fire upon them – acutely aware that his own is no comparison to Mairon’s. It had been Mairon, after all, who had breathed a fire burning enough for them to hatch; Melkor always favoring the biting cold rather than its contrary. It is no matter of Vala or Maia – but of what their nature are; and Melkor’s is not inclined to fire.

Would he be able to cause them to hatch without Mairon’s flames?

.

.

.

Despite Melkor’s cautiousness around the eggs, Estë is bound to find them as well as her spouse. She does- a day when Melkor’s frustration has reached its very limits, and he is trying to invoke flames hot enough for the dragons to come out of their shells.

He does not immediately notice her presence, focused as he is on his task. It is when she hums, a soft sound that causes him to startle, that he finds her leaning against the door.

She darts a pensive gaze at him, soft brown irises full of curiosity. She has taken to wearing burnt-orange recently; the colour so vividly reminiscing of Mairon’s hair that Melkor’s heart skips a beat.

And then ceases to beat entirely – for he is loathe to ache in such a way and forcefully stops it.

He is a Vala, by the Void- functioning organs are merely a toy, he does not truly need them.

“Have you fancied bringing to life another creature?” Estë asks, eyes flickering to the eggs. “Would it be inappropriate for me to ask of which one…?”

“It would not,” Melkor says, teeth grinding against each other. He makes a wide gesture towards the eggs then- “Creatures of scales and claws, their breath the deepest fire Valinor could endure. Creatures of might, and beauty, endowed with speech and feeling - made of intelligence. Creatures in my image, and in the image of another, to enhance the beauty of Arda.”

His eyes have darted to them as he speaks, wishing fervently for them to hatch. They do not. They do not, but instead of the cracking of the shells, what he hears is a slight chuckle.

He lifts his gaze to Estë, and finds her softly smiling.

“It seems that you already hold a great affection for them,” she tells him. “Their design has been based on another as well, you say?”

Melkor inclines his head. “Mairon,” he says, defiantly.

He knows of the Ainur’s beliefs regarding their relationship. He knows of how they slid disdainful gazes to him – horrified, even. He has stolen a Maia of Aulë, they say. He has enraptured one to make him his thrall. Melkor both desires to laugh and to tear their tongues from their mouths.

To say as such is to understand naught of them. While tis true that he had been the one to seek Mairon, and that his attentions had not been returned at first- he had not stolen Mairon. Mairon had been entirely too willing – frustrated by Valinor’s stagnation, by his service to Aulë, by his lack of freedom.

Made Lieutenant, certainly – a title that had not been long alone. They had wed, and had exchanged tokens as proof of their devotion- and Melkor’s fingers go to his black pearl earring, the one given by Mairon.

But Estë does not seethe, nor scoff, nor even spit hateful words. Her smile fades, and she considers him for a sharp three seconds.

“There had been many speculations on the Admirable’s well-being,” she admits. “I am relieved that those preaching for his enslavement were merely talking out of ignorance. Is he faring well, then?”

As simple as that. Trust, given merely on a defiant look.

Melkor wants to answer- only to find himself stunned out of coherent speech for a great two seconds. He shakes his head instead, not to infirm nor deny anything but to anchor himself back from his surprise.

“He is, I hope,” Melkor eventually manages to say. “I have not- I can not-”

“Even in dreams? Irmo would be delighted to assist you.”

Melkor shakes his head- this time in negation. “Mairon avoids sleep as much as he is able to; and his mind is his own, protected by amulets. Irmo could not break its walls. Naught could.”

“Then a message, surely?”

Melkor gives her a bittersweet grimace. “Alas the conditions of my release refrain me from leaving Valinor, or sending another in my stead. Should I fail to obey such, the punition would not only be given once more but be harsher.”

Estë frowns; a slight line barring her forehead.

“I could send someone,” she offers. “I would not say the message would be from thee- but from I. I can not- I can not leave Valinor myself; there are too many obligations… but a Maia of I, one that would represent I and thee both; one that would carry the message you would seek to send…”

This… could be feasible. Manwë would not have to know; and how could he, indeed? And with Melkor’s memories of where Angband lies, there would be no need for the Maia to wander helplessly, Melkor has the map perfectly in mind. There would be no reason for Mairon to have changed the position of the fortress from the last time he had lived those times; and Mairon had been waiting for him in Angband. Thus should he be waiting as well, this time.

Melkor swallows, before offering her a sharp nod.

“It might just be feasible,” he admits; and notices that his heart had gone back to beating when it skips another beat. “Would you truly send an envoy?”

Estë laughs.

“Certainly, I would! Have you not been naught but a pleasant guest ever since your arrival in mine domain? Why should I not grant you the soothing of your mind; and Mairon’s as well?”

Why, indeed. Melkor can not comprehend why she would so freely offer one of her Maiar. He has been known for snatching them out of their Valar’s grips; known for not creating his own but stealing those of others. (no matter that all of them had been more than willing in following him)

It is when Melkor remembers something.

He can not believe he had forgotten about it. (He can very easily believe it; he had not given much interest in his armies, except for his close circles)

“I stole one of your Maiar,” he says. “Do you not fear that I would steal this one as well?”

Estë presses her eyes close for a second. “Has she taken another name, in your service?”

“She is known as the woman of the secret shadows,” Melkor tells her. “She has named herself Thûringwethil, lurking and healing herself within them.”

Estë lets out a small exhale of breath. The silence reigns free for a moment.

“I can not say I understand,” she murmurs. “I thought of having offered all that could be offered, but if that was sufficient enough… if that was not sufficient enough; then I can not blame her for seeking her purpose elsewhere. I can not fault her; and I can not fault you.”

Melkor stays quiet for a second. It is a sensitive subject, he is aware, to speak of the Maiar who have deserted Valinor. Perhaps it would not be the same had he been granted his own – perhaps it would not be the same if he had not personified change- and the desire to better oneself.

Alas, it is useless to ponder on what could have been.

“She certainly did,” he says, at last. “Her sight has grown keener on the truth of herself, and sharper on those saying it foul. Idleness shall not be a path to be tread in Utumno, nor had it ever been – and she has, if not peace of mind, found purpose between those great walls.”

Estë sighs, again. “Perhaps even a greater one now that war needs not to plague us.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Ah; but nonetheless, I will send word to Mairon. Speak only of where he shall be found; and any message of yours will find its way to him.”

There is a lump in Melkor’s throat, that he can not truly explain. It is born from the soft regret easily sighted in Estë’s eyes, and as his memories go back to Thûringwethil and the fate she had suffered in Tol-in-Gorhauth. He can not lie and say for himself to have been truly concerned, for there was only one Maia that warranted his unwavering attention, but he feels something aloof in his heart and throat.

Something heavy, weighing them down.

His gaze returns to the dragons’ eggs, in search of something to divert his interest. Something simpler than what lurks in Estë’s eyes- what seems to agitate his hroä.

Her own gaze follows the movement.

“Speak of when, and I will send them to thee.” Then, with a knowing smile. “You are aware, certainly; that there is one having at his disposal the tools you would require.”

Melkor frowns- eyes darting up to her. “And which tools would it be?”

“Ah, nay, less tools than powers, in truth,” Estë concedes. “- but one that would be of great help should you accept them.”

An eerie feeling begins to cloud Melkor’s heart. It is never great a thing than to conceal the truth under blabbering; and in beginning to wonder of whom is she referring to does he begin to understand.

“Nay!” Melkor immediately exclaims, lips twisting in a sneer. “I would ask for his help? And what of my honour? Disregarded only to beg for his favour?”

Estë exhales a long sigh.

“No honour shall be violated. He will not refuse you help; certainly not for such creatures. Speak to him; and speak of your heart- and your reasons. He will help you.”

“I can not,” Melkor snarls. ”I do not wish to! I will do with what had been given me; and if such does not suffice, then will I force the hand of fate and have it obey my will!”

Estë gives him an unimpressed stare.

“Then, I suppose it depends on whether you would choose false pride over practicality. You are grieved for reasons known only by yourself; but such grievance is not shared by him; I assure you.”

“An assertion carried by naught,” Melkor seethes.

“An assertion carried by his very own words on the subject.”

Melkor’s teeth cut at his lips, drawing blood. “I had an encounter with him, not long after I had been freed. His words were dripping of hypocrisy; his mind his own.”

“Go to him,” Estë insists. “If it is fire they lack, then fire shall he give them.”

Melkor pinches his lips in helpless anger, a very familiar one. Always rising upon having him be mentioned, always lingering not too far beneath the surface.

“They are mine,” he says. “They would twist them into making them his.”

Estë makes a soft noise, humming. “This might be between you to sort through. It does not come from malice, but curiosity. Would you not understand it? Sometimes does it cloud the gaze and mind; for curiosity is strong an influence indeed. Allow him to watch, to understand; and he will not trouble you.”

Melkor stays silent for a second.

“I do not want another reason to owe him a thing.”

“You certainly do not owe him anything,” Estë says, sharply. “You spoke yourself of the free will of those Maiar. It would do Mairon a great injure than to think his mind and fate not to be his own.”

Melkor tightened his lips. “I will,” he finally concedes. “If they do hatch under a fortnight.”

.

.

.

They do not hatch under a fortnight.

Estë does not say anything; she does not need to. Melkor seethes all the same; darting dark looks to the eggs.

If going to him does not work; Valinor will never heal after the destruction he will cause.

.

.

.

Melkor stands in front of His workshop with the fiercest reluctance that could ever exist. He is one second away from turning on his heels and leaving- but the stirring of the eggs painfully remind them of their current condition. They need to hatch, and can not eternally wait.

He has no other option.

Melkor takes care of smoothening the expression of sheer agony that twist his features before knocking. He lets his fist fall against the door once, then twice, his other hand holding the eggs.

The door immediately opens.

Aulë freezes on the doorstep, surprise colouring his gaze.

“I am in need of thy help,” Melkor immediately says, grimly. “My fire seems to not run hot enough.”

Aulë blinks. He stares at Melkor in silence, before letting his eyes fall on the eggs. “A new creature of yours?” he asks after a second or ten.

Melkor inclines his head.

“Will you-” he stops himself, gritting his teeth. Melkor exhales; a harsh outtake of breath, and rivets his eyes on Aulë’s. “Will thou help me, Aȝūlēz ?”

Aulë does not immediately answer. Instead, he considers Melkor from the top of his head to his toes; before crossing his arms on his chest. “It must have cost you much, to come to me.”

It has. Much more than Aulë will ever be aware of.

“Not truly,” Melkor lies through his gritted teeth.

Aulë lets out a small chuckle. “For a silver-tongued liar, thou are surprisingly a poor deceiver when it comes to matters dear to your heart. Let bygones be bygones, Melkor. Enter; and I shall do what I will be able to.”

Melkor sucks in a sharp breath, and pushes his way past Aulë. It will certainly be a hasty ordeal, he tells himself. An affair of a breath- the dragons hatching, and each party will be on its merry way.

.

.

.

“Fascinating,” Aulë breathes, golden eyes riveted on the eggs. He pokes at them with a metallic tool – and Melkor bites down angry protests, sinking his claws in his palms to keep himself in place. He needs Aulë’s help, he chants to himself, both a way to soothe himself and refrain from doing something he would later regret.

“Creatures of scales and a breath of fire, thou say?” Aulë then asks, turning to face Melkor. “How doth the fire takes place?”

“Condensed diethyl, rendered highly inflammable – with the use of an organ synthesizing both ethanol and sulfuric acid, and with the added used of a strong metal under their tongue as a catalyst: breathable fire.”

Aulë lets out a whistle, darting two impressed eyes to Melkor. “Based on the model yeast suffers? For the ethanol? Fangs dripping not venom but the sulphuric acid?”

Melkor inclines his head in agreement. “Based on the inland taipan’s design.”

“Impressive,” says Aulë. “And whence come the scales? To prevent the fire from spreading to their own flesh?”

“Indeed. For their own protection, but those of their youth as well- for as soon as they see the light of day do their scales take on the strength of steel itself. Harder than steel even; for no weapon made by elven nor mannish hand could strike it down.”

“It is a dangerous a thing than to make a beast indestructible,” Aulë murmurs, expression unreadable as he studies Melkor.

“For their safety,” Melkor is quick to insist. “I have little faith in the goodwill of the children, and I do not wish for them to be hunted and slain for pleasure.”

“Everything eventually goes back to Namo’s halls,” Aulë softly says.

Melkor tightens his jaw.

“Not them, and not too hastily, if my word is to be taken into account.”

Silence falls on them. Melkor lets his gaze wander on the rest of Aulë’s forges- and it has been indeed very long since he had wandered them. An eternity ago, another version of himself. It is there that he had first noticed Mairon; first been mesmerized by him.

Mairon had been working on some trinket – always one favouring to be a jewel-oriented smith despite his uncanny abilities for forging weapons. Melkor has a sudden wistfulness towards Grond- who has yet to be forged in those times. He will never need it anymore, but misses his favoured weapon all the same: so perfectly balanced in his grip, a truly terror-inducing Warhammer.

He is called away from his thoughts when Aulë seizes one of the eggs- and Melkor instinctively moves, claws stealing it away from Aulë, pressing it close to him. It is taught by years of battles, by Ancalagon having fallen, by Glaurung having been slain – Melkor does not trust the Valar with his dragons.

“I will have to take them if they are in need of fire,” says Aulë quietly.

Melkor lowers his gaze to the egg he holds – the green one, its colour radiating a vibrating hue. He is loath to be separated from it; for he knows perfectly well which dragon had been born from such an egg, but forces himself to put it back on the table.

Melkor scowls, pointing to the egg with a tilt of his chin. “Take it.”

Aulë is prudent in his movements, balancing the three eggs in a palm made larger than them. They are impressive in size, but both Melkor and Aulë are Valar; and shape is subjective a thing.

The eggs are settled inside a fireplace; and Melkor wants to scorn- if it had merely needed chimneys’ fires, he would not have asked of Aulë’s help. Aulë sends him a glance, although, as if perfectly aware of Melkor’s unsavoury thoughts.

“Clad thyself with thy ice,” Aulë instructs.

Melkor’s first instinct is to disdain such a command, but forces himself to see reason (it is truly a wonder how Aulë manages to rise such anger in him; deeper even than the one Tulkas rises) and takes a step backwards, ice cladding him.

Aulë breathes: and with it comes fire.

True fire; fiercer even (and Melkor is loath to admit it, but tis true) than Mairon’s, burning everything it touches. Fire like the dragons had only dreamed of achieving, of both destruction and renewal.

He breathes; and the fire engulfs the eggs.

When Aulë exhales his last outtake of breath, Melkor’s eyes are riveted on the eggs.

For a painful ten seconds, naught happens.

Aulë frowns. “It seems it was not sufficient…? Perhaps another try?”

Melkor prepares himself to sneer, snatch the eggs and say for Aulë’s work to be a disappointment, when the first egg begins to stir. A small movement, yet louder than all of his previous ones.

Both Aulë and Melkor still.

The egg stirrs once more. And then, the second one follows. It vacillates, enough so for a cracking noise to be heard. The third one is still silent: not even the slightest stirring.

The shell of the first one begins to crack. First, it is the faintest fissure along its surface- then spreading and spreading as more cracks erupt. Melkor holds his breaths deep in his lungs, eyes riveted on the egg. Another perhaps…?

The top of the egg crumbles on itself.

And, as suddenly as it had come, a small head pokes through. A redhead which yawns and cries out, the smallest fangs popping from his maw. It lets out small high-pitched noises-

A second high-pitched noise follows; and Melkor slides his gaze to the right to witness the second dragon try to breathe fire and let out a pitiful exhale of smoke. Green scales, and the dragon is now trying to dislodge himself from the crumbling shell.

His gaze expectantly falls on the last one: and Melkor is not disappointed. It cracks, and breaks in the middle, a third reptilian head poking through the morsels.

Melkor laughs, genuinely.

“Come forth,” he says, pride shining bright in his gaze.

“Come forth,” he says, and when the dragons hasten to obey, another laugh escapes from between his lips.

Dragons, at last.

.

.

.

Melkor finds himself mere hours later with a fuming cup of tea in his hands, staring at it suspiciously. He tries to be inconspicuous upon sniffing it, with a strange floral scent that cause him to be sceptical. It is only his cheerful attitude – born from the dragons’ arrival – that refrains him from pouring it on the ground.

Before him, Fëanor and Nerdanel are rapidly inhaling their own cups. Fëanor was on his second one – having drained dry the first in one gulp.

“We could-” Fëanor begins.

Nerdanel sends him a look sharp enough to slice through flesh. “No.”

Melkor, who knows better than to put himself in the first line, merely twists his cup between his fingers.

“There is still time,” Fëanor protests. His fingers are twitching on his cup: curling around the handle before leaving it- and then again curling around it. “Telperion will not bloom before two hours, and Turko’s archery competition will come in three after the first blooming hour.”

“We have promised him to be there,” Nerdanel says, tone suffering no contradiction. “And I will not have thee engulfed in a project – forgetting about the time.”

She takes careful sips at her tea, one arched eyebrow speaking of her inflexibility. It is only Nerdanel’s politeness that has prevented her from forbidding Melkor to enter the workshop, when he first appeared before their doors.

Melkor begins to wonder if he should not have turned on his heels, instead of staying. He fiddles with his cup, staring at it as if the answers of the world lay in the fuming liquid it held.

“I would not!” Fëanor objects. “I too have given my word, and I do not easily break it. I do not break it at all, in truth. I would remember it!”

“Better not to take any chance,” Nerdanel placidly tells him.

She takes another sip of her tea, then, and stares at Melkor. He returns her look, uneasy fingers threading through his hair. Twice already had he braided them, only to let them loose again, and start again working on them.

“At length did I speak with the master of the forges yesterday,” she then tells Melkor. There is curiosity in her tone – enough to warrant a following question; and certainly, she continues: “He told me tales of your work, visiting the forges to share knowledge as one does with sweet treats.”

“Yes,” Melkor says, for there is naught other to be said.

“Why is that?”

“Why not?” he returns her. “Should I hoard it all for myself? Which use would have I for it? Sharing entails change – and change I wish to see.”

Nerdanel hums, and Fëanor takes advantage of her diverted attention to drain his second cup dry, fingers wandering towards a stack of papers. Nerdanel has none of it, however, and smacks them slightly.

Fëanor grimaces- a sulky look now adorning his features.

“Why not return to Arda, if changes you so seek?”

Melkor pushes his cup of tea towards Fëanor. It is untouched, and Fëanor has begun to glance at the empty kettle. Two birds with one thrown stone: Fëanor’s favour, and a way for him to dispose of this strange beverage.

Fëanor seizes it with a curious glance, before not thinking too much about it, and sipping at his third cup.

“It would speak of failure, would it not?” Melkor points out. “It is easy indeed to abandon, and return to what can be changed- but tis the challenge that sweetens the affair.”

Another soft noise comes from Nerdanel’s throat. She considers Melkor over her own cup, under heavy brows.

“Many would say that change is not needed there.”

“Change is always needed. It is fearing it which carries more harm than rewards - miring the world in eternal stagnation.”

Fëanor loudly slurps at his tea. It elicits him two sharp gazes that he is quick to ignore, having taken to drum his fingers against the wooden table. His sharpened mind shines through his eyes: the way they dart from one place to another, the ever-working cogs visible through the windows of its irises.

Melkor can understand the fidgeting impatience. When the world has so much to be given, so much to receive, so much to exploit, idleness seems like a waste of time. They have time at free disposition, eternal beings that shall never suffer an end to their existence, but what one makes with his time is an entirely different matter.

It is a thing to sit lazily and contemplates existence; it is another to seize the opportunity, and shape the world as it should be shaped.

He lets out a soft exhale, mind finding its way to his dragons. He had been loath to leave them, once he had made his hastened escape from Aulë’s forges (the Vala managing to tear out a promise from Melkor of having a proper talk on certain subjects) but the Silmarils could not wait.

Estë had been entirely too mirthful to have them under her care, and while reluctantly parting from them, he could not dare say there was anyone else in Valinor he would have entrusted them with.

“I suppose it depends on which changes are being discussed,” Nerdanel tells him, taking another sip of tea. “Not all deserve to be heard.”

Fëanor’s eyes snap back to Nerdanel and Melkor. “Do they not?” he asks, lips twisted in a familiar sneer. “It is such words which are eliciting the stasis we are suffering under.”

“Follow what may, we have peace, at last. With the Dark Enemy gone from Arda, he should have brought the distress he wreaks upon us. The Valar are protecting us from it.”

Melkor sneers, hiding it behind a cough.

He chooses to let his mind wander as Fëanor fervently objects, and Nerdanel advances her own arguments. He watches them with a lazy eye – physically there, yet memories bringing him back ages ago. He lets himself be lulled into a haze, thoughts going to that herald sent by Estë.

She had come to Melkor, quietly inquiring of which message should be carried to Mairon. Melkor had long hesitated about it, unaware of how much he should say, of what to say. He fervently wished for Mairon to join him in Valinor – alas this was a sensitive subject. A case in need of being pled to Manwë, and accepted by the court of the Valar.

He was not certain of how many would plead in his favor. Tulkas – and in his stead, Nessa- would plead against, certainly. Ulmo as well. Namo, perhaps, who had witnessed the strangeness of his mind; and Varda, ever bitter words gracing her tongue upon talking to him. On the other side… perhaps Manwë would plead for him, perhaps he would follow his spouse’s stubbornness. Estë and Irmo were bound to be of help, as well as Nienna. Aulë would be quite glad at the opportunity of seeing Mairon again.

For the others… Melkor could not know.

“…-tar? Annatar?”

Melkor is jolted awake by Fëanor repeating his name, one hand waved in front of his eyes.

Fëanor studies him with narrowed eyes. “Were you trapped in the realm of dreams? Would such be possible when Laurelin is still shining its golden light? Would you have offended the pride of the Vala Irmo?”

Melkor stifles a laugh. “Irmo has no pride to take offence for,” he mutters, not unkindly. Estë might have the soft kindness devoted to healing, Irmo has such a bright, bubbling enthusiasm that naught seems to dampen it.

Fëanor’s eyes widen.

“Have you met him?”

Melkor suddenly remembers himself- and where he is. He pinches his lips then, trying to avoid the subject by dismissing it. “Only in rumours and hearsay.”

Fëanor’s gaze lose naught of its suspicion. He tilts his head to the left then- and in trying to avert his inquiring eyes, does Melkor notice that Nerdanel has left. He darts another gaze to Fëanor – seeking in his the possibility of a fight, but finds nothing of it.

“She has gone to retrieve our sons,” Fëanor tells him, eyes still narrowed.

Melkor inclines his head in agreement. “The time hasth come for I to leave then; and I will do as such – for thee to tend to your kin. We shall meet again, as time is no enemy of us but rather a friend, and in so, shall we work together.”

Fëanor offers him an acute look before nodding.

“Words well spoken, and so we shall. But should you wait for a moment more, I have something for thee, something that I hoped to receive your insight on.”

Melkor darts a curious eye at him. “Something for I to see? A work of yours?”

“Nay,” Fëanor quietly corrects, a visible hesitation lurking on his features. Tis an eerie sight, for Fëanor is not one for doubt. “A project as for now- I long thought of keeping it hidden, yet your gaze has been ever insightful, and such insight am I desperately in need of. Thou hasth a keen eye on matters dear to my heart, and I find myself thinking…”

Melkor laughs, glancing back with half a smile. “Give such a project to me, and I promise discretion over it. What is it that has entrapped your mind? I saw it wander mere moments ago. Jewellery, perhaps?”

“Not quite.”

Indulging mirth still grazes Melkor’s lips as Fëanor forages through his desk’s drawers. An expletive escapes the Ñoldo’s lips when he does not immediately find the object of his search, throwing papers and quills alike-

“Ah,” Fëanor breathes. “Tis here.”

He hesitates a second over the parchment, darting a cautious glance at Melkor.

It only strengthens the laugh on Melkor’s lips. “Ah, do not fret now! I have seen the wonders crafted by thy hands; and I shall judge your design in fairness and honesty. There is no need for shyness; it does not befit you.”

Fëanor’s teeth nibble at his lips, but he seems to make a decision, offering the parchment to Melkor. His gaze falls to it, on a familiar design, and – oh.

“I thought of three gems,” Fëanor quietly says. “-brighter than the trees.”

END NOTE: I greatly need your help, friends- what shall the dragons be named? after ancalagon, glaurung, smaug, etc? or their own names?

(I'm truly doing santa's work here lmao, a chapter so quick after an update, no matter it's bcs you give me such great love and reception, tysm!!!)

edit : @the-ring-wasnt-even-pretty made me the prettiest of estë, it’s exactly how I imagine her- so you can have a look at how she looks like:

Chapter 10: Lesson 10 : all gifts come with an hidden request

Chapter Text

Feanoro is staring at the dragons. Those are still not a size consequent enough to truly scare him, and it is full of bravery that he takes a step forward. Again. His nose wrinkles, a curious tremor running across it. Another brave step forward, the lips slowly parted.

Another step- and again, until his face is only a few millimetres away from them. They yawn, baby teeth filling their pink mouths, and it startles him-

In fear, and instinct, Feanoro does the only thing taught to him by nature. He opens his mouth, and tries to bite-

“Away, thou foul creature!” Melkor snarls, snatching the platypus from the ground – throwing it in Irmo’s arms. “Begone from mine dragons!”

Irmo lets out a startled gasp, twelve kilos of fur and flesh thrown directly into his arms, and instinctively sprouts another two pairs of arms to hold the beast.

“Do not throw him as such! He’s a gentle mind!” Irmo theatrically laments, passing a hand over the platypus’ head. He coos at the beat for a few seconds, caressing its beak, murmuring sweet reassurances.

Melkor throws him a dark look, slightly reassured by the apparent health of the dragons, and crosses his arms on his chest.

“Tis a nuisance,” he says. “A nuisance made from a mistake, that should lay where the rest of Estë’s creatures lay- and enraged creatures should be kept in the wilderness not inside a home.”

What Irmo mumbles resemble suspiciously “-thou are there are thou not-” which causes Melkor to arch an eyebrow and Irmo to put the platypus back to the ground, sauntering to Melkor to give him a slight pinch of the cheek. A small gesture meant to earn forgiveness- and if Melkor scowls at it, batting his hand away, both are perfectly aware for it to be merely an act.

(In truth, tis a token of affection that had first startled him, and that he now cherished- a demonstration of friendship that is entirely new to him)

“Have you given them names at least?” Irmo asks, perching himself back on the furniture of his home, flowers blooming in his purple locks. He co*cks his head to the side with a bright grin, one that he so rarely parts from, eyes riveted on the hatchlings.

They have yet to properly walk, fumbling on their legs; and Melkor can assuredly not leave them out of sight. He is not concerned, nor even attached; to the Void with such emotions; it is a matter of practicality. Those are his creatures, newborns, and Melkor should be there to witness their every step, tis all. Nothing more. He best knows of their tendencies to discover the world, and needs to keep a tight eye on them. A matter of surveillance, not affection.

“Not yet,” Melkor murmurs, eyes never darting from the blue one. “I can not settle on one. I had three in mind… I am not yet certain it would make them honour.”

“Fluffy!”

“Certainly not.”

“Snuggles! Cutie-pie!” Irmo is counting on his fingers, raising one each time he proposes another horrendous name. Another couple of flowers bloom on his hair with the intensity of his cheer, slowly covering the locks. “Lovely!”

Melkor arches an unimpressed eyebrow – an unashamed grin meeting his exasperation back.

“Those are dragons,” Melkor points out. “I will not call them snuggles.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

Irmo pouts, bright pink flesh taking on the faded hue of disappointment. He jumps from the couch, a movement so fast that the butterflies flying over his hair can not quite follow, and crouches in front of the dragons.

Melkor, who would have interposed himself between the dragons and any other Ainur, does not even move- and that much speaks better than a thousand words.

“Answer mine inquiry, beauties,” Irmo asks them, eyes widened in wonder and puzzlement. “What should thou wish to be named?”

The dragons are still too imprisoned in the claws of youth to speak, and they blink, yellow eyes riveted to Irmo. Melkor can almost see the cogs in their minds- baffled by the explosion of colour and mirth that faces them. The red one advances, and shrieks in such a way that does not comfort Melkor.

He assuredly does not want for any of them to claim Irmo as part of their hoard.

“Thou have the bright hue of a butterfly!” Irmo laughs, sending a flying kiss to the green dragon. “I love it! Thou shall be the brightest of butterflies, shall thou not? Bright, bright, bright, and oh- yes!”

Irmo’s cry startles Melkor into silent staring. Irmo is laughing to himself, hands clasped in front of himself, shaking his head in self-agreement. “Butterfly!” he says, giggling once more. “We shall call thee butterfly! Butterfly in Valarin!”

What-

“No!”

If names are to be given, they should be names evocating might, evocating power, names such as “great destroyer” such as “beast of no-precedent” ! But the dragons are always been creatures to choose their own names; say their displeasure if not satisfied by it; and as soon as Irmo blurts out: “Wilwarin!” does the green dragon let out a roar.

At least, its first attempt at a roar. More akin to a cry, but one of agreement- and never had Irmo’s skin flushed such a bright pink, had he been so beaming.

Melkor, on the other hand, is fuming. His hands leave place for claws- breath coming in harsh exhales, fury blazing in his eyes. They can not! Beasts of such might! Butterfly-! He nearly chokes on his anger, and threatens to properly explode when Irmo picks the dragon up and it lets him; one laughing, the other purring.

“Wilwarin!” Irmo says again; delightedly. “I’ll call thee Wilya, little scaled butterfly!”

Melkor takes a deep breath, closing his eyes.

“Irmo,” he murmurs.

Irmo immediately rises a beaming face towards Melkor, fingers busy with tickling the scales of Wilwarin- (the name elicits another wave of anger, he knows the dragon will refuse to answer to anything else from now on)

“Yes?”

“Thou named mine dragons without mine agreement,” Melkor says, his tone terrifyingly bland. “Thou named a beast of destruction butterfly. Thou named mine beast of destruction butterfly.”

“It fits!” Irmo loudly protests, once more twisting his lips in a pout. “Ask dearheart of it!”

“Ask-?”

“I suppose it could,” Estë says; and Melkor forces himself not to be startled – having been sufficiently distracted by the situation to not notice her apparition.

The Valie is leaning against the door, warm compresses in her hands; soft brown eyes smiling upon the scene she watches. Recently has she taken to clad herself in dark yellow robes, highlighting the black hue of her skin.

“At least, it shall surprise thy foe,” Estë raises, with a slight chuckle. “They should not expect a being called Butterfly to be such mighty a creature.”

“Better to have a fear-inducing name,” Melkor seethes, gritting his teeth. Anger still runs deep in his vein, and the unashamed delight of Irmo causes him to want to destroy something. “To startle the foe before the fight has even begun.”

She hums.

“Alas it shall not be the case there,” Estë says, now truly laughing.

Irmo is now making cooing noises at Wilwarin (if having to settle with such a name, Melkor will not go the lengths of calling the dragon with this ridiculous epessë) and Melkor fights the urge to fall prey to his fury. He closes his eyes again; and exhales through his nose.

Peace, he tells himself. There should be no reason to use the dragons as beasts of war. No reason at all.

(not even the silmarils’ first sketches safely hidden in his chambers)

.

.

.

“Great Destroyer,” Melkor is telling the red dragon. The third one, he does not try to name. The third one, the black one; he has a name already for, lingering on his lips. A memory. Guilt: insidious, despicable. “Mightiest. Meletya. Conqueror. Terror-inducing. Saura. Ruthless.”

No reaction, except for the faintest blink.

Melkor stares at the red scales, the metallic hue to them painfully reminiscing him of another red. Another being. He wonders, absently, if Estë’s envoy has reached Utumno yet. If they even have left Valinor.

Melkor resumes his tries. “Burning, Gwedhor. Eglamben. Forsaken. Foe. Giror. Groth. Strong spirit? Faervelon.”

The dragon does not as much as bat an eye. Wilwarin is toying with a bone a few steps away, the Black One sleeping under his wings. Melkor does not abandon his task. He never did.

His thoughts go back to Mairon, who had the one to name them; who had always fancied appropriating himself things by putting a claim on it- such as a name. Melkor’s claims had been rather different, enjoying more when it was the fëa which bond itself to him… As the little Mole had shown; the lovely Prince of firstborns, with delicious greed in his eyes, and fierce desire in his heart. Tis a pity that he has yet to be born, or perhaps is he? Melkor had never shown much concern for trivialities such as age – what was age when one lived eternally?- and perhaps the Mole lives, indeed.

Curiosity- and want- guides him then. The little prince had been truly a wonder, his deep hunger and want making him rather irresistible. Melkor had asked of Mairon to leave him to Melkor’s care, and how delicious had been the golden whispers given to the little Prince, how delicious had it been to see the fear turn into greed, the distress into hope. All he wanted, promised.

He would have kept him; for he and Mairon to enjoy, had he not needed a spy in Gondolin. Disappointment had been deep indeed when news of his death had reached them.

Ah- but no matter; tis was Mairon who held his heart; and the disappointment had soon faded for indifference. Mairon… He burns for him to rejoin him in Valinor; his hopes all settled on one envoy.

“Precious flame,” Melkor almost absently says, speaking to an absent Mairon, and then- the dragon blinks, and lets out a cry.

Melkor stills, unsure of having heard it right. “Precious flame? Naremir?”

Another cry, louder this time.

Ah. Well. Mairon will be honoured at least.

.

.

.

For one age had Melkor been enthralled by the Silmarils, and a few others more missing their lights. Time is spent differently in the Void- for one second is never one second; and it might stretch as long as a thousand years, as well as consist of one-hundredth of a second. And each of them, each second, each minute, each year, each age, spent mourning for the light that had once graced him, for the brightness that had been cladding his brows.

He had yearned for them, and knows for such longing to be madness – for they had been stolen by the Valar; and after that, taken care of in a way Melkor would never know.

And now… Now that Melkor has but a fragment of them in his possession, he can not bring himself to look at it. He is not certain as to why. Perhaps it is in fear of his own greed, of the hunger that threatens to devour him whole should he not be careful enough. Perhaps it is in fear of what lays in this parchment, which secrets revealed by Fëanor’s handwriting, which hidden knowledge suddenly reachable. Perhaps it is in fear of what it is suggesting: for his hard-sought peace to threaten to break, and the War of Wrath to once more begin.

Melkor flies to Alqualondë. Since long had been his imprisonment of Tol-In-Glaennen a joke, for he is able to move as he please – no matter what Manwë had once decreed. There is he certain, will he find the peace of mind that so valiantly eludes him.

Alqualondë has been built for such a purpose – holding in its nest the laughing mirth of the Teleri, the sound of their children playing in the sand, the ever-advancing construction of their ships, the waves crashing against the shore. It is a place made to reflect; and find inside oneself the answers so yearned for, and Melkor is in desperate need of reflection.

For the first few times does he adorn his Annatar fana; before growing irritated at it – at the disguise, the meaning behind it: the fact that he is forced to hide – and shedding it without another thought. He petulantly thinks that he is not there to deceive, neither even establish contact, and that if they are so fearful they will not approach, then so be it.

Ulmo is close, certainly; far too close; feeling the viscous weight of his gaze upon his neck, like water being stirred inside a jar but Melkor has good faith in his ability to defend himself should it come to it.

There does he take the parchment from his pockets, sitting on the pebble beach, and twirls it between his fingers without ever opening it. He could destroy it, he thinks, one day. He would set it ablaze- and perhaps Fëanor’s mind would not have retained the entirety of the process. But he can not. He can not. Not when it is what burns the fiercest in his heart; what he so longs for it aches. The Silmarils- again; finally; forever.

Three damned jewels- three beautiful jewels- and he almost despairs that he has come to know of them for had he not- had he not- it would not hurt so deep to have them missing. He hates them as fiercely as he loves them. The light of Eru! The light that has deserted him! Melkor loathes him and himself also with a rage that would frighten any other: furious about being dependent on what he despises.

This is the time when he closes the parchment, tucks it back into his pockets and presses his palms against his eyes. Fëanor is a prideful creature; and will not give them without a good reason. And if this time Melkor has no reason to fly back to Arda, then he has naught to propose to Fëanor – no protection against the Valar. But then, perhaps- the thought of Míriel is a tempting one.

When the waves come crashing too harshly at the shore does Melkor usually takes his leave – not eager to tempt Ulmo into action. He slithers into Tol-In-Glaennen, fana made of wings and scales leaving place to his elven-like one; and safely retrieves his dragons from Estë’s Maiar.

They are growing nicely. Already are some fangs piercing the softness of their maw; not sharp enough to tear through flesh nor inflict genuine pain, but a step nonetheless. For them to reach their former size would need of him to wait two hundred, perhaps three hundred years: but Melkor comes to the decision of halting their growth. It is a tough one to take; for it truly means that they will not be made for beasts of war- but nevertheless does he do it, setting upon them a limit of size. Never will they be of a larger size than horses, never will they truly rule the sky.

Yet Melkor is not certain he would desire for them to- not anymore, not when Ancalagon himself (his prodigy, his favoured-) had fallen. And Ancalagon- Melkor finally forces himself to name as such the third dragon, the black one. He had tried names and names and names; none satisfying the hatchling- and when finally had he gritted out the wretched (loved) name had the dragon immediately cried his approval.

Ancalagon, then; the Black. And- Naremir; precious flame, which is not mighty a name but a keen remembrance, which please Melkor just as much.

And the last one.

Melkor sighs often upon calling the dragon.

Butterfly.

He would have unlashed on Irmo the full extent of his wrath had the younger Vala not been so terribly infatuated with Wilwarin, making cooing noises at it and bringing it fresh pieces of meat. And it is an affection given back; for the dragon cries of delight upon seeing Irmo, and is never slow to jump into his willing arms.

He takes to inspect their claws and teeth as regularly as possible – for if they are to be strong such precautions need to be taken. A particular diet is followed as well; for Melkor refuses to feed them tough meat. It needs to be as tender as can be; as had once been instructed to the orcs in charge of their care, and more than once does Melkor throws away what Estë’s Maiar have given the dragons- fetching for them something of better quality.

More than once has he also to separate his dragons from the wretched beast offered to Estë, that damned Feanoro; and grabs its neck before placing it in Estë and Irmo’s room – slamming the door behind him. They have yet to say they mind; and so does he continue to do so.

Against his better instincts; Melkor does accept another few rounds of owl-barnacle. Irmo beams for three days straight – the timelapse between Melkor’s acceptance and their first round – and the games end with Irmo winning (as expected) and Melkor having understood even less than before the functioning of those games.

In despair does he propose for Manwë- who has taken to visit more and more; as if he had not Valinor to rule upon and entailed responsibilities – to play against Irmo; in the hope of killing two birds with one stone. It turns out to be three birds: for once more does Manwë’s legendary patience utterly disappear, leaving him once (in a spectacular memory that Melkor will cherish until Dagor Dagorath) to break the table.

(Manwë tries to propose chess- and upon seeing Irmo eating his own chess pieces, saying for it to be “revolution against the monarchy” swiftly changes his mind)

This quiet mirthful atmosphere is the reason for why he pushes the Silmarils into the back of his mind; and continues to separate his time between three places: Tol-In-Glaennen, Alqualondë and Tirion.

In Tirion does he continue his work at the forges. Torthedir’s craft is blossoming into something acceptable; if not yet perfect, but Melkor has always demanded perfection from others. (-and one of the reasons Mairon had caught so much of his attention, in the beginning, never a flaw to be found in everything he set his mind to) Before long are the Ñoldor most used of this strange Lord Annatar, Vanyar having come not from Taniquetil but having been led to Valinor by the Lord of the Hunt, Oromë. Before long are they so used to his presence in the forges that they come to advice without a second thought; referring to him even with the master of the forge being present.

Before long, also, and tis startles Melkor fiercely, does they bring him gifts. Some does he have no interest in, either regifting him to those surrounding him (and Irmo now sports very vivid golden earrings, shaped in the form of an hydrangea) or burning them to ash. But some others- some; Melkor likes. Some he keeps for himself, strangely appreciative of something have been made for him; and constitutes himself a small hoard his dragons most enjoy sleeping on.

In almost all that matters; Melkor should say for life to be stress-free.

It comes not as a surprise then that Fëanor finally tires of his silence, and comes searching for Melkor.

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Fëanor is stomping his left foot on the ground, Melkor resolutely hiding behind a pillar.

“Were. Is. He.”

“We do not know, my lord,” Torthedir stutters, head kept in a bow. “He had not come since the previous week- and it is sometimes so fleeting-”

Fëanor silences him with a look. “I do not believe thee,” the Prince of the Ñoldor furiously murmurs. “He is said to favour the forges; and I can not believe he would go a full week without his craft. Where does he live? Can nobody tell me as such?”

Torthedir scratches his cheek. Melkor repeats to himself that a gift is in order; something magnificent- for the Ñoldo’s lying.

“We do not ask such questions, my lord. He comes and goes as he pleases- and we do not know where he comes from.”

“Then find it.”

“We will, my lord!”

Fëanor exhales through his nose, then, and pinches the bridge of his nose, and resumes, still in quiet anger: “Nobody knows of him. Nobody where he lives. No family. No close friends, it would seem. This Annatar is growing to be more and more of a mystery, and tis not to mine liking.”

“He is a secret person,” Torthedir offers, wincing.

Fëanor throws him a look under heavy brows.

“I do not care,” he hisses. “I want him found; and I want him found now!”

Melkor presses a hand against his lips to prevent laughing- he can not help it- there is a red flush to Fëanor’s cheeks- a sheer frustration- and he is stomping his foot as a child would, and in his arms does one of his numerous son sleeps, strapped to his torso as a bow would be. Tis the reason for his angry whispering, for he can not lose his temper without waking the Elfling, and a vein threatens to pop on Fëanor’s forehead.

“Find him,” Fëanor finally says, after another long sigh. “Find him, or else.”

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“Have you angered the Prince?” Torthedir curiously asks; after Fëanor’s third visit of the week. Each of his smooth lies has earned him an added jewel to a belt Melkor is forging him, and it promises to be great a thing indeed. “Why would he look so ardently for thee?”

Melkor merely hums.

“There are some stones he desires for me to look at. I need time- for they shine too bright for mine eyes.”

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“Fëanor is looking for thee,” Nerdanel tells him, an amused smile gracing her lips.

His work with Fëanor has not stopped Melkor from visiting Nerdanel’s workshop, (nor would Fëanor look for Annatar so close to home) and Melkor is sprawled on a chair, skimming through Nerdanel’s latest written work.

Tis a study on marble, and how to sculpt it best- and surprisingly well-thought, and insightful.

“I am aware,” Melkor says.

“Would you consider indulging him? He has punched through three walls.”

“Why are thy walls of such poor material to begin with?”

Nerdanel smiles. “For him to punch through them, silly. I would not want for him to break his hand.” She pauses then. “It did not work, however. He did break his hand three times and cried. A Maiar of our Lord Manwë came to help heal it.”

Melkor blinks. Yes. Certainly. It has sense.

He exhales then.

“I will,” he reluctantly says. “In a few days.”

“Tis all I ask,” Nerdanel tells him with a nod. And then, as swiftly as she had breached the subject, rests her attention on something else differently- asking Melkor’s opinion on it.

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Despite what Melkor has said, he does not talk to Fëanor. He escapes him as often he can- that is, until Fëanor manages to corner him.

Melkor is walking out from Nerdanel’s workshop when he walks into someone- and promptly freezes upon noticing who had he walked into. Fëanor freezes as well- and in a second, shouts:

“You! Give me back mine work!”

Melkor has led armies. Melkor has given life to the mightiest creature of all Arda. Melkor has Sung the Discord, opposed Eru himself. He has tried to invade Valinor, and fought the War of Wrath; be called Morgoth – Dark Enemy – and sent in punishment to the Void. He has seen the world, all the aspects of it; and seen the horror of the Void.

Yet, Melkor takes one look at Fëanor’s face – distorted by outrage and anger- and turns on his heels to run.

He vaguely hears Fëanor scream and try to run after him – alas the Prince has always been a spoiled one, clad in delicate silk who refrains him from running, having not yet (perhaps not ever this time) learnt of harsher conditions of living, and he falls to his knees trying to follow Melkor.

Melkor runs; aware of the strange looks he is been given; and runs straight past Tirion, runs for miles and miles, straight into Oromë’s forest.

He does not stop until he has broken through the woods, until he is truly in the middle of it- surrounded by trees.

Until, Melkor realizes he has intruded on someone sitting cross-legged, tanning fur pelts.

He stills, immediately, ready to turn on his heels and go, when the elf rises his eyes from his work, and says, baffled: “Annatar?”

Melkor frowns, for he does not immediately recognize the fair features that face him – covered by black markings and paint. It is when the Elf rises to his feet, pushing the furs away from him; striding to Melkor – that he finally places him in his memories.

“Thou art Fëanor’s son; are thou not?” Melkor cautiously asks; studying the Elf. He vaguely remembers having seen him in this life, although can not remember when. “We have met.”

The Eldar – what is his name, another of the finwë- has the beginnings of a smile on the corner of his lips, lacing his hands in front of him.

“We met indeed, Lord Annatar. Have thou so quickly forgotten thy striker?” the Eldar says- finwë- finwë- Melkor grits his teeth- unable to remember. Fëanor has too many sons for him to remember! “I feel wounded,” he adds, his amused smile betraying the mirth behind the words.

Melkor vaguely remembers having asked a fair Eldar to be his striker, for they did not come often amongst the Ñoldor, but the details elude him. It had been years ago.

“I am Celegorm,” the Eldar finally admits, taking pity on Melkor’s inability to remember. “Third son of Fëanor.”

Yes-! “Turcafinwë!”

The Eldar – Turcafinwë, Celegorm, laughs. It causes the golden beads braided in his hair to wobble, his mirth shaking him whole. He is tall for an Eldar, although not as tall as Maedhros had been – as Maitimo was.

Melkor frowns, once more; trying to seize his memories. He can not quite recall having ever seen the Eldar on the battlefield, even through the eyes of his beasts. Well. He certainly must have; but Melkor’s preoccupations had rather been focused on other matters.

The part of him that longs for the Silmarils, the part of him that had Sung the Discord, that had called for Ungoliant’s help and waved poisonous thoughts in the Prince of Mole’s mind, wonders if Turcafinwë would have resisted as Maedhros had. Would the third in line be as strong as the first? Would he have begged, deliciously screamed for mercy, or would have he been as stubborn, as prideful? Melkor’s eyes gleam at the thought, the something flashing in them malicious enough for Celegorm to flinch.

Melkor chastises himself for it, taking care of smoothening his features before talking again. “Mine apologies for my defaulting memory,” Melkor says, from the tip of his lips. “How do thou fare,-” and then forces himself to add: “-my prince?”

“Son of a Prince!” Celegorm is quick to dismiss, waving his hand. “Son of the son of the King. Third in line- never to be King; not that I would yearn for it. There is little need for such titles, Annatar, for those things matter not for the way of the woods. Titles, are a social construction, which does not exist here. Roles, ah, certainly- but obsequiousness is reserved for the cities, as we have no use for it there.”

“Thou have talked with Oromë,” Melkor realizes, arching an eyebrow – before he can refrain himself.

In Celegorm’s words is it painfully easy to recognize Oromë’s speech- his disdain for the social constructions crafted by the Ainur – and then taken by the children. Oromë sees no need for bowing, for silky flatteries, for honeyed lies and deceptions. Oromë has in him the harshness of the beasts surrounding him: and either does he speak the truth or does he speak not at all; finding for actions to be worth a thousand words.

Surprise flashes on Celegorm’s features- before delight quickly replaces it.

“You have talked with the Lord of the Hunt?”

Melkor hums; unwilling to wave too complicated lies. “I did, sometimes. For all the difference in might between Valar and Eldars, the former do so rarely refuse an audience. They do not seek contact, tis all, but have little against it.”

It comes from leisure, sloth, rather than contempt. The Valar can not understand why they would purposefully seek the children, yet never seem to be delighted to have someone asking for their insight. Paradoxical; yet testifying once more of the stagnation having fallen upon them.

“I see,” Celegorm breathes, impressed. “I was not aware… I thought he seldomly offered advice…”

“Advice?” It is Melkor’s turn to arch an eyebrow. “Oromë does not offer advice.”

It was one of the most infuriating things with the Vala – how he never seemed to offer council, merely listening- and then, either shrugging, either returning to his duties. More than once had it enraged Melkor.

“Of course he does!” Celegorm protests. “He offered me all kinds of advice when I first joined the Hunt.”

“Thou joined the Hunt?”

An Eldar- joining Oromë’s Hunt? Made solely of Maiar?

Celegorm laughs, again, scratching his cheek. “He offered it to me,” he admits. “I certainly could not refuse, nor did I want to. I know Adar wants me to follow his steps at the forge, but I can not- I have sworn myself to the Hunt. Only a greater oath would separate me from it, and I can not see such a thing happening!”

Melkor blinks, truly stunned into silence.

He considers Celegorm with a new eye – from the little scars adorning his fingers (remains of hunting with Oromë, certainly) to the child-like mirth on his features. He hums then, and crosses his arms on his chest.

“I see. Congratulations are in order, then.”

“Thank you,” Celegorm smiles, inclining his head. But the moment is quick to pass, for Celegorm then furrows his brows, saying: “Are you hiding from Adar?”

For a curt second- Melkor hesitates between either lying, flying back to Tol-In-Glaennen, or saying the truth. He chooses the later, defiantly staring.

“I am,” Melkor says.

Celegorm makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. “Would you like to help me, then?”

What?

His features must reflect his confusion for Celegorm adds, inclining his chin towards the furs : “Help me with them. Tis tough but rewarding work.”

Well. Why not?

It is so that Melkor finds himself tanning the furs a few minutes after, comfortable silence stretching between them. That is, until Celegorm’s curiosity gets the best of him.

“Why are you running from Adar? Is it a feud between thee?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Melkor says. He pinches his lips in a hard line; working over the furs. “I have something to ask of Fëanor- something for him to give I- and I am not certain how to proceed.”

Celegorm laughs, shaking his head.

“Adar will never give you something without getting something in return. Is it something valuable to him, that you desire?”

“Unspeakable value.”

“Ah,” Celegorm says, frowning. “Why do you desire it so…?”

Melkor’s jaw hardens and he does not answer.

“Fair enough,” Celegorm laughs, again. “Well- Have you thought of what pleases Adar best?”

“I have; and I can not settle on a thing that would please him more than what I seek.”

“Is it Nanneth’s hand..?”

Melkor’s horror speaks a thousand words.

“Not Nanneth then,” Celegorm says, chuckling, raising his hands in the universal proof of innocence. “Something tangible?”

Melkor can at least give him this. “Something tangible,” he agrees, eyes riveted on what his hands were doing.

“Adar likes best to improve his work. Knowledge of his craft. He favours what shines bright, and delights himself in reading forgotten tales. Recently he has taken an interest in astrology, gazing at the stars, wondering how their light had came to be. He studies the fëa as well; and is well-versed in medicine. It had become most useful when the lord of the Hunt had brought Eldar from Arda – after the Dark Foe had marred it. He enjoys, I suppose, more than all of this, Nanneth, and us. Up to little Atarinkë, and then, of course, there had been Grandmother – who I think he loves and cherishes even more than us-”

“Míriel ?” Melkor quietly asks.

Celegorm inclines his head.

“Grandmother Míriel, yes.”

“Do thou think his love for her is greater than for the mightiest creation he would make?”

Celegorm frowns, ready to spit a certain “yes!” before stopping. Before truly thinking of it.

“I am not sure,” Celegorm says, faintly smiling. “I would like to say yes, I burn to, but I am not sure.”

Mmh. Melkor returns to the furs, thinking.

Míriel, against the Silmarils.

The idea becomes more and more appealing.

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“Thou shall rule the sky of Valinor nonetheless,” Melkor tells his dragons, curled deep over his chest. “To the Void Manwë and his birds, such realm belongs to thee and thee only.”

They stir in their sleep, one having his muzzle pressed over Melkor’s naked collarbone, one nudging his wing in the crook of his shoulders, and the last one- the one he favours most, Ancalagon, purrs under his hand- absent caresses coming to stroke the scales.

There is a weight in his chest, one that he can not truly explain- burning and burning as he watches them grow.

Naremir yawns in his sleep, pink tongue flickering in the air, and a small puff of smoke is exhaled through his nose. Melkor is not certain that their fire will attain the depths of destruction they once had, but it certainly will do much damage.

He had tried, a few times, to refrain them from sleeping on the bed. Alas, as soon as his fana requires sleep does they seem to understand it, jumping on the bed to rest with him. More often than once had he woken up choking: one wing, or even one whole dragon having settled over his mouth and nose.

Tis strange how they seem to follow each of his steps. He can not quite recall them being so… clingy before. Yet there they seldomly leave him respite- except for when he leaves them in Estë’s Maiar care.

In their worst moment, certainly given poor habits by those Maiar, had Wilwarin sucked on his fingers- biting it as if it was to be her next meal. In startled surprise had he almost burnt the dragon’s muzzle- and then, upon seeing this, had taken to try pushing her to properly hunt.

He had introduced the dragons to Feanoro once more- hoping that they would eat the beast (yet ready to take action should the platypus find himself in true danger) but the dragons had been scared of the beast. Either did it truly live to its namesake, or were the dragons on the verge of becoming soft.

Melkor had raged after that- for they were to be beasts of destructions, of rampages, of war-! Then had calmed upon reminiscing himself for the umpteenth time that there was no war to come.

Eru be damned, Melkor thinks one day, particularly vindicative. He does as he pleases – and if he desires softer dragons then softer dragons shall he have. He is in no measure bound to what Eru had desired for him to be- the Dark Foe made to sublimate the ‘good’ in Eru’s champions.

By sheer pettiness does he accept Irmo’s offer to have his own Maiar watching over the dragons- butterflies flying out of reach, keeping an eye over his creatures.

To his absolute lack of surprise it is Wilwarin who favours those most, never one to chase them like her brothers do, calm enough to have those butterflies Maiar land on her nose, tickling the scales on her flesh.

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Melkor takes them to Estë later, upon discovering some dysfunction with the dragons’ eyelids. They seem to be constantly blinking upon looking at him, soft low blinks taking seconds- and upon inspecting his eyes can he not find anything.

He stomps his foot, waiting as Estë inspects them.

She frowns then. “Could you come here?”

He complies, although he can not understand the reason behind the demand. He reaches for where she urges him to, crouching in front of the beasts.

“Look at them, if you’d please,” Estë softly instructs him.

Melkor obeys, and once more does three pairs of eyes look at him- blinking softly.

Estë makes a soft noise. “Ah, I see.”

“What is it? Which illness plagues them?”

Estë laughs; and picks up Wilwarin, pressing a kiss over the tip of her nose. The dragon lets out a cry of delight, wings flapping, before Estë settles her in her arms.

“They are not sick, Melkor,” she says. “It is the same gesture that felines do.”

Melkor- who had never been surrounded by felines, for the sole exception of Tevildo (who could not truly count for he was more of a Maiar than a true cat) does not understand.

“The same gesture, you say?”

Estë laughs once more, a bright one, before pressing another kiss against Wilwarin’s scales. “Affection,” she says, smiling. “It is to demonstrate affection.”

Ah. He- sees.

The weight in his chest dwells and dwells, threatening his breathing abilities.

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“Owl-barnacle!” Irmo shouts, slamming his fist on the table.

Melkor does not protest, nor does he even say anything. Anger has long escaped him about this game, and instead does he leans back into his seat- crossing his arms.

“I wonder,” Melkor says, almost absently. “-if someone has ever managed the feat to win against thee.”

Irmo frowns, a series of camellias blooming on his hair, the pink hue of his skin fading for pale blue. “But of course. Our Lord Manwë has secured many victories-”

Anger, Melkor finds, is dangerously quick to come back.

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It comes a time when Melkor can not evade Fëanor for much longer. It had been weeks ever since Fëanor has asked him to review his work- and weeks of swiftly escaping any attempt of being found.

Tis why Melkor cautiously calculates when is the best time to ensure tentative calm from Fëanor, and finds it to be when his offspring is with him.

Hence, Melkor being led through the King’s castle (surprisingly easy- before he comes to realize upon seeing the guard’s sheer relief that Fëanor’s search for him must not have been very discreet indeed) to Fëanor’s quarters.

His plan is simple indeed: he has none.

He has long learned that tis useless to wave plans with Finwë’s son, for the elf had a tendency of burning them at an alarming rate. This, and if Melkor has to reluctantly admit it, his own hunger for the Silmarils tend to poison them. Thus, Melkor comes with a proposition- yet no true plan to implement it.

The guard gestures for him to wait, before giving a series of curt knocks- and sliding in between the doors.

Melkor inspects his nails in false detachment. (nonetheless mesmerized by the soft flesh behind them, the mobility, the absence of pain-)

The door is slammed open.

“Annatar,” Fëanor says, in a growling voice. “What a surprise.”

Melkor forces a bright beam on his lips- mimicking Irmo in his energetic days, and difficulty manages not to bellow with laughter when Fëanor scowls. “Lord Fëanor! Is it, truly? You have asked of me to come to see you when I would have finished reviewing your work, after all.”

“I have been looking for you. I have seen you in the streets. You ran away from I.”

“Have I?” Melkor innocently co*cks his head to the side. “You must be mistaken, my lord, perhaps another Ñoldo…?”

Fëanor’s hard glare loses another few degrees. “It was thee, Annatar.”

“Surely it can not.”

“It can.”

“Or perhaps- oh!” Melkor brightens, then falls into a pensive stance. “But it can not- red silk robes…?”

“Yes!”

“Ah, mine apologies, then, my lord. I mistook you for a drunkard. I saw only a red face- snarling lips, wobbling movements, and thought for a Ñoldo to have partaken in too much wine. What a plague it is, I thought-! For the wine to take such dignity out of an Eldar! What a shame!”

Fëanor is trembling. Melkor does not quite think it is out of fear or cold.

“It was I-” Fëanor hisses- before being brutally interrupted by a hand tugging at his tunic.

Two pairs of eyes lower to the ground, to see an Elfling rise his arms in direction of Fëanor. Immediately does all anger vanish from his face, a strange softness taking control of it.

Fëanor settles the Elfling against his hip, which must be the last one in date- Curufin? All finwë- Melkor is lost; and when Fëanor smiles at his son, Melkor is brutally reminded of the differences between this young Fëanor and the one Gothmog had slain.

It is so easy to see it, yet Fëanor’s shortness of temper is a thing that never changes- blinding Melkor the changes. There are there, however. Physical ones: for the Fëanor that stood before him was one that had never learned of crossing the Helcaraxë, of starvation and cold, that had never learned of true war, of fighting, on the toll it took on both spirit and fana. It is a Fëanor which has lived a life as a Prince of Valinor- who had yet to be cast away, forced to fend for himself – a life spent spoiled rotten by the King, spent pampered. It is a Fëanor with a faint softness to his cheeks, to his sides: the fana of a nobleman rather than a warrior. Strong arms certainly awe-inspiring for many Eldar, strengthened by forging, but otherwise, a lithe, soft body who has not learned privation.

Tis such a harsh contrast to who the Fëanor Melkor had known that it startles him into staring. The one he had known, the one of the War of Wrath, had been sharpened by years of war, of rage. One who had seen the healthy fat of his youth be eaten by the Helcaraxë, who had taken the sword and made himself a master of it- one who had fought, one with sharp cheekbones and burning eyes, who had been eaten alive by his desire for revenge.

But more obviously even is the softness of Fëanor’s expressions. The smile he gives his son, the affection clouding his gaze, the way he indulges the elfling’s curiosity- allowing him to tug at his dark hair.

(it makes Melkor wonder if such a change was observable in him too)

Melkor waits for Fëanor to play with his son for a few moments more; more out of curiosity and surprised staring than politeness.

Alas, his patience has limits, and he clears his throat.

“Thy work, Fëanor.”

Fëanor raises his eyes to him, having been pinching the squishy cheeks of Curufin. (it is Curufin, is it not? or Makalaurë? Melkor can not remember)

“Ah, yes-” Fëanor pinches his lips then, and turns on his heels. “Follow me.”

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Melkor keeps cautiously glancing at the Elfling, ready either to operate a strategic retreat or to keep him at arms’ length should he decide to munch on Melkor’s clothing. Tis not a foolish fear- for the Elfling is presently munching on his own sleeves, the silken fabric seemingly to his taste.

“-Annatar,” Fëanor calls.

Melkor immediately glances up.

“Are thou listening?” Fëanor asks, frowning.

He had not. “Certainly. I merely wished for thee to develop: perhaps this time on the energy stream generated?”

Fëanor brightens, and launches himself on a series of new explanations for how had he planned the power of a star into the gems- albeit feared that the light would not be sufficient enough to truly overcome everything that existed.

Melkor stops at that- what had Fëanor used, the previous time? Certainly not the power of a star: for the Silmarils had shone much brighter than any star could ever. No it had been something more powerful, something- something like either a Song- but no Valar had sung for his stones, made by his hands alone- or- or-

Melkor, who had never truly thought about how the Silmarils had been made, rather focusing on for what purpose, freezes. Or- a fëa?

Fëanor notices his stillness, stopping mid-explanation. “Is something amiss…?”

“A fëa,” Melkor murmurs.

Fëanor frowns at first, uncomprehending, before his mind- which works faster than any being Melkor had ever seen, even Mairon – understands.

“A fëa,” Fëanor breathes in turn.

and their eyes meet- hesitation-

realization-

excitement-

“A fëa,” they say again, louder.

Fëanor jumps to his feet. “Of course!” he cries out, pacing before Melkor. “A fëa could harness a power sufficient- if channelled the right way- pouring an expression of one’s self- brighter than all-! An essence of the beginning itself! The trace of Eru- the light of Eru- in three gems!”

Melkor is burning with the want to have those gems. He breathes- an exhale made to soothe himself, pressing two hands against his eyes. He needs them. He needs them.

Fëanor is bouncing with excitement, thoughts voiced on how to channel a fëa, how to pour it into gems- and already was he talking about white gems- brighter than anything- the work of his life! He can see it already, can see how never would he manage to surpass them, his own fëa, poured into them! A part of him, him a part of them-!

Melkor bails his hands into fists, nails seeking deep into the soft flesh of his palms. He exhales, a ragged breath, and tries to fight the burning yearning arising in his heart. Melkor tries to remind himself of when Lúthien, wretched, wretched, wretched Eldar- how he had c u r s e d her and her blood, who had torn Mairon’s throat with her damned beast- he tries to remind himself of when Lúthien had stolen one. Had two been enough? But he knows himself, he knows his heart and knows he can not be satisfied with half a tribute- wants it all.

He does not want war, but he wants the Silmarils more.

Tis not a want, tis a primal need. But how- how? Is Fëanor’s love for his blood better than the Silmarils? Is it? Will he not bail on Melkor- if such an arrangement is made. How to ensure having them?

How to ensure having them, and being left in peace?

Melkor can not pour his own fëa into the gems. It would not brighten them. It would not help, it would poison them- insidious thing that would suffocate Eru’s light. It needs to be from an innocent being- one that has not been renounced by Eru, and neither Melkor nor any who would do it for him can forge their own Silmarils.

“I can retrieve Míriel from the Halls,” Melkor says, quietly.

Fëanor- Fëanor stops.

His features blanch. A breathed word, all but a whisper: “-what?”

“There is a way for me to retrieve Lady Míriel from the halls. I can not tell you how. But there is a way.”

“You- I- but- how-?”

“Payment,” Melkor says then. “Payment is required.”

“Which kind?” Fëanor asks, feverishly. He seems like a statue of marble, one his spouse crafted, all life having vanished from his face. “Annatar. Which kind?”

Melkor comes to a decision then.

“The gems,” he says. “A part of your fëa. The passage would require to forge the gems; and to give them up. Míriel against the gems.”

Fëanor blanches even more. “But tis my fëa,” he quietly says, voice nearly broken- “my very spirit- my soul- I would be incomplete without them- ever a lesser one- yearning for them- haunted-”

Melkor inclines his head. “A harsh decision, I am aware.”

Fëanor swallows, indecision, guilt, fear all battling over his features.

“I might not be granted re-embodiment,” Fëanor whispers. “And if I do not die- an eternity longing for something out of reach, every second haunted by them.”

Melkor needs them.

“Indeed,” he murmurs. “I suppose it is all a matter of what is more important for thee, Fëanor- your fëa or your Amillë[1].”

[1] Mother in Quenya😊

Chapter 11: Lesson 11 : Your view of yourself might be biased, seek council

Chapter Text

Melkor faces him, sprawled on a couch – and on his chest, is that- three winged creatures, the size of a huge cat. They are of three different colours, from viridescent green to ink black, and when one yawns, a myriad of fangs is revealed to light.

Mairon’s heart stops. He helplessly stares, unable to will himself into moving.

In front of him, Melkor yawns as well- the resemblance truly uncanny with the beast laying on his chest. He stretches strong arms above his head, lacing his fingers together to make his shoulder pads pop, before tilting his head for his neck to crack as well. Then does he glance at the beasts; and his expression softens.

“Thou are a menace as few are,” Melkor says- and Mairon’s heart skips another couple of beats. So long had he not heard Melkor’s voice- so long. It is exactly as he remembers it; except perhaps… warmer. Melkor grabs the first beast then, the black one, and stares at it directly in the eye; and oh. Those are the same eyes as Mairon have. The slit iris, the yellow, the fire burning within them. “One day thou will find that patience is a true quality indeed, and I myself do not possess as much of it as I would fancy. Such patience runs short; and if thou find thyself banned from entering my chambers, this will be of your own fault.”

The black beast lets out a shrieking sound, flapping his wings- and Melkor laughs.

He laughs. He laughs; and Mairon can not breathe. Tis a laugh that can not be mimicked, and he surprises himself to hope- if only for a second, that it is not one of Irmo’s foul play and that Melkor is truly facing him.

He reaches forward- but his hand is as smoke, and passes through Melkor.

A dream.

Nay. A mirage.

Mairon falls to his knees, one hand reaching for Melkor. He hunches forward then, and presses his eyes close; trying to refrain the tears from falling. They burn at his eyes nonetheless, the pain a reminder of what was not; what his fiercer desires held. None of this war they were in the midst of, the peace after victory, Melkor, laughing.

He knows he wanted it. He knows it; yet seeing it- seeing it is the brightest pain he has ever endured; for he knows that much has still to be done to achieve this sort of haven.

This a treachery made by either Irmo or his thrice-damned Maiar, to dangle in front of him what he desires; and when he will wake up- when he will wake up, none of this would be the truth.

Melkor has risen to his feet now; and Mairon lets out a cry of anguish at the sight. His skin is glowing, the pale grey looking like bathed by the light of Telperion, and there is a softness to his expressions. He is- against all odds- relaxed.

Mairon wants him so fiercely it awakens a fire in his heart. He wants him whole: to cherish, to venerate, to guide, to love. He wants to wake up again with Melkor snoring at his side, sprawled on their bedsheets as some kind of overgrown house cat. He wants to watches as Melkor explains his plans for the battlefield, strategies coming to light. He wants to work as Melkor contemplates him, the sound of his hammer the only thing breaking the silence. He wants to partake in Melkor’s creations once more, watching as the mightiest of Vala summons his power. He wants, even, to be working on his paperwork while Melkor pesters him- jabbing intrusive fingers on his sides, pressing kisses against his neck, braiding his hair. He wants to kiss him senselessly, watch him burn under him, wants to be pinned down by familiar muscles and pin them down in his turn.

Mairon wants; and wants; and wants.

“By Eru,” Melkor pests, having managed to clad himself in dark red silk despite the beasts pestering him. “-May I be permitted a fleeting moment of peace or am I overly greedy?”

The green-scaled beast (a winged lizard?) having sunk its claws in Melkor’s thigh, lets out another shriek. It elicits it being grabbed by its neck, another laugh coming from Melkor’s lips, and Mairon nearly cries at it, Melkor rising it to be at his face’s level.

“I will make stew out of thee,” Melkor warns, furrowing his brows. “Stew; and I would offer it to Manwë.”

The beast opens his mouth- and a puff of smoke comes out of it.

“No fire yet,” Melkor comments, narrowing his eyes. “Should I throw thee in flames to elicit it?”

He does nothing of it, however. Instead, he puts down the beast to the ground- and when he goes to open the curtains of his chamber, Mairon does not recognize the décor. Melkor seems to be near some kind of shore, for he can see the sea far away, if squinting enough. Would that be Alqualondë? The shores of Aman? Where does this dream take place? In Arda?

Melkor’s steps take him out of the chamber, and Mairon rises to wobbly feet- eagerly following. He needs to. This might be a mirage, but one more comforting than he had in ages, and if Melkor was to be suddenly stolen away, Mairon would break.

Melkor makes his way through the corridors, the beasts on his shoulders; and makes it with such an ease that Mairon grows more and more confused. He recognizes none of it- and then suddenly, there is a Maia in front of Melkor. Tis a strange Maia- one Mairon had never seen before- one with dark blue skin, metallic blue locks falling freely on his shoulders, piercing pale eyes, and a purple earring.

The Maia bow to Melkor at the same time Mairon undertakes a fighting stance- hand going for a dagger that is not there.

“Breakfast has been served, my lord,” the Maia says; and there is a faintly amused smile on his lips.

To Mairon’s surprise – and horror- Melkor groans.

“Should I expect a new invention of him? Some new delicacy to taste – never tried before, and unsurprisingly revealing itself disgusting?”

The Maia grins. Mairon is startled by it; for no Maia but him: not even the Unmaia had dared to grin before Melkor. But this one does, and the grin is unashamed. “I would not dare talk so of our Lord Irmo.”

A Maia of Irmo. Mairon grits his teeth, and once again does his fingers twitch for a dagger that is not there. He would wish to manifest one, but this dream is visibly not one for him to master. He had thought his mind hidden enough to not fall prey to Irmo’s schemes, but it seems his inner turmoil as of late had disrupted the veils clouding it.

“But I would,” Melkor says, and laughs. A laugh, and Mairon feels hot tears spring in his eyes. “Should I excuse myself? What is the level of danger?”

The Maia seems to truly reflect on it.

“No,” he finally settles on. “There was, if I recall well, enough delicacies to avoid the… unsavoury dishes. A bite would suffice to ease Lord Irmo’s spirits.”

“Very well,” Melkor says; and passes a hand over the head of his beasts. One tries to bite them; and Melkor’s hand springs to tighten around its throat- squeezing enough to speak of a threat, yet without inflicting pain. “Behave else mine anger will act instead of I.”

The beast shrieks; and Melkor lessens his grasp around its throat. He glances up to the Maia, then, and tuts. “Agreeable enough, I would suppose. Thank you for thy advice, Limél.”

The Maia bows his head. “Always, my lord Melkor.”

Mairon bubbles with anger and jealousy; springing forward- alas, he passes through the Maia. He seethes at the useless action; yet stepping to stand between Melkor and Irmo’s Maia. He can not quite understand why Irmo would show him that, for Melkor had never had any affinity with his fellow Valar. On the contrary, they had been too prone to inaction to elicit any affection from either part; and too unwilling to see past what Eru had asked of him.

Despite their sayings, they did not care much for Arda- merely wished to obey Eru in all things. More eager to be obedient children rather than provide proper care for the kingdom besotted to Melkor, for the firstborns and secondborns living on its lands.

This is the root of the anger Mairon feels for them. Hypocrites; all of the Ainur; for they judged Melkor’s work without having done any of it. Peace could not come without war, and while neither Mairon nor Melkor wished for the first, it was inevitable. A means to an end. A drawback of wishing to shape the world; one that they had accepted long ago.

The Maia called Limél goes on his merry way, then, with Melkor standing still in the middle of the corridor. Melkor tilts his head to the side, watching the Maia go, and brushes a finger across the top of the green beast’s head.

“I should ask of Irmo’s contribution,” Melkor says, then, a quiet thing. A smile blooms on his lips, and it is one Mairon is most used to see- meaning that an idea is reigning over Melkor’s thoughts – and not a kind one by all means. “Send some delightful dreams to Fëanor. His mother, asking of why he has forsaken her. Perhaps a few tears, a few accusations. I have, after all, claims in all my fellow Valar domain. I should send a cloud of incertitude over his forge. What say you, Naremir?”

Naremir- and Mairon’s heart stops. Naremir? Precious flame? Tis twice the epessë Melkor has given him; his precious, his flame. He chokes out a sob; and tries to take a step forward to embrace Melkor- but his arms are as smoke, and he has no imprint on the physical world.

The beast, Naremir, yawns.

“If only he had not disappeared,” Melkor tells it, humming. “I have troubled his mind, tis true. Perhaps I should insufflate a little more discord in his heart- tug at his tumultuous relationship with his step-siblings. What a relief, then, to have his Amillë to rely upon.”

Melkor chuckles then; and resumes his walk.

Not without speaking one more time, still to his beasts: “Perhaps I should speak to his sons as well. Maitimo would do beautifully- he had, after all, last time. Is it not a wonder, my darlings, how this House is prompt to reckless action? Ah-! But no oaths will do this time around, no… I could not bear it, and they have not either, have they? For it had eaten them fiercer than I would have. Now, Ancalagon, I believe tis what the Edain call ‘he who sows the wind reaps the storm.’ And a storm they shall get; if once more they oppose me. Oh, yes… A storm, they shall get.”

Melkor laughs, once more; and his laugh echoes in the corridors.

.

.

.

Annatar does not remember the dream when he wakes up. His mind is in a haze, misted up as if entrapped in fog. He blinks; and tries to remember what had lulled him into sleep; but it is as if trying to grab smoke with bare hands- and he falls back into his bed, blinking fast.

He dresses silently, in the finest silks there are. Slowly had he forsaken his shy demeanour for a more confident one; leaving Annatar to stride haughtily through Minhiriath, on his way to meet the King.

And the King he meets more and more; ever accompanied by the wolf. The beast has taken a true liking to him now; gracing his every step, snarling at whoever dares to approach too close. Annatar chastises him in front of the unfortunate Eldar; only to murmur pleased words when they find themselves alone, nurturing his meaner streak. He has yet to find the beast a name, however, for he wants it to earn such by itself- be it by an act of might or when speech shall be graced to him. Indeed has Annatar begun to

The King’s mind grows troubled. There is no news of his envoy- for his corpse has been desecrated, torn apart and buried in eight different places. He will never be found, even less return. It weighs on the King’s spirit- accompanied by Annatar’s poisonous whispers; speaking tales of the Valar’s cruelty. And as rot on corpses they bloom, nurtured day after day, gaining territory with each passing week.

There is a wind of fear on the Windan. They see their King grow weaker and weaker- their obedient faith turns into doubt, Annatar gaining more and more influence over their minds.

Some are coming to him for council now. They ask how to defend themselves best against the Powers of the West- how to free their kin. Slowly does the ‘if’ begins to turn into ‘when’ when there are talks about invading Valinor.

(and if Annatar’s hand are shaking at night; if he can not bear to face his reflection, if there are dark shadows under his eyes and hollowed cheeks meeting his gaze, if he takes to refer to himself solely as Annatar for he has lost what makes him admirable, it is his considerations and his alone)

(if he wonders in which state he will find Melkor, if he wonders if he will not lose himself in this war, if he wonders if the Powers will not strike them down- he can not share such to any other)

(if he chokes sometimes in the vicinity of his chambers-)

(he can not fault any other but himself)

.

.

.

Melkor is spinning a bottle of wine between his fingers. It has been emptied, but not to its full extent, and a few drops spill from it- unto the carpet. Melkor darts a glance to them, a soft exhale coming from his lips, but does not make any move for the drops to vanish.

He is... irritated. He has every reason to be, for it seems that Fëanor has done the very same thing Melkor had not expected from him: cowardice. The Ñoldo has indeed flown Tirion, seeking refuge where Melkor knows not; and all his tries to find him have proved themselves unsuccessful so far. It makes anger flare deep in his chest, and hum beneath his skin.

If Melkor had listened to his most fervent vices, he would have gone in hunt of the Ñoldo, cage him somewhere dark, where no cry no scream could save him, and force him to forge the Silmarils. He would have captured one of his offspring- perhaps the one hunting with Oromë: Makalaurë, or the one with the lyricism: Carnistir. It would have been easy then, to tear out the Silmarils from Fëanor’s mind- subjecting the Ñoldo to witness his sons’ torture.

But Melkor can not, for it is sure to be eventually noticed- flaring the anger of both the Ainur and the Eldar; and he has to revert to smoother techniques. He is not used to works of patience; for since long had he abandoned the meticulous planning he has once been able to wave, and Melkor is irritated.

He forces his thought to go back to Maitimo, then, in a vicious try of soothing his anger. He eases it by relishing in how the elf had screamed, how his defiance had elicited punishment; how delicious it had been the dull the fire of his eyes. Never fully, unfortunately; but to a nice extent, all things considered. Melkor expects no less from Fëanor’s sons.

His irritation does not mean Melkor gives up. He continues his search for Fëanor, from murmuring words of anguished concern to Torthedir and the Eldar of the forges to seeking Nerdanel and her five sons. (Melkor wonders when the two others are scheduled; and for the life of him could not name them, even if put under duress) Alas, Nerdanel has gone to her Atar, to Mahtan, and has taken three of her sons with her. The youngest lies with Fëanor – in that same unknown location of his Atar; and the hunting one, Curufinwë, is on another of Oromë’s expeditions to Arda.

He strides Tirion then; and is quite certain that all of the Ñoldor have noticed the fierce anger of his steps. A few avoid him; yet Melkor does not relent. His fëa burns to know the Silmarils so close to possession; and it awakens a fire in him that had been dulled by his time on Tol-in-Glaennen. He has forgotten himself, Melkor thinks, gritting his teeth. Gone too soft.

Peace comes after the Silmarils. It will be there. Melkor will find a way.

He always did.

And his thoughts turn darker, when days pass, weeks, and he still does not find Fëanor. Peace, he begins to think, has been a nice thought; but perhaps not as attainable as he had wanted. Now that he knew what had to come- he would slay Fëanor’s sons before escaping, slay all the noble blood coming from Finwë, and thus no Fingolfin would come to inflict seven wounds on him- no Finrod Felagund would try challenge Mairon in Tol-in-Gauroth, no Maedhros to begin his March- and without the Fëanorians, without the Finwë- victory.

(there is a ping to his chest, however, as if he thinks of red hair and dry humour, of Nerdanel welcoming him in her workshop; and Carnistir giving him precious insight when they had met in Oromë’s forest-)

Melkor avoids Manwë as well. He can not trust himself around his brother, not when he is in such a poor mood. It is easy to notice the confusion growing in the Lord of the West’s heart, for often does he try to seek after Melkor, only to be denied.

Melkor turns his frustrations towards himself. Like this, does he take to avoid Irmo and Estë as well- for their bright presence reminds him of what he has lost, that bright flame of Eru that has deserted his heart. Tis cruel, Melkor thinks with a sneer, that he would be sent back only to take the same path again. If he had been sent earlier- back when Eru has not forsaken him- then he would not have pursued so ardently the Silmarils, would laugh at those stones and say them useless.

But he has not; and so does Melkor finds himself sinking into the viscosity of his dark thoughts. He avoided every Vala, every Maia; and sought peace in loneliness; and within it, purpose. If Fëanor did not come back- if Fëanor had truly fled; never to craft the Silmarils, having been horrified by the thought of giving up his own fëa- Melkor seethes. He had never thought the Elf a coward. For all his infuriating dispositions; Fëanor is – well, had been, it would seem- a flame, his name synonym with bravery. Alas, it seems Melkor has acted too soon, too impudently, when Fëanor is still too young, too soft-hearted, to be driven towards self-destruction.

But Melkor has forgotten a thing. The more he recluses on himself, the more concern haunts his hosts’ eyes. The more he finds refuge in solitude, the more they whisper hushed words to one another; the more their heart dwell with worry.

It is Estë who finds him first, approaching him as she would to do a wounded beast.

He is nursing a drink in his antechambers, chin pressed against his palm, twisting the cup between his agile fingers. Still does it mesmerize him how easy it is to do so, when for ages his fingers had barely been able to hold anything. It reminds him of how important it is for Varda never to touch the gems, bringing lucidity to his dark thoughts.

Estë takes careful steps into the chamber, having announced herself with a soft tone- and having gotten no answer for it.

She does not ask if he is well, merely pours herself a second cup of wine. The gesture is unexpected: for she had never been one to intrude so, and Melkor is startled out of his absent staring.

“Where does it come from?” Estë asks; and Melkor needs a second to understand what she is referring to.

“Alqualondë, I believe,” Melkor says, with a slight frown on his brow. The Teleri possess one of the best wines there are, for it is made with a peculiar kind of grapes only thriving on the shores. He wonders, briefly, if Estë has such grapes on her Island. “A courtesy of the Teleri.”

“It has quite the sweet taste to it,” Estë continues, and he can not quite believe the Vala of Healing is using small talk to pull information out of it. “I never found myself too keen on wine, for it numbs the sense in a way I do not care for, but I could make an exception for this one.”

Melkor indulges her for now, taking a sip from his cup as well. It is true that it is quite sweet- one of the things Mairon would delight to have, he who poured honey into his wine. How Melkor had sneered at it, horrified beyond measure, and how Mairon had glared at him over his cup, calling it “mead.”

No matter the name, tis is an atrocity, and he will never let him live the end of it.

Estë comes to sit at the end of his bed. “You have been avoiding us, Melkor.”

Melkor immediately erases whatever he could have said about small talks, it seems Estë does not waste time in soothing the wound.

He scowls, yet not giving her the full extent of his glare. He is of short patience recently, even more than usually, and would rather go back to his search of Fëanor.

“I have greater concerns,” he says. “You have been nothing but kind to me, certainly, but perhaps it is time for me to lift the ban keeping me there.”

“The ban? Is it how you see your stay on Tol-in-Glaennen?”

Melkor is forced to concede that he does not. At first, yes, when he had known naught of Irmo nor Estë; when Tol-in-Glaennen had sounded like a prison. When he had thought himself forever free of the Void, when now saw it approach quite closely.

“I can not stay,” he says instead, averting his gaze. He fears of what might become of him should he stay- entrapped by Valinor’s apathy, softened to unspeakable extents. “I never intended to stay so long.”

It, against all odds, causes Estë to smile. “A good thing, perhaps, that you have. I have come to greatly enjoy your company, as every of the Ainur on this Island.”

“And I, yours.”

“A great gift to hear such,” Estë says. “Few receive the affection of your heart, if my observation is not too unfair to be said.”

Melkor laughs at that, escaping his lips without wishing for it.

“You speak the truth nonetheless. I would not call it a gift, for it might entail to unsavoury surveillance from the Lord of the Winds.”

“Manwë is as welcome in those halls as you are,” Estë tells him, her soft smile still upon her lips. “And should he ask, I would speak the truth of the affection dearheart and I have for you. I will not shy from it, even should it elicit foolish suspicion, and if so I could, I would spread it.”

It diffuses a strange sort of warmth in his chest- chasing away his dark thoughts for a moment.

“You are a fool,” Melkor tells her.

“Many judge kindness as foolish indeed, but I would rather see it as tough.”

This is a surprise. He considers her sharply as Estë begins to hum to herself, entirely uncaring of the stare he darts at her. She passes a hand through her hair, let loose on her shoulders, and begins the slow work of weaving braids within them.

“Tough,” Melkor repeats, numbly.

“Tough instead,” Estë says. “It survives when sometimes naught other does, and while it can be lost, it takes little to rekindle its fire. It is laced with hope, I should say, and bring it comfort.”

Melkor says nothing at such, merely draining his cup.

“Tell me what prompts you to leave, and I will support your plea to Manwë,” Estë then tells him.

What prompts him to leave? This strange torpor that has taken hold of him, leaving him to smile and laugh more, this fear he begins to have that he has lost himself in this Island, that in his quest for peace had he found apathy instead. Lest for the dragons, Melkor had not brought changes to Valinor. It is what he had been made for, and he finds himself drifting into the stasis that keeps Valinor in a tight grip, as if entrapped by quicksand.

The Silmarils had made him remember why he had sought to conquer Arda- to bring his mark upon the world.

There is much he can not say to Estë however; and he settles his lips in a hard line.

“Why should I not, rather?”

“Because, as I said, we quite enjoy having you around,” Estë patiently repeats. “I have never found anyone so enthralled by own-barnacle, as you are.”

“It does not have sense!” Melkor immediately retorts. “Irmo invents the rules as he pleases! They can not be broken for they only exist for a second!”

Estë laughs vividly at that, and inclines her head. “My words, precisely. Nobody has partaken in so great a many games with dearheart, have they found joy or frustration in it. You, however, you keep playing- knowing doing such infuriates you. Yet you play, and indulge Irmo.”

Melkor comes to a stop, stunned into silence.

Estë continues, now shaking her head, another smile gracing her lips. “You did not notice it, did you? I assure you, despite his cheerful demeanour, he did.”

Melkor opens his mouth only to close it, then frowning: “Nobody else? Truly? The Maiar-”

“Irmo’s Maiar are few to enjoy his games,” Estë dismisses. “And mine are very little liking to it as well. Nay, Melkor, it is you who has played it most with dearheart.” She tuts then, and considers him acutely. “Tell me, then. What is it that you seek that we can not offer you?”

And so does Melkor speaks of the truth.

“The light of Eru,” he quietly says. “-which has been denied to me.”

Estë closes her eyes, slightly.

“He has taken his light from thee?” she asks after a moment, her voice quieter than it had ever been. “Definitely?”

“I might have found a way of reclaiming it back,” Melkor tells her, on the injunction of the moment, heart beating fast. He springs to his feet, pacing around the room. “I can not be yet certain- but I might have found it- has it been given to me once more, and I am so close-!”

Estë watches him in silence. Melkor grows more and more desperate, gesturing wildly as he tells her: “He stole it from I; and I shall reclaim it, and I will have it once more; one not made by his hands, one that he could not steal this time- and I will have light; to chase away the Void in my fëa, to never fall in it- for if I have it, if I have them- I will never, never, be sent to the Void- never see it ag-”

He stops himself there, and exhales a frustrated sigh. Melkor then closes his eyes for a second. “I will reclaim my light,” he murmurs, passionately. “I will.”

Estë comes to her feet, and he lets her approach, uncomprehending of what she seeks. It becomes clear when she stops in front of him, spreading just so her arms- and Melkor swallows, throat suddenly dry.

It is an implicit demand. Melkor who has been subjected a great many times to Irmo’s tendency to latch into him, had never felt the warmth of Estë’s embrace.

He does not speak, but he nods: a quiet, simple thing he is almost irritated at.

And so does she take the final step, wrapping her arms around him, allowing herself to grow in height to settle her chin on his shoulders.

“Do not go,” Estë quietly says. “I believe there is still much we could do for you, and you for us, if so you would like. I can not quite understand what it means to have Eru renounce you in light, but I shall like to give you my aid- should you wish for it. I merely ask of a thing.”

Melkor tightens the embrace, without a word. He settles deep in the warmth she provides- and allows himself to think, even for a second, that it is Mairon deep scent that he feels. He misses him more and more; with a keenness he would have not thought to be there, and the thought of Mairon becomes to be accompanied by a sorrowful ache.

Soon, he tells himself, soon. The envoy with reach Mairon. She will bring word of Melkor, and then word of Mairon, and soon will they see of the other.

There can be no other way.

“Which thing?” Melkor murmurs, nose settled in her curls.

Estë’s scent reminds him of cherries, the earth after heavy rains, the crackle of the fire when a forest is set ablaze. He breathes, and she chuckles, causing both of their fana to vibrate.

“Remember yourself,” Estë quietly says. “If you poison the light you will receive, it shall do you no good. Do not let the darkest thoughts of your heart darken as well what shall be received in good faith, and do not dwell alone on matters that could be shared. I heal, but I also listen, and so would you wish for my ear, you would have it.”

Melkor sucks in a sharp breath. He inclines his head, but she can not see it, and his throat is drier than all when he speaks again.

“I shall remember it,” he murmurs.

“You spoke of peace, once, when you thought I could not hear,” Estë tells him, still pressing herself against him. He can not see her face but hears the smile in her tone. “This is a nice pursuit, one that I hope you still favour.”

“But what it can not be obtained? When what I seek acts in contradiction for it?”

Estë disentangles herself from him, but not unkindly. “Then,” she says. “Why would you seek for something so cruel?”

.

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Why would you seek for something so cruel.

Why would you seek for something so cruel.

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Because he needs it. Because Melkor fears he will drown if he continues to go, deprived of the light. Before he fears, more than anything, the Void; and can not bear to be returned to it- feels already how his fëa crumble, year after year, deprived of Eru’s benediction.

In time, should Melkor not have the Silmarils, nor Eru’s light, he would fade into himself. He does not know what would become of him: be it a creature of the Void, or disappear into nothingness; but does not care to find out.

Because he can not live without it.

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Irmo finds him as well, a matter of two days after Estë. The Vala of dreams and desires is far less discreet with his approach, plopping next to Melkor’s bath, the perfect moment.

Melkor says as such. “Leave, I am bathing.”

Irmo hums. He has taken to wear one of his bright kimonos that day, of pale blue and silver threads. Melkor considers for a sharp second reaching with a tendril for hand, and throwing him into the bath. It is certainly large enough for it, for it would be more fitting to call it a pond.

“On the contrary, it assures me you will not flee,” Irmo tells him, sitting on the edge of the ground, legs dangling above the water. His flesh has taken a rose hue this day, hair falling in lavender braids.

Irmo amuses himself for a few moments by breathing exploding bubbles, coming into action as they touched the water.

Melkor watches him as he did, pouring soap into his hands. While he had no obligation to do as such, could merely wish his hair clean, he enjoys the sensation of it. Thus does he scrub at his scalp while Irmo breathes another round of bubbles, shortening his hair to reach his collarbones. There, it will be easier to clean them when they do not reach his ankles.

“Estë told me of your desire to go,” Irmo then says, far more serious than Melkor had ever seen him. “Is it true?”

Melkor thinks of it. Why would you seek for something so cruel.

“I am not certain,” he quietly admits.

“You fear that Tol-in-Glaennen will change you.”

It is… insightful, coming from Irmo. But again, while the Vala favours a bubbly demeanour, he is one of the Powers all the same- and as he does now tilts his head to the side, gaze piercing, Melkor is painfully reminded of it.

“Many fear so,” Irmo hums. “Perhaps it is why my siblings seldomly visit, while being so near. Ah, but I will not lie to thee, Melkor, certainly you are changed, and certainly you will. But is it not what you wish for? For change to be undertaken?”

He- He does. But change needs to be implemented outside of him, not within him.

Irmo laughs then, his legs still dangling above the waters. There is no butterfly around him, as of today. “Do not crease your brow so deeply or you’ll be scarred for life, dearheart. Tell yourself I jest, if so will ease your mind- but think for a second of mine words. Tol-in-Glaennen changes everyone that grace it- how could it not? You enter the realm of healing, are being touched by the own of desires, have breathed upon you the one of dreams. One that recognizes his desires is one changed, and one that heals himself becomes another one entirely. Inner change is unavoidable.”

“When it comes not from thy own volition, how to call it change and not prison?”

“Ah, but it depends on your view on it, certainly. But would it be prison than to aim to better oneself? You say it often, for Valinor to be imprisonment for thee, and I can not quite understand it.”

“It is because you are in the midst of it, Lord of the Lorien,” Melkor says, finding Irmo’s bright gaze. He grows frustrated, and has to dunk his head under water for a second, washing over the soap, before continuing through osanwé- head still under water. While speaking of change, you have undergone the stasis that has fallen upon Valinor, and have been blinded by the golden doors of what I call – and what is – a prison.

Explain it to me, Irmo insists.

Melkor resurfaces.

“I shall, then. When have you last left your island, Irmo? When have you last spoken to one of the children; not one having come to thee, but thee having gone to them? When have you last gazed upon Arda and seen what plagues it? When have you last truly looked in the hearts of the firstborns in Valinor, and seen the discontent that plagues it? When have you gazed past the stasis, and seen that Valinor does not move, does not evolve, does not grow? When have you last refuted Manwë’s word, and when, tell me, when, have you last opened your eyes?”

Irmo does not take offence. He does not set his mouth in a hard line as Manwë does, nor does he spit words of venom. Instead, he exhales, and jumps into the bath. (-the pond)

Melkor is startled for a second; but Irmo seems to delight by being completely soaked; wet hair sticking to his face, makeup flowing down his cheeks. He lets out another bright laugh, and dunks himself underwater as well.

Some work can not be done from so near, lovely. My purpose is to be far from them, for my presence would cause too much disruption. Have I not shaken your thoughts already? I can not be too long in presence of firstborns, else I would influence their psyche.

Melkor wrings out his hair, letting it grow down to his waist again. “It is an excuse,” he says out loud, tone thundering enough to be heard by Irmo. “To refuse for mine work to improve the world, yet refuse as well to work thyself on it.”

A few bubbles come to the surface, leaving Melkor to realize Irmo is giggling.

Excuses! Lovely excuses! Are we the sole children to think of them or do Yavanna’s creation have them as well? Mine own certainly do not! Would it not be funny indeed, for the earth to refuse being the earth, for the grass to refuse to grow, for the bee to refuse to pollinate!

“Irmo,” Melkor warns, aggressively.

“No,” Irmo says, springing from the waters. He sends drops of it everywhere as he spreads his arm wide, soaked kimono clinging to his fana. “I seek no excuse for myself! Perhaps you will understand in time! Namo certainly did!”

“Or perhaps I could make you understand,” Melkor slowly says, for an idea has begun to bloom in his mind. Namo, Irmo had said-

And it happened that Melkor is in the need to appeal to the Vala who had guarded him for three ages, to let him grant him passage in his halls- long enough to retrieve Fëanor’s Amillë. Well, then, he would need to convince the Elleth of following him, but should she prove herself stubborn, Melkor would merely have to steal her away.

“I am in need of your assistance, I believe,” Melkor says, lacing his hands under his chin. “Would you give it to me?”

Irmo immediately nods his assent, head bouncing so hard it causes another couple of flowers to bloom, orchids this time.

“If I were to retrieve some elleth in your brother’s halls, would he grant me passage?”

Irmo laughs. “He would not!”

Melkor does not wince nor scowl then, but rather adopts a thoughtful expression. “But he would let you pass,” he murmurs. “He would let himself be convinced by you. You are siblings. And so could you speak of my plea to him.”

Irmo wrinkles his nose.

“I suppose…” his voice trails off. He blinks then and opens his mouth: only for another bubble to be breathed out. Irmo laughs at it, clasping his hands. “Look! How bigger she is than the others!”

“Will you speak of my plea to him?”

Irmo averts his gaze, curling a lock of purple hair around his finger. His skin has begun to fade towards pale blue, and Melkor knows all too well that it means indecision.

“Irmo,” Melkor quietly says. “I might have found a way of soothing the darkness that has lured inside of me ever since Eru has forsaken me. Will you speak of my plea to him?”

He is answered by a long press of Irmo’s eyes. Silence falls upon them, and when Irmo opens four eyes again, their sclera is a bright red.

“I will,” Irmo murmurs. “I will speak of thy plea, Melkor; and I shall act in your favour. I give you my trust for my affection for you is great, and I dare hope you shall not break it. Do not break it.”

Irmo turns entirely to him, features as hard as stone; chrysanthemum blooming over his head, piercing red eyes tearing him apart. “Do not break it, dearheart, else I fear what it should entail.”

Melkor meets his gaze with one of his own. Why would you seek for something so cruel, Estë had said, and now he thinks he understands it. He lost himself once more, but not in Tol-in-Glaennen as he had thought. Nay, in the darkness that had seized him upon hearing of Fëanor’s flight.

Peace, he says to himself, once more, and this time, nearly believes it. Peace, he repeats louder. Peace. His ultimate purpose, the one now driving him.

If Fëanor- if Fëanor did not make the Silmarils- Melkor closes his eyes. Best not to dwell on it. All would happen as he had wished it. It must. He wanted peace so fiercely it burned at him, but his desires were those of destruction, and had been known to burn everything standing in their path.

Melkor sinks his nails into his palms. The pain is not sharp enough to bring lucidity to his clouded mind; but it has been long since he has needed it.

“I swear,” he says to Irmo, and believes it. He will find a way. If Fëanor refuses- he will find a peaceful way, even if he has to beg to Manwë for it. “Irmo, I swear.”

And the smile Irmo returns him is so bright it could have eclipsed the Silmarils’.

.

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Melkor was given the letter by Torthedir.

He had come to the forges in the hopes of taking his mind away from that thrice-damned Ñoldo, be it by beating some metal into obedience or tearing a smith apart with cutting words. (Although he did the latter less and less, for he rather would have them be awed of him rather than hateful)

Torthedir is wringing his hands nervously when he gives it to him, and Melkor first thinks of it to be of an entirely different kind. He is prepared to smoothen his horrified expression into a softer one, telling the Ñoldo that while pleasing, his affections were unreturned, when he opens it.

Yes.

And it was all the letter said. Melkor needs no signature to know from who it came from, and for a moment can he only stare.

He is barely aware Torthedir is speaking, having numbed down all sounds around him. Melkor stares, and stares, and there is a great clamour that rises in his heart. He hears it beat within his own chest, a thû-dum that is not without reminiscing him of the drums of the west.

Melkor is out of the forge before Torthedir can even ask what has made him blanch so.

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Melkor does not wait for Fëanor to open the doors for him, nor does he knock. He barges into the workshop, slamming the doors wide open, unable to care that he resembles a madman in all but their mortality.

He has not to look long to find Fëanor.

Indeed is the Prince of the Ñoldor sitting at a desk, back facing Melkor, long black hair knotted, dirty- as if unwashed for weeks.

For all his impatience, Melkor is slow when he approaches. He takes careful steps, as if he would circle around a wounded prey, and finally comes to peek from behind Fëanor’s shoulders.

“Annatar,” Fëanor quietly says, but Melkor’s attention can not go to him. It can not, not when there is something much more precious facing him.

Laying on the table, wrapped in a cloth that muffles their light, three gems.

Melkor dares not to breathe.

His heart thuds in his chest, once more drowning the sounds of the world. He dares not to approach either, eyes riveted on the cloth. They are there. If Melkor could laugh, if he could scream, he would have done it a thousand times. But his breath hatches in his throat, and his eyes seem glued to the gems.

“Annatar,” Fëanor says again, his voice but a raspy thing. It has roughened, as if the edges of it had been scraped. “You have to swear it to me. If I give them to you, you will bring her back.”

Melkor can not answer. He can not find his voice, not when he stares at the gems as if his gaze could burn the cloth to unravel their light to the day. There is a great cry of victory in his heart, one that laughs and laughs and laughs.

“Swear it to me.”

Melkor detaches his gaze from the gems with great difficulty. He has not seen them properly and yet already does he long for them, does he burn for them, does he have been enthralled whole. He had not realized- he misses them, certainly, a great light made to replace the one of Eru himself- but he had not realized- how much.

“Annatar, swear it to me.”

Melkor finds Fëanor’s gaze. It is set ablaze- fierier than it has ever been ever since his return from the Void. There is a great fire that burns there, one that could only have been awoken by the Silmarils – by tearing himself apart, by breaking his own fëa.

Fëanor himself has- changed. Gone is the puffiness to his cheeks, the softness to his expressions. It is hollow features that meet him, the bone visible from under the skin, an inferno inside the eyes.

Fëanor looks at him, and Melkor sees in him the Ñoldo who has defied the Valar.

Melkor knows how dangerous Fëanor can prove himself with his oaths. But the gems are close, so close he could reach for them and claim them for himself- but he will. He will. Fëanor is giving them to him. He only demands a small thing, and Melkor will give it to him.

Melkor grins then, for a vicious thought has taken hold of him, and says:

“Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean

of enemy or bright Vala,

Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,

Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth,

Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,

Dread nor danger, not Doom itself

Shall defend him from mine person and mine own allies

Whoso hideth, or hoardeth, or by their hand jaileth

Refusing to alloweth wend of Miriel, first jointress of Finwë

This i swear and sayeth, Eru Allfather

yond thee beest mine own witness,

and be true i faileth, if be true i shouldst not respect mine own oath,

that I be subjected to the doom of death

and never alloweth mandos releaseth me from his halls”

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.

.

Fëanor gives him the cloth, a small shiver escaping him as he does so. It is instinctive, and Melkor can not quite find in him to laugh as much as another him would have.

He knows, deeper than all, the claim the Silmarils press over a heart.

From all things, tis not what he would begrudge Fëanor for.

“Bring her back,” Fëanor murmurs as he gives Melkor the gems. “Bring her back, Annatar.”

Melkor gives him another of his grins. “I have sworn it, have I not?”

Fëanor contemplates him in silence.

“You have,” he says. “I did not ask- I had not expected- you are aware of what it now entails? You would die, never to leave Mandos’ halls. The very prison we seek to release mine Amillë from-”

Oh, he knows. He knows it very deeply. How a pity it would have been, had Annatar been an Elf. But Annatar is Melkor, and Melkor is Belegûr, and Belegûr is the Master of the Fates of Arda – and never would Namo be able to keep him there should he wish not to.

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They lay before him, in all their bright glory.

A light that has never been equalled in the ages that followed. A light that had prompted war, and death in his trail. A light that was said to burn those undeserving.

Melkor has been burnt once.

He has changed, he tells himself. He is deserving, now. He seeks peace, does he not? He has changed his purposes- changed his methods, and he is a peaceful one, he has not stolen it from Fëanor. It had been freely given, and if some trickery had been involved, it is not enough to prevent him from being undeserving. It does not. (It can not)

And so Melkor wraps his fingers around the Silmarils.

H e

s c r e a m s.

Chapter 12: Lesson 12 : Now if you would just LISTEN to that council

Chapter Text

Melkor drifts in a haze. He is vaguely aware of being awake- or perhaps he is not, and is trapped in a different kingdom entirely- but he feels as if having been swallowed by those clouds Manwë favours. His mouth tastes of cotton, and there seems to be a great enclave around his mind, one that anchors him where he stands.

He opens his eyes, twice, to two blurry forms kneeling at his sides. His thoughts are sluggish, and the first time Melkor tries to speak is he immediately shushed, soft murmurs that nurse him back to sleep.

The second time, he manages to blink long enough to decipher the silhouette of an Ainur next to him. There is no place for doubt in Melkor’s mind, for he knows this already; somewhere in his hazy mind does he remember it.

“Mairon,” he slurs.

Melkor is shunned once more, first by a hand that comes to clasp itself against his forehead- and the touch is so cold, in comparison to the furnace of his skin that he sighs in contentment, leaning into it. Another time would he have tried to grab this hand that soothes him, would have interlaced his fingers with the rings-covered ones, but he can not move.

“Mairon,” he sluggishly manages to murmur once more.

Whispers erupt around him, but in the fog that has clouded his mind can he not make words out of them. He is burning. There is a fire lit under his flesh, one that burns most vividly at the fingers of his left hand, and Melkor burns.

There is water pressed to his lips, and forced past it when he makes no movement to drink it. Gentle fingers prob his throat to force him to swallow, and Melkor gasps as he does so- blinking furiously in his tries to clear the world from the blurriness it currently holds.

His head is killing him. As if someone is trying to tear it apart with their bare hands; and a muffled groan of p a i n escapes his lips.

Another round of whispered words; a hand pressed to his forehead- and Melkor is back to the soothing blackness.

When he wakes for the third time; the pressure on his skull has gone- but not the burning pain that flares in his left hand. His eyelids flutter, and already does the world settle for something clearer, another muffled sound of pain falling from his mouth. What has he-

His fingers endlessly burn, a familiar pain; and Melkor manages to blink the world sharp enough for his gaze to fall on them. His throat is dry, and the sound he makes upon seeing the blackened state of his fingers is ragged.

Not again. Melkor stares at his fingers, each second bringing more and more awareness, and he can not avert his eyes. Not again.

When he had finally regained motricity in his hands-

When he had sworn himself to peace-

Like this, the memories flow into his dizzied mind. Fëanor, Melkor suddenly remembers. The Silmarils-! He had- He had tried to touch them- No- He had not merely tried- He had been so certain that he had changed enough to withhold Varda’s cursed spell- and he had wrapped his left hand around it-

His fingers burn, a deep reminder that Melkor had not changed enough. He can only stare and stare, unable to tear his gaze away from the blackened fingers, from the throbs of pain flaring alive.

Anger, deep, cutting, makes him choke. He had done none of the proclaimed evil deeds he had fallen to the first time around! He had done nothing of the sort! And yet- and yet- Melkor’s fury is akin to a great snake, strangling him to stuttered gasps. Yet he had not been worthy?

He is trembling, he absently realizes, his whole fana succumbing to shivers of both pain and anger. He had not slain any Finwë, he had taken hold of his patience, he had not stolen them, had not destroyed the trees! He had been given them, and yet, and yet Melkor can not withhold their touch?

He screams then. A great cry of sorrow and fury, one that shakes him whole, one that leaves him panting, yet still numbly staring.

Another blood-curdling scream, and this time hunches forward under the weight of his pain. His free hand come to tug at his scalp, nearly to the point of tearing whole strands of hair.

It is so that Estë finds him, knees brought to his chest, panting under the strength of his exhaustion, the burning pain of his hand shaking his fana in slight tremors.

She says nothing at first. She merely looks at him in silence, as unbreathing as a statue. She looks, for what must be hours – for what is time for them- and finally, when Melkor’s breath hatch in his throat, she comes.

Estë does not sit on the bed, nor even in the chair placed near it. Instead, she kneels, both knees on the ground, and places a hand over his uninjured wrist.

“Tell me of it,” Estë says, softly, but no less firmly.

There are bloody tears having dripped on Melkor’s cheeks, tainting his black sclera with a pinkish hue. Ragged breaths escape him, and for long does he not speak, Estë patiently waiting.

“I tried to find it,” Melkor murmurs. There is no fury left in his voice, only bitter realization. “There seemed to be a way for I to intertwine mineself with it once more. There could have been no other way.”

“What did you try to find?”

“There was no other way,” Melkor repeats, feverishly. “He has forsaken me deeper than any of his children, and the few remaining he had left to I, she had devoured it. Her appetite had been greater than the world, I do not doubt.” He laughs then, and it is a laugh that leaves him wanting for breath. “Preaching for such good to be found in this forsaken world, only to deny it to those in greater need of it! No content to deny me the light given to all, even alternatives are too high of a plea! But I had no other way to consider, for there was none! Ai! And so am I once more condemned to the night, and for the Void to claim whatever will be left of I!”

Estë considers him in silence, soft eyes trailing over the blackened fingers. She reaches for them then, when Melkor has fallen back into his pillow, one arm pressed against his face.

“You said as such when we spoke,” Estë murmurs, and very gently does she take his hand in hers. The burning does not worsen, but it does not soften either, for so is it cursed to forever be. “For Eru All-Father to have taken his light from you. Is this what you so ardently sought? For another light to give you the clarity you have lost?”

Melkor does not answer, for silence is a sufficient one on its own.

Estë presses a kiss to the fingers then, and for a sweet second does the burning lessen, does the mark of affection cloud the terrible pain that has taken hold of him. “Thou are but an imbecile,” Estë says.

It is cutting enough to startle Melkor into stunned staring, head snapping to the side to catch her gaze.

“Had you come to us rather than seeking such a perilous way on thy own,” Estë sharply says, pressing yet another kiss to his fingers. “-We would have worked together to find something to soothe you. I have taken a look at those gems. There is a fëa in it, Melkor. There is an elvish fëa trapped in stones, for the sole purpose of brightening the way. Tis a crime in itself, dear. How could you believe Eru All-Father would stand for it?”

Melkor hardens his lips into a line. “There was no other way.”

“There is always a way,” Estë murmurs, softened now. “One that hopefully includes for you not to destroy yourself in the process.”

“But there is not,” Melkor hisses. “I believe I would rather know it better than you do-Ai-!”

For Estë had cut him off by swapping a hand at his skull, a slight tap that causes no pain, merely surprise. Estë is looking at him rather angrily now, her lips pinched in a way he had rarely seen.

“I,” she says. “-would rather know it better than you, Vala of Change.”

The title is a sharp reminder of what hers is, Valie of Healing. A reminder that it is indeed a domain in which she is more skilled, in which she understands more; and Melkor’s anger flares once more.

But Estë seems determined in causing his emotions to run high and low, for she sighs then, and breathes a wind of cold on his fingers. Melkor’s breath hatch in his chest- for it wraps itself around his fingers, and suddenly- it. does. not. burn.

He stares, stunned in a way he had never been. How had she- Mairon had not been able to, He had not been able to-

“This is only a temporary soothing,” Estë then says, shaking her head in sorrow. “I wish I could offer you more… the very instant there is a tingle of pain, you will come to me. Understood?”

Melkor can only offer her a nod, eyes riveted on his fingers. He tries to wiggle them, only to find that he can; and the hatched breath that escapes him causes Estë to exhale again.

“I am sorry,” she says, then, and once more does she attract his attention by taking his fingers in hers. “I am sorry that I failed you so, when you were entrusted in my care. I should have noticed your sorrow, and it is my failure that I have not. But there is no use in dwelling on what could have been, for it brings little joy and greater pain, and I would rather have us focus on what there is to be. There is something that I wish to understand of you, and a conversation long needed.”

“Is it so?”

“Yes.” Estë’s voice suffers no contradiction. She rises from where she had been kneeling then, and crosses the room in three great steps, opening a drawer to take a basket from it. It is covered by a cloth, and Melkor’s eyes dart to it in curiosity – finding a lighter bounce to his heart now that the pain has disappeared.

“What is this?”

Estë hums as she unravels the cloth; leaving free from him to gaze at- grapefruits?

Melkor is the very picture of confusion as she takes to take the skin off the fruit, carefully breaking it into pieces before offering an half to him. He takes it out of sheer instinct, having been handled many times things like this by Mairon, and fidgets with it, unwilling to bring it to his mouth.

Estë does not partake in such hesitation, elegantly eating her own pieces. But then does she gesture for him to do it as well, and Melkor complies, for she had just taken to ease his pain and such an action is easy for him to give. (He does not like being indebted)

It is as bittersweet as ever, and Melkor surprises himself in enjoying it more than he would have expected. He is quick to finish the fruit, but a plum follows, and upon Estë’s insistent glance, does he eat it as well. After that follows another plum, a peach, and an apple- and at the apple does Melkor finally protest, more than confused by this overflowing of fruits.

The Valie of Healing waits for him to have finished the apple, before lacing her fingers together. “Very well,” she softly says. “I believe that any difficult-to-bear conversation should be preceded by something sweet.”

She sighs then, crossing her legs on the chair she has settled upon, and her dark gaze finds his.

“It came to my understanding that you asked of Irmo his help in retrieving a fëa from the Halls of Mandos.”

Melkor’s expression immediately sours. “I did.”

Estë makes a soft noise in the back of her throat. “Is it the agreement you have reached with the High Prince Fëanor, whose fëa is trapped in those stones?”

He snaps his head to the side, eyes wide-

But Estë merely laughs. “As much as I have failed you in not being observant enough, it is usually a feature of mine, dearheart. There are few elves with a fëa bright enough to light up the world, so to speak, and fewer that would trade it for a fëa still in need of healing. It has also came to my ears that you have spent a great amount of time in Tirion, be it within the company of the High Prince or his Lady Wife.”

“You are aware then,” Melkor quietly says. “You must have understood the full extent of it.”

“Oh yes,” Estë tells him. “It seems to me that you have asked a great price indeed of the High Prince of the Ñoldor, in exchange for something that is not yours to give. Fëar can not be taken, Melkor. They leave the Halls when they are ready, not because of the will of another.”

“But they can be helped in becoming ready.”

“Helped,” Estë softly corrects. “Not forced to.”

“Tis not mine intention,” Melkor says, despite the obvious lie. “She will leave on her own terms. I can not go back on mine word, for I have sworn an oath biding me to it.”

Estë closes her eyes then, a long exhale coming from her lips. “I seldomly understand the way you chose to take upon chasing your desires,” she then tells him. “I can not- why would you do such thing?”

Melkor thinks of the Oath of Fëanor, the way he had found it so deliciously cruel to twist it back at him. “Sometimes, I would greatly wish to share Ilúvatar’s awareness on it.”

“This can not qualify as an answer.”

“Nonetheless it is the one that you will get,” Melkor says. He spreads his arms then, and laughs. “Would you prefer sweet lies; or shall I tell the truth of my ignorance on the matter?”

“Cruelty is rarely pursued for the sake of cruelty,” Estë softly insists. “It is prompted by something greater.”

“You say cruelty, then, to search for the flame that had been taken from me?”

“I say cruelty, then, to so greedily maim others in the process of finding yourself.”

Melkor’s laugh is bitter on his lips then. “And would I not have pursued it another way, had it been proposed to me? Is it a matter of cruelty, tell me, or one of being realistic, and understanding that some needs are greater than others? What is a fëa for an elf; when he has not sacrificed the whole of it? Have I not promised something of equal value in return?”

“You have twisted his thoughts,” Estë tells him. She does not grow angry, not the way he does; and he understands, perhaps, what she had meant when speaking of difficult to bear discussions. “You say there was no choice for you; for was there one for him?”

“Certainly there was! Or say you I forced his hands? Nay! I told him of what it entailed beforehand; and to craft them was his decision; as well as relinquishing their ownership to me.”

“He had to be forced, else they would not have rejected you so.”

“They rejected me because of the curse Varda entrapped them within,” Melkor says.

Estë shakes her head then, and considers him for a few seconds. “There is no curse,” she murmurs. “Those gems have been untouched by the Songs of the Powers; and would have been untouched by their hands had you not seized them.”

This discussion leads to nowhere. If she does not believe his words, if he refuses to listen to hers-

“I can not relinquish them,” Melkor tells her, gritting his teeth. “I need them.”

“But do you?” Estë presses.

“Yes!” Melkor snaps with a great shout; growing too frustrated. He breathes, harsh exhales sapping his strength, and can not understand why she does not listen.

Estë is relentless nonetheless. “Have you been told so? Are you certain of it, or have you merely deluded yourself that it is the only way?”

“Which other way could there be-!”

A sigh; and Melkor has bailed his hands into fists- them morphing into those black talons that are inherent to him. He burns with the want to sink them into something, preferably in the soft flesh of Estë’s cheeks, to tear that soft gaze she rests upon him, to make her understand what it is to have been deprived of light.

There are not many existing beings that can claim to hold Melkor’s affections, and Estë can safely proclaim it, but he swears, should she continue to be so anchored in her stubbornness, should she display this Valinorian self-righteousness he loathes-

Instead Estë looks at him, and smiles. “But the very one you ought to have sought in the beginning, dearheart.”

“And which is-?-!”

Estë’s words fall as if a sentence. “Eru Allfather’s light, of course.”

What-? Melkor scoffs at it first. He darts an unimpressed gaze at Estë, who stands her head high and studies him with a smile; and he laughs upon realizing that she has spoken in seriousness.

“Eru Allfather!” he cries out, half delirious with bitter amusem*nt and incredulity. “Would you ask of me to beg? Would you ask of me to kneel in the timeless Halls, for a being that deserves it not? Would you ask of me to make myself a slave once more; to obey or be denied? To aside my pride and honor- for a being that shall be as quick as giving me his favor than claiming it back! Nay! I shan’t beg, Estë, and I shan’t kneel!”

“Who said you were to kneel?” Estë asks, slowly reworking through her braids. “Once more, you work my mouth to say words that your mind has been the only one to hear. I said no such thing.”

“What say you then?”

Estë marks a pause, and makes a soft noise in the back of her throat. “I say that Eru Allfather is not unkind, nor unfair, despite the harsh past that has been deployed between the both of you. I say that he has eyes to see, and ears to hear, and should you prove yourself worthy of the light, that he shall grant it to you again.”

“Worthy of his light!” Melkor snarls. “With the enslavement it entails; to have myself twisted to fit his narrowed views on how Arda should be!”

“Not at all,” Estë murmurs. She comes to a pause near the end of her braids then, and sighs, darting her gaze back to Melkor. “For a short instant, forget the beginning, Melkor. Forget the harmony, forget the discord. I am not yet certain that it is Eru Allfather that has stolen your light.”

Melkor is startled at this. “And who would have dared then?”

“None other but yourself, I fear- but I am uncertain as if it is not a matter for another day. Nay, forget the beginning, and let us focus on what has yet to come. There is a thin line between the acts that push us towards ourselves; and the ones that turn us towards the world.”

“Thou are weaving nonsense.”

“Listen, just a moment, if you would please,” Estë pleads of him. “I shall not interfere further in the agreement you have established with Fëanor, for it is not in mine right to do so. As twisted as it was, he has accepted, and even without an oath would you have needed to give what has been asked in return. Even if it is not yours to give. But I wish to say a thing, and I wish for thee to listen.”

Melkor has the beginning of a scowl on his features. There is much she could say; and yet little that could be of true interest. Melkor will not shy away from what he has done; and does certainly not feel remorse for it— merely regret that he had been deceived.

“I will,” he says nonetheless. There are, although he is loath to recognize it, a great many things he owes to Estë. He shall listen, if not anything else.

But Estë looks at him with her piercing eyes, and shakes her head. “Nay,” she murmurs. “I ask of you to listen.”

“Have I not agreed?”

“You spoke without a thought,” she says; not entirely unkindly. It is a testimony to the small smile she gives him that Melkor does not bristle at her words. “I ask of you truly to listen, and not dismiss mine words without having heard them.”

Melkor exhales then, sharply. “Alright. I shall listen, truly listen.”

“Thank you.”

A bitter laugh escapes his lips. “Shall you not wait to have those frightful words spoken, and saw of my reaction to them, before saying yourself grateful?”

Estë laughed too; but hers seems softer to the edges. Genuine amusem*nt, when he can not have brought himself to. Her braids had been entirely remade now, and Melkor watches as she slips golden beads into them, adorned with enough details that Melkor knows them to be a gift from her spouse.

“You gave your world and it is sufficient to me, regardless of how well you shall react.” Estë sighs then, and leans back, enough for her head to touch the wall. She closes her eyes, and on her eyelids can Melkor notice a faint golden powder. “Eru Allfather is not unkind, and he might be willing to listen more than thou would believe of him. I propose an audience in the timeless halls.”

Melkor chokes on his words.

“You promised to listen,” Estë gently reminds him, eyes still closed. “I would assist you, and I dare say Irmo would as well. The Lord of the Winds, your brother, I suppose would only be too delighted also should it be proved you are worthy of such a demand.”

“And upon which criteria shall I be said worthy?”

“Well, yours,” Estë says. “If the gems refuse your touch, it is not because of a curse, or because of the purposes behind the demand. It is because you took them unfairly; and it came not from a gift of sheer willingness. Deception, even if turning reluctance into willingness, can only ever be a twisted reflection of it. Keep the gems, as for now, for you will need light to find your way in the Halls of Mandos. I shall stay silent on the matter and not breathe a word of it to Lord Manwë. But upon your return… If so you are willing, then I shall stand at your side in the Timeless Halls. Under the wing of a curatorship.”

“You are aware of what it entails,” Melkor murmurs. He is too stunned for anger, can not understand why she would subject herself to such a thing. “Should He judge the demand undeserving, you shall suffer consequences. Mine own actions- falling under your responsibilities.”

Estë opens her eyes, at least, and smiles. “I am aware. It is why I trust for your plea to come in good faith, and if so Eru Allfather asks of you, to consider his demands. Some are certain to come. You are the Vala of Change, but change does not necessarily entails destruction.”

“It is a great many amount of trust to give.”

“It is,” Estë tells him; and then approaches closer. “It is, Melkor, but I choose to give it to you nonetheless.”

Melkor remains silent for a few minutes, uncertain of which words to chose. He is not faulted for it, as Estë patiently waits for him to gather himself. Time is naught, after all, as Melkor painfully remembers. Years had he been still on his throne, Mairon kneeling at his sides in his wolfish form, so unmoving that they could have been thought statues from another time. But this is a time that will not come to pass. It has been erased, and Melkor is the only one to remember it.

He remember fading upon himself, unable to hold a fana, unable to gather his thoughts into coherence. He remembers the pain, and the fear. He remembers those wounds having caused him to limp, and how- deprived of anything else to turn towards- his desire for destruction had turned toward himself.

“Yes.”

Estë does not ask of him to repeat. Manwë would, perhaps; as he had done the first time – when Melkor had bowed deep, knees on the ground and forehead brushing it.

Instead she grins, a deep wide smile that would have let any children of Eru know what lurks beneath the flesh. They are made of fëar, first of all, and sometimes does it peak through. Something sharper than the softness she gives, something that bubbles beneath the fana and spreads wings greater than the world.

“But I am selfish indeed,” Estë then says, and springs to her feet. “For there are three that have been eagerly awaiting your awakening.”

He frowns, and Estë leaves him little time to dwell on what she means- for she comes to open the door, three forms busting from behind it.

“Oof!” Melkor exclaims, breath cut off by the lifeforms tackling him.

He has barely the time to recover from the impact- and the sharp pain, in truth- that teeth sink simultaneously in his shoulder, left arm, and waist.

“They have been eager to see you, truly,” Estë laughs- and the forms, the dragons, continue their endless pestering.

Melkor difficultly manages to wriggle himself from under their attack, sprouting another arm to grab them all by the neck, holding them a few centimetres away from him. “I am not a thing to be bitten,” Melkor tells him; as the dragons make cooing noises at him. “I made you, I am well aware it is how you demonstrate affection, but bite me once more and I’ll tear a chunk out of your necks. Am I understood?”

It is Ancalagon which cries the harder, flapping wings and all. Truly, it is because Melkor favours them so that he indulges him, letting out a sigh as he releases them- and once more do they come to settle close to him.

Wilwarin opens her mouth suspiciously close to his fana, sharp fangs brushing against his flesh- and Melkor darts to her such a dark glare that she closes it with a wet sound. Nonetheless does he exhale and brushes the tip of her sprout, eliciting another attempt at a fiery breath. It is only smoke for now, puffs of it, but Melkor knows better what Dragonfire resembles, and while eager to see it again can easily bind his time.

He closes his eyes, the warmth of the dragons eliciting a yawn from him. It is very comfortable a place after all; and he is so very exhausted. Melkor yawns again, and Wilwarin imitates him, darting a pink tongue. He laughs then, despite himself, and sinks further into the soft cotton of his sheets.

He is asleep, the dragons on top of him, before he can even realize it.

.

.

.

The second time Melkor wakes up, it is to the beaming face of Irmo. It is only due to extreme iron control that his instincts do not push him to violence, and that he manages to stifle his reaction. It leaves the dragons, still nudged asleep against him, to not bat an eye.

One darting glance at the windows informs him that it is much too early to have to endure this.

“Irmo,” Melkor eventually says. “Laurelin has not fully been awakened, yet.”

“Uh-uh,” Irmo says back, crouched as he is over Melkor. He had manipulated his density to weigh naught, and Melkor can barely feel him. It is why he has not been awakened by a crushing weight over his lungs. “The perfect time to venture into the Halls, then.”

“In a few hours, mayhap.”

“Nay,” Irmo insists, tugging at the sheets. “Wake up and rise, else we might miss our chance.”

“Come back later.”

Irmo is not one to be easily foiled. “Rise! It is you who has asked of me to bring you to Namo.”

“I asked of you to guarantee me passage, not to wake me up in the midst of the night!”

“And I say it is the perfect time, dearheart. Now move else you will not be granted this passage you seek.”

All Irmo is granted is a glare, but Melkor eventually complies. While not needing sleep, it is hard to bring himself back from the realm of Irmo, and Melkor bats a dismissive hand to instruct the Vala to help him. He would not have accepted help in any other situation, but he is tired, and it is much easier to do so.

Irmo complies with a grin, blowing a breath on him; and Melkor finds him suddenly greatly more awake than he had been a few seconds ago. He stretches then, a sharp gesture that causes his bones to pop back in place, and extricates himself from the bed and its dragons.

“Lead the way,” Melkor tells him, considering him in silence. “Have you thought of a way to cause him to change his mind? How are you to convince him?”

Irmo grins, sauntering away. He has taken to wear a dress this day, not even a robe, and Melkor is half certain to have seen Estë wear it beforehand. His fana is of the palest blue, teal-coloured hair woven with silver beads, and Melkor can distinguish at least four of his Maiar asleep in his locks.

“You shall see,” Irmo says with a wink. “I shall not give away all my secrets else what use would I be for you?”

Melkor gives him a sharp look. “I do not stay there for your use.”

“Mmh, but it certainly helps. Ah-ah! Quit with the scowling, I never said to mind! Use me as you see fit, ah- nay, perhaps not as all you see fit, I have not yet discussed the matter with Estë,” Irmo giggles. “But for the near future, let us say. Now move, for we are awaited.”

Melkor pauses for a second. “We are awaited?” he asks, as he morphs his fana to reflect his Ñoldo disguise.

“Well, Namo certainly will see us.”

“But you have not said that we would come.”

“Of course I did,” Irmo frowns. “He detests being surprised. He will be in a far greater disposition now that he has been warned, rather than springing unexpectedly on him.”

This, Melkor can begrudgingly understand. He follows Irmo then, satisfied when nothing can betray him as a Vala, and when they do their first step outside the night still has a chilly edge to it. It is Valinor so it is certainly not much, but enough for Irmo to make a show of shivering.

“Stimulate the circulation of your blood,” Melkor tells him. “It will bring you warmth. Or grow fur.”

Irmo winces at the second suggestion, and concentrates a second. There is a faint glow to his skin as he works on his organs, and then does he exhale: a sigh of contentment escaping his lips. “Better!” he cries out.

He saunters to Melkor then, and before Melkor can react – or perhaps he would have the time but merely chose not to – press a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for the advice, dearheart.” Already has Irmo sauntered back. “Now,” he says. “Shall we rather go underground?”

Melkor darts a glance at the sky. He does not want to be noticed by Manwë’s eagles and so does he nod a reluctant compliance.

“Lead the way. I shall follow.”

Irmo grins. He fades upon himself then, shedding of his Elvish fana with remarkable ease, and sinks beneath the ground. Soon does Melkor imitates him, fading into the realm of the intangible, following him into the bowels of the earth.

They are quick to make their way through Aman, for Irmo knows the way to Namo’s Halls mayhap best than all and Melkor had long studied the map of the place. He had to, was he to invade it with Ungoliant. (wretched, wretched thing-)

They emerge not far away from the Halls; both equally as quick to return to their Elvish fana, and Melkor can not help but notice that Irmo has already shed his palette for another: pastel green locks and bright pink skin, a combination that Melkor has not yet seen on him.

Irmo brushes a hand over Estë’s silken robe, the fabric glistening under the mixed light of Telperion and Laurelin. The long purple sleeves are swung around as Irmo verifies he has not omitted any detail on his fana, such as an ear or a finger, and upon being satisfied turns towards Melkor.

Melkor is waiting, more patiently than he would have thought of himself.

“Let us go then,” Irmo declares, bouncing in his child-like joy; before setting off in a run.

Melkor can either run or change his height to match Irmo’s velocity, but the latter is too risky a thing. He runs too then, heels slightly brushing the ground as he does- nearly floating more than he runs, truly.

They run amidst the woods, and Irmo lets out laugh after laugh; rising his arms deep in the air. He twirls on himself sometimes, nearly stops for an acorn, a squirrel, or something as equally mundane, but Melkor prompts him forward.

Soon do they reach for the Halls; and Melkor comes to a stop before them. He bites out a snarl, or something as equally distasteful to Irmo’s eyes; for he had no fond memories of his time spent there. Forced to kneel, shackled from his throat, wrists, ankles; given naught but to stare helplessly into endless white.

But at least he had been able to feel things. Whereas in the Void… Melkor sinks his nails in his palms then.

“Shall I wait outside?” he asks.

Irmo gives him a contemplative look. “At first. It is better so,” he finally says. Then beams. “We shall call for you if so the need arises! Do not wander too far away, vector of change!”

Melkor does not deign him an answer. He sits instead, knees spread, and closes his eyes.

“Do not take years or I shall fetch you myself,” is all he says to Irmo before he sinks deep into his thoughts, oblivious to the external world.

.

.

.

Most fëar enter carefully the Halls of the Doomsman of the Valar, cautious, and most often than not traumatized by their recent passing. Every death brings such terror, for it is in the nature of he beings to fear what brings them to a change.

Irmo does not, however. He throws open the doors, sauntering inside the Halls as he shouts: “Brother! Come see me!”

He is not even finished when Namo appears before him.

Namo watches him with an impassive expression, as he always is doomed to – ah- ah ah! Doomed to! Irmo thinks, grinning so widely that his lips tear a little at the sides. Namo is clad in the darkest robes there can be, as if a patch of colour would actually do him harm, as if his hair was not a perfect reflection of Irmo’s.

Irmo ever grins upon seeing the purple-silver locks, the one he would return too as well did he not play so much with colors. But whereas Irmo enjoys most being a kaleidoscope of pastels and bright hues, Namo’s skin has ever taken the one of the night. He has a starless sky inscribed in his very flesh: a dark tone which borders on both grey and blue.

Irmo does not wait to receive a formal introduction before trapping Namo in an embrace. Under the weight of his excitation does he spring two other pairs of arms, effectively entrapping Namo in them.

Namo endures silently, and when Irmo tightens his grip does he finally return the embrace, lightly wrapping his arms back.

He receives a beam for all answer, and Irmo presses a kiss to his cheek before stepping away. He trails a trained eye over Namo to ensure that he has not again forgotten to join the realm of living sometimes, and upon having his satisfaction met, makes a soft noise in the back of his throat.

“I have been waiting for you to visit,” Irmo informs him. “You did not.”

“I can not leave the Halls unguarded,” Namo’s voice is quiet, as it ever is. Irmo is not certain he has ever seen him raise his voice except for that incident.

“Sure you can,” Irmo says. “Put one of your Maiar in charge. I would gather they dream of nothing more.”

“It is a task that has been appointed to me-”

“-and how could I answer to Eru Allfather if I delegated my burden to someone else?-”

“-This is a task of the utmost importance and I will not treat it as if I refuse-”

“-to acknowledge how deeply crucial it is for me to be in charge- duty, obligation, respect, honour, Eru Allfather, ah- dishonor, duty again, obligation? Yes obligation if I remember well. Yes, after the thousand time, I would think to be aware of your monologue, brother, but I have not come to see myself treated as if another elvish fëa,” Irmo finishes, his grin contradicting his harsh words. “But so be it, and so shall I visit, if you wish not to see Tol-In-Glaennen. Estë shall be saddened.”

“You are aware it is not like this,” Namo says.

Irmo hums, drumming a finger against his lips. “Have you heard of my plea then?” There, he laughs. “My plea! How funny a thing, that I should plead to you.”

Namo inclines his head. “When it is I who usually plead, be it for silence or consideration.”

“But you like me,” Irmo says, poking the tip of Namo’s nose with his finger. “You have no choice in the matter, I am your blood.”

“I could very well choose not to.”

“You would not,” Irmo chirps. “Who else would brighten up your days? Dear Nienna?”

Namo gives him a sharp look. “Do not belittle Nienna, she bears a sorrow that we can not understand the weight of.”

Irmo rolls his eyes there. He has the most fondness for his sister of course, but endless mirth and sorrow does not dabble well together, and he who is so seldomly frustrated feels it nonetheless upon hearing her wailing.

“My plea,” Irmo says again, poking now a finger into Namo’s ribs.

“No soul enters the Halls except those of the dead.”

“Technically we are not souls,” Irmo objects. Then he brightens up. “And if I died? Could I, then?”

Namo sinks his fingers around his wrist. “Irmo, you will not die. I refuse it.”

A long exhale, escaped from Irmo’s lips. He twirls around to escape the grip on his wrist, and his long dress trails over the ground. Oh, oh. Estë will not be happy. Or perhaps she would not care. Sometimes it is hard to decipher between his own perception of the world and how others truly are.

“You are the Lord of the Dead,” Irmo says, arching an eyebrow. “And you refuse it for me? Are you so terrible with your guests that you should forbid me from joining them?”

“I refuse it because I see the toll taken on the mind,” Namo implacably says. “And it is a fate I do not wish for you.”

“Then let us in,” Irmo coos. “We shall just have a talk with a fëa. A simple talk, brother, and we will be out.”

“There is no simple talk when it comes to the dead.”

“There could be with me. I tend to make things very simple.”

Namo arches an eyebrow at this. “Irmo,” he says. “You never make things simple. On the contrary, I daresay you fear the simplicity of things and complicate them for your mere amusem*nt.”

Irmo pouts at such words, twirling with his silken dress. “Those are nasty words to be said to one’s kin.”

“Perhaps, but they ring true.”

“They do not.”

“Shall I remind you of the Ñoldor King eighty begetting day?”

Irmo crosses his arms on his chest. “This was an accident,” he protests. “I did not know then that elves would be so sensitive to their desires.”

“You provoked an orgy.”

“I did not know!”

“Varda had to break many a wedding bond, made by mistake.”

Irmo averts his eyes. “They should not have indulged so in the wine.”

“You stir trouble. In a different way than the one you have brought with you, yet trouble nonetheless. You brought him here after all.”

“I brought him here to help him,” Irmo says. On this he is strangely implacable, seriousness falling on his features. “For this you shall not mock, for I speak the truth, and could not bear to have you doubt me.”

Namo exhales then. He turns away from Irmo, stepping further into the Halls and Irmo follows him as a lost duckling.

“My plea,” Irmo says, trotting behind him. “I really would like to enter your halls. I would not even visit Vairë, I promise.”

“Now this is a shameless lie, Irmo.”

“But I like her too much!” Irmo admits with a laugh. “She is so…”

“So?”

“So peculiar. She frightens me, I think. In a good way, brother, I assure you before you behead me for speaking ill of your beloved. Ah, do you know she asked of me if I would consider shifting eyes to the bottom of my feet, so that I might see upon which soil I walk?”

Namo says nothing at this, merely instructing Irmo to follow him further. Irmo happily complies, humming under his breath. They reach some sort of a pond then, and Irmo is aware that it is there that Namo obtains his All-Sight. He needs to, shall he know how all fëar are boding in his Halls.

“Shall I try it?” Irmo asks.

“Why ask a question when you already are aware of its answer ?”

Irmo pokes at his ribs as they sit close to the pond. “Because I am eternally hopeful that you would change your mind.”

“Hope is a necessity. I hope you shall continue to clutch to it for many ages to come.”

“What an unnecessary pompous way of telling me that I can continue to dream and will never touch the pond.”

Namo smiles at this, a faint smile that reaches his eyes.

“Did Nienna ever touch it?”

“She did,” Namo says.

“She did?!” Irmo cries out in outrage. “And what of I?”

“What of you, indeed?”

Irmo closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, there are six of them on his features, and three other pairs on his shoulders.

“I also desire to have access to the pond,” he says.

“Yet you do not need it,” Namo tells him. “Now come sit close to I, I did not bring you here for whining.”

Irmo gives him a glare, but complies nonetheless. There does he breathe, and when he darts his eyes back to Namo, on his face are none of the child-like antics he often favours.

“I truly plead it, Namo,” Irmo murmurs. “It is of a very important matter to him, and I have given my word to be of help. It is only a talk, and she will be the one to decide if she would rather stay or not. We shall not force her, on this you have my word. If you wish of me to swear it, I will.”

“Oaths as such hold little value when they are so easily broken,” Namo tells him. “Why are you giving yourself so much for him?”

Irmo says nothing at first. He hums then. “Because there is something more that I can feel. I do not tug at his desires, not without permission, but there are some things I can sense. And I confess he intrigued me at first, long before it turned into true affection. I was curious, as you say me to be, and he indulged my curiosity, but what I found… I am truly fond of him; and I daresay he is fond of dearheart and I too. If in this quest for healing does he need my support, then it is willingly that I offer it.” He laughs then, and breathes a kiss to Namo. “You know me, brother! I can not resist the appeal of a lost soul, and he is certainly one- one that has proven himself a true delight should he be given the occasion to bloom.”

Namo closes his eyes. “It is not a game, Irmo. There is no easy victory to be earned, no pout in case of defeat. We have all seen what might be wrought by Melkor should he fall prey to his nature.”

“Ah, our nature,” Irmo breathes. “Such a natural way to justify our acts, is it not? I acted as my nature demanded it of me. But in truth, it is only a canvas given to you, and it matters to you what you do with it.”

“It is not always the case.”

“But it is,” Irmo says, smiling. “I do not believe in predetermination. If it was so, then why would have Eru Allfather given the domain of change to Melkor? Your future is what you make of it, not what has been written for you.”

“And so you believe Melkor would try to change his. You believe he would do the right choices.”

“Do you not as well? Why free him from your halls if not?”

Namo is silent. When he speaks again, it is to say: “When the time came for Melkor to be freed from my Halls, he thought me a mirage made by his own mind. I feared it had broken him, then, to have been imprisoned so for so long.”

“Was he? Estë told me as such. He thought to be in the Void.”

They fall silent together.

“It is not unknown that we would receive visions of the future from Eru Allfather,” Namo eventually says.

Irmo inclines his head. “You believe he received a warning. You believe this is what prompted the change.”

“I do not know. It is mayhap not for me to know.”

“Yet you wonder all the same. It is in our nature, you who likes it so deeply,” Irmo teases, grinning. “-In our nature to be curious. We have been made so, and this is not a thing to be changed.”

Namo closes his eyes again. His breath comes to a stop, so silent that Irmo would have thought him asleep had he not known better. Minutes pass like this, with naught to break it, and Irmo finds his own breathing slowing.

It is when Irmo is thinking words for his Maiar- for they communicate via osanwé- that Namo finally breaks the silence.

“Let him in,” he says. “I shall let you pass.”

Irmo beams, springing to his feet with a great laugh on his lips. He embraces Namo once more, pressing a kiss against his cheek, ruffling his hair; and twirls on himself.

“Melkor!” he shouts and laughs alike, running towards the entrance. “Melkor! My evil deeds have not been thwarted! Melkor!”

His bright laugh trails over the corridors, and Namo sighs.

He does hope that it is not a great mistake he is making. His eyes fall to the pond; finding instinctively the very fëa that Melkor and Irmo are looking for. It is softly humming.

He really hopes it is not a mistake.

.

.

.

Annatar darts an impassive eye on the preparations he overlooks. He is standing next to the King, his close confident ever since the envoy had been reported dead or imprisoned.

The King asks for his input for nearly all of the warfare in preparation. Annatar strokes the head of his wolf as he explains it all to the King, how to face the hoard of the West, how to use trickery, how to win.

There are no Songs in the forest now. Only the sound of clinging metal and fires in forges can be heard. The Windan are preparing for war.

And over them, Annatar ever supervises the advancement of their work.

Melkor, he thinks, albeit distantly. I come.

Chapter 13: Lesson 13: Coercion and Manipulation are not Overrated, thank you

Chapter Text

“How about a game of owl-barnacle?” Irmo innocently proposes, all four hands laced behind his back.

“Irmo, we have no dices.”

“But we do, dearheart, we do! Look!”

Melkor lowers his gaze to the now spread palms of Irmo. He smiles, tightly, else he is not certain to contain his frustration. “There is nothing there.”

“Precisely!” Irmo beams. “Visualize! Visualize!” There does he laugh, tasting the word on his lips. “Vi-su-a-li-ze. How funny that we could not tear it apart! Now that is a question! Should I tear it to shreds and change each syllable; each letter, and take them from other words would it still have the same meaning if I intend so? Or would it be a brand new word?”

Melkor darts a look at the decor surrounding them. It is a strange thing to see it so freely, to see it from this perspective. He stands free in the midst of those halls, able to wander should he desire to. It is still a trap, a cage, but one he has willingly entered: one he subjects himself to while being acutely aware of the risks. He brushes a hand over the white halls.

Everything is white there. It surprises the fëar who come, for they would expect it rather from Taniquetil. They would expect dark corridors, for the fëar to hide within and heal, corners to seek refuge in. It is not so. It is not so at all. The Halls are wide, and the Halls are bright with light.

It is made exactly for the purpose of blinding. There is no need for sight in the halls, except the one directed towards oneself. No eyes shall wander upon the forms of others before first gazing into their own. It is a place for introspection, forcing one to pull the gaze away from what is not oneself.

Melkor had gazed at a brighter light. The one currently wrapped against his chest, so close that it would have left him a little breathless- if breath he needed. The gems are buzzing against his clothed chest, a murmur that had always enthralled him. They are strong, strong enough to sink their claws into the mind of a Vala and refuse to let it go; strong enough to have clouded his gaze long enough.

He refuses to make the same mistakes, refuses to fade into himself, to pour any more of him into Arda. Melkor has given this land enough; has given it the wrong parts of himself. Tis where lay the tragedy, he thinks, that he had given so much only to realize that it was not what he should have given.

Irmo is unfazed by the light of the halls, laughing as he slithers between the fëar. He pokes the cheek of one, has his finger pass through the translucent mist, and an outraged protestation echoes in their minds.

Melkor retrieves his hand from he where he had pressed it. He curls his fingers to watch at the dark burning of their tips, and once more marvels at the lack of pain. It infuriates him: a dark, languid, anger; that he would have known of his fate and yet had been unable to avert it. Worse. He had willingly submitted himself to it. His anger murmurs in the back of his mind, whispering words he takes great care of subduing, of uselessness and fate, of another chance.

He does not want another chance at winning over Arda. He wants another chance at the life he had not thought to be available to him; the one where he would step aside and watches the game unravel, rather than taking a part of it. He does not want to be one of the players anymore, and has felt the drawbacks to greatly outweighs the advantages. Melkor is not yet sure what he desires to do with his freedom, but he wants it; and he shall have it.

Irmo is now breathing bubbles in the fëar’s faces, laughing to himself as they pass through their intangible forms. He is not satisfied with one victim, and once he has filled a corner with bubbles does he move to the next fëa, each time changing the hue of his bubbles.

“Continue,” Melkor says, curious to see if Namo should take enough outrage of those spots of colour to appear. He crosses his arms on his chest, before changing his mind and stepping forward, sinking a claw into one of the bubbles.

Strangely enough they do not explode, merely accommodating the shape of his talon, twisting around it. Melkor wiggles his finger, fascinated for a second by the texture, enough so to overpower his consternation at Irmo’s antics.

“How do you make them?”

Irmo stops mid-breathing. “Uh?”

“The bubbles,” Melkor specifies, although he should not have to. What does the other Vala believe he is talking about, his baking abilities? “What is the process?”

Irmo saunters back to him, and for a second Melkor believes that Irmo will not answer. He inhales sharply, letting unneeded air sink to the depths of his lungs, and latches a grip over Melkor’s arm. “Think of my fana as a conduit,” Irmo says, brilliantly, yet slowly enough. “It is how my Maiar come to me, because they are settled deep into my fëa: where the true Lorien manifests. Do you remember the Olorë mallë?”

“The path of dreams you once created for the first and second borns,” Melkor nods. “It has been closed when Valinor shut itself from Arda.”

Irmo twirls on himself, and pokes at Melkor’s cheek. Melkor resists the urge to have the skin of it leave place to a gaping maw. “Indeed, dearheart, indeed. It did not disappear, it merely merged into the realm of dreams. Ah-ah, I understand! Con-fu-sing. Confusing. See- my realm is not tangible. It is within me. It is a place settled deep in my fëa, and what passes through me, passes through it. Inversely, what passes through it, passes through me. Hence the Maiar, and the bubbles.”

It is, as always, unsettling to see Irmo so serious. He is beaming, certainly, pink cheeks flushed brighter with his giddiness, but his words are solemn. “It comes from there, then?”

Irmo nods quite eagerly, head bobbing under the strength of his excitation. He is slowly vanishing the bones of his arm to twist it around Melkor’s; as a python would do upon climbing a tree. Melkor lets him do so, for there is no harm in indulging him as long as he answers his queries.

“Oh yes, dearheart, yes, yes, yes.” He laughs to himself once more, amusing himself in spitting the word as harshly he can. “Yes! Yesaphaë, I talked to you about her, already! Do you remember? The Isabella moth! There are so many creatures that should enter my realm, perhaps I should go sneak into Yavanna’s garden and steal some for myself, how about an annabon? Or a horse? Or a dolphin! A dolphin, in my realm! But I would need water! I have no water, there. No true water. Ah-ah-ah-ah! False water, imagine that, but it is false for it is not the true one, there can only be one of either, can it?”

Melkor slides a hand under Irmo’s sleeves, tightening his fingers around his bare wrist. Irmo shivers for a second, for as always when two Ainur enter in direct contact does it troubles the fëa- sometimes soothing it, sometimes enhancing it. With Irmo, he means to numb, for the franticness of his thoughts is exhausting to withhold.

“Is it why your mind is so… troubled?”

Irmo blinks at him. “My mind is not troubled,” he says, quietly.

Melkor would beg to differ. He does not press the subject, but already is Irmo pondering over it. “Or is it? I suppose I should not know myself. What I judge to be perfectly fine might not be your vision of it, but then, it is rather rude, dearheart, I could say the same of thee.”

Melkor does not insist.

“Can you invocate your Maiar everywhere? If you summoned them there, they would help us in our search.”

Irmo shakes his head. “I can not, not so deep into the realms of others.” Another giggle. He escapes Melkor’s grip. “Míriel!” he calls. “Míriel, Mí-ri-el! Hear the call of the change- ah-ah-ah! Dearheart, understood? The change!”

If Míriel hears such a call, she does not answer, and Melkor would have a hard time calling himself surprised. Thus he trails after Irmo, advancing in the large corridors of the Halls. He knows that there are many levels to the halls- for he, during the three ages spent there- had been chained to a wall in a great, windows-less, hall. He had been alone also, or would have taken great advantage of the fëar passing there.

Míriel could be anywhere. But, if his inkling proves itself right, there is a place where she could have found herself. Melkor thinks about it, and grows more certain about the idea as the seconds pass.

“Irmo,” he calls. “Come forth.”

Irmo stops his mindless running and calling, popping his head through the walls to try finding the former Queen of the Ñoldor. He comes back with a giddy gait, bouncing on his heels as a crown of flowers blooms over his hair. “You found our treasure?”

“No,” Melkor says, slowly. “But I might have an idea where she could be.”

“Oh? Where so? Where? Where?”

“Patience.” He passes through a fëar, unashamedly unbothered by the outraged cry resonating in his mind. They should step aside if they did not wish for him to traverse them. “I am not certain, but if she is as Fëanor said for her to be, and I assure you that when he weeps, he weeps extensively and about four subjects only, she must be there.”

“Who?”

“The Prince of the Ñoldor.”

“They have a Prince?”

Melkor turns on his heels. “You can not be serious.”

Irmo grins, and blows him a kiss. “I rarely try to be, dearheart. It is too boring.” He giggles then, and berries pop up near his left ear. “Can a state of mind be boring? Is it not ever-changing? Or is it this stasis you mention? Can you forever stay in the same disposition? Ah-ah. Namo does. So grim. As if a grim reaper. Wait, ah-ah-ah!”

“I spoke to you about him. About the Ñoldorin royalty. Do you not recall?”

“Mmh,” Irmo says, making a show of tapping his finger against his temple. “No. Must not be interesting enough.”

Melkor sighs. “Yes,” he says, refusing to play into this game. “They have a Prince, and this Prince is one of the most frustrating beings that has ever graced Arda. It is why we are here, to retrieve his Amillë.”

“Oh! Yes! We are here for the Prince Fëanáro!”

“It is what I said, yes.”

“No,” Irmo chirps. “You said that we are there for Fëanor. I know no Fëanor.”

Melkor closes his eyes. “It is near you that I should have spent my three ages of punishment. If a rise of me they wanted, they would have received it.”

“Speak fewer riddles and lies, and I’d infuriate you less,” Irmo winks, nonetheless sauntering to him to press a kiss against his cheek. As always, Melkor is unable to bat him away, and Irmo lets out another series of giggles.

“Now,” Irmo exclaims, fists on his waist, and marches straightforwardly. “To Míriel!”

Melkor watches him do so, one eyebrow arches as Irmo decidedly goes in the wrong direction. He shall wait a little, he thinks. Until Irmo realizes that Melkor is not following. Although it might take a lot of time, Irmo does not seem resolute to turn around.

A fëa comes too near, and Melkor shushes it away. It is a pity he has come so early, he thinks. There are a few fëar he would have most enjoyed seeing- but one above others, of the Mole Prince that has fallen from Gondolin itself. The irony never ceases to make him laugh. A betrayal of his city, only to find himself killed by its very inhabitants, killed in it! When Melkor had no need for the reveal of this city, had known its position even before they had gone into hiding.

It had been so delicious, however, to watch them so confident in their safety. He had had a thrall in Gondolin then, after the sweet Maeglin had wandered too far away from its white walls, and through his eyes had Melkor seen the arrogance of the Gondolindrim. Such a precious spy as well, the fierce loyalty to his kin turned against himself, twisted beyond recognition. After all, the Prince of the House of Mole had necessitated his full attention, for once taking true part in conditional torture, psychological pain favoured over the physical one. His goal had not been to discover Gondolin, but have its end be by the hand of one of its inhabitants, to have its secrecy turned against it.

Truly, a pity that Maeglin had been killed. He had made such a perfect thrall, mind even sharper than his eyes, with such a fine disposition for devotion. The elf’s Adar was to be thanked for it, for when Melkor had wanted to enchant his mind had he been surprised to think that it was already quite crowded in there. Notes of compulsion, devotion, and inhibition: the perfect premise for what Melkor wanted.

Then he thinks of Estë’s words, again. Cruelty is rarely pursed for the sake of cruelty. Was it, truly? He drums his fingers on his arms. He supposes he could not enthral Maeglin once more, he supposes it was considered as cruel. Ah.

Perhaps indeed, there were reasons for why the gems had refused him.

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.

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"Husband, you resemble one of Ulmo’s creatures living in the Deep. Are you aware that we are in need of light to live, or have you taken to thrive in the obscurity? Have I married an aye-aye, after all?”

Despite the teasing of her tone, Nerdanel is concerned. The banter is familiar between them, but not the absence of an answer from Fëanáro. He is still crouched in front of his desk, hands working faster than his mind, shoulders tensed.

She comes behind him, and passes a hand over his stiffened muscles. Fëanáro does not react, merely continuing to mumble to himself as he assembles Makalaurë’s flute, accidentally broken in half by Curufinwë. Makalaurë had said nothing, of course, but both she and Fëanáro had seen the shadow on his face— and Fëanáro had said nothing either, pocketing the flute in a swift movement.

And now he works on it, and will probably be as silent upon offering it back to Makalaurë.

“Fëanáro,” Nerdanel murmurs, pressing a kiss to his neck. “Come back.”

Dizzied eyes rise from the flute, underlined by dark circles. “A minute,” he mumbles. “Or ten. First the flute.”

“Makalaurë shall not miss it,” Nerdanel gently says. “He has dozen of them. Sleep, however, you are cruelly missing. When is the last time you had slept more than one hour consecutively?”

Fëanáro shakes his head. “The flute,” he insists, fingers working gracefully over the wood. It is a delicate work, for there are wood splinters where there should be holes; and neither wants for Makalaurë to accidentally swallow some. “I need to finish the flute.”

He is shuddering, and she is not certain if it is because his mind is stronger than his fana, always running himself to the point of exhaustion- surviving only because of the inferno of his spirit when others would have long collapsed.

“The flute will wait,” she says, gently probing it away from his hands. “Speak to me. I have seen you troubled ever since you have disappeared, under the guise of this spiritual retreat. I can not fathom how you would think I would believe you. You, love, a spiritual retreat?” Nerdanel presses a kiss against his cheek then, and wonders how it is that her love had not faded but dwelt with time; how it is that every time she looks at him she feels as if she is burning alive. “I have not pried, thinking that you would tell me in due time. But you grow no better, a shadow of yourself ever since you have returned, and I am concerned.”

She touches his cheek. “I am concerned,” she repeats. “And our sons are too. Nelyo asked after you.”

“Maitimo is doing perfectly fine,” Fëanáro says. “He has his independence in Tirion, it is good. He has no reason to come back.”

“Independence does not necessarily means estrangement,” Nerdanel laughs. “As if you would tolerate such distance, when you keep sending baskets of what you believe is missing in his household.”

Fëanáro puts back the knife he was using to sculpt the flute back into shape. “Many things are missing from his household,” he says. “Despite being of age, he has still much to learn, notably to avoid the company of Arafinwë’s oldest. I have seen the boy chatter with Maitimo, he should spend less time with him and his other cousins and more with his courted ones.”

“It is us who have decided to open our house to Findekáno and Findaráto.”

“Certainly,” Fëanáro scoffs. “Better to have us teach the boys rather than Ara and Ñolo. If we hoped to make decent beings of them, they had to join our household rather than stay in theirs. Have you seen what Ñolo has done to Turukáno? I have never met stiffer Ellon, and he is barely one hundred of age.”

Nerdanel thinks of Turukáno, who is quick indeed to dart condescending looks to their household, pinch his lips and say them indecent. Her sons dislike him greatly, and while some are subtler than others, especially Nelyo, with his ever-graceful manners and polite smiles, some… do not bother so. For sometimes Turukáno resembles Fëanáro’s half-brother so very much that it is hard not to see them as carbon copies, but she dares say the Father is softer than the Son. It seems to be recurrent, she thinks, thought going to her own Adar-in-law.

“Come eat with us,” she tells Fëanáro, nonetheless. “The flute will be there when you come back. I daresay Makalaurë will enjoy your presence more than a flute slid in his hands, and no words said.”

Fëanáro scoffs again, but he rises, silently complying. He trembles a little when he stands, and Nerdanel once more watches the length of his exhaustion. It manifests in all the small things: from the shivering to his fingers to the darkness in his gaze, from the increased definition of his cheeks to the strange ardour burning inside his irises. It is as if a flame has been pulled out of him, and his hroä compensates by burning even brighter, pushing him to the last remains of his energy.

Nerdanel kisses him, a stolen moment, and he kisses her back, with an eager despair she has not seen since much younger. He kisses her as he does everything, with no in between, either refusing or entirely too demanding. He kisses her as she loves it, as she pleads for it.

She pats his cheek when they part, and resolves to ask of the kitchen to send sweets to his workshop. She does not like the sunken look of them, testifying of poor times, Fëanáro’s appetite always disappearing in front of greater considerations. It is either not eating for days, or wolfing down plate after plate as if a starved elf, and upon noticing the first one far too often had she resorted to another technique. Baskets of fruits, dried meat, and sweets lay inside his workshop so that he needs not to get away from his projects to feed.

It had had the consequence of him mindlessly emptying the baskets a little more often that she had envisioned, mind so focused on what was before him that it registered not the number of times his hand came to retrieve something, nor if he was satiated or not. In all honesty, she had found it to be an impact of very little consequence.

“Lead the way,” she says.

Fëanáro chuckles, faintly. “You do not trust I would not turn on my heels?”

“Indeed, I do not,” Nerdanel tells him, smacking slightly his arse as he passes before her. It elicits the most delicious gasp from him, an outraged huff, and Nerdanel laughs, and laughs.

.

.

.

“Are we there, yet?”

“Patience,” Melkor says, gritting his teeth.

“Are we there, yet?”

“Still not, in the few seconds that have passed.”

“Are we there, yet?”

“Irmo, I shall swear, ask it once more of me and I will unhouse you.”

A pause.

“Are we there yet?”

“Yes.”

“Truly?”

“No.” Melkor whirls on himself, and nearly grabs him by the collar. “Do you happen to see the former Queen of the Ñoldor? Do you happen to see Míriel? Do you happen to see anything else than those wretched halls?”

Irmo crosses his arms on his chest and smiles brilliantly. “It is precisely why I ask: are we there yet?”

Eru, Melkor thinks. By all that was sacred, give him patience.

.

.

.

Nelyo is cutting cucumbers on the counter when they arrive, and instantly all face brighten up at the sight of Fëanáro, up to Curufinwë, nestled in Tyelko’s arms, who immediately wail for his Adar to hold him. Nerdanel would be lying if it did not tug something in her heart, to see how eager they are for their Father’s affection, when she is just as ready to give it.

But she sees how Fëanáro picks Curufinwë up, nestling him against his hip; and how he presses kisses all over his son’s chubby cheeks. How Curufinwë lets out small giggles, and she can not find it in her to be jealous.

Still, she presses a kiss of her own on Nelyo’s cheek, enjoying the way he faintly smiles under the attention. “Amel,” he protests nonetheless. “I am using a knife, do not distract me.”

“Distract you?” She laughs. “Not to me, who has seen each of your first steps in this world. Have you ever seen something which distracted you, my son?”

The faintest hue then to Nelyo’s cheeks, and oh. Barely noticeable, and he has not stiffened, his ever-present polite smile settled on his lips, but he is her son, her flesh and blood, and she knows him. Interesting. Something has distracted him then, or someone.

He had spent an awful lot of time with Findaráto recently, it is true, for it seems that Ara’s son is awed by his older cousin. Ever since he had first vacationed at their household had he been in his steps, wanting to do everything that Nelyo did, wanting to prove himself, his pride sometimes bordering on brattiness. Perhaps Findaráto would know of who seems to have flushed her Nelyo’s cheeks so, would provide some insight that she would keep secret.

Fëanáro settles around their long table; made of twenty seats and the most resistant wood, she had crafted it herself after her third son. Better to be safe than sorry, she had said to Fëanáro and he had given her the most precious laugh. She loves the table, even more so now that it has seen life.

Where Fëanáro is sitting, there are little knife-induced marks of musical notes. It came from a day when Makalaurë was humming to himself during supper, and finding no notebook nor parchment near, had carved his unseen melody into the table. Near it, there is a stain of red ink- from when Carnistir had grown bored with Nelyo teaching him tengwar, and had thrown his bottle across the table. There had been a tablecloth, but a piece of wood had been exposed - enough to be eternally stained. More of those: scripts from Fëanáro’s very hand, teeth marks from Tyelko when he had bitten the table – breaking two milk teeth in the process, drawings from Curufinwë, notes from Nerdanel herself, a carved chunk from Nelyo a day he had been bored enough, another carved chunk from Findaráto, having wanted to have a bigger one upon learning what Nelyo had done, a “Nelyo+Finno” from Findekáno, crossed out by two colours: red, and blue. A “please stop writing on the table” above in Nelyo’s elegant script.

Nerdanel loves it so very much.

“Where are your brothers?” she asks Nelyo.

“Tyelko is with the Hunt, as he will be for the next two weeks. Káno is still fast asleep, I believe. I do not know where is Carnistir.”

Mmh. Nerdanel considers waking her second. She darts a glance at Fëanáro, who has now taken to tickling their latest, and is once more struck with the dark circles under his eyes. Nelyo’s eyes follow, and upon the way he slightly pinches his lips, she can tell he noticed it too.

It would be hard to, but some of her sons are more skilled at deciphering words or actions rather than unsaid implications.

Nerdanel drums her fingers on the table. It has been long also, since she had seen Annatar. This strange lord, so very semblable to Fëanáro in many ways that she is not surprised they would forge a friendship.

She is glad, in her heart, that Fëanáro has found someone to understand him so deeply. It is a skill he… lacks, to forge long lasting friendships and sustain them, for he can not put himself in the place of others, can not understand nor tolerate visions nonsensical to him.

Nerdanel goes to help Nelyo with the food then, them silently working in tandem, not once bumping into the other despite their frames. She delights at it, how they are able to smoothly work together, yet stealing once or twice a peck on his cheeks, for she finds her sons to be growing far too quickly. Nelyo never protests, merely offers her a smile. “I am there, Amel.”

“I know you are,” she says. “But it has been a time since I could properly see you, and now I want to take the most of it.”

“I visit often,” Nelyo counters.

She can not say him wrong. “Your Adar would come banging on your door if you did not.”

Nelyo gives her a laugh.

“I am worried about him,” she murmurs. A part of her inquires if it is fair, to lay her concerns over her eldest, blindly believing in the strength of his shoulders. But he is strong, and never shows any inclination that it is too much, and so she continues speaking: “He has fallen into a strange disposition, lately, and there is a burning fire within his eyes which causes me great concern.”

Nelyo inclines his head. “I have noticed,” he says. “Ever since he has returned.”

Nerdanel bites at her inner cheek. “Indeed. I am not sure of what changed.”

“Could it not be another project? A feud with Uncle Ñolofinwë?”

“I am not sure,” she says. Her gaze falls once more on Fëanáro, who had taken to lay back in his chair, eyes strangely glazed. “But I intend to discover what it is.”

.

.

.

It must be there, Melkor thinks, coming to stop before a hallway. There are many doors to its side, but only one is of interest to him. Only one, if he is right, must be where Míriel hides.

Irmo comes to bump into him at his sudden stop, and yelps when his nose makes a worrying crunch. It is not broken however, and he brushes at it with bare relief, before sprouting two other noses on himself just because he fancies it. He is of a pale purple presently, his long braided hair only a few shades darker, and Melkor considers him with a sharp eye.

“Present yourself as… elvish-like as you can. The colours can stay, but keep yourself to what is usual to them- the strict minimum in terms of eyes, limbs, and features.”

A pout adorns Irmo’s lips. “It is instinctive,” he protests.

“And her fear shall be instinctive as well. We are here to convince her, not make her run away in terror.”

“I am not terrifying!”

“Not to mine eyes, nor of those of the Ainur; but she is an Incarnate and they are contained by their fana in a way we are not. Do not frighten her.”

He should have taken Estë, Melkor absently thinks. She would have found the right words to speak to the Elleth; for all the ones he can think about are to deepen her fear, or her possible anger. He is not certain of what he can say to bring her to come should she be the kind, patient figure Fëanáro had made her to be. He does not remember enough of the former Queen to know if Fëanáro says the truth or is blinded by his filial love, but to deserve so great affection, she must be.

Although Finwë had waited very little to remarry. Even he had been surprised by the arrogance of the query, not for the sake of a beloved but to ensure himself more offspring! Melkor can not quite believe the Valar have indulged him. It seems the pride and greed in Fëanáro’s blood come from somewhere, after all.

He strides through the halls, passing the last steps between them and the door.

Perhaps another would have marked a moment of waiting before it, celebrated the instant, but Melkor does not. He opens the door, Irmo bouncing on his heels behind him, and finds himself facing the former Queen, Míriel of the Ñoldor.

She turns, her intangible fingers surprisingly laced together, and studies them from top to bottom.

“Lord Irmo. Melkor. Lord Námo had warned me you would come.”

Melkor steps forward, the lack of title not escaping his attention. “Lady Míriel,” he says. “What warrants me such initial cautiousness?”

Irmo passes next to him as a bolting arrow. He stops a second away from Míriel, visibly itching to take her in his arms, barely refraining himself. He is bouncing on his heels, giddiness and excitation overflowing his features. “Fëanáro’s Emel!” he cries out. “You look nothing like him!” He squints then. “You look everything like him!”

Indeed. Míriel is translucent, and yet holds much more shape than all the previous fëar- resembling less a cloud of mist and more a version of herself that would have faded to the intangible. It is as if an outline of her, the very first fëa to have inhabited the halls. It allows them to see a reflection of who she was alive: white curly hair brought up by clasps and pins; piercing blue eyes, a fair complexion, royal features. She resembles Fëanáro in nothing indeed, and yet—

Yet, it is a fëa, and in it Melkor and Irmo see how painfully similar are the Mother and the Son. She burns bright, perhaps not as bright as Fëanáro but bright enough, her spirit akin to a great white flame. She has the same piercing contemplation he possesses in her gaze, held herself in the same way she did, and her immaterial hands are having the slightest twitch- as if she too can not bear to have them be still.

“Thank you,” Míriel says. She smiles and even her smile is similar to the one of her son, bordering enough on smugness to not be entirely agreeable. “It is my son, after all.”

Irmo nods with great bobbing motions. “You are beautiful,” he croons. “So pretty! So very pretty!”

It elicits a chuckle from Míriel. “Why, when you are much prettier, Lord Irmo- with those sweet colors of you.”

It causes Irmo’s eyes to widen and he beams so widely Melkor is half-afraid he will forget himself and stretches his lips to his ears, before giggling. “They do are very pretty as well! Blues! And purple! Pinks!”

Melkor lets them laugh together about the vanity of their fana, carefully studying Míriel. Once had he made the mistake of speaking too fast, and had had Fëanáro close his gate to him, with a great cry of rage. He wishes not to mimic this mistake today, and needs to be careful with the words he picks.

Only when her grim expression has faded enough – and finally it seems he had been right to bring Irmo with him- Melkor comes to stand next to them, enduring the immediate latching of Irmo on him, the kisses he peppers his cheek with, the circling of his arm. If his own arm tightens around Irmo, there is no other than those two to see it, and he will not admit it.

“You know why we are here, then,” Melkor says.

Míriel arches an eyebrow. “You are here to bring me back to Aman.” She turns on her heels, and comes to stop in front of what had made Melkor sure she was there: the great tapestries displaying Fëanáro’s life. He can see the eldest of Fëanáro’s there, the one with reddish hair: Celegorm. “It is useless. I will not come.”

“You will not?” Irmo cries out.

“I made my choice long ago,” Míriel says, giving him a mirthless smile. “I can not stay in Aman as long as Finwë lives, for he is bonded to another.”

This can be swiftly rectified. Míriel must see something on his features although, because she adds: “Do not murder him for my sake, if you please. I care for him very much.”

Now, this is frustrating. He had counted on her resentment. “You do not resent him for replacing you so quickly?”

Míriel laughs, a free, rather barking-like laugh that contrasts with the softness of her features. “I do not, Weaver of Discord. He had always confided in me in his want to have more sons, or daughters for the difference it makes, and tis of mine flaw that I had not been able to give him what he desired. I do not resent him, and I do not resent Indis.”

Irmo beams. “A good thing! She is very pretty as well,” he stops then. “As all of you are.” He comes to lace his fingers under his chin then, sauntering to Míriel. “But we have not come for Indis or Finwë.”

A frown, on Míriel’s features.

“It is for Fëanáro that we have come,” Melkor murmurs, coming to join her next to the tapestries. He studies them in silence for a few seconds, then has a brief exhale. “He does not fare well with the situation. He has never, in truth, but there are whispers in the streets.”

“Whispers?”

Irmo is silent next to them, curiously watching.

“The Ñoldor are beginning to think that your son is ill-fitted for bearing the crown,” Melkor says. “There are whispers that Finwë’s second son should be the one to succeed him, a petition of a sort growing in their minds. It does not come from Fëanáro’s skills in itself, alas, but that he begins to be seen as unfit for the line of succession. The true royal line, you see, is the one coming from Finwë and Indis, the Queen of the Ñoldor.”

“Are there such whispers?” Irmo breathes to Míriel, as if she would know.

There are not. Not in this timeline, where Melkor has not breathed a wind of insurrection amongst the Ñoldor. But if his lies had taken so quick root, it was because it answered to a feeling they had not known to have. Despite Carnistir’s elegant composure and sweet way with words, the red-headed eldest of Fëanáro that was represented on the tapestries, - or wait, was it Tyelkormo?- Fëanáro’s lack of… willingness to indulge in ceremonies and social gathering did not give him the kindest of reputation.

To imply that Fingolfin would be far more suited had been easier than breathing.

Míriel shakes her head. “It can not be. I was a Queen, and Fëanáro is still Finwë’s eldest. I fail to see how my presence would change things.”

Melkor’s tone is a sweet murmur. “You would convince them of the rightful claim of Fëanáro to the throne. You would ensure that he is not robbed of it by his half-siblings, when it should go to him, him the Eldest of his Father’s sons. You could help him. He is the one who sent us there.”

Míriel tightens her lips. She shakes her head once more, and bats her hand as if to dismiss him. She can not, not when Melkor had his hands burned for her sake, when he shall take her with them either by convincing or duress.

He looks at the tapestries then. “You have spent a long time there,” he says. “The very first elf to have joined Mandos’ halls.”

“What of it?”

“You had a long period of rest,” Melkor tells her. “The world does not enter a stasis, however, and is moving along. It might entail positive consequences but some also that you had not foreseen. There is a choice, often to be made, when one stands at such a crossroad.”

Míriel exhales sharply. “You speak poisonous words. I have sworn to stay in the Halls for as long as Finwë should stay married, that we are never in the same place.”

“The halls of Mandos are not the only place where you could be out of time,” Melkor says. “You need not to be one of the erring fëar to answer to your oath.”

“Tol-in-Glaennen can be out of time,” Irmo chirps, the sweet delight.

“Precisely.”

Míriel passes a hand over her features. “I have a purpose there,” she murmurs. “I would wish to help you, but I can not. Fëanáro has always been capable, if there are such whispers, I am certain he would be able to thwart them.”

“Not if Finwë himself finds his heart to answer to those whispers,” Melkor continues. “Not if his Father himself ask of him to step aside. Would he refuse him then?”

Míriel’s eyes widened. She is hesitating, he can see it on her translucent features, but she has long settled into this place, and it is evident that she is loath to leave it.

“Finwë would not ask such of him.”

“Would he not? Under the pressure of his people? Would you swear on it?”

Míriel bites her lips to refrain herself from answering. She darts her eyes at Irmo, as if to ask advice of him, but the Lord of Lorien is far too enticed with the play at stakes to be of help. He has clasped his hands in sheer delight, watching them as if a game of chess, wondering about who will corner the other.

Although there is a strange hue to Irmo’s skin, a blue as he has never seen it, and Melkor finds himself glancing at him as well. He is answered with a brilliant grin, which does very little to disperse his confusion.

Míriel closes her eyes then. “I will think of your query. Leave me.”

Oh no. Certainly not, when they have come this way, when Melkor has sworn to bring the former Queen back.

“Wait if so you wish,” Melkor sweetly says. “Those whispers do not wait, and if he is removed from his rightful place as an heir… Fëanáro might comply under orders of King Finwë, but his sons would certainly be more loyal to him than his usurper. As well as those following Fëanáro’s banner. It is a war in the making, Queen Míriel, and if only: a deep scar upon your kin.” He takes a step forward. “It would tear your family apart, bring death upon Aman. Imagine how quick it would be to happen, Fëanáro rising his sword against his half-brother… Heated words, a blow… Death, and then, chaos. I can see it. Can you see it as well?”

Irmo’s eyes widen behind him, and he opens his mouth— but Melkor’s glance is telling enough that he clasps it shut.

Míriel is shivering. She avoids his gaze and he knows she had seen it too, glimpses at the very least, of a future he has known to pass. Details twisted certainly, but ending up the very same: Finwë’s family fractured, death after death.

There is one death that delights him very much, this wretched Fingolfin— who Grond had made efficient work of, alas not quick enough.

“You would avoid all of this,” Melkor tells her. “You have nearly naught to do. It would not be difficult a task. You could be the one to save them from this fate you know is to come. You could be the one to unite them. Perhaps even ease the heart of Fëanáro.”

Míriel is pinching her lips harder. Her gaze goes to the tapestries, to the scenes that she had seen again and again, and again. “What of my promise to stay in Mandos…?”

Melkor does not grin, but it is nearly so.

He uses his most soothing voice: the one used to murmur sweet temptations to the ear of Mairon all those ages ago, the one used to whisper lies in the minds of the Ñoldor, the one used to soothe Maedhros and sing new lines into his fëa, the one made to convince Maeglin to pursue the desires of his heart.

“You should not have to care for it,” Melkor murmurs. “It is something that we can do for you, what you would rightfully deserve. You deserve to have a life, and need not to throw it away for Finwë’s sake. It is of yourself that you should think, and of Fëanáro. Of the family you are bound to, and how to save it from its own perdition.”

Irmo is gazing at him strangely, flickering all sorts of blues. It is very unsettling, and concern washes over him for a second, hesitating between dragging Míriel over the edge and the illness which seems to have taken hold of Irmo.

Perhaps the Vala of Dreams is not made to endure the Halls for so long. They will have to conclude it as quickly as possible, else Irmo will unhouse himself, shedding his fana.

He lays the last stone on the board then.

“It is time to come home, Míriel.”

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Nerdanel is passing a cloth over a statue when she hears the doorbell ring. She darts a glance at Fëanáro, who is enthralled by his notes, chin resting over his fist. She waves a hand at him, is met by complete indifference.

“Fëanáro,” she says. “The door, if you would please.”

Not even a twitch to his focused features. It is as if she had not spoken, and she knows that in this instant, she could have told him of her desire to remarry Ñolofinwë that he would not have batted an eye.

So she sighs, and prompts herself to her feet. In passing next to him does she still give his skull a slight tap, but he does not even react.

One day, she thinks, there will be someone stumbling and bleeding to death before him and he will not even notice it under three days later.

Another ring. She hastens her pace, wiping her clay-covered hands on her robes, passing a hand in her hair to make herself somewhat more presentable. Just enough that whoever is there will not think her a goblin escaped from the bowels of the earth.

A third ring and she is mumbling as she unlocks the door, opening wide—

“Merry morning,” Irmo Lórien beams, standing next to Annatar. “We are there for the delivery!”

He steps aside then, in front of Nerdanel’s stunned expression; and—

A face that she has only ever seen in painting—

“Queen Míriel?” she gasps.

“Only Lady, but I would prefer Emel,” Míriel says with a smile. She takes a step forward, taking Nerdanel’s hands in her. Nerdanel feels suddenly hyper-aware of the callouses on her fingers, the stains, the gnawed-at nails. “I am so delighted to finally meet you.”

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An eagle lands in front of him. Manwë gives him a faint smile, and a nod, but the eagle is quick to morph into an elvish-like fana, sinking to a knee. He is shivering, shudders coursing through his fana.

“My lord Manwë,” he says, and his eyes are wide, wider than they should be. “There are ills news from Arda.”

Manwë immediately frowns. “Ill news? Which sort?”

“An army of elves is preparing for battle, my lord. Soon they will cross the waters, for they are already finishing building the boats.”

“Battle- which battle? Melkor is there. There is no foe in Arda.”

“It is precisely this,” his herald breathes, and his wide eyes find Manwë’s. “They are preparing to march on Valinor.”

Chapter 14: Lesson 14 : Don't count your chickens before they're hatched

Chapter Text

The King of the Windan did not dispose of a great maritime fleet. Having settled in the forest when the Avari had split into several peoples, they had never seen the importance of taming the sea to their whim, of coming to discover the great horizon camouflaged behind the waters. Their knowledge was mainly in the art of concealment, tracking, and invisible attacks. Their footsteps on the leaves resembled the blowing of the wind in the trees, the rustling of their arrows in the air the whistling of birds, their sign language undetectable to the ear. Even when the stalking reached its peak, when the hunter pounced on his prey, the gurgle of his death rattle was muffled to a mere hiss.

The Windans had made an art out of stalking, had made a gift out of their refusal to master the sea - for it was to the forest that their talents had turned, and within the forest that their self-inflicted qualities shone brightest.

Annatar had looked approvingly at their preparations. Surprisingly, but pleasantly, this ability to conceal did not detract from their prowess with the sword. When the iron was drawn, when the blade whistled through the air, it was with a skill that commanded respect.

He had watched, then, as the elders made sure that the younger ones mastered the art to the best of their ability. Of course, there was a kind of experience that only came with being on their home turf, with real combat - where the swords were not made of wood and the instructor did not have their well-being in the back of his mind - but Annatar had been equally pleased with their instruction in sword fighting.

The Windan favored hand-and-half swords amongst the longsword, or andemakil in Quenya, preferring a weapon light enough to allow them to hold it in one hand, and have the reins of their stallions in the other. The notable advantage was its ability to act for offensive as well as defensive status, maximizing impact with minimal effort. Its cutting power was such that, after all, a limb without armor would be severed with a single blow.

Annatar had spent many a sparring session watching the elves circle each other, sitting atop the king's tree-house, Draugluin at his feet. A beringed hand had often come to brush the top of the wolf's head: pieces of dried meat retrieved from his pockets to be offered to him, the canid's teeth brushing his fingers.

Such a position allowed him to have a global view of the training grounds, to ensure his position as an advisor to the king, and to assure the king of his interest in the preparations for invasion.

And so often the King would approach, his eyes coming to rest successively on Draugluin, whose spells that Annatar had begun to weave around him were finally beginning to take shape - first spreading his bulk, sharpening his canines and causing his eyes to glow, then on his troops and finally on Annatar.

Ever since the announcement of their war preparations, the King's eyes had been on Annatar. It is uncertainty, Annatar knows that only too well. Uncertainty and anger, for having brought a knowledge that they would have preferred to refute. How can they not act when their people are enslaved? How could they not act when the promised refuges had turned out to be prisons? How could they not act, and at the same time how could they not be bitter about the position they had been forced to take - for a kin that did not recognize them, for a kin that perhaps did not deserve their help.

Once Annatar had been satisfied with the Windan's progress in close combat, he had turned his attention to the question of ships. Sailing was not something that could be learned in a day, nor even a week, and these ships needed to be acquired. Building them would take years, and skills that the Windan did not have. So it was a matter of appealing to those who had both the skills and the ships - the Kinn-Lai in the coastal city of Arvalondë. [1]

Annatar had considered making the journey himself at first. Who better, he thought, to come and convince the Kinn-lai to join them in their crusade, to come and defend the cause of the oppressed people in Valinor? But then luck and providence smiled upon him, for there was a Kinn-lai among the Windan people. She was the daughter of one of the Lords of the Kinn-lai court, not affiliated with the royal house but of noble blood all the same, having bonded with one of the Windan Lords. A golden opportunity, Annatar had thought, and it was this Elleth who had gone - with a procession worthy of a queen, and Annatar's protection as to crossing Orcs.

He had spread such a powerful message in the minds of the Orcs that they had not dared to approach the forest of Eriador for six days and six nights, the time it had taken for the Lady Quildiel to reach Arvalondë.

She had returned triumphant, her cheeks rosy with the excitement of her journey and of having seen her kin for a time: on her lips the repeated promise of the King of the Kinn-Lai, of the gift of ships and elves.

Preparations had accelerated then. It was a question of having enough provisions for a siege, of grinding the swords and cleaning the armors, of gathering the troops. But it was also, and this was one of the most important points, to gather the troops of Angband.

And that meant Annatar would have to go in person, gather them, and move them without the Windan and Kinn-lai noticing-they who were only meant to be cattle pitted against the elves of Valinor. His Valaraukar, his orcs, would face the Ainur. And what was left of the wood elves. Annatar did not want to leave anything to chance. The elves were no match for the Ainur. The Valaraukar on the other hand... they would be a good enough distraction for Annatar to free Melkor in the midst of the chaos.

It had been hard a task indeed than to convince the King that Annatar needed to go away for a time: he had given himself a period of three months, sufficient enough he hoped, to gather everything and have the Windan and Kinn-Lai be ready. But eventually Annatar's silver words had made their way into the King's mind, whispered between flattery, insincere frights and promises of return.

And now, mounted on a big brown horse, Draugluin running at his side and craving to get rid of this pleasant smile who seemed like tar sticking to him, Annatar takes one last look at Eriador.

It has been interesting enough, he supposes, and his hand tightens over the hilt of his dagger. One last look, a true, lingering look; and Annatar turns his horse around.

No time to spare. Melkor is still waiting, shackled in Valinor, and Annatar shall not fail his duty.

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Annatar does not let go of his fana, even long after the woods of Eriador have disappeared from his sight. The new fortress of Angband in the middle of Thangorodrim is closer to the coast than Eriador is, and the movement of his troops can be done without being seen by the ships of the elves. He moves on horseback, and having no need to take breaks himself the only breaks are to rest his mount. Annatar paces back and forth on those instances, his mind teeming with a thousand plans and contingencies, a thousand unforeseen situations that he takes care of destroying one by one, detaching each of his thoughts in a dozen or so steps: deconstructing them in order to better reconstruct them behind. If Melkor is imprisoned in Mandos, how to distract Namo- if he is chained to Taniquetil, if he has been thrown behind the doors of the night, if heavy enchantments have been put on his mind...

So many possibilities, so many unforeseen events, and yet Annatar endeavors to think of each one of them, to find a solution for the slightest deviation. There are heavy scars in his palms now, crescent moons that speak of bailed fists and sinking nails. He doesn't pay any attention to them.

And still Annatar sets out again, and so rides to Angband for nine days and nights.

He stops far enough from Angband that the sight of the mountain fortress takes his breath away. He had to abandon his mount almost a day before - too exhausted to continue, too thirsty - and Annatar slit his throat with a dagger, before allowing Draugluin to take his claim on this newly offered prey.

Yavanna's words had come back to him briefly then, when she had asked every Ainu, every child of Eru to care for her creations as if they were a part of herself. Annatar laughed then, a great laugh that had made the birds fly out of the trees, a great raucous laugh that had made his voice break and Draugluin crawls on the ground.

And now that the sight of Angband lays before his eyes, Annatar feels nothing but pride. Pride for this great construction he had undertaken on his own, for this great gift to Melkor’s glory, testifying that he had not been sitting idly for all those centuries.

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It is easy, certainly, to enter Angband for the one who had constructed it. Annatar knows it better than he knows himself, from the slightest crook to the hidden passages, from where he had organized the fortifications to Melkor’s rare jewelry, from the secret chambers he has made for himself to the great lava baths reserved for Melkor and himself.

Slithering in, undetected, is no more a feat or a burden than if he had walked through the great gates at the entrance. But Annatar wants a few moments to himself before facing the great armies of Angband. With Draugluin at his heels, all he needs is a breath on the hidden torches to light up and enter the secret passages designated by his own mind. These were built with the idea of allowing Melkor to pass through as well, no matter what form his beloved takes, and the tunnels are wide enough and high enough to accommodate Draugluin's growing size.

The wolf begins to look only faintly like it once did. The frantic run of the last few days through Arda has sped up his stride and his paws; and the newfound freedom to tear into his prey without the suspicious gaze of the Windan has sharpened his canines. Annatar's spells are meant to grow on their own: a sprout, fed by the right nutrients, that stands self-sufficient in terms of gradual improvement.

Annatar knows that soon Draugluin will surpass his steeds in size. Already he is twice the size he was when he started - a Windan wolf who came to be nuzzled without knowing what would be awaiting him.

More and more he begins to feel the urge to give him the ability for coherent speech, but it is a delicate task. The manipulation of the hroä is easier than that of the fëa, than that of the mind - and it is precisely the latter that Annatar must manipulate must he offer him the gift of intelligent consciousness.

This is a challenge.

But as Annatar takes the last few steps into Angband, into his rooms, into a private moment for himself, a smile blooms on his lips.

He had never been one to turn down a challenge, after all.

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It was when Míriel had accepted their request, although in truth it was not so much a request as an order honeyed enough not to look like one, that Irmo had isolated Melkor for a moment.

A moment: a second or perhaps an eternity, a floating moment for the Ainur, in this place where time has no hold. A second within the Halls of Mandos is equivalent to a month outside them, a year outside the Halls to a millennium inside; a second is worth a second, a year perhaps a month. Time is not linear, time is only an aspect refused to be considered - and Melkor knows that when they walk through the great white doors, a heartbeat will have passed. This is what he wants, and so it will happen.

“Dearheart,” Irmo begins, and his skin flashes of enough shades of blue for Melkor to be truly concerned now. He eyes Irmo as if to weigh if a great peril has come to him – unbeknownst to Melkor – but there is nothing except a firm determination in Irmo’s eyes. Strange a sight. “Thou asked of mine help, yes, and I said I would provide, I said I would, I promised, I said it, I promised, yes, dearheart, and I shall not be known as an oath-breaker,” there his eyes widen, and he wrings his hand. “Do thou know what it entails, dearheart, to have such a pull to thy soul and know naught on how to break it? Oaths, and promises! So similar, yet so different! One tears you apart in its greed, one is so easy to give; and I mistook one for the other! Dearheart! Torn apart! Dearheart! Beware of greed!”

Perhaps for the first time, it is Melkor who initiates contact, who takes Irmo’s hands in his. It comes, perhaps, from the smug satisfaction of having secured Míriel’s return.

“I did ask a great deal of you,” Melkor says. “But you must see it, Irmo, how it will be brought together. How it is needed.”

“Is it? Is it? How do you think it is, and it is not, and you shall regret such actions and I shall weep for not having said when I should have said! Is it? Is it?”

“It is,” Melkor assures. “You speak of oaths, and fairly, who I had grown too arrogant in my desire to best Fëanáro, and it is true I have foolishly sworn one. But such an oath is on its way to be completed, Irmo, and I shall ask no more of you.”

“I can not! Too much! Too much!” Irmo cries out, his blue colours flashing frantically. “I see you walk the path that goes down and I would wish for it go up! And up, and up, up, up, up, up, up. I can not! You can! You can, and I have watched and still watches lies unfold and be told, and you are the one, dearheart, it is you, you only, who can fold them back and cease to go down!”

Melkor is ready to protest, perhaps even let anger take a hold on him- for Irmo talks of what he knows not, he talks of a path that Melkor has seen and will not let come to pass- but then he stops. He stops and he thinks.

Estë had spoken the same words to him. She had told him of cruelty. She had told him of a path he was walking on, one he had sworn to forsake and yet found himself once more taking. It was easy to dismiss it then.

But the Silmarils had burnt him, and Melkor, for all he is the Vala of Change, has the hardest task of changing himself. Too ingrained had he grown in his own complacence, his own certitude of who he was, what he was to do, and how to proceed. It is how he is, he had thought, and thought nothing more of it. But it is not what he seeks.

Melkor longs for peace, this abstract word that seems to have eluded him now; and needs a moment to think of what his peace exactly. So long now had he yearned for it that he is not certain he had taken the time to ponder on what such peace meant- for his psyche and hroä.

“I have seen it,” Melkor quietly admits. Irmo’s feverish eyes go to him, and the next words are a struggle to come out. “Such a fate I yearn to avoid, Irmo, and you who rules over all desires should see the truth of it in mine heart. I do not wish for such ways, for such a path, but I often find that there is no alternative for I. It is all that I have known, and to separate from it is harder a task than I had thought.”

Irmo’s metallic blue fades for something softer, as if his manic episode had ebbed. He twists his hands out of Melkor’s grip to be the one gripping at Melkor’s, and steps closer, enough so that to entrap them in a proper embrace if so one of them wished.

“Tis a beginning, dearheart,” Irmo murmurs, and the smile that blooms on his face is brighter than Telperion’s silver light. “Past is what past is; and we can not go erase what had been as easily as we can erase what has to come, is it not, dearheart?” A giggle then, and a flash of pink appear on Irmo’s cheeks. “Time! Stretchy yet so hard! Ti-me! Harder than steel, softer than mist! Had it been for one of us to have it for himself how jealous would have we been? How pitiful? Time!”

Melkor exhales. “Jealous indeed,” he says. “How golden an opportunity.”

“Yet how easy to lose yourself in it, dearheart!” Irmo exclaims, and jumps forward to kiss his cheek; before sauntering backwards- all the while never releasing his hold on Melkor’s hands. “What now, dearheart? What now ? What now? Lies to be folded again? Gifts unfairly given to be given back? Light I should give you if so you would wish! How? How? How? If so I knew, I would!”

“If so I knew as well, I would not so desperately cling to the one I have found.”

“But we shall, shan’t we? Give them back, dearheart, give them back. Give them back, give them back, give them back. Thou speak of change, and thou speak of other paths, give them back and prove thou art willing to take this other path. Dearheart, oh please, do! Tis does not belong to be stolen nor kept!”

Melkor tightens his jaw. He can not. He so wishes for Irmo and Estë to understand how he can not, how he feels himself anew not that their light is concealed against his chest; how there is finally a respite to a madness. Ever since the Void, ever since before that, his purpose had been separated into three tasks, for the Silmarils to be made him, for his peace to be achieved, and for Mairon to be found once more.

Yet it seems he had forsaken the two later in favor of the first, the one who should have warranted the least attention.

Peace. Peace- “What is peace for you?” Melkor demands.

Irmo stops, blinks from all eight eyes. When have they sprouted…?

“Peace?” Irmo laughs. “What is peace, indeed, dearheart?” He taps Melkor’s forehead with the tip of his finger, eliciting himself a scowl. “How should I know for thou, dearheart? How? Is my peace your peace? Is mine wish your wish? Wish, I wish, you wish, we wish, we do, we do dearheart, all of us, and never the same! What do you want?”

Excellent question. Melkor is not certain to know how to answer it. What does he want indeed?

His silence must be telling for Irmo giggles again. “Should I tell you? Should I?” A frown then. “No, no, no, no, no. I should not. Tis for you to understand, not for me to tell. Tell me, instead. Tell me, tell me, tell me.”

What does he want?

“I want mine freedom,” Melkor blurts out, suddenly finding that it is truer than he had thought it. Now that he has begun, the words won’t stop coming out. “I wish to be left to mine devices, to create as I wish and not in the fear of having mine work be judged unworthy of Arda or Aman. I wish for my tranquillity, and I wish for my spouse to enjoy it with me, and I wish for change in this stagnating land, and I wish not to be condemned for it. I wish for mine lands, to shape as I see fit, and I wish for mine beloved at mine side; and I wish that mine Discord would have been seen as an addition, as a part I had earnestly thought to be mine contribution to Arda and not merely as disruption.” A pause, a confession. “I wish for mine own light, not to depend on Eru’s or on stones.”

Irmo beams, and four arms sprout from his sides, the only warning before he steps forward and engulfs Melkor in a tight embrace. Melkor tries to dodge, heart pounding in his chest under the heat of his reveal, but Irmo does not allow him such a respite.

He beams, and he tightens his embrace, and he laughs, and soon tries to press dozens of giddy kisses over Melkor’s cheeks- who takes to avoid them as best he can, dodging, tilting his head, yet not refusing the embrace.

Irmo manages to land three or four of them on his cheeks, and Melkor scowls terribly, but the Lord of Lorien does not have it in him to care.

“So tis what you desire!” Irmo cries out, giggling and laughing to himself. “Not stones, no, no, no, dearheart! No stones! No deceit! Give them back, dearheart, give them back!”

Melkor sinks his talons in his palms.

“I will not give them back now,” he murmurs. He exhales then, and sinks deeper his talons into his flesh- black tar beginning to drip from the wound. “But I will confide them to Estë’s care, and I will- I will accept her offer. I will submit myself to an audience before Eru.”

Irmo’s beam is bright enough to have replaced both Laurelin and Telperion.

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He is weeping. He must be weeping, for there seems to be a great lump in his throat and a redness to his eyes. It is a strange thought. He had not wept, not truly, ever since those fateful words at his father’s wedding, when it came to be finalized that Indis was to be his wife. Even then had he not wept, eyes roaming over the crowd as if there was no greater disinterest in his heart, but when the crowd had vanished, when it had been only him – privy to rage and weep and scream as his heart demanded of him, Fëanáro had.

Great screams that had led the fire beneath his skin to burn the chambers as well, gifts and creations and half-made projects broken against the walls, curses and shouts of rage.

He had been shaking then, for his rage was to burn endlessly under his flesh and suffered no quick soothing, when Nerdanel had entered the rooms.

She had waited for him to have destroyed all that could be destroyed before entering, and his rage had been quick to turn towards her- an unbroken thing that entered, poisonous words eager to find a target to his fury; but Nerdanel had never been one to break.

And it was perhaps this that had stolen the air out of his breath, that her, who shouted so fiercely back during their heated arguments, had not said anything this time, had welcomed him for an embrace.

The embrace Fëanáro had eventually taken, shoulders trembling as he had tightened his arms around her, relishing in her warmth and presence. Nose nearly buried in the crook of her shoulders, and never before had he relished so that she was sturdier than he was. “Would it be that he despises me so,” Fëanáro had asked. “-that I do not suffice him? That he would ask for more?”

Still no words.

“It is not love,” he had said, with a deep hurt that he had concealed under disdain. “He does not love her. He can not love her. He loves the thought of more sons.”

There Nerdanel had spoken. “Why should the two be separated, my husband? It changes nothing of the love he has for you. He might love her in a different way he loved-”

He had shushed her then, for he wished not for his mother’s name to be said. He had shushed her and he had wept, furiously, while she had brushed his hair and whispered words of comfort. Then had he changed the situation by pressing desperate kisses to her cheeks, to her ears, to her eyes, trailing her after him to fall on that over-luscious thing that was their bed.

It had been the begetting of none of his sons, and Fëanáro had been grateful for it. How deep a curse, he had thought, to make out of a day of pain such a day of joy?

He had not truly wept ever since. He had not, except for this very moment.

Fëanáro feels more than see soft arms tighten around him, a scent he had nearly forgotten- trying to recreate it from scratch yet never satisfied, throwing it away again and again, growing frustrated as he found always something to be wrong, something to not be quite like her, not quite- until he had realized that perfection had long been achieved but without her presence, without her smile and soft voice, there was no point to her scent. He had thrown away all the bottles then, hurling them into the sea with curious detachment.

Tentatively at first does he close his own arms around her. His throat is dry. It is as he had remembered her. There are a thousand things that he always thought he could say, and yet none pass the barrier of his lips.

“My son, my son,” Míriel says, murmurs. She presses kisses all over his hair, silver tears falling from her eyes. “My son, how deeply have I missed you.”

Fëanáro closes his eyes, tightens the embrace. He fears she will disappear, this apparition that tears open an old wound in his heart, and knows that he shall not be able to endure it a second time. If fleeting, it is too cruel a sight, and he closes his eyes- for the very first time in his life uncertain of himself.

“I have grown so proud of you,” Míriel is saying. “I have seen the tapestries of your sons, of yourself, and how terribly proud I am of you, my son. You are everything I could have wished for you to be.”

He says not a word. There is nothing he could say that the tightening of his embrace can not speak of, and there is too much to be said for it to be begun now. Not the time, he knows, not the moment.

Fëanáro wonders if it is madness to have made such a trade. Such a leap of faith too, to offer a part of his fëa even before receiving his end of the deal- and it is so strange words to speak such of Míriel, but ultimately it is what it had been. A trade, with this strange elf who must not be an elf at all, with the way he had so easily passed through Namo’s gates. There is only a few who could do such, and Fëanáro is now quite persuaded that it is a Maia which has brought Míriel back to him.

A Maia of Namo precisely, for how else would know so keenly of the Halls and how to retrieve an elleth from it? Who else would have convinced the Vala, when none of Finwë nor Fëanáro’s respective supplications and threats had been useful?

In his mind battle both his fierce distaste for the Valar, who demand prayers and gratefulness as if they were the ones to provide to their needs, as if they were the one to hunt the meals on their table, the ones to provide education, the ones to create what comes from his hands; and this gratefulness he feels for this Maia. Coming under a guise, proclaiming himself a Vanya, but the sourness Fëanáro would have felt under such a deception is ebbed, replaced by a sensation of floating, as is the course of the stars had been shifted, and made right.

Even the dull ache of his chest, from where he has pulled at his own fëa to tear it apart, eases for a moment out of time.

He will forgive the deception, Fëanáro thinks. He will forgive, but he will not forget, for there must be more to the scheming. Certainly the Maia could not have known of Fëanáro’s design for what he now calls the Silmarils; but he can not help but be suspicious. Tis true the Maia, Annatar, had approached Nerdanel first- and taken an interest only later in Fëanáro, but it could have been a ploy, and he will not too promptly push aside the thought.

The Maia must be in want of something, for so easily gift what had once been refused; and Fëanáro is not certain it is limited to the Silmarils. The thought of the stones is a painful one, for he longs to reclaim them back, for they are his, they are him, but it had been a fair trade- and Fëanáro is not one to betray his word.

“I have missed you, how I have missed you,” Míriel is frantically telling him, and the burning in his eyes intensifies.

“I have as well,” he whispers at last. She smells of vanilla and chestnut, as if she had worked in the kitchens; and his breath hatches in his lungs. “I have as well, Amillë.”

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Melkor has taken the earliest opportunity to excuse himself from the household, waiting in another room. As soon as they had entered that had Irmo excused himself as well, with many flapping arms and breathed bubbles- speaking of dearheart and duties and caramel-tasting caterpillars – disappearing beneath the earth before anyone could protest.

He had half contemplated the idea, before reluctantly vanishing the thought from his mind. Míriel’s staying in Tirion was extremely temporary, for it was only last eve that she had been given her hroä back: and in addition to the secondary effects it entailed, she was not allowed to stay on a ground where Finwë lived. Estë and he had been able to twist such rules for a few hours, but more and the Valar would be notified of her return- and her former marital bond would spring back to life.

So is he patiently waiting for Míriel and Fëanáro to partake in their giddy, teary, reunion, while he counts the number of tiles on the floor. His hand goes to his chest, an instinctive motion, but there is nothing to clutch.

The Silmarils had gone with Irmo, one of the hardest sacrifices that Melkor had ever made. It was due to Irmo’s patience that he had waited long enough for Melkor to manage to give them to him, regretting more his decision with each passing second.

He rises to his feet then, unable to bear more of this waiting. If Fëanáro and Nerdanel are too occupied to greet the former Queen then he will not wait kindly sitting, and will take advantage of the opportunity to explore this workshop in depth. Workshop might be too little of a word, although, for it resembles more a household, with the number of rooms it possesses.

Melkor passes first a room filled with statues; laughing to himself upon recognizing few of his fellow Ainur. There is a bust of Aulë in the corner, the sweet face of Vana under a silken sheet, a great rendition of Oromë under his deer-like fana, a sculpture of Uinen coming from the waves, and- many, many, many designs of Varda.

He stops in front of one of Manwë, lips twisted in a sneer, and considers the stone eyes which face him. Still more lively than their true owner. He pokes it in the eye just because, and uses the tip of a quickly transformed talon to add a scar to his ear. Tis a recent one, from where Ancalagon had bitten him.

It is when he hears soft laughing, followed by a high giggle, and whispers that can not help but catch his attention. Melkor turns then, and follows the laughing as if a sailor following the stars.

He ends up in another room, some sort of office, and faces two elflings- leaning over a ledger.

The first one he easily recognizes: for it is certainly Makalaurë, or Maglor, the first son of Fëanáro, the one with red hair which he had tortured in Angband. The second, however, with his golden hair and blue eyes- he does not recognize. Another of Fëanáro’s son? An intruder?

The Elflings freeze at his sight, before the golden one sharply asks: “What are you doing here?”

Melkor arches an eyebrow, while Makalaurë widens his eyes and sprouts into formal apologies. Melkor hears only a fraction of it, quite intent on determining if the golden-haired elf is also one of Fëanáro. There is one, he is quite sure, who has golden hair. Curufin, perhaps?

“Why should I not be here?” Melkor asks, approaching to see which book it is that enthrals them so. “Your Adar has chased me away with his tears.”

Makalaurë makes a strangled sound. “Adar? Tears?”

The golden one merely narrows his eyes. “He lies, Nelyo. Uncle Fëanáro does not cry. I do not think I have ever seen him cry, even when Carnistir dropped a hammer on his foot- he cursed, yes, that much is true, but he did not cry.”

“Yet now he weeps, and deeply,” Melkor says, as he comes to sit in front of the elflings. Ah then, the golden one is not a Son. “Something about long lost mothers and happiness, I did not stay long enough to hear.”

Makalaurë gives him a long look. It will never cease to amuse Melkor how devoid of rage and terror is his gaze, when not so long ago it had been all there had been in it. Or long ago. Time was malleable at best.

“Nelyo?” the golden one asks. “Do you know him?”

“I do,” Makalaurë says. “It is Annatar, one of the smiths working with Adar. He has been brought by Oromë in the latest days of the Great March.”

Surprise flashes in the golden-haired Elfling.

“And who are thee?” Melkor asks, lacing his fingers under his chin. He gives the Elfling a great grin, one a little too sharp to be friendly, and studies him fiercely. “One of Arafinwë, are you not?”

The Elfling gives him a sharp glare. “I am,” he says, straightening up. Melkor nearly laughs. “Findaráto Artafindë.”

The name is somewhat familiar, but not enough to bring recognition to the surface. Ah. Long ago had he spoken with Fëanáro, after all, listened to him as he had spoken in length of his kin. The golden one must have been evocated. Or perhaps Maedhros had, when he had pierced his mind apart.

“Is it not a long way from Alqualondë, little Telerin Prince?”

He had hoped to flare anger, but all he receives is a laugh. “Is it not a long way from Arda, old smith?”

Melkor inclines his head, his grin not departing from his lips. He likes him.

“Show me what is it that have captured your attention so,” he then says.

There is a flash of protest in Findaráto’s eyes, but Makalaurë complies without a word. He slides the book towards Melkor, and Melkor is quite certain it is because Fëanáro must have spoken of him. He wonders what had been said. Not all praise, most certainly.

It is a medicinal book – on arteries and blood vessel construction. Melkor’s eyebrow twitches as he browses through the book, impressed despite himself. It is detailed work, quite close to truth if not for a few aberrations, and he says as such- eliciting himself a wave of questions from Findaráto and Makalaurë. (Ah, Maedhros, he knows, but it is too fun a game for him to stop playing it)

The hours pass with an alarming quickness, and soon Telperion’s light blooms over Aman, leaving the Elfling’s eyes to redden. It is when Melkor closes the book, lips dry from having spoken so much, and slowly rises to his feet.

“Artafindë,”he says. “Makalaurë.”

He is outside of the room before Maedhros can protest, but he hears their words nonetheless.

“Did he call you by your brother’s name…?”

A laugh then, a muffled sound, a whisper, resembling suspiciously “Not here, Ingoldo-” Melkor makes himself violence not to be consternated. Of all the people, to chose for oneself the offspring of Fëanáro. Ai.

He is quick to return to the main room, where Nerdanel seems to have disappeared and Fëanáro and Míriel had quite engulfed in a discussion about astrology. Melkor quickly hides a sneer, those creations made by Varda’s hand merited no such awe, as his presence brings silence to the room.

“Ah, it seems I must go,” Míriel murmurs. She stands then, comes to take Fëanáro’s hand in hers. “Visit me, if you can.”

Fëanáro nods, strangely solemn.

Melkor picks at his nails. The strange behaviour of elves.

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Melkor is nearly assaulted as soon as he sets foot in his bedchambers, in Tol-in-Glaennen. He can only stumble backwards as three weights jump on him- one clinging to his left ankle, one springing directly in his arms and the other falling on his back.

He needs a few seconds to stabilize himself, entrapped as he is by the beasts, the sound of their purring drowning everything. He manages to grab Naremir by the neck to hoist him up, groaning slightly under his weight for this one has the most fanciness for food out of the three, twists to settle Ancalagon on his shoulders, and strengthens his grip on Wilwarin.

Soon he is falling-sitting on his bed, the beasts of future might pressing their snouts against him, trying to bite at his fingers and sinking their not-yet-true-claws in his thighs. Melkor sighs and indulges them as best he can, fishing pieces of dried meat from his pockets to offer them to them; and pleasantly watching as they make quick work of it.

“I was gone for less than a day,” he tells them, with no hope for an answer. They have yet to formulate coherent thoughts through osanwé, and thus even less to speak. “Thou can not have felt so deeply my absence.”

And indeed for all answer does he gets yawns and tries at breathing fire; before the dragons ask for more affection on his part. Melkor gives it, settling them on his lap, for he has no shyness nor shame in tending to beasts that had once given him great victories. Naremir, which had once hosted the spirit of Glaurung, had given him Himring and Nargothrond; Ancalagon’s deeds were not to be presented, and Wilwarin- Melkor can not be certain. Perhaps once had she hosted the spirit of Scatha, but it is long a time gone, and he finds in her none of the characteristics of his thief dragon.

Naremir is quite the most insistent of the three, refusing to let go of him long after the two others are asleep, pressing his paws on Melkor’s chest to nuzzle his head against the crook of Melkor’s neck. He tries to bite, a few times, but Melkor pinches at his soft flesh and the dragon stops millimetres away from his neck.

Yet Melkor can not truly fault him for it, for it is in his nature, and it is as he had wished for them to be. He settles in speaking of ancient tales to Naremir, how the dragon Glaurung had enchanted with only the strength of his glare the Edain Túrin, how he had claimed victory.

For certainly obvious reasons, Melkor does not speak of the end of the tale, and how Glaurung had been slain. He ends it on a victory, and is deeply pleased to find Naremir’s reptilian eyes glowing with a hidden fire.

Alas, it manifests in a great licking kiss from Melkor’s left cheek to his eye, and he immediately sneers- wiping at his skin with the back of his hand, while Naremir’s purring intensifies.

The dragon averts his eyes when Melkor glares at him, and he settles for another slight pinch of his scales. “I am not something to be licked, nor bitten,” Melkor tells him, and the dragon settles his head on Melkor’s thigh. “Do it once more and I shall have your head for it.”

Naremir only purrs louder.

Melkor’s fingers find their way to the scales on the top of his head and back, brushing them with gentle strokes. He has time to grow, he tells him with strong confidence. Time to grow into this beast of might and fire Melkor had made them to be.

Only his lap, Naremir has now taken to nibble the pockets of his robes, where he hides more dried meat for them.

Yes. They have time, but they certainly will become mighty and terror-inducing.

Melkor gives him the dried meat.

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Comes a time when Melkor needs to visit Tirion. It has been quite the time now since he had gone to the forge, although a mere few days since Míriel had been brought back from Mandos, and once more does he don his Annatar fana.

It will do him good, he thinks, to be away from Tol-in-Glaennen and the temptation of the Silmarils, given to Estë’s care. Away from Míriel as well, who has taken to be often found with Estë, the two never seeming to lack subjects of discussion. The former Queen has even taken a liking to the platypus, who had yet to fall ill or die, giving it berries as she sits in Estë’s rooms.

There is also the matter of Fëanáro, which he wants to address. He has not since of the elf since their last visit to Tirion, and there are many subjects which he desires to discuss with him.

Torthedir is quite eager to see him, telling him about his last creations in the forge, showing him around his necklaces and daggers; and Melkor lets himself be dragged from one place to another.

It is when he finally steps outside of the forge, his fana exhausted by the work but his spirit never shining brighter, that he sees the object of his attention. Fëanáro is clothed in the uniform all smiths in Tirion seem to have, that which consists of a thick apron, gloves, tied-back hair, and even thicker glasses.

Melkor will explain it later as a cause of his exhaustion, that he does not notice him. He will find a thousand excuses for myself: interest devoted to the Prince of the Ñoldor, tiredness of a long day, mind enthralled by the Silmarils. In truth, he should have, but he had not.

Melkor advances, and in a second, Tulkas is upon him.

Great shouts erupt from the elves, but Tulkas is quick, and Tulkas is mighty enough to subdue Melkor; and taking advantage of his surprise, Tulkas tears away Melkor’s fana with one blow.

Melkor falls to his knees.

He scrambles to rise, ready to shift fanar to fight— but Tulkas has anticipated such resistance, and a great hammer breaks through the bones of his back, Tulkas twirling around him to grab him by the throat.

Melkor thrashes, but the grip is tight, the grip is from the only one made to resist him physically; and with his free hand, Tulkas clasps an iron collar around his throat and neck.

Immediately Melkor feels the effect of the enchantments; the work of Aulë and Manwë, and his power slips between his fingers.

He falls.

The worst, he will think later, once more shackled in a prison of his own making is not the humiliation. It is the fact that Tulkas do not roar, do not scream, do not bellow his rage.

Tulkas laughs, softly, and to the crowd, says: “Melkor Bauglir, for thy crimes against the first-born of Eru Allfather, the Valar condemn thee to eternal incarceration. For the theft of the fëa of Míriel Þerindë, for having plagued the minds of the Ñoldor with thy rotten lies, for stealing the fëa of their Prince and tearing it apart for thine own amusem*nt, for having orchestrated the march of a great elven army upon Valinor; we condemn thee.”

Melkor has no strength to push himself up.

His eyes find the crowd- incomprehension, incredulity, terror, disgust, anger- and fall on the one Elf he desired to see.

And in Fëanáro’s eyes the greatest rage he had ever seen.

[1] From Harva, vae, and londë, respectively: sea, near & haven, or “haven near the sea”

Chapter 15: Lesson 15 : Morals once more depend on your definition of them

Chapter Text

Melkor is not quite certain if he wants to scream or laugh until his voice breaks. It is the second he settles for, long after Tulkas has chained him to the summit of Taniquetil. His wrists are bound above him, ankles manacled to the rocks, and he remembers how he had chained Maedhros so— how he had let the Ñoldo hang from the stones of Thangorodrim, for all to see, and he to see all.

It is the same position he is in now, chained to the very summit of Taniquetil so he can never be far away from Manwë’s gaze, so his own eyes can rest over the whole of Aman. He laughs, a maniacal thing, and laughs, and laughs, until he is certain that the entire population of Aman can hear him.

He has at least the respite of having his feet on the ground, he deliriously thinks, a respite he had not offered to the firstborn of Fëanáro. Yet it brings little comfort to him; for he is still bound, still a spectacle for all Ainur to feast upon.

Melkor thinks of the first time around, of the time he had gone to Ungoliant, when he had offered her the trees and stolen their light. How deep and thick had been the Darkness then, falling over this precious world without a warning, and how they had flown in the night. He thinks of his exhaustion when he had been thrown into the Void, of the deep resolution he had sworn to himself. He thinks of this peace he had longed after, of this respite he had demanded from Eru, and yet leading to nothing.

It is the same game, again, and again, for him to wish for improvement and for the Ainur to decree he can not. Yet this time, this time-! He had done naught to warrant such punishment, had nothing to do with this so-called army of elves that was to march over Valinor. He had done nothing! Nothing! No lies made to twist the minds of the Ñoldor, no sweet poisoning inside Fëanáro’s dreams and heart, and yet, and yet, for what? For the same result! Melkor laughs then; a loud, barking laugh, and laughs himself until he can not distinguish himself from this laughter.

To what point? To what extent? He had sought peace, and found himself punished once more! War! Peace! Same path! Same endings! He had wished, so fervently, and he had understood finally, he had understood that he needed to change his ways, and yet-yet-! Still imprisoned over hearsays, still on his way to be thrown to the Void! Melkor does not delude himself. It is only temporary an imprisonment. The Void had always been the next verdict on the agenda, when he had been released from Mandos’ Halls. And now-! Now, Manwë wishes for a laugh of his own, perhaps. To expose the truth of him to the world, or at the very least, the truth Manwë believes of him.

It had been permitted for the wounds inflicted by Tulkas to heal, and this again, he is not certain that it is a comfort. Despite the bones reamending themselves, there is a sharp pain to his back— even fiercer than the one that tugs at his wrists. But fiercer even is the pain of his hands. There is a collar around Melkor’s throat, made of steel and spikes, a hound collar; and it bridles each of his powers. It is the same treatment as Angainor, the great chain that had bound him. Manacled by it, there is only a faint hum where his might should be, manacled by it, he is no more stronger than a second-born of Eru.

His laugh echoes in the mountains. He can see some eagles of Manwë and wishes for them to see him as well. They must. Come, he thinks, ferociously. Come to me. Do not be cowards.

His thoughts circle back to the same point. There is nothing much more to do, in his situation. He had wished for peace, truly, for the first time in his life Melkor had repented. Or at least, he had wished not for the conquest of Arda, had wished not to mar the designs of the Ainur, had wished not for the death of the children of Eru. He had sought peace for himself. For nothing. The word is as a great mockery. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

He hears it, again, and again. It laughs at him the same way his own laugh falls from his lips. All for nothing. Worse, even! His situation had fared better when he had sought the demise of Valinor! Ha-ha-ha-ha ! He had escaped ! He had gone to the great mountains of the Thangorodrim! He had lasted an age! And now! Now that he had tried, now that he had made some effort! He is imprisoned for a fault that is not his!

The sole time Melkor is innocent on a matter is when he is punished the heaviest for it! He laughs, and he laughs at the irony of it, coming out in great rumbles from his chest. He thinks of the Silmarils too, safe in Estë’s Island, and is suddenly so very grateful to have listened to Irmo. They have searched him of course, but knew not of the specificity of what had happened to Fëanáro’s fëa, had merely felt it be torn apart.

The greater his laughter the more there are eagles coming to circle around him. Melkor wonders if Manwë’s eyes are hidden in one of them, and broadcasts his thoughts as loud as possible. But osanwé, as all of his powers, is bridled by his collar, and his thoughts slam against the walls of his cage, coming right back at him in their anger at not being able to escape.

He remembers, quite vividly, Manwë’s words when he had thought for it all to be a dream.

“Nobody has ever been in the Void, brother, and no one shall ever be. It is too great a punishment, far crueller than anyone deserves.”

He laughs again, even as his voice is too hoarse for it to be properly audible. The spikes sink into the flesh of his throat when he tries to speak, or laugh; and with it, drops of blood flow down the length of his neck.

Melkor laughs, and laughs, and laughs, until his screams can not be separated away from it.

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There are some truths inscribed in the very heart of the world. Estë does not escape it. As surely as the sky shines blue, the plants grow, and what is born will evolve- she does not leave Tol-in-Glaennen. She does not leave the Island, when it is always in need of her, when she has her routine that she needs to carefully maintain. There are plants needing to be taken care of, elixirs to be brewed, there is a constant healing to be brought to Arda— constant healing for the elves in Arda, and there are the elflings brought to her care, and the older elves; those skilled in Osanwé, in Song, in Sorcery- who need to be at peace with their own minds.

It is not that Estë is afraid of leaving, it is that she can not leave. There is always too much to do, and too much to take care of.

But comes the news of Melkor’s imprisonment. She is taking care of an elfling when she learns of it, having him on her lap, listening carefully to the troubles he tries to speak of- a too great prowess in sorcery; which causes his words to unwillingly influence those listening to them.

Estë is terribly glad, when Sielnotha, her head Maia, brings her the news in a pale, blanching voice, that Irmo is away for the next few weeks. It is the time of the year when he retreats to his monastery, and holds sessions with the Teleri about the nature of dreaming and desires.

“On which claims had he been imprisoned?” Estë quietly says, brushing the hair of the Elfling on her lap. She presses a kiss to the top of his head, and asks him if he would excuse her for a moment. He nods, and Estë turns to Sielnotha. “When is the trial to be scheduled?”

The wince that flashes over Sielnotha’s features speaks enough for itself.

“There is no trial…?” Estë comes to realize. She says nothing for a very long moment, before her expression grew hard. It seems so foreign on her face that Sielnotha looks faintly stunned as she takes in Estë’s blooming fury.

And furious she is. Estë is not one for anger. It is unproductive, and it is a secondary emotion. She tends to work on the primary ones, what caused anger, rather than fading to it. Yet she is furious today, and she is perfectly aware of where it comes from.

She has a choice to make.

It is an easy one.

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Manwë’s features are the palest she has ever seen on him. He seems properly aghast to see her on his doorstep, his steely-blue eyes widening under the strength of his surprise. His lips twist faintly, as if some words burned to be let out yet were painfully swallowed back.

Long white hair braid in mourning tresses, clasped back by black hair clips. He is staring, at loss for what to say or to do, his pale eyes sliding over her as if he was taking note of every detail about her.

“Estë,” Manwë says. Even his voice is one of exhaustion, but he arches an inquisitive eyebrow all the same. “I would inquire of what brings you there, but it would be rather a useless gestion of our time, would it not?”

Estë steps inside his household as soon as Manwë lets her.

She offers him a box of delicacies: something that her head Maia had recently discovered with the cooks, how to trap jam and red beans mash into dough, and boil the result. Those are of lemon taste, the one that she remembers to be favoured by the Lord of the Winds.

Curiosity bloomed in Manwë’s eyes, chased the exhaustion away for a few seconds.

“You brought something? It is very kind of you.”

Estë surveys her surroundings, before selecting a seat. She glances around her, at the environment she has entered. It is very like many households of Tirion; from what she has gathered from the minds of her Maiar. Precise, minimalist decoration, each object suited to a purpose. The only touch of individualism are the bright, large windows which allow such light to pass through that it feels as if she were standing just beneath Laurelin's gleam.

“I know,” Estë says, not entirely unkindly. She folded her hands on her lap. “You have taken some decisions recently, my King.”

“Estë, there is no need—”

Oh, she is aware. Strangely enough, there are two of the Valie who no one ever requires to be addressed by titles by them: Nienna and herself. Despite the phrasing, however, it did not feel like a command; but like a slight begging. Interesting.

“There is rarely a need to do what we do,” Estë says. She studied his face for several seconds before a faint, sad, smile curled her lips upwards. “Yet we do it all the same. Perhaps dearheart would be better fitted to answer why. I can not; only deal with the consequences.”

“Estë…”

“Take a pastry, please. Sielnotha called them mochi, if I recall well. It is very sweet.”

Manwë still stands, eyes flashing faintly. “It is kind,” he repeats, stiffly. Yet he makes no move to take one, still contemplating her as if she was Ilúvatar himself. Surely, it is not so strange that she would leave Lórien.

“Please,” Estë says; and just as his order had not sounded like one, her pleading has the tone of a demand. “It would please me very much.”

Wordlessly, Manwë, who she loves deeply, and who she knows to be quite unable to refuse her, picks one of the pastries. He fumbles with it at first, making no move to sit, before finally tearing it in half; eating it. It is a small victory; for she never begins a discussion of this heaviness without some sweet prelude, and she knows Manwë does not eat.

He does not see the point, but sometimes it is not necessary for everything to have a point.

“Will you not sit?” Estë softly asks.

Manwë gives her a thin smile. His expression carefully closes then, and he takes light steps to come to sit in front of her. “I listen,” he says.

She knows how to recognize politeness, and not genuineness when she sees it. Estë says nothing of what has brought her there, thus, and takes a mochi for herself. She tears it in four, careful of not spreading lemon purée on her fingers, and offers him a smile of her own, softer.

“When Melkor arrived in Tol-in-Glaennen, I do not think I had ever seen someone as furious to be there,” she absently begins. She pops a piece of mochi in her mouth. “He hid it well, of course. Perfectly pleasant most of the time, yet so untrusting it nearly hurt to see. He was settled on something, something that I could not decipher, and it troubled me.”

The corner of her mouth quirks. She continues before Manwë can interrupt her. “I thought to myself that small steps were a necessary requirement. It often is, but healing has no true formula. It can not be categorized, classified, it can not be explained, most of the time. It can be helped, and it is used, but it can not be defined. What is healing? How to heal? When it depends on each, and the progress can not be measured similarly between one and another? What might soothe one might wound the other; and one who might take two months to dare talk how what ills him might also take years. Healing. A vast word, to speak of nothing and everything at once.”

Manwë swallows with some difficulty. He is fidgeting with the remaining of his mochi, to the extent that it will soon become inedible. “I understand what is it that you say, Estë. Do you believe that I would not wish also that his healing had been genuine, that he had truly repented from his foul ways? I wish to understand, I assure you that I most fervently do. But I was not given the ability to perceive and connect with the evil of his heart, and it eludes me. I simply can not comprehend why it is so alluring to him, what would make him renounce the peace we have established—? Why, Estë, you who glanced at his heart, why does he need to betray us and destroy the work that we are trying to do? Why?”

“You interrupted me,” Estë softly says.

Manwë passes a hand over his face. “Why, Estë?”

“Listen to me, please,” Estë tells him; with a gentler smile even. She rises from her seat, comes to take his hands in hers. “Answers are better received when one actively works to get them, do you not believe? And listening is the very first measure to be taken.”

His jaw rolls slightly, and Estë feels a sharp ache in her chest when she sees the anguish that has taken hold of his mind. Now, this she knows. Fear is the principal motivator behind many decisions. And it is fear that she sees in his eyes, many fears that shiver behind the pale orbs.

“I will listen,” Manwë says, with a faint shake of his head. His expression becomes hard, so very hard that he resembles one of the carved sculptures of the Ñoldor. “But you aware that it might not change things.”

“I have seen a gradual change in him, and I can not be fooled. It is the smallest things, Manwë. Beings can easily fake kindness; but comes a time when it peaks through the mask. I have seen him, and what I have seen assures me that there is a change that has occurred. As I said, I can not say why we do the things they do. I can not say what prompts the mind to think, and the heart to covet, but I see how it impacts us; and I saw how it impacted him. He has changed, and he is not the same that first came to Tol-in-Glaennen.”

“Yet he still worked towards our demise. Towards pain— towards challenging the design of Eru All-father.”

Estë leans slightly back to look at him all over again. She takes in the paleness of his features, for an Ainu who can change his appearance to his will, the hardness of the feathers on the top of his head— as if feathered daggers rather than the soft texture they were supposed to be made of. She looks, and she sees; how Manwë had long pondered over what to do; and had pushed far away the love he had for his brother in favour of protecting Aman. A decision that has taken its toll on him, for the high hope climbed, the harder it fell.

Manwë’s hope had lived with him in the clouds of Taniquetil.

“I can not believe those accusations are true,” Estë says. “Not all of them. He deserves to be heard, at least, for them.”

“And have him lie to me? Lie as he did upon leaving Mandos? Lie of his repentance, when he was in truth the artisan of our demise?”

Estë brushes her hands over his fingers. “It is easier to cling to what we think one will say rather than hear the true words of his mind. The King of Aman does not do easier, dearheart.”

“I have given him many chances,” Manwë murmurs. “And again and again has he proved to me that he did not deserve them. I am beginning to see that he will never be able to see the grandest design. I am beginning to think that in squandering the Song, something is missing in him. Something that could never be given again. Something that should have been there, would have opened his eyes, and that in refusing it, he has cursed himself for all eternity.”

Estë pinches her lips, letting go of his hands. “No one is missing anything. We are made as we are, with the possibility of growth— and change; and only Eru All-Father, and even then, can decide if one is past redemption. What I have seen of Melkor teaches me he is not. He deserves a trial. He deserves, at the very least, that you go hear him.”

“His deeds are known; what could he possibly say to redeem himself? Some explanation? Is any worth the consequences?”

“Listen to him,” Estë sharply says. She now looks at him with her lips curled in disappointment. “If you can not grant this, then you are not acting as a fair King should be. Is it what Aman will resemble, from now on? To be thrown into imprisonment without even a chance of being heard? Should I fear that one would take an ill taste of me, speak slander, and on a merry morrow find myself shackled to the gates of the Void?”

“You are being unfair.”

“And thou are of an unkind, cruel nature, in this instant.”

“I will not offer him a public trial,” Manwë says, coolly. “I have given him enough chance as it is, and I will not have the elves be manipulated by his words. I am sorry to say that I can not trust him on this. Not anymore.”

Estë raises to her feet.

“Talk to him, then.” She does not give up. She never will. “Talk, Manwë. And listen to his words.”

She smoothens her robes, and offers him one last sad smile.

“If we do not grant kindness, how to expect it of anyone?”

.

.

.

Fëanáro is positively livid. He has so much fury in himself that he feels as though he could set himself ablaze; a great torch that inflames a structure in his mind. He is not devoured whole by it; but sharpens it, feeling it rippling through his chest, mind, heart. Betrayal, the worst case of anger, realization of having been taken for a fool.

For days now he has avoided Nerdanel and his sons; acutely aware that his impotent rage could unleash a great horror over his household. So great has been his enraged mind, upon finding out that Annatar was Melkor; that Nerdanel had brought him to their very household, had testified of his good faith— that they had screamed at the other until the walls had shaken.

His fury has not eased, but now, he has turned it towards more meriting targets. Fëanáro is lucid enough that he now realizes that Nerdanel could not have known, that he had been deceived as well as she. But it is too late.

He has given his fëa. He has broken himself, for a deception-!

And Míriel! She has been promised to return, but even the return has been a lie! She is not free, not truly, bound to the ground of Tol-in-Glaennen, a land on which Fëanáro can only go under the good will of two of the Valar! As if they would accept such frequent intrusions on their domain!

He is enraged, above all, against himself.

Enraged to have fallen prey to such lies, to have not seen into the truth of hearts. Enraged to have believed that there was another, that there was one who could understand, both what it meant to have this insatiable desire for more— to have his thoughts turmoil in his mind, relentlessly, to fall prey to them when it became too much; to consecrate himself wholly to the design; to the inspiration. One to understand what it means to have such little faith for the Valar: for it is not them who feed them, who protect them, who raise them; who listen to them. Powers in need of worship, yet offering nothing in exchange. Fëanáro does not believe that they are to stand as the great protectors they claim to be, for he is the one to be in control of it. The one to seek, relentlessly, how to improve the world, how to discover its very details.

He does not hate them, but he does not want to worship them.

And…

Fëanáro will get them back.

He will get his fëa back, the greatest work of his time. He will get back what is certain to be the one purpose of his life, a creation akin to no other. He has entrapped his very fëa, brightened a light as no one had ever done before. It is himself in those gems, his future, and past.

He feels, constantly, the pull to them. It is a Song in his heart and mind, one of longing— and mourning. A Song that cries for him to get them back, to feel whole again. It is a tear in his very self; a sharp pain in his chest that shall never ease until he gets them. He has spasmed in pain when he had first torn himself apart— falling to his knees, one hand clutched against his heart, a great silent scream taken pulled from his lips. The suffering had brought him to the point of nausea; and for days had he not been able to do anything but curl up in the corner to which he had crawled.

Shivering, heart pounding in his chest, sweat glistening on his brow and lip. The cuts of grief, breaking, and terror had reached deep inside of him, had clawed through him until incoherence. Agony, like he had never felt, but a worthy one. Through his pain, he had laughed—the great laugh of triumph, of maddening victory.

It is, certainly, the most brilliant thing Fëanáro has ever done in his entire existence.

He enters slowly the household that night, yet it surprised to see Maitimo sitting on the couch, dark circles under his eyes— books lay out in front of him. Seven of them, exactly, a glance teaches him; and on the exhausted visage of his son can he sees many nights spent the same way.

Fëanáro approaches on feather-light steps. He comes to stand behind him, and brushes a strand of hair away from his son’s face.

Maitimo shudders, taken by surprise, but soon relaxes under his touch when he recognizes him. Fëanáro sits next to him, silent for a very long time. Then does he look at the books— finds all of them to be about jurisdiction, intellectual property, and patents.

Fëanáro had shared the triumph of his creation with only two of his kin: Nerdanel, of course, and Maitimo.

“The contract could be declared void,” Maitimo says, quietly. “He has deceived you. It was taken under a false identity. He has not fully honoured the terms of it either.”

Fëanáro takes his hands in his. There is fury still in his heart, and he has never been one to thoroughly suppress it; so that his voice holds the terrifying edge of it. So thick it is palpable, floats in the air between them.

“I will find them,” Fëanáro promises. It sounds as if a threat. His eyes find Maitimo’s; the most patient of his sons, the most scheming. His fingers ghost slightly over Maitimo’s hands. “And I will be avenged.”

Maitimo gives him a tired smile. “You will find them,” he agrees. “There is no other that could challenge a Vala.”

Fëanáro’s eyes glisten over the features of his eldest son. “There is,” he says. “You have seen their wonder, Nelyo. You know.”

“I have never been one for the forge, as ardently as I wished for it,” Maitimo says, looking down at their joined hands. “I did, you are aware of it. Another calling spoke to me. But I do not think it is mandatory to know fully of the process to understand their marvel. But greater even is the aspect that they are yours; that they are you.”

“It is why you know of their importance,” Fëanáro insists. “The weight of this theft.”

Maitimo closes his eyes for a second. He exhales, a soft thing— and Fëanaro is suddenly reminded of the bright eyes a twenty-two years old Maitimo had given him; when he had passed his first thesis in Taniquetil. When the verdict had fallen; and he had been awarded the greatest honours- his work to be found in Manwë’s personal library. He remembers how bright the joy in Maitimo’s eyes had gleamed, how indulgent had been his laugh towards his cousins and brothers when they had sprung on him to speak of their shared elation.

When Maitimo opens his eyes again, silver-grey, so sharp even in the faint darkness of the room, there is none of this past mirth. But there is determination, the kind to raise mountains, the kind to shape the world.

“I do,” Maitimo whispers.

.

.

.

Melkor needs a few seconds to understand that there is a shape in the corner of his vision. He blinks it away at first, for recently have blurs of light and shadow taken to play games in his peripheral sight; and shushes it with a fan of his manacled hand. The bright blur on his left side is moving, however; and while some fancied creeping closer— a sweet reminder of this time with Ungoliant – they never quite moved so.

He forces himself to open his eyes, truly. He is leaning against his shackles; for they endlessly sap his vital energy- leave him disillusioned at best, lethargic at worst. Even his movements are sluggish, great efforts demanded only to lift his head. Such is the curse of Angainor, to ensure that he will not break the chains that have been inflicted upon him.

Melkor’s mind is in a haze; as if something had taken great care in engulfing him in mud; making themselves certain that his thoughts elude him. It is like the Void again; or nothing like it- for it comparison to the apathy that seizes him, the sensory stimulation is too much.

The blur shifts closer to him.

“Melkor. Mbelekhoruz,” a familiar voice says. “I came to hear you.”

Uhhh?

The bright blur is kneeling in front of him, two hands over his face. Melkor recoils, jolting backwards, trying to escape the touch. It is too bright to uphold; a painful reminder of what he seeks and continues to elude him. He gasped raggedly a few times upon the sharp coldness of the hands; blinking fast in hopes of composing himself. His mind is still too slow to react, a proper swamp in which they had sunken him.

It is perhaps the greatest, and cruelest, punishment to inflict on an Ainu. They are not creatures of the physical world; but of thought; and to dull it is to dull them; is to constraint them in a way that can not be properly explained. It is as if trying to contain the stars in a box, trying to push molten lava into a cylindric container, trying to cage a waterfall.

His mind pushes relentlessly at the bounds around him, but the more he pushes, the more sluggish it becomes- exhausted by the effort required.

The blurry shape speaks again. “It had been brought to my attention that I should listen to what you might have to say; and here I am. Tell me, ease my heart, brother. Have my fears worthy of existence? Is there something greater at stake that I am in need of knowing?”

Melkor pushes himself out of his touch. Condenses all his will in the act; enough so for his head to bobble to the side, to escape the frozen fingers on his cheeks.

He manages, with a great fit of strength, to gather words to his lips.

“Awwaayy,” Melkor hisses. He bites at his tongue, sharp, for the pain to fight the lethargic haze of his mind. “I- don’t- need your… sanctimony.”

Manwë radiates disappointment. It is so thick that he nearly gaggles on it, feels it coil under his tongue, wrap itself against his throat.

“Ever those words,” Manwë quietly says. “You call sanctimony what I call moral, and good sense. But I come here to give you a chance, and I will not have it said that I have refused it to you.”

Melkor wryly laughs. “Good— sssssensse?”

“Indeed,” Manwë tells him. He does not chase Melkor’s face with his fingers again, lets his arms fall on his sides. For a second he hesitates, trailing an anguished gaze on Melkor’s face. “Why do you force me to do this…? Why must you squander every chance that I give you? Why have you done it? Why?”

If he bites harder, his tongue will be sliced in half. Reluctantly, Melkor lets his tightened jaw loosen again, at the risk of sinking deeper into apathy. Instead, he arches against the bounds, for the sharp pain in his wrist to bring this ardently sought clarity to his mind.

Silmarils, his mind thus provides. Ah-hhaa. He talks of the Silmarils. He talks— images flash in his thoughts. Sweet words whispered to the most wretched creature there was, a betrayal, Ungoliant devouring the trees, the darkening. This is what Manwë talks about. The darkening- yes?

“For you to know… darkness,” he slurs. A sharp tug at his bonds and a flash of lucidity springs up in his mind. It allows him to speak further on the subject. “This – hypocrisy. You can not know the insatiable desire of wanting light until you have lost it.”

Manwë says nothing for quite a time. When he speaks again, the distress of his voice has faded towards anger. “To prove a point?” he asks, tone as threatening as the wind in the eye of a storm. “You waged a war to prove a point?”

“Mmhh?”

No- the war of wrath had not been to prove a point. It had been a consequence of the theft of the Silmarils, which had been a necessary operation. He had wished for a light akin to the one he had lost; and yet the one brought to him had been twisted— soiled by the deaths it had caused, and instead of lucidity, it had brought to him nothing but madness.

But this time— ah. Where did this thought come from? This time?

The blurry shape retreated slightly. “I had hoped… For you to have an explanation. I nearly did not come. It was Estë who spoke in your favour. I rather I would not have come, if it is to hear such a thing. Pushing the elves into a crusade against Aman, to prove me a point about light and darkness…?”

“Fëanáro’s fault— I did not push them to do anything— they chose to come to Arda—”

“To Aman,” Manwë sharply corrects, an ugly grimace twisting his lips. He takes another step backwards. “I should not be surprised that you would push back the fault on a firstborn.”

“Push back the fault-? Are they ever pushed to do as their minds fancy? I did not make them swear the oath.”

“Which oath?”

Melkor squirms against his bounds. “You know which one,” he slurs.

There is no point in playing coy; and he will not have an admission of his own fault fall from his lips. Although he is aware he is at fault, the discussion with Estë having certainly highlighted it. But he is to be cursed to the Void if he firsts admit it to Manwë, of all beings.

“What is it for me?” Melkor sluggishly asks, words mashed up against the other. “What have you decided? The Void— again? Mandos? There, for all eternity? Corporal punishment?”

Manwë looks at him with a faint air of disgust.

“It should be nothing less than you deserve,” he says, his voice subdued by the weight of his contempt. It made his tone rather bland, as if assessing a tree needing to be cut down to salvage the whole forest, or ripping out a wild herb from between succulent strawberries. “I asked of why so many times; and yet each, the explanation that you give speaks of nothing but your own sad*stic desire for cruelty, and for greediness.”

“Hypocrite,” Melkor murmurs. “It is easy to say this when you stand and watch without ever bothering to do anything. Apathy has no better role than cruelty; for it leads to the same consequences.”

Manwë’s ugly grimace twists deeper. “Apathy,” he enunciates slowly. “-is what has been asked of us. To not interfere in the affairs of the children.”

“Then you shall forever be a spectator of your own existence.”

It is a proper snarl that now shadows Manwë’s lips; he who is said to understand Eru Iluvatar the most is also the one most similar to Melkor. There is a reason for why they are siblings, for why the wind is equally soft breeze and unforgiving hurricane. It is whimsical, and if slow to be provoked, can blow the hardest of storms all the same.

“Is this the justification you give to your deeds?” Manwë asks, trying to gather himself into calm. He closes his eyes for a second, yet when he opens them, he opens far too much: and a dozen of eyes blink in concern over his flesh. “To make yourself feel like an actor of change?”

“I am one.” Melkor’s words are nearly undistinguishable now; blurred into something resembling speech, yet not quite so. “It is my very purpose.”

Manwë is again silent for a very long moment.

“No,” he finally says. The anguish in his voice has the allure of resignation now. “I thought it was, but I am not as certain now. I am rather beginning to believe that your purpose is one of discord; the necessary evil to prove the strength of goodness over it. Your purpose is cruelty; and I can not yet understand why Eru Iluvatar would inflict it upon us; but he must have his reasons.”

There is a tear, moulted silver, which flows down Manwë’s cheek.

“I will need to understand it,” Manwë continues, quietly. “I will need to concert with Eru. I need his advice— I do not know what to do with you. Second, and third chances most evidently do not work. Is there something to be purged from you; or am I to forever close my heart to the hope that you could see how much the world is in need of kindness and not its contrary?”

Melkor laughs. “Alwayssss,” he tries to say, but his mind has fallen back once more into the lethargy it is entrapped in. Always the same high opinion of yourself. Always missing the point. Always the same hypocrisy.

He wanted to change. He had nearly managed so. Something to be purged from him…? Something to be given to him. Why send him back, his mind has the time of thinking, barely lucid, if it was to send him back at a time where he had not his light? Why not earlier? Why send him back at all?

Had he been the one to send himself back, had the Void, or had Eru?

“You are to stay there,” Manwë finally says. “Until I have reached Eru All-father, and spoken with him. Then shall we decide what to do of you.”

.

.

.

Minutes, days, weeks—

The world is spent in a haze; and the more Melkor tries to free himself, the more he sinks into this prison. He alternates between moments of lucidity and hazed vision, missing entire portions of his days.

It had not been so the last time, he thinks during one of the first moments. He had not been quite so apathic, not quite so forced into lethargy. Perhaps, perhaps— because at the time he had not been so resolute, he had not exhausted his mind and fëa by such sudden changes, because at the time he had not yet discovered the Silmarils; and the pull they had on his mind.

There is a path to be taken, Melkor thinks, a few days- or weeks- later. There is a choice to be made.

He is angry. Nay, tis worse than anger. There is a murmur in his fëa, that speaks of all that had ever fed him: this feeling of contempt towards the Valar for their idleness; this fury at them for acting so sanctimonious, this feeling of being restrained; this hatred at being asked to fit into what was naught more but sloth.

But there is also another whisper, one softer, one which speaks with Estë’s voice. One which speaks of reassurances, one which prompts him to stay true to his recent beliefs, one which says that this way is the true one. A determined one, which speaks of changing oneself before the world, which has echoes of soft pride and hope.

One which is aware of the efforts made, one which he can not quite place yet feels familiar all the same; a soft warmth spread in his chest and fëa; one that does not ask of him to fit their idleness but merely to prompt less cruel changes.

One that sees his heart to be true.

Both whispers are equally endearing, both enthralling. The first far easier than the second.

Melkor had never been one to choose the easiest path.

.

.

.

The realization that Annatar, bearer of gifts, smith amongst smith, was only a deception worn by Melkor flares panic in the streets of Tirion. The forges close for days, each smith coming to be interrogated by Manwë’s Maiar- brought before them for information about Melkor. Each detail counts, it is said; and the established files are surveyed by the herald of Manwë in person, Eonwë.

Many of them have their minds twisted, the report shows. They speak of Melkor as a friend, a kind one who had come to give them knowledge and gifts. A well-deserved sobriquet, they say; and a great number add that they forgive the deception.

A small group of smiths is the most fervent of them all; advocating for Melkor’s pardon: proclaiming that he had never done what he is accused of. They are shushed into silence, first by their peers, then by the Maiar of Manwë; and finally by King Finwë himself.

The great sculpture of a wolf is decapitated in front of a crowd. It is exposed in the middle of the marketplace, an ever-present reminder that the Enemy is never far. Nerdanel is not the only one to bail her hands into fists, many visages hardening.

Finwë speaks. He speaks long and softly: of betrayal and forgiveness, of mercy to be shown to those of his people who had not known better. He says Melkor a master of deception and malice, argue for the redemption of those in his defense, ostracized amongst their people. His gentle words bear nonetheless the strength of subtle orders: for this crevice between their own to cease at once.

Fëanáro only is absent from the ceremony. He is said to be in Formenos. He has not been publicly seen since Melkor’s arrestation- where the Vala Tulkas in person had revealed the existence of the Silmarils, the theft of his fëa.

They do not know how enraged is Fëanáro at those words: a revealing he intended to do himself, the subtle suggestion that he is a weak, foolish, malleable one. That he had been coaxed into giving his fëa.

It is not what happened. Albeit a treacherous one, Melkor had not forced him into the contract. Fëanáro had taken it in consciousness of its consequences.

And it is what enrages him: both that he would be enough of a fool to willingly enter such an agreement, that it would be a twisted one, and that the Ñoldor believe him to be such a weakling.

It is what causes him to appear in public again.

Fëanáro stands tall, chin high, gaze unforgiving as he trails it over the crowd. Behind him, his sons, all five of them, making their way through the streets.

He jumps from his horse; looking every inch of the Heir he is to the throne, silken black hair let loose on his shoulders. His sons stay on theirs, and the crowd parts to let him stride towards the object of his attention: the great decapitated wolf in the middle of the marketplace.

Fëanáro draws his sword.

His grey eyes look at the crowd, piercing sharp, unblinking. And with great swordsmanship and strength, sinks the blade of his sword into the heart of the metallic wolf. It slices through it as if the metal was butter.

He does not say a word but leaves his sword in place.

Fëanaro turns on his heels, and, still silent; jumps back on his horse and makes his way to the palace.

.

.

.

Nerdanel is relentless.

Ever since Fëanáro had come back that night. He had crept inside their bed without a word exchanged, resting his head on her shoulders while she had passed beringed fingers in his hair. They had spent a long time like this, both unspeaking, Fëanáro listening to the beating of her heart.

Her fingers had threaded geometrical patterns in his hair, twisting the silken strands with no real purpose in his mind.

And then she had said, softly: “Have you considered that he is innocent of what they accuse him of?”

Fëanáro had bristled, of course, he had. His ageless features had been pallid, but the slight shake that had run alongside his spine had spoken of anger, not fear. Always one to walk a fine line between composing himself and falling prey to it, however, and the only traces of Fëanáro’s rage had been in the strained tone of his voice. “Why should I consider it?”

She had hummed. She had always had a soft voice for singing, a sharp contrast to the one she used on everyday matters. “Because you know the truth behind what they call the theft of the Silmarils. You know you have not been truly deceived. On his appearance, on who he was, certainly; but on the bargain itself? Was it not answered?”

Fëanáro’s head had risen then. “Are you implying that he should be free of charges?”

“I am implying that if our people can be so mistaken about a part of it, then what it to say that we are not as well?”

Before his bristled anger could bloom into true rage, Nerdanel had trailed fingers upon his cheek, and closed her eyes. She always did this; and it infuriated him; that she would close her eyes when they fought— either to stifle her own anger, or not to behold the sight of him falling prey to it.

He had said nothing of it, for their period of fighting has lasted long enough, and he had missed her. He did not trust himself enough to speak, in truth, when it raised in him such a deep mind-numbing desire to break something, when his words would hurt deeper than any physical weapon. But sleep had eluded him that night; and Fëanáro had listened to her breathing slow down; and had spent the remaining hours before the day with frantic thoughts spinning in his mind.

And then, she had begun. Small words dropped by, never enough to elicit a true conversation, but which provoked thinking.

“Perhaps the best approach to reclaiming them would be to discuss it with him.”

“If he is thrown forever behind the gates of night, you will never have them back.”

“Has he not given you a great many thoughts to ponder on?”

“Should we not stand for ourselves and speak for those we considered friends?”

He grows tired of it, sooner than later. Fëanáro is not one for half words and sly sentences thrown in the air, and Nerdanel is not either. He does not know where it comes from; and he has no taste for it.

And yet…

They all dart careful glances at him; careful not to evocate the subject. His Adar. Arafinwë. Ñolofinwë. His children. Those of age: Nelyo, Makalaurë, Tyelkormo. Carnistir is yet a child, and Curufinwë has yet to utter enunciated words. They do not dare to speak of it, as if the mere mention of the Silmarils would send him into a manic episode.

It makes him insane.

And so Nerdanel’s pestering brings less anger than she must believe: rather a strange mixture of betrayal and relief; one that haunts his mind in such a way that it poisons all of his thoughts. No matter how great the bridge between a subject and this one, it is crossed by a detail, and Fëanáro’s chest clutches at the reminder of the Silmarils.

The reminder of Míriel, alive in Tol-in-Glaennen.

So he waits that Carnistir and Curufinwë sleep, to each their room now that Makalaurë and Nelyo have grown enough to have their own household. Makalaurë… It has been long since he had seen his son, returned from Alqualondë after having received a letter from Nelyo. He has his wife and daughters there, and the thought is a never-ending marvel. His son, who he had taken his arms, who had gazed his silver-bright eyes at him, who had hidden beneath his robes, an Adar.

But he shakes his head to chase the thought away, for it is the sort that will cause him to be lost in it. He waits for Nerdanel to come back, and when she does, entraps her in an embrace- hands locked together around her waist. Another source of amazement, this sharp contrast of softness and hardness she bears: the trace of five pregnancies, the trace of the strength her work requires, both on each line of her figure. Wider hips, strong arms, a softness to her thighs and waist— yet the muscles impressive under it.

“I have thought of your words,” he says, without any other prelude.

Nerdanel yelps at the sudden intrusion, yet she goes slack against his hold when realizes it is him. It causes a chuckle to escape his lips, for who else would dare?

She is silent for an instant. “And what do you now think of them?”

“You are right.” Before she can claim her victory with a laugh or wise words, he adds: “To some extent.”

“Which one?”

Fëanáro tightens his grip around her, and buries his nose in the crook of her shoulders and nape. She takes a step backwards to press deeper against him, her strong perfume all he can scent, and Fëanáro too takes a moment to answer.

“Melkor is the only one who can give them back,” he murmurs. “I do not trust that the Valar would, should they put their hands on them.”

“Fëanaro— this is absolutely not what I meant—”

“Yet this is what I think,” Fëanaro softly says. “If I wish to get what belongs to me back, I need to go after it myself. The Valar would keep them for themselves. I need to find Melkor.”

“You know this is not what I wished for you to understand.”

“Are you my teacher now, and I your apprentice, that you would wish for me to understand things exactly the way you want?”

“Fëanáro, you are being difficult,” Nerdanel says, not unkindly.

“I am being frustrated,” he admits. “I could find a way to Melkor. He is on Taniquetil. If only Manwë was to be distracted enough… I could make my way to him, ask him questions.”

Nerdanel gives him a consternated sigh. “Or you could go to Manwë and ask him the permission to see Melkor.”

He scoffs. “Ask permission? To get answers? He would deny me. Better to feign lack of knowledge than rebellion.”

“What do you want then?”

Fëanáro kisses the soft skin of her neck. “I want for Manwë to be distracted enough that I can talk to Melkor.”

He does not say the entire truth. He does not want to talk to Melkor. There is something else, but he will not reveal it.

“How could I do such a thing?”

“You would have nothing to do,” Fëanáro says. “It is precisely the point, Nerdanel, that you do nothing. Let it pass.”

“You have something in mind already. You know of a distraction.”

Fëanáro does not refute her words. “Yes.”

“Can I know of it?”

“Do you trust me?” he asks back.

Nerdanel closes her eyes, has a soft exhale come from her chest. “I do, Fëanáro, I do, but sometimes I do not trust how your mind betrays you.”

The smile that stretches on his face is not a mirthful one. It is a tired one. “Yes,” he says. “Me neither. But I need your trust in this, Nerdanel. I really do.”

“And I will give it to you.”

She turns then, and captures his lips in a kiss. It is a little sad, a little desperate; and he gives her everything his words can not give. Reassurances his mind can never truly voice.

“Thank you,” Fëanáro says. “I am ever the luckiest one to have you by my side.”

Nerdanel laughs when she pulls back. “I know. Oh, my love, I know.”

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Melkor wakes up to another blurry shade in the corner of his vision. He blinks, mouth already working words that his minds have yet to think of; but before he can voice them, there is a terrible noise—

And a sudden clarity in his mind.

He brings, so very slowly, his arms to himself. They are not constrained anymore by manacles. He takes a step forward; and his ankles have received the same treatment.

Melkor takes a step forward, the first in weeks.

The blur he has seen now clarifies, settles into a familiar shape. He blinks, again—and it is Fëanáro, steal shears in his left hand, a blowtorch in the other, who has just freed him. He stares, aghast, until Fëanáro tosses aside the blowtorch.

“If you betray me again,” Fëanáro softly says, sharp grey eyes finding his. “I will rip your beating heart from your chest, and force it through your still-warm lips.”

He folds his arms on his chest then.

“Now… where are my Silmarils?”

look at this commission, @melkors-defense-attorney made for me! :D :D Gorgeous isn't it??? Go commission them if you can bcs it is absolutely gorgeoussss you can see little naremir in melkor's arms and wilya being named by irmo!! :D

Chapter 16: Lesson 16: do not provoke your savior

Chapter Text

“If I am understanding well,” Annatar says, in meticulous diction. “There has been a delay in the moving of our troops.”

The orc nervously swallows. It – for Annatar is loath to see it as a she, now that the extent of its incompetence has been revealed to him – is wringing its hands, darting glances to the letter on Annatar’s desk.

“Yes, my lord,” it answers in black speech. “A temporary setback. A matter of days only. There has been an accident in the armoury. A fight broke out, and our captain was supplemented.”

Annatar hums, laces his fingers under his chin. Draugluin is licking his paws at his feet, a rugged tongue that has dwelled in size as the rest of his body. The gaze Annatar rests on him is appreciative, deeply satisfied with the modifications endured by the wolf. Already does he resemble nothing like the one that had greeted him in the woods, a creature twisted beyond recognition.

“I recall asking order of them,” Annatar sweetly informs the orc. “Tell me, Authrokh, does eating my orc captain fall under the definition of order?”

The orc’s throat wobbles. “Temporary, my lord,” it says again. “The troops will be ready to move in a few days of time.”

“I hardly think that it respects what I asked of you. How can I trust those words, if you already assured me once that my troops will be ready? You must understand the inconvenience that it is for me.”

The orc says nothing at this, fidgeting. It keeps looking at Draugluin , the slightest tremor of fear present within its irises.

“I am speaking to you,” Annatar says, now letting his gaze fall upon his beringed fingers. He grows dissatisfied with the ones he has, and rises from his seat to come search into his jewellery box, turning his back to the orc. “I expect an answer when I address you.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Now you found in yourself the ability for speech. How amusing.” Annatar fishes three rings from his box, all of white gold and blue sapphire, and inspects them for a second before sliding them on his left index and thumb. “I am disappointed, Authrokh.”

He turns, in time to see sweat drip the length of the orc’s forehead. What an ugly creature, Annatar thinks, fascinated. He takes a step forward, and then- latching out, grabs his jaw between his index and thumb. The orc does not even protest, nor move, the only betrayal of his fear present in the widening of his eyes.

Annatar probs at the orc’s mouth, pushing its lips open to look at the fangs. He tilts his head to the side, and tries to remember who it has been before. An elleth, he is almost certain.

Draugluin has now risen his head from where he had rested it on his paws, hungrily looking at the orc. Annatar pushes the orc away from him, steps back.

“I am sorry, my lord,” the orc is quick to say. “I assure you that it will not happen again. The new captain’s authority shall not be undermined.”

“Indeed,” Annatar absently murmurs. “It shall not. But neither shall yours.”

“My lord…?”

“Draugluin , supper.”

The werewolf pounces. Annatar has made a sweet discovery recently. The more Draugluin feeds on Eldar and their declinations, the more sentient he seems to become. Almost as if their devoured fëar came to mingle with his own, adding intelligence to his already acute eyes.

He comes to sit back into his chair, leaning backwards, as Draugluin feasts. He closes his eyes, humming softly to himself,

“I do not accept incompetence,” Annatar matter-of-factly informs Draugluin , and what remains of the orc. “Efficiency can only be achieved with a common effort, now. If you chose to disregard what I say to do as you please, if you can not keep authority on your own battalions; why should I keep you in my ranks? And if you are not in my ranks, where to? Back to the elves? I hardly believe it adequate.”

The werewolf licks at his blood-tainted maw, lets out a soft whine.

Annatar rises a hand, slowly.

Draugluin comes to press his nuzzle against it, staining Annatar’s hand. No matter, and Annatar runs his fingers in the midst of the soft grey fur. Melkor would adore him, he thinks. His spouse had always had a weakness for animals and loyalty, and the combination of both was sure to bring him mirth.

“Would you like to be a gift?” Annatar asks of Draugluin , still caressing his head and maw. “I assure you that he will take great care of you, once he is released.”

The werewolf lets out another whine.

Annatar laughs. “Now,” he gently says. “No need for such protest. I will never be far.”

Draugluin presses forward to rest his head on Annatar’s thigh, nudging into his skin for more caresses. It elicits another small chuckle from Annatar, who eagerly offers them, ever amazed by the softness of the werewolf’s fur.

“I miss him,” Annatar quietly admits. “I miss him so deeply that I feel as if a part of me has been cast into the ice. I miss him so deeply that there is an ache to my fëa, and that I long to disregard all of my meticulous planning to march alone on Valinor- if it is to be quicker. I miss him so deeply that I feel his gaze on him with every decision I make, and I wonder what he would make do of them. I wonder not if I am doing the right thing, Draugluin , for if the Valar refuse to offer him the promised freedom then I need to take it, by force if necessary. It does not please me. Do you understand ?”

The werewolf licks at his fingers, such astute understanding in his eyes that Annatar would almost believe him a Maia in disguise.

“It does not please me,” Annatar repeats, louder. He says it with an absent voice, as if trying to convince himself – or worse, as if trying to comfort himself. “It is a mean to an end. Words are beautiful until they are no longer sufficient. And when it happens…”

His eyes dart to the corpse of the orc. Well. What has been left behind.

“A few days of delay,” Annatar says to himself. He continues to caress Draugluin's head, with soft strokes. “If the Windan have at least half of the intelligence I demand of them, it should not impair my schedule too deeply. But it is a question of principles. Whoever holds authority can not have it fail them, else they are no longer worthy of it. And if they lack worth, they are useless to me.”

The sentence had barely eluded him that Draugluin howled, and Annatar darted to him a pleased eye- for the answer was so intelligent that he fancied the werewolf must have understood him.

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Irmo flashes all shades of blue before settling on one so dark it resembles black. From the hair to the sclera to the skin- the blue of a starless night, when Varda had yet to breathe them into the skies.

He had sauntered back home, finally returning to the familiarity of Tol-in-Glaennen, when his Maiar had informed him of the recent events. The change had taken less than a second, the purple of his flesh softening into the pale blue of unease and surprise, then brightening into uncertainty, darkening into dismay, darkening into irritation, darkening even more into anger.

He goes to the white mountain on which Manwë had taken residence, Oiolossë, Taniquetil. Irmo looks upon the scene before him, upon the simple landscape features of the domain – the white trunks of trees in the eternal prime of their youth, the clouds of mist that encircled the summit without ever hiding it from view, its heaven-touching apex brushing against the stars that offered it a blinding light in return for this embrace.

Yet Taniquetil is closed to the Valar. If the soft whisper warning them away was not enough of a clue, there have never been as many clouds shadowing the skies than of today. All of it sends a strong message, fencing them off. The house of Manwë, reinforced with strongholds that kept the Ainur away. Irmo is not deterred.

There is one who could support him best. They are all bond together, certainly, all of the Valar- but stronger bonds exist nonetheless. Irmo does not know what qualifies him as brother of Namo and Nienna, rather than what has been said- no true claim to it, no proof if not the word of Eru Allfather. And what is his word, really? It is rather what they make of it, how they chose to interpret it. He had tried to mention it to Manwë, once, received such a blank stare that Irmo had sighed, spiriting himself away with a twirl and a singing note.

He is a fervent advocate of listening to all standpoints there are, but talking to Manwë is sometimes as if talking to the wind- ah, ah, ah! Oh, perhaps the point is there, he thinks, as he makes his way to the Halls of Mandos. Perhaps Manwë’s inability to listen comes from the fact that the words spoken to him are as if lost to the wind, never truly grabbed.

Irmo goes to Namo then, in all of his dark blue glory, and finds a more receptive ear from him than from the Eldar King. Namo is surprisingly easily convinced of the need for an audience, for a trial.

He does not leave the halls, nonetheless, but says he will if the time asks of it. Irmo does not laugh as he would have, studies him in silence. He finds no pleasure in laughing ever since his fana has turned dark, finds his thoughts spinning more around the nightmares than the dreams.

Ah, if they could settle! Irmo is a creature of emotions, of relentless moving, and the past events force him to dive deeper into his own minds- to the detriment of his own sanity. If something is left of it. His thoughts jump to one another despite any coherency, eluding them when he tries to chase after them.

Namo does his very best to anchor him, but their different natures clash too much to ever be entirely at ease around one another. Namo is the eternal languor of death, stretching out without ever stopping, always focused in the same direction. Namo is the lack of change, it is the aspect from which one cannot escape.

It is only logical that they would seek for Nienna then. Despite Irmo’s heartfelt protestations, they look for the Valie of Sorrow in the midst of her gardens. Irmo goes alone, for Namo says it is not a time for him to leave his Halls.

Nienna cries upon seeing him. Of course, she does. Irmo sighs, and finds a rather beautiful frog on the top of a mushroom, attracting his interest much more than Nienna’s golden tears. Yet she takes him in an embrace, and he spins her in the air, all eight arms coming to lift her up.

“Nienna,” Irmo says, tilting his head to the side. “Have your tears finally creviced your cheeks, or are those of your own making? Is it your own if your fana betrays you? Is it not? We are Ainur- do you choose to be, for we certainly are not there to choose?”

He gets himself a faint, sad, smile. “Who to say we are not here to choose, despite everything that we endure?”

“Melkor,” Irmo tells her, thoughts flying away from him too fast to remember what they have just said. “Unfairly imprisoned, Nienna. I want an audience. Au-di-en-ce. Do you know that the Kings of the Eldar are offering audiences? In another world perhaps would we have settled our query by having the King offer to slice a newborn in half, see who would refuse such an act, and who would nod to it! But we do not have children, we do not, we can not- a good thing, a better? The elves are called firstborns, should we take one? No, no, no, cruelty; barbary- for death is not to be feared, but not to be so freely given either. D-ea-th. See how it slides on the tongue. Deathhh.”

Nienna comes closer to him, ever the one whose steps never fully touch the ground. She glides rather than walk, and she cups his cheek with her hand.

“I have seen it,” she murmurs. “I have seen your effort, and I have seen his. I have seen the sorrow in his heart, and the attempts made to chase it away. It was not a craven’s quest.”

Irmo leans for a second against the touch. “Craven,” he repeats, tastes the word. “Under which terms? Which criteria to say one shy, one a coward? From which mind had it come? Who to say it is a truth that stretches with time, rather than having been left in the past?”

“Who to say, indeed,” Nienna longingly says. “Some features are unmovable, Irmo. Bravery is not always found in the gestures, but in the thoughts, away from the light.”

“Melkor. The audience.”

“He has been brave, indeed…” Her voice trails above them. “After the darkest nights, to wish for starlight… It takes great strength of will. Many would have kept succumbing to the attraction it holds. A source of gravity so heavy that it pulls and pulls… Escaping it is the hardest feat there can be…”

Irmo considers her, and clasps his hands beneath his chin. Five eyes flutter on his features, riveted on her. “The hardest-t-t-t,” he sing-songs. “A feat, indeed, a feat- but who to say they can compare- who to understand- the easiest path is fear- fear always, eternally, fear to take the mind into darker paths, fear to steal and steal and never offer in return-! Yet Ainur’s minds should be above it, yes, yes, dearheart, above the grip fear and anger have on us, yet we are not, and how different are we for the children if not for our shifting nature? Fear, to cloud our gaze! Fear, and envy! All of those we are made of! Yet we should not! But we should! In different degrees! All is good in temperance, but we dwell in excess- and with it, we play a game not many can play! Yet many are impacted by it, dearheart, many, many many.”

Nienna takes his hands in hers. She gives him another sad smile, and golden tears melt on her cheeks. Ever the crying one, ever, ever to feel sorrow for the world- yet never to act on such sorrow. It is not supposed to be an end, such emotion, but a motivation. Yet she refuses to see it.

Stagnation, Irmo thinks, and flutters all of his eyes. Stagnation! Pretty, pretty words, like the red and blue frogs of his gardens! Oh so pretty. Blue, and red, blue, and red, colors of the sky, color of the blood within the sea, colour blue and red- Pretty indeed! Beautiful! And all the more deceptive. Oh so dangerous. Oh so very quick to ensnare the Valar, refuse to ever let them leave.

“I will help you,” Nienna quietly tells him. Hurt clouds her gaze, pale white eyes that see without seeing. “What could you ever make you think I would not?”

“Stagnation,” Irmo says; twirling on his feet, and this time, he laughs.

He laughs, and he laughs, and alongside of him, Nienna’s soft chuckle evolves into sobs.

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.

It is almost useless to search for the others Valar’s support; although Irmo tries all the same. He changes himself into a shark to approach Ulmo, and upon being denied spits bubbles in Ulmo’s face. He is chased by a few of his Maiar after that, and Irmo forgets about his quest to play for a day or ten with the jellyfish Maiar of Ulmo, racing through the seas.

Vairë is approached by Namo, of course; and does not refuse her husband. Irmo is not certain to know if it is because she agrees or because she does not deny his sibling. The rest of the Valie, all but Varda and Estë, by Nienna.

Irmo avoids Tulkas, of course he does, and Oromë. There are not so many of them; and so he asks for Aulë’s support.

It is given, and the slightest pink returns to his dark cheeks; blooms so and so that he tries to lift Aulë’s up – does not succeed, and pouts to such an extent that it is Aulë who throws him over his shoulder, leading him throughout his forges, explaining to what use is this and that.

Then, Irmo remembers another thing. Not only the Ainur could advocate for Melkor’s release.

He can appeal to elves as well.

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Melkor is quite certain it is a dream. Nay, a nightmare of the strangest sort, a game played eagerly by Irmo – a vengeance for some offence that Melkor would not even have noticed to have made. He blinks, for a time. Then takes to pinch his skin; and upon seeing the lack of success of such an act, tries to shift fanar to escape.

A small word that tries is. A few letters, something that would, should, not be truly noticed. Half of a word, even, when he could say words of deeper meaning or see others take on a more lasting presence in people's minds. Letters, nothing more, and nevertheless signifying so very much more.

He tries, and he can not shift.

Again.

He is aware of Fëanáro and his scathing words, now having seized Melkor’s wrist to prompt him forward. Fëanáro is saying something about duty and revenge, about deceit and debts unpaid, but Melkor can not listen. The collar around his neck is not one Fëanáro’s tools can break, the very source of his dismay. Once more trapped in an envelope of flesh when he is at first incorporeal, intangible. Once more shackled to what had ever been supposed to a gesture of compliance, had never been supposed to become his very prison.

Beside him, Fëanáro can not stop talking. It is the very curse he has been inflicted with, to have such agitation in his thoughts that – in lack of a place to inhabit- they endlessly pour from between his lips.

“I wish first and foremost for you to clearly understand the terms I am stating here,” Fëanáro is telling him, trailing Melkor after him by the wrist. The Prince of the Ñoldor is Elda before all, and his steps are light on the stone path. His feet instinctively now how to place themselves to assure optimal stability, his pace never slowing. Perhaps another elf would have hesitated, but Fëanáro’s hroä follows the laws of his fëa rather than the contrary, and if his mind had decided that he shall not fall, then he does not. “It is not a release without conditional terms. This is an exchange we are undertaking, on which you ought to reconsider your earlier words - and return what you have taken, or else I shall be forced to return to the Valar what I have just taken from them: your person.”

Melkor nods, mind still half in a sluggish haze. Slowly going back to its natural state, but not quite there. “You wish for them,” he slurs. “You wish to claim the gems back.”

“And for what else would I wish for?”

“I do not presently have them,” Melkor says. He is not certain how Fëanáro has managed to cloud the gaze of Manwë and his eagles, how is it that nobody comes after them. He asks not of it, and follows, his own steps as steady as those of Fëanáro, despite the fog having sunken deep claws into his mind. “You are aware of this. They would have taken them.”

Fëanáro’s grip tightens around his wrist, as if the very steel he bends to his will. “This is a subject for later. Move.”

“On the contrary,” Melkor tells him, slowly climbing down the mountain. At this height, they are still clouded by the recent clouds but they will not benefit from them much longer. Despite it all, it amuses him deeply to see how ill-prepared Fëanáro seems to be for this rescue mission, and he half-expects any minute from now to be once more shackled to the top. “I believe this is the very subject that brought you to me, Fëanáro, and thus the one most in need of being discussed.”

In a fraction of second, far less than should have taken any elf, the chain around his neck is grabbed, gripped just before the throat. Hearing the words, Fëanáro has marked a stop, whirled around, pale fingers locked in a deadly grip around the chain links, quiet, blanching fury inscribed on every detail of his features.

“I say later,” Fëanáro tells him, his voice low and steady. “Do believe, Thief, that I most ardently desire what you have stolen from I; and that I shall see it returned to me, even if I have to set fire to Aman for this. I open the bonds of my very own jailer, and I do so voluntarily; for the price you will pay is one I seek to receive. In the meantime, Manwë in Varda, be silent or I swear on all that is precious to you-!”

Melkor eyes the elf, far too close to his throat. “Manwë in Varda…?” A choking sound first escapes him. A small, gargled thing, nearly nothing at all. More of a wheeze, crushed as his vocal cords are by the chain. A chuckle then- that manages to pass through when Fëanáro slightly relinquishes his hold on his throat.

Then, when Fëanáro takes a step backwards, a full laugh coming from the true depth of his lungs.

He laughs, a genuine, stunned laugh- and the fury on Fëanáro’s features goes yet another degree warmer.

“Is it what amuses you?” Fëanáro hisses. His eyes are incandescent, blue sparkling within the grey – as if the hottest part of a flame. “Is it there the Enemy? To laugh so earnestly of a curse word; and yet so blatantly disregard all respect and law for the nature of things?”

“Ease,” Melkor manages to choke out. His last chuckles finally die, as he shakes his head. “You speak to me of respect! Where is yours for the Valar, firstborn?”

“I will give them respect when they will have earned it.”

Now, Fëanáro continues his way down- tugging once more at the remains of manacles around Melkor’s wrists. The chain between them is broken, but they still circle his flesh – nothing he will not be able to dispose of. The collar around his neck however…

They climb down, still; in relative silence. Before Melkor finally breaks through the haze of his mind, although there is a faint metallic taste on his tongue. There does he begin to pester Fëanáro with questions, from the tool used to break his bonds to the reason behind his presence here.

Melkor does this with a cruel delight, to pour over Fëanáro all his frustrations. Smugness coats his words now that he has been freed, and in biting, sardonic snipes does he try to get another raise from the elf.

But all he receives are many “later,” said through gritted teeth. He probs further, stops on the path, only to be tugged into following- easily complying despite the scene he is giving. He wishes, more than anyone, to find his way down the mountain, to have the immensity of Aman to hide within; and thus his reluctance is none else but a show made to quench his anger.

Until Melkor asks of how Fëanáro has managed the feat to cloud them to Manwë and his Maiar’s gazes, and Fëanáro once more turns sharply on his heels. Rather than fury, it is another kind of smugness that reigns free over his features, as he distastefully eyes Melkor.

“You do not possess the monopoly of silver words,” Fëanáro says. One side of his mouth twitches, twists into a wry smirk. “For all that there is pleasure in believing you, your own power over convincing is not unequaled. I am no Ainur, and yet speaks finer than them; and mine words have the ability to touch hearts without requiring to lies. Can you say the same, Belegurth?”

“And here I so relished in Annatar,” Melkor says. “Will you not call me giver of gifts, you who had most benefited from it?”

A harsh, incredulous laugh. “Giver of gifts, you say! I say them poisoned, and I say them wicked; and you are no more giver of gifts than I am of lies; and I say myself honest when all others fail to be it!”

“Honestly brings very little results. Would you truthfully say you would stick vehemently to it, when a little twist would bring you what you seek? Are you not now lying of all people of Aman, when you swore them protection, and now give freedom to the Great Death?”

Now, Fëanáro falls silent. The words have sprouted something in his mind, as Melkor’s whispered ones have ever done. Once it was to spur discord within the Ñoldor, to elicit them to cautiousness and distrust, now to make him think upon the vanity of resorting only to a thing instead of the whole nature that has been given to them. Eru has made the world to be double-faced, no matter who denies it, and Melkor himself had made the mistake of leaning towards one face only.

He is beginning to learn the better of it, that there is no salvation to be found in one aspect only- for it suffocates the mind as surely as would iron ropes constrict a throat. And how he enjoys it. Melkor has not realized how much he had missed it, to have Fëanáro, always the talkative one, fall silent in front of his words. How it had pleased him to see the elf accord credit to his thoughts, to not only hear but listen, to stretch them in further directions.

Once, despite all would believe, they had been as friends as a Vala and an Elf could be. Closer even, for one had been constrained to a station lower than he ought to and one saw himself above his own.

But where once Melkor would have probed further, slyly insinuating about how it was Aman who fogged the mind so – with the quiet implication of who had made Aman as it was – this time he did not. This time he stayed silent. Not another word spoken, not another to direct Fëanáro’s ire towards him.

The rest of their climbing, they do in silence- at least until they reach something that causes Melkor to mark a stop. His eyes widen slightly. First in stupefaction, then incredulity.

Be it a sought revenge for the distress his words have caused earlier, or for it was in Fëanáro’s nature to enjoy dismay on Melkor’s features, but the elf laughs. It is not a kind laugh.

For before them stands two mountain goats, cheerfully munching on Edelweiss. Easily the size of a horse, with horns to match, and belonging first and foremost to a Vala Melkor knows only too well.

Those are beasts of Oromë.

“What is it, Belegurth?” Fëanáro murmurs. “Would it be that the sight of animals from another of your kind would sprout such unease in your heart?”

Melkor considers him. “Nay,” he says. “I was merely suddenly hit by a resemblance that I did not expect.”

A squint of the eyes. “Is that so?”

The squint is answered by a small hum, as Melkor approaches the mountain goats. “Particularly in the cleverness of the eyes,” he adds. A simple glance teaches anyone that there seems to be only the void in those irises, vacant yellow points who are more enraptured by eating their grass than the world around them. “I would pass an apron around their neck, and the difference would be unnoticeable. And gloves around their hooves.”

Fëanáro mounts the animal in one swift movement. “Really,” his soft voice says. “I believe I begin to understand what you are saying. I too am stunned by the resemblances I see. I had not known you to be so self-aware. Perhaps we should call them givers of gifts.”

Melkor laughs. The laugh seems to startle Fëanáro, whose eyes narrow once more; but Melkor is merely shaking his head. He jumps on his own mountain goat, gripping at its horns. “Ah, Fëanáro, I had missed such vitriol from thy lips.”

“Missed, Belegurth? Missing implies knowledge; and you have none about I.”

“If so you say,” Melkor says. “Now, as much as I would like sitting on top of this mountain for the rest of my days – and this is a lie, so that you see I am perfectly able of saying blue to be blue, sometimes – perhaps it would better advised to move.”

“LEHE!” Fëanáro barks, and both mountain goats immediately rise to their feet, disregarding their grass to climb down the path.

Melkor’s heart is pounding in his chest. He tries to shift fanar, once, twice, but still the collar around his neck bridles his powers – as if he was nothing more but one of those Edain. It is temporary, he convinces himself. The most important part was to escape. And for Fëanáro… The Silmarils were still in Estë and Irmo’s hands. Melkor has sworn that he would give them up. He has given his word- and he wishes, fervently, to hold it.

Perhaps, a desperate part of himself hopes, if he proves to Eru that he will willingly give them up, then his light will be returned by other means. There is this audience that Estë had spoken about.

But there is another problem to be taken care of, and this is the problem of those elves coming to invade Aman. Melkor might be many things, but he is not daft, and there can be only one behind such a sudden invasion.

Mairon.

But this is a problem that would easily be taken care of. Ah. To some extent. He would need to go to Arda, seek Mairon in Angband, and explain the change of strategy that he is currently undergoing. There is no reason that Mairon would not listen.

That he would not side with him.

.

.

.

The mountain goats lead them to the bottom of Taniquetil. They jump down from them, and for a long second, Melkor is persuaded to see a flash of intelligence in the one he had mounted. Yellow eyes gleaming, as if something was trying to be conveyed. But it disappears so soon he is almost certain to have dreamed it. For when Melkor tries to catch the gaze of the goat once more, he does not succeed. It is settled in finding some grass, and nothing deters the beast. Melkor gives up then, convinces himself that it must have been his imagination.

There does Fëanáro take two grey cloaks from the belongings he had taken with him, clads Melkor’s shoulders with it in one movement; then wraps the second around Melkor’s legs. So clad, with the constraint it gives to his movements, they make their way to the forest of sequoia surrounding the Peloris.

Once they are hidden by the trees does Fëanáro command Melkor to let go of the cloaks, and he pockets them back in half a second. Melkor hitches to steal them, to inspect them properly – the enchantments which seem to have been woven into them. Yet he does nothing of the sort, silent as they make their way by foot- until they reach a small clearing, and the two horses tied to an old sequoia tree.

They ride in silence, a strange feat for both of them. But Melkor’s desire to pester the elf with questions had ebbed, and now he feels only a strange sort of bitterness. Now that he has time to reflect on what has happened those past days; now that he has realized how eager was Manwë to imprison him. He had not realized it before. Candidly had he believed that Manwë was truly pained to do so, to throw him to the Void. And yet… Melkor, and this he would admit to no one, not even Mairon, had begged.

A few hours before being thrown past the doors of night, Manwë had visited him. There Melkor had begged in earnest, desperate, terrified. Fear as he had never known it, a terror so deep that he had felt filled by it, no place left to hold the truth of himself. He had begged, and he had wept, and it had been angry, vengeful tears- his defeat sour on his lips.

He had begged, the lowest condition he had ever brought himself to, shame and rage battling in his heart, and Manwë had shaken his head.

“I can not trust your penance,” Manwë had murmured, the last words he had directly addressed to him. A few hours later, Melkor had been dragged to the Doors of Night, what was left of him; and there had been no glance, no gaze from Manwë except cold indifference. How he had stormed then, laughing and shouting, trying to escape yet seeing the doors come closer and closer.

“-gurth? Belegurth?”

Melkor blinks himself awake. They have come to arrive near the end of the forest, where the coast of the bay Eldamar begins. Here it will be more difficult even to stay hidden, for there is no tree to hide from the sight, no cloud; and they are so close to the waters— One wrong move, and Ulmo would be alerted of their presence.

“Where are you taking me to?” Melkor asks again. His voice bears none of the cruel delight he had worn when wishing to poke at Fëanáro’s anger. He asks this calmly; equal to equal.

(If there was ever an elf that stood at his equal, it was Fëanáro-)

This time, Fëanáro answers. “Alqualondë. I can not bring you to Tirion nor Formenos- and Arafinwë will host us the time it requires.”

“What requires?”

Fëanor prompts his horse forward, forcing Melkor to imitate him. “I wish to hold another bargain with you,” Fëanáro says. “It is not the ‘later’ I sought; for this is a discussion that we will hold inside the Halls of Sintlëmar.”

Sintlëmar- the Crystal Palace of Arafinwë and Earwen, High Prince and Princess of the Ñoldor and the Teleri. Melkor knows it perfectly well. It has been one of the places he had wandered, once upon a time, when he had sought to weave Discord into the hearts of the elves. But those two were not the be swayed, had laughed at Melkor’s attempt- and he had found a better listener in the existence of Fëanáro and his people.

“Another bargain?” Melkor’s voice is soft, but it is a deceptive softness. The one of the calm before the storm, or in other situations, the soothing tone he had used when coaxing important prisoners into talking.

“A replacement,” Fëanaro corrects, his own tone sharp. He guides his horse on the plain lands of the bay, where the winds are instructed to be harsh, and few things manage to endure it. “It has come to mine attention that there was little flaw in the oath you swore to me, upon claiming mine Silmarils. I wish them back. I have not been silent on this.”

Melkor says nothing. He could tell Fëanáro that he is intent on giving him the gems back. He does not. If Fëanáro will offer something against the Silmarils, then he will keep quiet, wait for the offer – and accept it.

“No one in Aman has been unaware of the chaos stirring in Arda,” Fëanáro says. “And no one wishes for it to reach Aman.”

Still, Melkor stays silent.

“And how would you propose such a feat?”

Fëanáro gives him a long, distasteful look. “There are little fools to be found amongst the Ñoldor, no matter the beliefs you hold. Who else would have prompted the elves to march on Valinor if not yourself, or one under your command? Even if they should be acting on their own, are you not a Vala? Is your word not to be obeyed? For all that it is said to us that Ainur are the highest powers there are, you seemed very little convinced by it.”

Melkor laughs, again. He prompts his horse forward, so that he stands before Fëanáro instead of aside him, turns his horse to come to a stop. They stand on top of a hill, the wind blowing, its icy breeze rushing through their clothes.

“And how would you propose such a feat?” Melkor quietly repeats, another murmur rising no higher than the wind, looking placid and yet having in its heart much more hazardous aspects.. “Would it be that you would guarantee me passage to Arda, should I wish so? Have you boats, now, that I would take? Have you Ulmo’s protection, that I should cross without retribution? Or should I cross the Helcaraxë and face the ice?”

“I pictured you for a deceiver, never for a craven.”

“It is not cowardice, Fëanáro. It is good sense.”

Fëanáro guides his horse around the one of Melkor, his gaze never darting away.

“If a boat you need, we will find a boat,” Fëanáro bites out. “Or is it what you desire, Belegurth, to see Arda invaded? Should I call for Manwë, here and now, and have the Elder King take you back to manacles?”

Melkor refuses to rise to the bait. “I have no care for an invasion. But you have little care for helping.”

“Is this what you believe? That I would sit idly and see my people be uselessly slaughtered? Then for all that you say the contrary, you do not know me, Belegurth.”

“You have little care for helping me,” Melkor specifies. “You do not trust me.”

Fëanáro arches an eyebrow. “Have you ever given me a reason to?”

Without waiting for an answer, he instructs for his horse to gallop – forcing Melkor to do the very same. And so they ride, both horses running on the plains of Eldamar Bay, each second putting more distance between them and Taniquetil.

.

.

.

Manwë is sitting on his knees, hands folded on his lap. Through the pungent whistling of the wind against the high crystal windows, a horrible silence reigned in the middle of the room. He has the closed eyes of one who prays to move the heart, choosing to close his mind to anything that did not come from within himself, barely perceiving how the skies stirred beyond this room separated from the world.

He remains stoic, motionless, lost in a world of thought.

None of his Maiar are stirring the skies that day. All are gathered in an adjacent room, taking care not to sap Manwë's life force, standing as still as the one commanding them.

A perspiration, colder than Melkor's handprint, colder even than the frozen snows of the Helcaraxë, drips from his pores.

I need thy advice. I need thy council.

Manwë's voice comes to resonate deep within himself, where buried desires lurked, eager to elude those who could pierce the window within the eyes. It comes to resonate in the minds of those who had been molded from himself, comes to vibrate along the link that bound him to the Queen of Stars.

He plunges even deeper into himself, where external disturbances would not disturb him. Where it is total seclusion. Where his understanding of Eru's thinking is manifested, where when Manwë called for counsel, his requests are heard, and answered in the affirmative.

He can almost feel them already. They are metaphysical doors - that every Ainur could feel in his heart. Doors that open the way to a path that only a few could take; for the doors could only be opened by the goodwill of the one who had shaped the world.

Allfather. I come to thee for a query.

Hear mine plea.

Hear mine voice.

Manwë stands before the doors. They are doors that he can draw with his eyes closed, whose outlines he can trace without ever looking at them again. And yet he can never describe them. It is a sensory image, an impression that he knows - but how can he image what cannot be transposed to the real world?

The illuminations can be as much silver than ink, the heavy doors' material as much wood than stainless steel.

The door opens slightly.

Behind it, Manwë knows that the Timeless Halls lie. The place where all their fëa were made, the place where an audience with Eru Allfather is held, the place of all beginnings and all ends.

Hear mine plea.

Hear mine voice.

He doesn't know what to do with this situation which imprisons his senses. He knows Melkor is at fault, he knows that a punishment is warranted. He knows what some of his Valar demand, what his Maiar expect, what the firstborn deserve. Behind the gates of night, never again will harm be done by one who has forever marred the design of Arda by his actions. And yet he cannot bring himself to do so.

And yet hope springs up in his heart. A futile hope, which he should stifle. A hope that assures him that all causes are never lost, and that giving up is a path he cannot choose.

But Manwë doubts.

Allfather. I come to thee for a query.

He stands in front of the doors, and Manwë patiently waits. He waits for seconds, and he waits for minutes – and waits, until time loses its meaning. Outside, it could have been hours as it could have been days. It is not as if Melkor could escape, with this great magical chain around his throat, robbed of his powers. He has no allies here, none that would free him.

Manwë has years and years if so he wishes to wait for Eru Allfather to answer him. But he knows it will not come to this. He knows that usually, the answer is short to come.

And so, Manwë stands in front of the gates- able to see past the slight space that offers a view on the Timeless Halls.

He waits.

And he waits.

And he waits.

But this time, the doors do not open.

Chapter 17: Lesson 17: No, you may not get rid of your emotions

Chapter Text

It is sooner than he would have believed that the great cliffs of Alqualondë come to their view, bordering the sea as if it were a series of teeth cut through the stone. Narrowed, stretched, ones – once shaped into form by the very breath of the Ainur. Once he too had partaken in such shaping, although he had soon abandoned his own work to go seek the ones of others – taking greater delight in reshaping it anew than by moulding alone creations destined to self-destruction.

Melkor forces his horse to a halt, as Fëanáro does so ahead of him.

For a second silence of speech rules over them, the air filled with the kind of sounds that come in the absence of civilization: the ruffling of the leaves, the singing of the birds, the creaking of the trees.

And then Fëanáro points at a shining point in the horizon, so bright that Melkor almost believes yet another Silmaril to have been hung amongst the stars.

“Sintlëmar,” Fëanáro says. The crystal palace of his half-brother, Arafinwë. He gestures towards it, an elegant movement, yet which manages to convey a little of the stiffness put in the word.

How terribly amusing, Melkor thinks. In the company of the one he once called Morgoth for all ages there was to come, Fëanáro still manages to express more distaste for his close kin.

The sharp, light grey eyes of Fëanáro come back to rest on Melkor. In them shines the light of both Telperion and Laurelin, the gleam that circled the irises, ever talking of having witnessed the beauty of such pure brightness.

“We will find shelter there,” Fëanáro continues, his voice steady as if there had never ever been a flicker of distaste within it. “And we will have a much sought-after conversation.”

“We could have it here, if you were not so intent on a proper setting for it,” Melkor comments.

“Not a proper setting,” Fëanáro says. “A proper audience.”

“An audience?” Melkor is laughing now, and prompts his horse forward. “And what then, fireworks?”

A shot look of pure, utter consternation. “I would rather hope this is mockery hidden behind false idiocy, than believe you so very daft. You did not display such characteristics before, Annatar. But perhaps the cleverness of words you showed was too part of the play.” Fëanáro urges his horse forward as well. “I want an audience to have witnesses, not because of pride, because of safety measures. Let there not be said I spoke words thought by another, and put in mine mouth for convenience. I do not want anyone to distort whatever bargain we will strike, and I want someone to have a written proof of what was said.”

“You might be subjected to hearsay as fervently as they wish, with no proof to accompany it, words will stay words.”

“Words will stay words you say – when you used them so very skillfully to get to your ends. The quill is mightier than the sword.”

“Yet when two wield it with equal skill,” Melkor says, with wry amusem*nt. “-it becomes much closer to reverting back to a dagger rather than a sword; with the drawbacks such a weapon entails.”

Fëanaro eyes him for a few seconds, contemplating him in silence. They ride next to the other then, their horses finding their footing and path even if they had not been there to guide them. Such was the gift of Oromë to the horses of Valinor, to never wobble in their step, for their insight to be keener than their kin in Arda.

“I truly wish to prevent a war in Aman, no matter how deep runs my distaste for you.”

“For me? Or for the whole of the Valar?”

A muscle twitch in Fëanáro’s jaw. “My degree of distaste varies in function of their identity – but you deserve the highest congratulations on this scale.”

“Truly?” Melkor murmurs. “And why is it you despise me so, Fëanáro? Is it for marring a design born out of idleness, or a more personal offence – that I have asked to be given what you judged yours?”

“What I judged mine? It was mine, it is mine, by the making. I might not have been coerced into agreeing, but I have been manipulated – and I am lucid enough to recognize it now. It should render any contract invalid.”

“You were,” Melkor admits freely. There comes the very moment that will flare his satisfaction alive. That renders the act of giving the Silmarils away so very worth it. “It should, indeed. But I do not have the Silmarils on me. I do not even have the right of possession to them. I gave them away.”

Fëanáro stops his horse so brutally that it neighs, kicking the air with his front legs. Instinctively, Fëanaro comes to pass a hand over his collar, despite his shocked anger, calms the horse with a few whispered words to his ears.

He turns to Melkor then, outrage distorting his features. “You swore an oath only to give them away?” he roars.

Melkor waves a hand. “It was brought to mine attention that my purchasing of the Silmarils was ill-made.”

Fëanáro’s roar gets stuck in his throat. He falls into stunned silence, eyes roaming over Melkor as if he had never seen him prior to this moment. “Brought to you by whom? And given to whom?”

“Given might be an extrapolation,” Melkor says, still in that detached tone of voice. “I put them in the care of Irmo.”

“The Lord of Lórien?”

“Himself,” Melkor admits, a grin on his lips. “Worries not, the gems might shine enough to attract his attention, but as soon as a frog will pass next to him, he will be sufficiently distracted.”

“Why? Why would you give them?”

“I told you already,” Melkor says, vaguely irritated, but overall his amusem*nt ruled as Queen over his features. “It was brought to mine attention that my acquisition of the gems was not making me any favours in front of the One. You might just be the very person to whom I will say so, so listen, for even not Estë and Irmo have heard those words: I have woven much destruction, more even than you could imagine, and I find myself tired by it. I find that it brings me no more satisfaction, and although I am still quite intent and answering mine own nature and not allowing Aman to sit in idleness – or at least not actively partaking in it – I wish not to mar the design of Eru Allfather anymore. Believe me, or do not, but now you have heard mine words.”

And with this, Melkor forces his horse into a gallop, leaving Fëanáro to reflect on what has been just said.

.

.

.

“You will forgive if I do not believe you,” Fëanaro has been saying. His face had hardened into a mask of steel, no true emotion passing through it. Anger had flared, only to be suffocated, and now Melkor was not certain of which explosive co*cktail exactly stirred under the surface.

They had attached the horses next to the stables of an abandoned house, one that Fëanaro had quietly explained to be mostly used for warehousing. And now, covered with Fëanaro’s grey cloaks, they are making their way through the narrow streets of Alqualondë – the night since long fallen over their shoulders.

“If you keep quiet and to yourself, no one will bat an eye,” Fëanaro says. He tugs at the fabric covering Melkor’s hair and face, and pulls it a little further down. “Follow me, and do not let yourself be noticed. Nothing exuberant. Am I understood?”

Melkor resists the very Incarnate urge to have his eyes roll in their sockets. “Far from the escapee to cry come over to his jailers.”

He gets no answer for this. And so slowly do they traverse the city, with little to no passer-by. Despite the late hours of the night, it is intriguing enough that it flares Melkor’s curiosity alive – for Tirion seems to be restless in comparison, ever buzzing with life even long after Laurelin had ebbed for the day.

Fëanáro laughs at his surprise.

“We have little need for sleep,” he says. “But you will find that in cities where the physical labour is extensive, there is less tendency to use the hours of the night for aimless frolicking instead of rest.”

He accords him this. “I would have expected Alqualondë to be more semblable in Tirion in that matter,” Melkor tells him nonetheless. “Despite its proximity to the coast and the ships, I thought it in great majority a city for your nobles.”

“Not truly.” Fëanaro makes him stop at a corner, both inclining their head to hide their features as two Teleri pass near them. “There is a reason for why I mostly avoid Tirion. Our… higher borns reassemble more there than in any other city. Certainly, there is labour as well, but Taniquetil and Tirion are more cities of leisure than work. Physical work, that is.”

Interesting. And perhaps the reason why Melkor’s sweet lies had worked better there than in other cities – for it was when one’s mind was free to wander upon philosophy and idleness that they were more prone to think about their dissatisfaction with life, more prone to be influenced towards nurturing it. When one kept thoroughly occupied through the day with exhausting, physical tasks, at the end of it, there was less will to accord Melkor some time. His tries to sway the mind of the Teleri had met less than fructuous results, for they had, gently but firmly, explained that they had no time at the moment for such stretching discussions. However, many had invited him to join them in their labour – with a beaming smile – ever insisting upon how keeping themselves busy brought a satisfaction difficultly mimicked.

And in Tirion- where the Lords leisurely strolled the streets, where days were spent between philosophical discussions and tea time, where many of those nobles’ principal occupation for the day was to choose in which house spend their afternoon – it had been far easier. So eager were they to listen to one that flared alive their utter dissatisfaction with such a life, although few recognized it for what it truly was. Many thought themselves perfectly happy as this, although boredom and inaction began to eat them alive; searching in cruel whispers and false rumours a sense of purpose that they did not find elsewhere.

And Melkor had perhaps seemed like a miracle sent – when he had pinpointed for them the centre of their discontentment. This restless busing they felt in their bones - for despite what the Valar thought the elves had never been meant to be brought to stagnant, unchanging, Aman – had finally a reason.

It would be so very easy to flare it once more to life, now that he understood it even more keenly. It would be so very easy-

And not what Melkor wants.

He grits his teeth, a muscle twitching in his jaw. What is also very easy, he thinks bitterly, is for him to revert to his old days. He wishes; so very fervently, to have Aman realize the danger of their inactivity – the so sweet trap that is leisureliness – but if achieving it means putting in peril his own search for peace… He is, above all, a selfish one.

But there is something that needs to be done. Something, hopefully, that can be done.

He ruminates on those thoughts as they cross the streets separating them from Sintlëmar, and before long, both Fëanáro and Melkor see the long turrets of the crystal palace rise high in the night - illuminated by the brightness of Telperion.

“There is another entrance,” Fëanáro murmurs. “We will use it, I do not wish for the guards to call for Arafinwë in the midst of the night. Keep close to me.”

And indeed, as Melkor’s eyes trail over the front gates of Sintlëmar, there are two guards standing before them, gaze riveted before them. Amusing, he thinks, that despite having yet to invent many words for death – the third prince of Finwë protects his palace as if Morgoth himself is at its gates.

Well. Morgoth himself is at its gates.

He does follow Fëanáro all the same, trailing behind him until they reach a passage where the light of Telperion does not reach. Fëanáro half bows in a sarcastic gesture, for Melkor to pass first – and he would nearly believe it to be a trap if Fëanáro had not been the one to rescue him.

He enters the passage, into the dark, with a grin blooming over his features. He has never minded it, and he relishes in the sort of silence that comes with a starless night.

When they reach the end of it, the door in the crystal – there is a son of Fëanáro waiting for them on the steps.

Melkor knows it is one of his sons for he has seen him in Tirion with Maitimo – and his eyes brighten in realization. The elf is fair and golden-haired, with a lyre in his hands, and his mind immediately does the mandatory association: the Singer, Fëanaro’s son. Now his name…

“Makalaurë!” Melkor exclaims, clasping his hands.

Fëanáro’s eyes bulge out of his face. He turns frantically. “Kano? Where?”

“I did not think you blind as well as daft- just in front of you, Fëanáro!”

Silver-grey eyes fall on the elf- and a series of quick emotions flash on his face. Confusion, understanding, incredulity, anger. “Findaráto? You are calling Findaráto by the name of my second son?”

“Yes, yes, yes. Makalaurë, Findaráto, same thing. A son of you!”

“Findaráto is not my son!”

“He is not?”

“He is not!”

“Which one is your son then?”

“I have enough of five that you do not need to add any to the lot!”

“You do not want more sons then?”

“I did not say that!”

A polite cough. Their eyes turned to Makalaurë- ah, damn, Findaráto, perhaps they ought not to beget so many spawns if they wished for Melkor to retain all of their names (and yet, he knows this name: the one that had opposed Mairon in Song, the one that could have won, the only one elf to have wrestled a werewolf and killed him barehanded- a part of him is impressed.)

Pale blue eyes consider them sharply, despite the brilliant smile on his lips.

“Uncle,” Findaráto hums. “What brings you to this very secret passage of our house in the middle of the night? And who is this guest you have brought with you?”

Fëanáro crosses his arms on his chest. “It is a matter to be discussed with your Adar, Ingoldo.”

“Is it? I shall fetch him for you then! But be aware, he is in a very poor mood when woken up at such an hour.”

The little snake. “Please avoid,” Melkor says. “It occurred to me that we are doing him a surprise visit that will not please him in the slightest.”

Findaráto’s attention turn to him. His piercing eyes contemplate him for a second, then two, and it is to his honour that he does not flinch – merely continues to display his brilliant smile. “Lord Melkor. I thought you were imprisoned on the summit of Taniquetil. I see the situation has changed.” A slight tilt of his head to the side, the first notes of a melody hummed through his lips. “Is our Lord Manwë aware of such a change?”

“If he is not, he soon will,” Melkor says with an amused grin.

Fëanaro is rolling his eyes. “I insist,” he presses through gritted teeth. “On the utter importance of keeping this matter silent.”

Findaráto mimics the action of closing a zipper through his lips. “I shall be as silent as the night over the Great Sea.” But curiosity is still shining deep in his eyes. “I would ask merely for a small gift in return, the answer to my question. Are you certain of what you are doing, Uncle?”

“Yes,” Melkor hums. “Do tell us, Fëanáro. Who made the decision, your heart or your mind?”

“Both.” Melkor is given a sharp, irritated look. “The two are not necessarily mutually exclusive.”

Findaráto sharp blue eyes settle on Fëanáro, examining him silently. There is cheer still in this gaze, but as Melkor takes to study it in return – it seems too genuine to truthfully be it. He has never accorded much thought to the rest of Finwë’s offsprings, and their own spawns, but it dwells on him that perhaps he must have ought to.

He knows, keenly, on how to dissimulate the truth of thoughts behind a veil of indifference- but this seems an acute technique as well, to coat them in so much brightness and cheer that one does not even think on doubting it.

“Ultimately your acts are your decision to take, Uncle,” Findaráto indeed says with that smile of his. He says it lightly, as if a jest, as if demureness. Melkor begins to think that none of it bears honesty. “Who am I to oppose you? If you say you have thought on it, and took the decision after reflection, then you have; and nothing I say will change the truth of it.”

The possible truth of it, comes the word unsaid.

And so Findaráto takes to hum again sweet melodies to himself, fingers stroking the lyre. If the humming is quiet enough to not bother the peacefulness of the night, the instrument is not, and any word said above a whisper would be drowned by it. And this, again, flares Melkor’s interest. Any heated word, thus, if not shouted, would be swallowed by the lyre.

“Ingoldo,” Fëanáro says, quietly. There is no anger in his voice, nor pride; merely firmness. “I have taken them after consideration. I have taken them after inputs from others, if so should bring peace to your heart. Inputs from Nerdanel as well.”

Findaráto smiles. “I have told them that you would never get your heart so easily swayed by a Vala,” he tells them. Still he strokes the instrument. “I told them that your faith to the Eldar overcame any that you could bear to the Powers. I told them that your sense of duty prevailed over your pride.”

Yet here they are: Melkor, the Constrainer; set free from his chains.

“You forget yourself,” Fëanáro says. “I have all but raised you, when you came to spend so many summers in Formenos.”

“And indeed, it is those summers that allowed me a better grasp on your character than the rumours nestled in Tirion.” Findaráto now takes to pass a beringed hand in his golden hair, reassembling them to a side of his shoulders. “I am very grateful for them, Uncle. I have seen your greatness, truthfully.” He smiles, again. “I have seen many things.”

Melkor refrains himself from laughing, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them. What a sight, he thinks, deeply amused.

“Then you know,” Fëanáro insists. “That I would never willingly bring harm to the Eldar. But you know, also, that no matter the might the spirit can be prone to mistakes. Such is the case here. Bauglir has not influenced me.”

“I tried,” Melkor unhelpfully supplies. He crosses his arms on his chest. “I found the mind of your Uncle harder than steel, more stubborn than a squirrel making his nest for colder days.”

He gets himself another look from Fëanáro, a twitching of his lips, bordering on a hiss.

Findaráto attention reverts to Melkor then. “ Many things have also been told about thee,” he says. His tone is still bright, but this time cautiousness shines in the gaze, unhidden. “I have long learned to detach my thoughts from mindless obedience to the Powers, but I am not prideful enough to believe myself to know better.”

“Then, as a Power, I tell you that I am,” Melkor tells him. He makes a step forward. “I have done many wrongs, which I unashamedly admit, but those specific ones come not from my doing. I have naught to do with the threat upon Aman, nor have I manipulated Fëanáro’s fëa. Such latter accomplishment, he has done it by himself. Such former outrage, comes neither from mine hands nor some other to which I would have made the architect of a vision of mine.”

“Words are beautifully crafted, but I find some to hide nastier intents than their golden promises.”

“And sometimes they do not,” Fëanáro says. “Or we would never accord credit to any of them. I ask trust of you, in the memory of the days in which you had given it to me, and I confide my trust in your hands all the same – to keep silent until I speak myself to your Adar.”

“You will speak to him then?”

“I will.”

Findaráto says nothing else for a moment, but the bubbliness in his gaze fades slightly. A few seconds fly between them, the silence broken only by the fingers running on the cords of the lyre.

Finally, Findaráto stands, offers the both of them a Ñoldorin formal greeting.

“Adar does not sleep,” he admits, going back on his earlier words. “Uncle, you might find him in the laboratory.” To Melkor then. “There is a room, near the third floor. There is a breach in the wall, a slight breeze that would feel uncomfortable for any of the Eldar. No one ever enters, except for the workers, who are not scheduled to arrive until mid-day.”

Melkor grins, returns the greeting.

“Thank you, Maitimo,” he says, his laugh trailing after him as he enters the palace.

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Fëanáro makes his way through the palace. His thoughts are in a turmoil that he keeps under a closed lock, else he knows how easily they would escape him – shape into emotions; and those, more dangerous than all, would easily lead way to acts. He can not doubt himself, he is aware of it. He can not, or all would be gone. He does not make a habit of second-guessing himself.

Despite what might be believed in Tirion, he thinks, carefully, before any of his actions. He might be guided by his emotions but not by his impulsivity. He thinks of them – but he does go back on a decision taken. Once it is decided, there is no point in thinking again of it. Once it is decided, it is acted.

This is what gives him the reputation of impulsivity. For some of his actions are harsh indeed, and the Lords of Aman are so very used to have their decisions be as flickering as the wind that the firmness of Fëanáro is strangely seen indeed. But he is not reckless in making them. He weighs, carefully, what goes against and what goes in favor.

Releasing Melkor is not a whim. Releasing Melkor is the accumulation of many points in the case of the “in favour.” Releasing Melkor is the realization of the many flaws of the Valar. A realization that had been plaguing him for a while now.

Fëanáro has not lied to Findaráto either. Releasing Melkor is also the fruit of a discussion with Nerdanel, who might not share his distaste towards the Powers but who had acutely pointed out that Melkor had not coerced him.

“Your decisions have ever been yours,” Nerdanel had murmured, fingers trailing over his soaked hair, rinsing them. “He offered you a bargain, and you took it knowing the consequences it might entail.”

Of course she had not meant for Fëanáro to release him. But her ever faith in the Powers had slightly vacillated – for she did not believe that one could hold a mask so long without it cracking, and parcels of truths sliding between the gaps.

Fëanáro exhales, frustrated. There are two things he wishes: for Aman to stay in relative peace, despite a part of him thinking that a might war might not bring only bad, and his Silmarils back. The first, there is a shadow in his heart who whispers that Aman had fallen so deep in stagnancy that anything shaking this sluggishness could not be entirely foul. Atrocious thought, he is deeply aware of it; but one that he can not help but have.

And his distaste for the Valar comes also from a third wish. Why, Fëanáro thinks, ever bitterly, have they not allowed the full return of his Amillë? Why should it be conditional? Why could Míriel and Indis not co-exist, for despite the discontentment he held for the latter, he wished not her dead. Why should there be a choice? On which basis? Why?

Now, his Silmarils, in the possession of the Lord of Lórien… So swiftly given away.

No, Fëanáro thinks. This is a subject for later.

For now, finding Arafinwë is his priority. He is not surprised to find him awake – no matter what the common belief could be. How very peculiar that so many believe that Arafinwë is the idlest of the three. He is certainly not. None of them is. Arafinwë is, simply, quieter. Quieter, not quiet.

An easy feat to be quieter than him and Ñolofinwë. But detached from them both, Arafinwë is certainly not the lazy, spoiled, cheerful third Prince the foulest rumours make him to be.

Cheerful, he is only when it pleases him. Cheerful he is ever in public – choosing to wear an emotion as a mask as Ñolofinwë did with contemptuous indifference and Fëanáro with dissatisfaction. Cheerful he is when things go in his sense, and when they do not he can have a temper rivalling the one of his brother and half-brother.

No, Fëanáro is not surprised that he is awake. Because his interests and fascination do not lay with politics nor craft do not mean he has none. He knows the fascination Arafinwë ever held for medicine, and the power of the flesh over the mind. He has been the one to go to Taniquetil to learn all he could about it, an eternity ago, because Arafinwë asked of him questions he had not the answer for. He had spent many sleepless nights bent over those volumes, remembering everything as best he could so that Arafinwë could never again face an “I do not know, Ara.”

Quietly, Fëanáro creeps into the laboratory. He knows already in which room of it he will find Arafinwë. It is not very hard for him to be aware of which – the third on the left, where he keeps a terrarium and a cage for butterflies. Recently Arafinwë has fascinated himself with the poisons of the snakes; and the effects that they might have when coupled to unguent.

But Arafinwë does not write volumes on his findings, does not participate in the great debates in Taniquetil, does not speak of his work outside of Sintlëmar – and so believes the great mass that his days are spent in utter idleness.

“Ara,” Fëanáro greets, quietly.

Indeed, there is a great serpent wrapped around the shoulders of Arafinwë, with white, black and red scales.

“Mmh? How did you enter?” Arafinwë asks, the barest of frowns on his features. “Wait, which hour is it? It is not the time for a celebration is it? Ai, I did not see the time pass. Who is in need of us? Can we say a polite f*ck off, or is it truly mandatory?”

“I am the only one in need of you,” Fëanáro says. He eyes the great serpent, who is now slithering from Arafinwë’s shoulders to the table. “Do not curse, it is uncouth.”

A roll of blue eyes. “Then speak, ‘Naro. You are not one to shy away in front of what needs to be said.”

Without waiting for agreement, Fëanáro comes to sit on a chair, eyes darting to the stack of parchment on the table. Despite himself, his attention is immediately attracted by it. Stunned curiosity colors his tone. “You have found something for arthrosis?”

Arafinwë’s eyes brighten up. “Yes!” He picks up the snake with a tsked sound, taps at his nose when it hisses, putting it back into the terrarium – all of it under twenty seconds. Then he comes back to sit near Fëanáro, grabbing the papers. “I am deeply aware that we do not need it, but it could be a considerable progress for our horses or hounds – if we did not have to put them out of misery or ask for favours from the Lady Estë. I have found that this venom has a direct impact on the musculature, and the ligaments….”

And so his voice trails, with much hand gestures, Arafinwë going deep into his discoveries. He animates when he speaks of what drives him, much truer than the beaming smiles he offers the crowd, eyebrows furrowing when Fëanáro asks for precisions, voice going higher when he explains his thought process.

People believe that Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë are so estranged because they are so alike. It holds a part of truth. But Arafinwë is the one he prefers because they are also so similar on a point – that they do not let the opinion and morals of others influence the devotion they give to they work. What Arafinwë is doing borders on unethical, with many test subjects he kills : little preys such as rats, but it has an ultimate purpose. Ñolofinwë does not believe the end justifies the means, and this, this, is the ultimate difference that estranges them.

This, and the fact that Ñolofinwë is an insufferable, prideful, asshole, Fëanáro thinks.

After a long time, and many explanations, Arafinwë finally comes to the end of his speech. He looks at Fëanáro, as if only realizing now that he is there when he should be in Tirion – taken care of in Lórien.

“’Naro,” he says, slowly. “What are you doing here?”

Fëanáro tells him.

He tells him of the truth behind the Silmarils, he tells him of the bargain made, he tells him of the Valar coming to arrest Melkor, he tells him of his conversations with Nerdanel, he tells him of releasing Melkor.

He tells him of his plans, of his will to stop the invasion. He tells him of his dissatisfaction with Aman, with the stagnation that has taken hold of them. He tells him of what he will now do.

He tells him, finally, much more of his heart than he has ever done.

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Arafinwë is silent for a long time after the revelation.

“I do not think it is a good idea,” he says, slowly. “I think, in fact, that it is the worst idea you ever had in your life. And I take into account the time we sprayed paint over the statue of Manwë and accused Ñolo for it.”

“Why would it be the worst?”

“Why? ‘Naro, you plan, tell me if I understood it wrong, to go to Arda with Melkor Bauglir, the Constrainer, to stop the invasion before it reaches Aman.”

“No,” Fëanáro says, and for a second there is deep relief in the eyes of Arafinwë. “You did not understand it wrong.”

The relief vanishes at fast as it arrived. “This is folly.”

“This is needed,” Fëanáro insists, now rising to his feet. “What if no one goes, Ara? What if we stay into inaction, as the Valar would wish us to? What if we just wait for them to reach us, to bring war upon Aman? To bring chaos, to bring death? What then?”

Arafinwë shakes his head, he too taking in a defensive stance. “Just the two of you, what do you think will happen, ‘Naro? Do you plan to battle an entire army if they refuse to listen to reason?”

“Do not play at being dafterthan you are,” Fëanáro hotly shoots back. “You know it is not question of this. If truly they refuse to hear reason then at least I will come back with information.”

“There is nothing that assures you that Bauglir would comply! There is nothing that assures you that you will not be killed! Nothing that assures you that he will not betray you, that you will not be captured!”

“And what!” Fëanáro now shouts. “Would you have me sit idle and expect the Valar to defend us? When they could not even defend themselves!”

“You speak slander!”

“You speak as a craven!”

“Better to be judged a coward and be alive than be brave and be dead!” Arafinwë shouts too, cheeks flushed by anger. “What use is bravery when it brings you to Mandos!”

“And what knowledge have you of death or bravery?” Fëanáro snarls. He is pacing now, hands curling and loosening instinctively. “What knowledge have you of it, son of Indis, who you lost nothing and no one in your life? Who you would not know courage if it hit you in the face?”

“Your anger does not give you the right to be cruel,” Arafinwë hisses. His treelit eyes are gleaming dangerously, and with his shining golden hair he looks like one of those serpents he is fond of, which are the emblem of his house. And there is a reason behind this choice. “And which knowledge have you of bravery, for the bravest feat of yours has its roots in cowardice – running away from Tirion, from the responsibilities of yours! How brave to establish Formenos, when you have done it out of spite!”

As soon as the words are spoken does Arafinwë stops himself, exhales a long breath – and in front of Fëanáro’s fury, his own vanishes. “I apologize,” he murmurs. “I should not have said this. I am worried ‘Naro. I know the distaste you have for my Amillë, for Ñolo, but I had hoped we had built some understanding. And I am worried because I care for you.”

Fëanáro exhales too. He passes a hand over his features. “And I do too, Ara. I do too – and this is why I need to do this, do you understand? If not me then who? If the Valar refuse to act, when why should we wait for a miracle to happen? I will not let our home be invaded. I will not let our people suffer uselessly.”

There is silence then.

“What do you want?”

Fëanáro does not smile, but it is nearly so. When the bargaining begins to happen, it is that he has already won. And so he crosses his hands on his lap, and gives Arafinwë a long look.

“You have many ships…”

“You want mine ships?” Arafinwë asks, outraged. “Do you know how valuable those are to us?”

“Ships,” Fëanáro points out, doing his very best not to be irritated. “-are made for navigating, Ara, not for staying at the harbor or merely going for fishing.”

“And as you rightly point it out, we need them for fishing.”

“You could spare one,” Fëanaro says, arching an eyebrow. “I would pay for it, of course. And if I can, return it to you when we will come back.”

“Ai!” Arafinwë snorts at that. “I surely expect you will, how else would you come back? By swimming? You can not even befriend an elf, you think you will befriend a shark?”

Fëanáro observes him for a second. “There is always the Helcaraxë,” he says. “But I would rather not have to traverse it, if you can give me a ship.”

Arafinwë sighs, a long, heavy one that causes his chest to rise. He closes his eyes then for a second, rubs the bridge of his nose.

“I will,” he eventually says. “On one condition.”

Fëanaro’s eyes narrow. “Which one?”

Arafinwë holds his gaze without faltering. “I want to hold a conversation with Melkor.”

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Melkor does not truly needs to sleep.

It does not mean he appreciates being roused from an half-state of slumber into sudden awakening, golden curls and a grimace facing him – and on the other side a familiar scowling visage.

“Tis not that you are not fair,” Melkor mutters. “-but I happened to think that the night was made for rest. Alone. Or with just one another. Neither of you are really enticing prospects of companionship.”

“Get up,” Fëanáro tells him. “Arafinwë wishes to speak to you.”

Melkor yawns, reveals sharper teeth than he ought to – grins upon noticing the flash of fear on golden Finwë’s features. “And what is it what is so urgent, third Finwë?”

Arafinwë’s hand trembles slightly on his lamp, but he does not falter. Braver than Melkor would have thought.

“Follow me,” Arafinwë says. “And in silence, Earwen sleeps. I will not have us speak here.”

He rises thus, tugs absently at the iron collar around his throat. There is one outside of Aulë that could break it apart, and Melkor is not a present situation where he could call him. His fingers come to brush against the black earring at his ear, the one testifying of his wedding bond.

Mairon, he thinks, what in the Void are you doing with yourself?

He misses him, suddenly – a sharp thought that comes unexpectedly. After ages in the Void, Melkor has learned for his bond to fade towards a sweet memory – the sharp pain of the beginning ebbing. He had long yearned for his spouse, but ultimately had the feeling wanned into a sort of mist over his heart. A vague sensation of longing, fond memories. He had waited so very long that what was a few years more – when he had the certitude of seeing him again?

But now, he does miss him. A pang within his heart and mind. Mairon, he knows, would have broken the collar with a scowl. He would, and Melkor knows it acutely, would have been so very furious at the sheer stupidity of a collaboration with Fëanáro – and most probably fiercely jealous. But he would also have ensured that they had contingency plans, that nothing could turn wrong, that escape issues were possible. He would have found the words to ease Melkor’s restlessness, would have soothed that fury that nestled deep in his stomach.

He would have been there.

And now, he is throwing away all plans that Melkor has made. An invasion on Valinor, Melkor does not know if he is to be impressed or deeply consternated. Another him would probably have been the former; but for this version who seeks peace, it is of an unspeakable annoyance.

He grimaces. Melkor is not delusive enough to believe that Mairon will easily accept this shift in scenario. Whereas him, in all honesty, had less at heart a vision for Arda rather than the pleasure of marring the work of Eru Iluvatar, Mairon was not the same. Mairon clanged to the vision of a perfect, ordered world that could never exist.

Mairon believes in a vision that is twisted. Melkor is deeply aware of it, he is the one to have whispered such poisonous words in his ear. But he had always been aware that it could not exist – whereas Mairon had drank in it with widened eyes and terrible hope.

A world of utter perfection, where there would be no war, no conflict between the conquered realms, where there would be no disorder to be found, where everything would be framed and logical.

He might, he admits it, have gone a little too far in his promises made to Mairon. Certainly did he wish for a better Arda: but one of change. One where creativity would not be stifled because of sanctimony, one where the world would move, and turn, and evolve. This part had enchanted Mairon as well: bridled creativity had been the root of his discontent towards Aulë and Almaren.

He is jolted away from his thoughts by a call by Arafinwë. Melkor follows, curious despite himself of what this golden Finwë, third one, that he had never faced in battle nor in words, could have to say to him.

If he is anything like his son, it promises amusing times.

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Why is there no answer? Manwë thinks.

He can not admit his failure. It can not be. There must be a reason. There must something, something that eludes him at this instant – something that would make sense. Certainly. There can be no other thing. There is something, he does not know everything that Eru Iluvatar wishes, he might be the one to understand him the most but it does not mean he understands him entirely—

There must be something, Manwë tells himself, commands himself. To have prayed for so long and to receive no answer at all…

Or perhaps, perhaps it is a sign. Manwë rises from his kneeling position. He can feel the turmoil of his emotions rise in his heart, tries his very best to stifle it. But he is too much like his brother in his, and he might be the one to rule over his siblings, but he is not the most peaceful of them. He is not, and Manwë fears that it will betray him sometimes – those things he feels deep in his chest, that he always tries to suffocate. Each of his emotions he carefully pushes back – for he can not allow them to control him.

Valar should be above such low feelings. He should be detached of them entirely, but he is not, and Manwë is not certain he will be able to hide it forever. Or perhaps, he prays, Eru Allfather will answer the longest of his prayer, will finally take this turmoil from him – will finally accord him peace of mind and heart.

How he would wish that he could dart a detached eye to Melkor, see only the deeds done and not the numerous laughs shared together, not the reluctant affection of his sibling. How he would wish that he would not rise in temper when Melkor finds the right words to push and pierce, how he would wish that he could stay unaffected.

How he wishes that he could be as a statue of marble – his decisions settled in stone, never to be second-guessed. How he wishes that he could not be influenced by those emotions, how he wishes that he could entirely get rid of them all.

Perhaps it is a sign. His heart jumps in his chest. Perhaps the absence of a message is the message itself, that Manwë should do what is asked of him. Perhaps he should agree to what Ulmo, Tulkas and Oromë demand – to have Melkor punished so that never again could he mar the grand design of Arda.

To have him thrown into the Void.

Yet—

“What I wish,” Melkor snarls. “-is for this dream to leave me be! What I wish is for it to break; and my mind to return to the Void and the truth of it! I care not for those lies and mirages, and if it persists in opposing me, then shall I break it myself!”

“You believe yourself to be in the Void…?”

“Iknowmyself to be there.”

“Nobody has ever been in the Void, brother, and no one shall ever be. It is too great a punishment, far crueler than anyone deserves.”

A pause.

“Then,” Melkor murmurs, poison lacing his words. “Why have you damned me to it?”

He can not do it. He can not.

Manwë knows it must be done, but he can not bring himself to do it. He can not, not when he remembers the resignation, the certitude. Melkor had so deeply thought Manwë had condemned him to it. Too great a punishment.

Manwë had really thought so at the time.

There is a knock on the door. He breathes, and composes himself. They can not know of his doubts. They can not know that he is not entirely fit to rule, that his emotions plague him as if he were a first-born. They can not know of this.

He sends his words through osanwé, for all of his Maiar share a bond in his mind.

You may enter.

He feels it, before he hears the words, the terror rippling through the bond.

“My lord,” Eonwë says. “Bauglir has escaped.”

Melkor… has escaped?

“We found the manacles,” Eonwë is continuing, eyes widened by anxiety. “It seems someone released him. We are still searching for who could have done such treachery.”

Melkor has escaped?

And there can not be denying the deep relief that floods through Manwë’s veins.

Chapter 18: Lesson 18: Do not hesitate to have contigencies plans

Chapter Text

It never ceases to arise a certain amusem*nt in Annatar that it is so widely thought that Melkor had been the one to pursue him. Certainly, in relating the circ*mstances which had led to his present situation, he is perfectly aware that it could create a natural doubt about the authenticity of his narrative. It is as the tale had told, for a long time now, that Melkor is wont to be the one to have slowly corrupted the Maiar of Valinor.

There is truth in this, he brings no contradiction to this latter assumption. For one to join another, there is a need for attraction: the sort of fascination that clawed at the soul and opened the eyes wide, that brought an awareness that could never again be chased away.

Melkor is the one to have corrupted the Maiar of Valinor, and he is not.

How strange, yes? Such statements should be the polar opposite, paradoxes that had naught to do in the same sentence. Yet, it is the truth. Yet, Annatar thinks to himself, it is how it had gone.

And the reason for such a feasible co-existence of those statements lies in a very peculiar point. Melkor had been the one to catch their gaze, but he had not been the one to first come to them.

He operated like this, a lifetime ago. Slithered inside a Maia’s thoughts until they turned into obsession: and when the prey was hooked, Melkor pulled away.

Annatar will explain himself more clearly. He does not even accord a smidgen of his attention to the orcs who scramble into a bow at his sight, calls for Draugluin to stay close to his sides. The werewolf is near able of coherent speech, now. He recognizes more than a few sentences in Black Speech, begins to be receptive at attempts through osanwé.

The first time Annatar – or, nay, Mairon the Admirable, had seen of Melkor, it had been near the plains of the Mahanaxar. It was the first time snow had ever fallen in Aman, and it had been mesmerizing enough a sight that it had caused Mairon to abandon his work and wander outside. Long had he spent unmoving, merely riveting his eyes on the skies as snowflakes fell in an endless loop. He had taken a few daring steps into this mantel of white then.

Mairon had been fascinated by the discovery. Of soft texture and yet who seemed to harden when he stepped on it, cold at first exposition and yet who ignited the fire into the flesh akin to no other else.

At the time, the restrictions put upon their fanar had not been as strict as they would later prove themselves to be. And so had Mairon shed fana, abandoning the bipedal one he wore for his primordial fana, the one he had taken when he had first been forced into corporality. All Ainur possessed one. When Manwë’s orders had been given to take a fana, they had been unsure of how to proceed.

And so many had based their designs on Yavanna’s creations: for they were the only example that they had of corporality. Later, she would be the one to base some creations of hers on the modified designs of the Ainur, leading to new species, new creatures.

Mairon had given gaze to the great creatures of fangs, fur and claws of Yavanna and thought it befitting for himself. Felines, she had called them: some with manes, some with white fur, some of more consequent sizes, and some, finally, of a colour so vivid that Mairon’s gaze had been enthralled by it. The first time he had seen such color outside of the flames of Aulë, and Mairon had long contemplated the orange and black stripes before deciding he wished such fana for himself.

By reasons of practicality, he had manipulated the size of such a creature. He had forsaken the black stripes, had shrunk himself to a stature that required less energy to sustain. Yet he had retained the fangs, the claws, the fur.

And it was such fana that he had worn that day, when snow had fallen for the first time upon Almaren, when Mairon had first seen of Melkor, the Constrainer, the Enemy.

Mbelekhoruz, his spouse.

He had run into the snow, far away from the forges of Aulë. He had run with no regard for the matters that would one day plague the children, no regard for exhaustion, for time, for speed.

It was there that he had seen of him. Kneeling in the snow, the flakes so maculating his silken hair that it almost paled them enough to resemble Manwë. He had clashed so very distinctively with the environment that surrounded him: of high stature, very pale and dark, with brilliant blue irises and black sclera.

Mairon had found him so bizarre then, this stranger who he thought to be a Maia of Namo. In retrospection, he could confess in the safety of his mind that his thoughts had not been of the kindest edge – thinking the other strange and undeserving of his attention.

“Your Grace,” comes a raspy voice, taking Annatar out of the wistfulness of his thoughts.

His hand instinctively comes to flatter at Draugluin’s head. He is of a stature high enough that he reaches Annatar’s chest, even when walking.

“Lord Gothmog sends me to announce that the Valaraukar are waiting further instructions,” the úmaia that has interrupted him says. He is kneeling, one hand on his chest. “They have taken the arms, as instructed, and are now dwelling in the caves near the shore. Lord Gothmog demands to know of what is to come next.”

“Oh, he demands?” Annatar murmurs, with a curiosity that borders on amusem*nt. But amusem*nt was not to be trusted in the mouth of Annatar, not when it usually presaged something more ominous than it ought.

The úmaia corrects himself with a nervous bow. “He wishes, your Grace.”

“How amusing I was so certain that I had sent a letter no further than a week ago to inform him of the new developments in our situation. Yet he demands, ah, no, it is true, wishes, to know again of it?”

Great effort seems needed for the úmaia to arrive to speech, then. He swallows, wrings slightly his hands together. “I am merely an envoy, your Grace,” says the úmaia. “I know only of what Lord Gothmog asked of me, not the reason behind such wishes.”

Annatar smiles.

It causes deeper unsettling on the úmaia’s face, taking a step backward. “He awaits my answer, but if there are none to come, the feeling I can still convey.”

“Oh no,” says Annatar. “If he wishes for an answer then far from me to deny him one. Follow me. What is your name?”

“Kuaolmoto, your Grace.”

Annatar lets his eyes wander upon the spirit’s face. He has chosen a fana for himself not entirely different from the ones of elves. An interesting choice, when the tendency of late tended to resemble the orcs – whose features might not fall under the category of fairness but of use. Large jaws made for stronger bites, sharp protruding teeth to maul, pale yellow eyes that pierced through the darkness, and a bulking stature that allowed them for consequent strength.

He takes a few steps forwards, and lets the tip of his talons graze a way the length of Kualmoto’s cheeks. Crimson drips under the touch – but not a word passes through the barrier of those lips, fear still coating the silver gaze that meets Annatar.

“Change it,” Annatar commands, still as softly. “I can not recall authorizing elvish fanar among my ranks.”

The úmaia returns him a gaze where incomprehension overrules his fear.

Annatar offers him a smile. “Will you make me repeat myself?”

With this, even before the full sentence has fallen from his lips, the úmaia sheds his fana. Where smooth skin has been comes the pale grey of orcs, rigged with scars and bumps. The soft silver of his eyes takes on a yellowish hue, a sickly undertone – while his pupil expands. On his face, where elegant features had battled a fair complexion, and chiseled jawline, all distort – as if a marble statue damaged by the wrath of its creator.

Another smile blooms on Annatar’s lips as he surveys the changes. He considers the úmaia for a short few seconds, before passing a hand through the silken black hair – untouched by the transformation. He closes his fist around it, and in a quick movement, tears a good chunk of it out of the úmaia’s skull.

The strands in his hand are set ablaze by his touch, turning to ash.

Yet Annatar’s smile does not waver.

He bends to seize the jaw of Kualmoto between his thumb and his index, pushes his head from right to left to further inspect the differences. A satisfied hum builds in his throat, and he presses delicate lips on the scarred skin of Kualmoto’s cheek.

“Perfect,” he smoothly murmurs. “Is it not better?”

The úmaia has no other choice than to agree, black tears falling from his eyes. “Perfect, your Grace.”

“There is beauty in the creation of your lord,” Annatar adds, referring to Melkor. “You would certainly not prefer the design of the false creator to his, would you?”

“No, your Grace.”

Annatar wipes those black tears with his thumb. “Shed those, they are of no use here. You are acting for the grand design of your lord and mine, and there can be no greater honor. You are shaping the perfect world we deserve, a sacrifice that will never be forgotten. Someone must do it, do you understand? If cowards are ruling over the West, then it belongs to someone to seek the utopia they are too much craven to craft. You are under the commandment of the giver of freedom, and you have chosen to surrender it to him because you are aware of what is needed for such world to see the light of day. Such great devotion will be rewarded.”

Under his soft tone, and the tip of Annatar’s talons on the úmaia’s cheek, the latter nods, slowly. The fear has faded for veneration, rapt fascination as he returns Annatar’s look – giving him a second nod.

“I will not fail our Lord, your Grace,” he says, quietly.

“You will not,” Annatar smiles. “He is less merciful than I am.” He waves a hand now. “Say to Gothmog that I will reach out to him when the time has come. In the meantime the Balrogs are to stay positioned near the harbor – and tell him this too: If I hear that even one had wandered too close to the elves, he better prays to the Valar that I do not hear of it.”

His smile has turned wolfish, displaying the sharp white teeth laying underneath it. His silken tone hardened as ice, as if a mask suddenly torn away from his features. What seemed beforehand all fair softness now reveals itself for what it is: a deception. His eyes flash.

“Do not disappoint me,” Annatar laughs, despite having entirely forsaken his harmless demeanor. He eyes Kualmoto as Draugluin eyed his preys, head slightly tilted to the left, disarming smile floating over his lips, beautiful and cruel. “You will not fancy what might come out of it.”

His hand finds Draugluin’s head next, and flatters his fur. Annatar keeps his eyes riveted on Kualmoto, as he absently scratches behind the wolf’s ears.

“Well?” He asks, when Kualmoto makes no indication he is going to move. “What are you waiting for?”

Fear.

Annatar blinks. Is he hallucinating now, or has he heard something?

Fear.

He narrows his eyes, and turns to see if there is someone nearby. But the úmaia has taken advantage of his sudden confusion to quickly scatter away, and he is alone in the corridor. Well he is alone except for Dra-

Fear.

His gaze finds the yellow one of Draugluin. A laugh builds in his throat, bubbles on his lips. “Repeat that,” Annatar commands.

Fear. I. Smell. Fear.

“Do you?” he asks, now truly laughing. Melkor will be so very pleased, he thinks to himself, endlessly delighted. Draugluin talks! “Do you, wolf?”

He receives a lick on his fingers, and Annatar laughs again.

And again.

.

.

.

Outside, the night has yet to be chased away by the brightness of Telperion, soft and warm; but in the study of Arafinwë the fire burns brightly. There is a game of chess drawn between him and Melkor, the pieces pushed on the board with such a careful slowness that only three white and two black ones had been devoured that eve.

“I will give you ships,” Arafinwë says. He surveys the board with a nonchalant look; but each of his movements is calculated. “If you beat me.”

“You would risk it on a game?” Melkor’s silken answers come. He is twirling a devoured piece in his hand, thoughtfully. From time to time a flicker of his power animates it alive, and the knight tries to sink his sword into Melkor’s thumb.

“Many would say games are the very basis of how a society functions.”

His grin stretches enough that white teeth gleam behind it. “Many would say rules are how it functions.”

Arafinwë’s hand is poised over the board. He pushes, slightly, from the tip of his fingernail, the tower three cases forward. “Games come from those rules; those rules are based on those games. I am no true politician, you ought to speak to Ñolofinwë if you want more details about it – but I would assume you need no lecture on the subject of sly games.”

“We are taking it backward, I fear,” Melkor says, with a soft noise in the back of his throat. “The question is not why should you offer us those ships, nor even why not.”

He does not wait before seizing his Queen, placing it in the direct mire of Arafinwë’s bishop.

“Is that so?” Arafinwë asks, sharply looking up. “What is the great question to be asked, then, Belegurth?”

Melkor does not depart from his smile. "How far are you willing to turn a blind eye to ensure the safety of your family?”

A shadow gleams in the blue eye of Arafinwë. “A blind to your actions or of those you say to be betraying us? I know of you, Melkor, as all Eldar do. We know of your actions, which speak better than honeyed words; and we know how you delight in using the latter when it comes to subduing the mind. The only reason I am listening to you at the moment is that Fëanáro asked it of me.”

“A blind eye to mine,” Melkor murmurs, sweetly. He leans back in his seat, regarding him in the way immortal being are wont to regard presumptuous Incarnates. “I could cross the Ice, of course, to reach Arda. We do not need your ships to reach it. It is a convenience – that will bring less delay, and greater chances to stop the elves before it reaches Aman. Let me tell you something, in the intimacy of our discussion; and be free to repeat it or not, I do not care. I do not care if the army reaches Aman and slaughters every elf on its passage.”

Horror glistens on Arafinwë’s face, followed quickly by disgust.

“I do not,” Melkor says, smiling. “And if you delay me, it is what will happen. If you delay us by forcing us to cross the Ice, the army will come to Aman before we reach it. In truth, it is my spouse I seek to find- the leader of this army, I believe. I wish to find this army – because I do not want my spouse to be made prisoner by the Valar. Do you understand me better? If all of the firstborns in those lands have their throats slit, and the blood of the elves establishes a new era of fertility on the Amanyar soils, I could not care less.”

Arafinwë has paled now, the chess game abandoned between them. “Why are you telling me this?” he faintly asks. “Do you think it would convince me to help you?”

“I am telling you what will happen if Fëanáro and I are delayed,” Melkor says. “I am trying to make you understand that if it comes to happen – you would suffer more than I would. I am here, asking you for ships, because it is in your interest, not mine. If I have managed to convince the Valar to let me out, I could manage to convince them to let another be free. Do you see now, that they would favor me better than the safety of your people?”

“You are lying,” Arafinwë says, quietly. “You have wasted your last chance.”

Melkor chuckles, loud and clear. “Arafinwë! You were the one to speak of games! I play one now with you, and the game is: how faithful are you in the Valar’s ability to defend you and directly interfere? Have they interfered when I acted? Have they interfered when Fëanáro and I tore his fëa apart? Have they interfered now that a battle is rumored to be in the making?”

“They have promised us protection,” Arafinwë shoots back. A muscle is twitching in his lower jaw. “If the army reaches us, they will not let us be slaughtered.”

Melkor remembers Alqualondë and the kin slaying and laughs, and laughs.

“Are you willing to bet on this, Arafinwë? The price to pay is your people. On the other hand- the price to pay if you trust Fëanaro’s instincts is one ship. I am not telling you that I wish to see the army come to Aman, I do not. And I will do everything to stop it. But I am telling you why I do not want it – and it is not because I wish to protect you, it is because I want to protect myself.” He grins, tilts his head to the left. “Am I not painfully honest, you who expected from me a silver-tongue and honeyed words about how I would, of course, do my very best to help you?”

Pale blue eyes fall on the chessboard. On it, a black tower is away from the clumped mass of the rest of its troops. Melkor viciously grins and the tower begins to spin, and spin, without stopping.

“Who do you trust more?” Melkor asks, running a fingernail over the tip of the chess piece he still holds in his hands. “Someone who promises you he will help you for your sake, or someone who assures you he will because it serves his own interests?”

Arafinwë says nothing for a time. “Play,” he finally grits out. “It is your turn.”

One talon pushes forward a chess pawn. “It is not I who need you,” Melkor tells him, softly. “It is you who is terribly in need of me; and I would say a ship is a small price to pay. I ask nothing but passage.”

“It is a lie,” Arafinwë points out, albeit quietly. “It would be only passage if there was nothing to come from it. It is not. If I grant you passage, then I put trust in your actions in Middle-Earth, and until now, you have not proved yourself worthy of such trust.”

“Not worth such trust?” Melkor’s soft tone goes icy for a short second. “Who are you to decide if a Vala is trustworthy or not, Elf?”

Fear flashes in Arafinwë’s eyes.

“You will have to do better than that,” he whispers nonetheless.

Melkor rises from the table, and slowly pushes away a pawn with the tip of his fingernail. “I have said what is to be said, Arafinwë. Now a path lays before you, the one of cowardice or of bravery.” He smiles then. “Are you not tired of being forever in your brothers’ shadows?”

.

.

.

“How is it that you have managed to convince him?” Fëanáro hotly whispers to Melkor. There is the slightest grimace to his lips, as if reluctantly acknowledging a victory he refuses to concede. “If you have made another oath him…”

“Peace,” Melkor says, a smug smirk dancing on his own features. “I imposed no further binding on my fëa. We merely exchanged words, and Arafinwë seems indeed the most reasonable of your Adar’s sons.”

“Or the most easily influenced.”

“Such words shall be amplified and repeated.”

Fëanáro slid to him a heated look. “Do not dare, weaver of venom. You might fool one but you will not fool both of them.”

“You admit of having been deceived then?” Melkor now openly laughs. They are both making their way through the harbor of Alqualondë – in the midst of the night. In Fëanáro’s hand he holds one of the lamps of his confection, brightening a path before them, as with each step do they close the distance before them and their newly-acquired shop.

“Do not play at being smarter than you are,” Fëanáro snipes. He avoids a cloak laying forgotten on the ground, then changes his mind and comes back to it to fold it neatly, leaving it there. When he finally rises to his full height, which is not amount to much, he shoots a glare toward Melkor. “I will remind thee that I am the one who freed you, for you were not able to talk yourself out of it. it is easy now to say yourself the superior master in rhetoric.”

Melkor takes no offense, an amused glance escaping him as he watches Fëanáro fold the cloak. “You would indeed know the art of persuasion. Are you not the one to have popularized the concepts of logos, pathos and ethos?”

Logos, the logical reasoning. Pathos, the emotional one. Ethos, the moral dispositions. Without much surprise, the two firsts were the one Fëanáro favored in any argumentation.

“I would not have thought you to be aware of this,” Fëanáro says, narrowing his eyes. “To which extent? Have you tried to rely only on your skill, found it lacking, and turned to my discoveries to try improve it? Then you should have listened as well to my course on natural predispositions and learned skills – and understand with it that some come to be naturally gifted on topics that will forever elude others.”

“And some coat themselves with words to disguise the extent of their lack of knowledge. You do know how it is – for having participated in too many debates. The more one speaks and the less he listens, the more lacking is his cognitive area.”

Fëanáro snorts. Despite his biting words he is still holding the lamp high enough that Melkor could also benefit from its light.

“Exchanging insults, Belegurth? Were you not the one to advocate for friendship?”

“No, no,” Melkor says, still smirking. “This is healthy teasing. I was said it encourages self-questioning.”

“Self-questioning should be done in an environment that nurtures growth – not pointless jabs aimed at nourishing your own viciousness.”

“And what that not a jab?”

Fëanáro answers nothing to this, his jaw tightening.

For a moment comfortable silence stretches over them. Ah yes, Melkor thinks to himself, with wry amusem*nt. He much prefers this version of Fëanáro, all fire and gritted teeth – rather than the one that had forsaken smithing in favor of taking care of his sons. This one is, all things considered, much easier to rile up and to converse with.

They make quickly their way through the harbor. It is not one of consequent size – or perhaps Melkor has merely grown too used to the ones he had seen in Middle-Earth to be impressed by this simulacra of it.

Nonetheless, if the number of ships is not to cause envy, the beauty of them is something he does not spit on. Admittedly, the swan-ships were made with delicacy and aestheticism – rather than pure practicality. And he knows from a good source that they made the travel to Middle-Earth with little issues, despite Ulmo trying to refrain the Ñoldor from setting foot there.

Soon they arrive before one of them: made of white wood and sculpted with great skill, Arafinwë and his eldest son, Findekáno, (or is it?) waiting in front of the ship.

“Ñolofinwë!” Melkor exclaims to the son of Arafinwë. “You have come to bid us goodbye then! Or have you come to join the expedition, and return to your land crowned by glory and knowledge?”

“Findaráto,” Arafinwë corrects, with a sigh. “My eldest son is named Findaráto.”

Melkor agrees, lacing his hands behind his back. “Exactly what I said. Aikanáro.”

Arafinwë’s son says nothing of the mistake in names, merely giving Melkor a long look and a polite smile. He is clad in something that Mairon would appreciate, Melkor finds himself thinking. A velvety midnight blue skirt, with merely a shawl upon his shoulders – silver gleaming on his fingers, throat, wrists and ears. He is of half a mind to ask of Findaráto where he has found such clothing – thinks that it might ease Mairon’s mind if he brings him a gift.

Ah, true. He lets his eyes roam over the golden elf form, finally landing on a snake-like bracelet around his arm, with diamonds as scales. Melkor’s eyes brighten. This, Mairon would certainly enjoy.

“Say,” Melkor sweetly hums, wrapping an arm around the elf. “How attached would you say you are to this bracelet?”

Fëanáro’s eyes briefly go to him in incredulity – before Arafinwë catches his attention with a whisper, and Melkor is left to his negotiation in peace.

“Very much so,” Findaráto smiles. “It is the emblem of our house, Lord Melkor.”

“Yet you could ask of a smith to forge you one resembling it. You could even ask your Uncle, which is not half as bad as I like to say he is.” Melkor trails a finger upon Findaráto’s bracelet. “Name your price.”

“It is priceless, I fear.”

Melkor laughs at that. “Nothing is priceless, little elf. You just have to find something that is worth more to your eyes. One small piece of jewelry or a gift from a Vala.”

“I have no use for your gifts, Lord Melkor,” Findaráto says, but still with his polite expression. “I rather appreciate the current peacefulness of my days, and wishes not to add trouble to it.” He marks a pause. “Perhaps change, as all are wont to wish for, but I am not certain your gift would be worth the consequences following it.”

“Are you saying my gifts unwelcomed?”

“No, Lord Melkor. Any gift would be an honor, and appreciated in adequation to its value. I say merely that in the past such gifts have entailed unsavory measures.”

Melkor laughs out loud, and shakes his head. “I should be offended,” he comments, but the grin that spreads on his features speaks of the contrary. “Few would deny me on this subject. Your Uncle did not deny me.”

“And so unsavory consequences followed,” Findaráto points out, the corner of his lips curled up. “Soon the news of your disappearance will spread, and if Uncle is nowhere to be found also, bridges could easily be built.”

Melkor crosses his arms on his chest, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “You will find that sometimes unsavory consequences, as you elegantly put it, are a necessary evil.”

Findaráto laughs, a soft, bell-like sound. “Perhaps, my lord. But in the meantime if so can I avoid it a little bit longer, then I try to.”

Abandon is not something in his nature nonetheless. Melkor lets his eyes roam once more over Findaráto’s jewelry. “Not a gift then,” he concedes. “Perhaps you can suggest something. A trade of a sort- that while resembling very much a gift, differs by it that you would offer something in exchange.”

“A very noticeable difference.” Another soft-spoken laugh. “Nay, my lord. Let me be the one to give this time. And if so you truly wish not to be indebted, then bring me something from Middle-Earth – anything that will be a proof of the civilization dwelling in it. Be it a parchment from their hands, a conserved flower, or a coin, as long as it comes from there.”

And so speaking does Findaráto take away the bracelet, before offering it in a spread palm. He smiles still, as if such expression was forever engraved on his lips, and looks at Melkor without any apparent fear.

Although Melkor knows for such smiles to be deceptive. They hide deeper lies than blankness, for they seize the strength of emotion to bring another to the surface, and trust can never fully come from witnessing it.

But what has he to fear from an elf, when it is not one that has triumphed over Mairon?

Melkor takes the bracelet, and closes his fingers around it. But he has never been one for silently, and smoothly, accepting to be indebted – and so he leans forward, his breath ice-cold against Findaráto’s skin.

“How very kind of you,” he murmurs. “Kindness is never to be forgotten. I will keep silent on what I have seen, then, as long as it pleases me.”

Findaráto’s eyes widen for a second. “What you have seen?” he asks, when Melkor pulls back, putting the bracelet around his wrist.

“You and Maedhros,” Melkor says, regarding the other with a playful glint in his eyes. “You are never better supported than family, I would suppose. Or perhaps not- I do wish for thee that your kin is not resembling mine., You would find yourself disenchanted if ever hoping for undying support.”

“I know no Maedhros.”

Melkor inclines his head. “Nor will you ever, if it is my choice to make.”

A laugh passes through his lips when the look Findaráto gives him is made solely of confusion and consternation. Melkor savors it, the whole situation: the incomprehension of a golden son who has yet to truly see the horrors Melkor had once wrecked upon them, the fact of being the only bearer of a knowledge they can not grasp at, of witnessing their innocence. He savors it, and as it is wont to, wishes for more of it. Only a few moments; but so had he been made in the music – to never be satisfied, ever want for more, for better, for selfishness.

For a second or ten, Melkor thinks of his goals and how he had delighted in seeing the fear on the elven features that had met his gaze. He remembers the terror on many faces, how he had caused a shiver of pleasure to run down his spine, how delicious had it been to seize such fear – and either break it apart or amplify it into agony.

A glint of such want passes into his eyes, for all to freely see should they look – and Findaráto is looking. Melkor knows it for he sees in turn the tension settling over Findaráto’s shoulders, the weariness in his gaze, the slight hesitation.

His smile only stretches further. “Thinking back on your choices?”

“They were never mine to begin with, my lord,” Findaráto says. He clears his throat then, loud enough for Fëanáro and Arafinwë to finally snap out of their whispered conversation. Arafinwë binds them their last goodbye, and him and his son disappear from the harbor, leaving Fëanáro and Melkor to stand in the sand before their ship.

Findaráto’s eyebrows furrow when he notices the bracelet on Melkor’s wrist. “Is the theft of jewelry what enthralls you so, or truly the jewelry in itself?”

“I appreciate beauty.”

“Or robbing the world from it,” Fëanáro shoots back.

Melkor rolls his eyes, and takes a step forward in the sand to reach out to him- but his left foot seems stuck in it. He frowns and tries to get away.

“Melkor, what are you doing?”

“I am unsure. I am sinking.”

“Why?”

“I am unsure, I just said.”

“Well, stop sinking,” Fëanáro says. “Will you stop clowning around when I am talking to you?”

“I am not clowning around,” Melkor tells him. “The sand is pulling me under it. I am sinking.”

He stays perfectly still, as Fëanáro’s frustrations dwell deeper. “And why am I not sinking then?”

“Probably because you are on a hard strip of land and I am on a soft strip of land.”

Fëanaro crosses his arms on his chest. “And you are sinking without reacting?”

“If I react,” Melkor says. “I sink even deeper, it's well known, you shouldn't struggle in quicksand.”

A long sigh answers him. “Melkor, there is no quicksand reported in this region.”

“Well, if you want my opinion, it's time to report them!”

“Manwë’s breeches-” Fëanáro exclaims, pulling on Melkor’s arm. “Do you think we have time for this?” He drags Melkor out of his sinking spot, nearly leaving him to lose a boot in the process.

.

.

.

“Before we begin sailing,” Fëanáro asks. “Do you have any questions?”

Melkor gives him a long grin. “What is the proportion of gull feathers on the throne of Manwë? In percentage of course, or well I don't know, maybe.”

“I will reformulate.” Fëanáro closes his eyes for a second. “Do you have any questions regarding how to navigate a ship?”

“Oh.” Melkor takes great care in offering Fëanáro the most sluggish shrug he can manage. It physically pains it to do this, for he loathes people using body gestures instead of words. “No. I already know how to sail.”

Fëanáro points at the vessel’s afore. “What is it called then?”

“The front.”

Melkor hides his hilarity behind an impassive face. Oppositely, consternation clouds Fëanáro’s features. “The… front?” He points at the quarterdeck now. “And this?”

“The back of the ship. Are you aware that by soliciting people's patience too often, you end up aggravating them?”

Fëanáro lets out a long sigh. “I am delighted to sail in the company of one so well-versed in the arts of it,” he mutters. “If we lose our way and fall short of supplies, Melkor, I will eat you.”

.

.

.

Despite what Fëanáro might have thought, the first week of a six-week crossing goes off without a hitch. Not a single storm, and a constant wind - pushing them in the right direction. It's almost worrying, and Fëanáro stands at the helm as often as he can - having little faith in Melkor: both in his skills or in his will to make them survive.

It is on the eve of the second week that the winds begin to speak of their discontent. It seems to Melkor that his disappearance has been noticed by Manwë and in turn the rest of the Valar. He is lucky enough that his collar is still subduing his power and presence – making him as if an elf with Fëanáro on the ship. So to Ulmo and Ossë’s eyes he is nothing but an Elda sailing with Fëanáro – and they are still close enough to Aman that it can be believed they are merely fishing. In another two weeks, however…

They have packed enough supplies to last them years. Melkor has no need for eating and Fëanáro has flaws but not the ones of greed nor gluttony, and so they have little to no fear about truly running out of them. Elvish wine, however, which Melkor had packed – he imbibes delightfully. He sits at the edge of the boat, legs dangling above water – unafraid of any creatures dwelling there, for some of the most dangerous he had been the one to put there.

It is because of this scarce eating that Fëanáro and Melkor first begin to be intrigued by the lembas crumbles on the deck.

Melkor arches an eyebrow when he is accused of eating them by Fëanáro, assures – this time genuinely – that he has nothing to do with it. He is not believed of course, and in frustration, Melkor tells him to hide them somewhere he will not find – if Fëanáro is so suspicious.

Fëanáro does just that.

Still, they find crumbles on the deck.

“Rats?” Melkor suggests. But suspiciously enough, there is not a single rat nor mouse on the ship. Suspiciously – because they have brought food yet no cat, and rats are bound to happen.

“I have not seen a single one,” comes Fëanáro’s answer. “I am in no mood for such games, Belegurth, if you wish to empty our stocks before we even reach land it is the right process.”

The answer for such theft comes four nights later – when Melkor is taking a midnight stroll on the deck, and hears little sounds – as if someone devouring lembas. Immediately he thinks of Fëanáro, who must either be subject to somnambulism or lies to Melkor – eating his own provisions.

But it is not Fëanáro he finds, nor even rats – nor even an elvish clandestine guest.

It is a red body half into a bag of lembas, wiggling to get out of it, half-stuck into it. A. very. familiar. red. body.

Melkor grabs it, sinking his fingers into its plush sides, pulling their guest out of the lembas bag. An even more familiar head lets out a whine upon the dragging, full cheeks stretched fuller by the lembas.

“Naremir,” Melkor breathes – in front of the mischievous dragon. “How in the – by the Void – what are you doing here?”

“Adar!” The dragon wiggles out of Melkor’s grip, jumping on his shoulders, and nudging his head against Melkor’s jaw. “Ada! Ada!”

“How did you-?”

“Ada, Ada, Ada!”

“And you speak-!-?”

“Ada, Ada, Ada!”

“Yes, yes,” Melkor says, still stunned out of his mind, petting the dragon’s head. “Did you hide there for days? Weeks? Were you in my belongings when we left the palace-? How did you get away from Lorien?”

He does not expect an answer of course, but he is given one all the same when Naremir spreads his wings and jumps from his shoulders. Instead of falling as every time before, this time he folds them- and bats them- and flies.

Melkor stares, agape.

“You can fly,” he breathes. “Since when?”

“Ada, Ada!”

He is blinking still, as Naremir comes back to his lap, licking at his fingers. The dragon flew all the way from Lorien to Alqualondë? And hid on the deck for days? How did he not notice…?

How did Fëanáro not notice as well?

.

.

.

Naremir is… accepted by Fëanáro with great reluctance. Nonetheless, now that they have found the thief for their lembas, it allows Melkor to forbid the dragon from touching them – not particularly that he cares for Fëanáro’s stocks but because it is not a suitable alimentation for a dragon.

The next few days, and weeks, on the ship are spent between Melkor teaching Naremir how to fish, drawing out a detailed map of Arda for them to use, and the animosity between, Fëanáro and Melkor reaching new levels. Strange levels, nonetheless.

Not quite the hatred that had once dwelled between them. Well, Melkor does not hate Fëanáro. Perhaps it shows in how he treats the elf, how is gaze is more often coated in amusem*nt than poison, how some of his suggestions are honest and how he lets out pieces of knowledge there and there – for Fëanáro to take without openly saying them as they are. If greed and gluttony do not plague the elf, pride certainly do – and pride, Melkor knows how to play with.

Perhaps more than anything else.

And Naremir is also quite intent on opening Fëanáro to him – unashamed in his quest for endless petting, nudging his head against the elf’s hand and chest. He purrs louder than an overfed cat, always pestering either Melkor, either Fëanáro – even less ashamed when it comes to begging for food.

As all creatures perhaps – and Melkor can not quite deny him on such a subject. He fishes thus, offering the creatures to Naremir. The red dragons squeals in delight, devouring them in a few bites, licking at his teeth before ever thanking Melkor with loud purring sounds.

Still, he does not breathe fire. This is alarming, and quite annoying. A fully grown uruloki would have been quite appreciable in their quest to Middle-Earth, but as it is, Naremir can be of little help. At least he will be easy to hide, if they make their way through a few Sindarin and Edain cities.

And it is so, after six weeks of sailing, with Naremir perched upon his shoulder – licking at his cheek and joyfully speaking to him with the only word in his glossary: Adar – that they reach Middle-Earth.

Fëanáro nearly runs to the ground, utterly mesmerized.

“We did it,” he says, in a stunned, quiet voice. “Belegurth. We sailed to Middle-Earth. We reached the shore.”

That they did, he thinks to himself, eyes riveted on the land that faces them. In his heart, excitation is pounding. After ages in the void, and decades in Aman, he will see of Mairon again.

Melkor’s fingers rise to his black earring – the symbol of his wedding to Mairon. He touches it, slightly, and remembers how it had been forged. The blackest black in all of Almaren, long before it had been Aman, forged to imitate Melkor’s Song. A proof of Mairon’s skill at the craft: for no one before him had been able to do such a feat.

His spouse is just a few hundred of kilometers away. Only weeks, perhaps days, are between them.

And soon Melkor will see him again.

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There was another factor that Manwë had forgotten in his haste to imprison Melkor – prompted by the accusations of Tulkas and Ulmo, who ever since they had laid their gazes upon the Deceiver had found him to be foul and distrustful.

He had forgotten how the heart of elves was not moved first and foremost by vengeance but by friendship. That the darkness that had descended in another world upon the hearts of the Ñoldor had been weaved by Melkor first, forced to bloom by his sweet words. They had been made so in the Music, that they would ultimately fall prey to lesser emotions as the second-borns but that the instincts of their fëa yearned for kinder ones.

So it came to be that the smiths that had once hosted Annatar as one of them heard of his disguise – and the demise he had suffered, judging it too great for the offense done.

The first day Annatar, or Melkor, had entered the forges, his eyes had fallen upon a Ñoldo. On this day, it was this Ñoldo, boldened by his convictions – who exhorted the rest of them to rise, to try swaying the heart of the Lord of the Winds, King of Arda, Manwë Sulimo.

Torthedir, apprentice at the forge, spoke long and clear of the knowledge Melkor had brought to them – reminded them of each and every of his kind attentions to them, how he had ever been patient in his sharing of the craft, how he had enhanced their creations. He reminded them of he had never asked anything in turn, reminded them that never had Melkor ignited the flame of rebellion in their heart – merely lingered amongst them, hiding for he had feared being shackled for his gifts.

And so he had been punished! Torthedir told them. And so his fears had come true, for indeed as soon as he had been revealed had he been punished for his existence – when nothing ill had been given.

Torthedir – who once had crossed the ice with Turgon’s troops, who had sworn the deepest revenge against Morgoth, and had seen the ice crack under his feet, swallowing him up never to free him, lost to the Helcaraxë – now wrought upon himself to be the most fervent advocate of Melkor’s defence.

And so, while the Avari of Belariand were prompted by Mairon to march on Valinor; the Noldor of Tirion were prompted by Torthedir to march on Taniquetil.

Chapter 19: Lesson 19: Avoid politics. Yes. Too late? Go back, and avoid them.

Chapter Text

Finwë rubs the bridge of his nose. His office is one of the largest of the palace - if not the largest, yet it feels too cramped. A glance to the right and his eyes come to rest on a map of Aman, a glance to the left and it is onto the large crystal windows. For an immortal being, he feels all too heavily the weight of years upon his shoulders.

More and more he begins to recall memories of youth, when the high treetops hid them from the sky; when the days still have that taste of exploration and the unknown. And now: an eternal routine, step after step, the same song echoing in his mind, the same one he hears again and again, until the weight of his crown proves too heavy for him to stand up straight.

More and more he remembers the pleasure of uncertainty, of not knowing what tomorrow will bring. Today is as meticulous as the music papers Makalaurë keeps in his drawers. Today he opens his eyes to his servants pulling the curtain strings, to Indis offering him a light kiss on the cheek. Today, exactly seven minutes after waking up, he begins to smell breakfast in his antechamber, dress in a silk dressing gown - sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes red - before sliding into a chair.

And the steps follow one after the other.

Always the same old story. Morning council. Opening the letters. Discussion of the ceremonies to be opened and presided over. Discussion of the treatment of the people's concerns. Lunch, sometimes private, sometimes public. And again. Grievances. Afternoon Council. Presiding over young elves coming to propose their loremastery topics. Discussion over tea. Inauguration of all kinds. Opening the afternoon letters. And again, and again, and again.

The increasingly scarce days he spends in Alqualondë or Formenos are the ones he enjoys most. When Arafinwë's sons come running in their Telerin skirts, dragging him by the hand to show him shells; when he comes to Formenos to hug his eldest, when Makalaurë offers him a demonstration of his skills, when Tyelkormo offers him pelts, when he arrives with arms full of gifts and leaves with a heart full of affection.

And today… Finwë looks again by the window. Behind it spreads Tirion, its white houses and whiter streets. White, everywhere. Sometimes, he wants to take a brush of paint and color it in a kaleidoscope of colors that would terribly clash together. Orange, purple, gold, silver, blue- he wants to give it color, to give it life – he wants, fiercely – and then, as suddenly as the desire grows, it shrivels and dies again.

Today, Tirion is empty.

Today, half of its population is by the base of Taniquetil, protesting. Today half of his people are advocating for an enemy, for the dark plague upon their world, and Finwë is unable to stop it.

Again he comes to brush the bridge of his nose. He is so tired. How deeply does he want to close his eyes and let the problem to the Valar, to have them resolve it. How deeply does he want to nap in the sun and have such issues be resolved by the time of his awakening.

Mirages, dreams. Finwë turns a quill between his fingers, leaning his cheek on his closed fist. First, he thinks to himself, he will need to ride to Formenos. It has been too long; and he should have done so earlier, but he found no time to do it. Not when the list of grievances suddenly multiplied by six, not when Tirion was in such a frenzy.

Annatar, whom he has met, is in truth Belegûr – the Black Death. Another sigh escapes him as his thoughts wander to Elwë, who had refused to follow. He misses him deeply on days like this. Elwë was one of those who had pushed Finwë upwards when the dark skies had felt like despair, and they had all awoken under the stars. The tragedy of distance and heart is that his thoughts keep turning to his old friend, but a thousand and one obligations prevent him from finding him.

His thoughts turn to the rumor that has been running through Tirion for a week and a half. Míriel, they say, is back from Mandos. Finwë knows it cannot be true, yet his grief surges as deep as the very first day. He knows that as long as he lives, Míriel cannot set foot in Aman. It pains him and wounds him. It was the agreement they had made, and she had not wanted to return. Indis had been there, a vision of gold and kindness, when Finwë had felt as if his entire world had crumbled. He had been near fading, his dreams and hopes vanquished with one hand. He wept bitterly, deeply, near the statue that represented Míriel in his inner gardens. Indis had been patient, kind, beautiful in fëa and hroä, but where Míriel had gone, Indis had stayed.

He wishes that Fëanáro could understand that he does not wish to replace him. Finwë nibbles on the lower part of his lip, trailing his gaze the length of the great window. Then, moved by a sudden impulse, he rises to his feet and comes to wait behind it, one palm spread over the glass. It is so very quiet, so very disconcerting. It is not how a city is supposed to be – all of his people moved to another, all protesting in favor of one who does not deserve it. Perhaps the Valar could pull off the enchantment that Belegûr seems to have woven upon the hearts of his people. Perhaps his faith needs not to waver. Of course, they would.

Finwë sighs again and raises his eyes skyward. "Míriel, Elwë," he thinks, "how I miss you."

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The ride to Formenos was one that Finwë was greatly used to take. A smile blooms on his lips at the memory of it: the first ever ride he had taken to the residence of his Eldest. He remembered most the joy, the curiosity – and the awe, when he had reached the place. As ever, Fëanaro’s hands touched stone and morphed it into gold, and Formenos was no different.

It had been ruins when Fëanáro had first stepped there. Charming ruins, certainly, which had allowed the abundant vegetation to reclaim its rights after elves had left the place. The house had belonged to one of his lords, when they had not yet decided to settle in Tirion - when they had all been scattered across the kingdom. And with the regrouping of the population in Tirion and Taniquetil, the house had been abandoned.

There, Yavanna's rights had proved stronger than those of the elven hand. The white stones had turned grey, the ivy had made its way to entwine the turrets in an eternal embrace. The old roof had protected the house from the harshest of constraints and would continue to do so for many ages more– for the weather in Formenos was strange, ever-changing. It reminded Finwë how the one they had in Cuivenien, before Oromë had sprung from the woods. Before he had asked them to follow.

And Fëanáro had taken one look at that house, at that Manor which cast it shadows upon the hills – and judged it perfect. For years had he worked upon it, first alone, then begrudgingly accepting minor helps from construction workers from Tirion. By his hand, the stone had reverted back to white – then to a dark red as Fëanáro had painted it. Golden light shone on it when Laurelin awoke, and gave it the illusion of shimmering with the day, blooming to life at the same time it did.

But what Finwë preferred most was not such things. It was the details on which his memories relied upon. The red door with a hand imprint on it- for Maitimo had been born before the house had been finished, and the elfling had pressed his hand on it; the toad statue before it, ugly and misshaped – one of Makalaurë’s early tries at sculpting; the basket for a dog when one entered the hall – for even young had Tyelkormo begged and begged for pups to grace the house. Those details, who gave life to a house. A hole in the wall that faced the door, for Caranthir had tried his hand at dagger launching and embedded it into the wall; a faint yellow stain next to it as Curufin had once stumbled on his feet, tripped on a shoelace, and thrown the entire pot of curry into the wall.

And perhaps more to come in the future. Finwë prompted his chin on his hand as the carriage moved forward. But he had been blessed as it was.

It seems like an eternity before the high towers of Formenos finally breaks the horizon, but it has been mere days. He reaches Formenos, finally, and when the doors opens to welcome him, Fëanáro is nowhere in sight.

He had been offered a seat and a tea, Maitimo and Nerdanel looking at them from the other side of the table. When so close to one another, their resemblances are all the more striking.

It is in the gleam in the eyes, although the colour of them differs. It is in the strong nose of Maitimo, in the height, in the pale freckles that dusts both of their features – in the silken red hair that reach the end of their backs. Similarities, peppered there and there, although Maitimo resembles most his Adar.

Finwë taps his fingers on the glass. He smiles at them, brightly, one of those smiles that hold the love his heart is filled with.

“Where is Fëanáro?” Finwë inquires, with this easy-going curl of his lips.

Nerdanel smoothens the lines of her robes. He watches her do so with indulgence, aware of the nervousness he provokes in his daughter-in-law, despite the years.

“I should have sent a letter beforehand,” Finwë patiently says then, resting back his cup of tea on the table. “I apologize it was rather a hastily made decision. I shall not impose if it is not appropriate a time. I understand, of course, if Fëanaro is busy – but I wished to see of him before returning to Tirion.”

Maitimo is quick to shake his head. “You never impose, grandfather. We are delighted to have you here.”

It does not elude him how they do not speak of his son. Finwë gives Maitimo another smile, reaching out for his hand, pressing it. Then he turns to Nerdanel, who has yet to truly speak outside of courtesies.

“Did you have a spat?” he softly asks Nerdanel.

Nerdanel snorts. Then brings a hand to her face, pink coloring her cheeks for the un-ladylike gesture. “No, we did not. Fëanáro is busy with another project of his, and is scouring the lands of Aman.”

Oh. “He did not warn me,” Finwë murmurs. Fëanáro always warned him before going on those ventures, wrote him a letter in which he oft promised to bring back a token of his travels.

Maitimo gives him a plate of biscuits. He takes one, almost mechanically, before remembering that he is following a special diet bestowed by Arafinwë – who is trying to see the effects of reducing sugar in alimentation for one month. Arafinwë had asked, and Finwë had seen no reason to refuse him, ever agreeing to help any of his sons with their research.

He puts the biscuits on the plate that holds his cup of tea.

“He did not have time to warn,” Maitimo says, apologetically. Recently adult and yet so well-spoken and clever of thought that Finwë could not be anything but proud. A softer heart than his Atar, although Fëanáro was not devoid of it, and a more flexible tongue when it came to concessions. “He decided in a hurry, and was out of the house to pursue it before we had the time to realize it.”

Finwë looks for answers in the eyes of his eldest grandchild. Instead he finds a fire burning there, entirely too familiar; brightening the silver eyes with a gleam that made many hearts seek it.

Instead he finds polite nonchalance, and wonders how much of it is true.

It wounds him, ignites a very peculiar pain in his heart, that his grandchildren should be weighed down by the burden of political tension. Finwë, contrary to what might be believed, is well aware of the depth of the antipathy that runs between Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro. He know how the strains it brings to council, knows of Maitimo’s easy enduring of it: how he smoothens the heated words, how he offers alternatives, how he seeks for compromises. Finwë sees it.

He sees, also, Arafinwë’s difficult position – and with it, Findaráto’s, who sits at the council in lieu of his Atar. He is well aware of a struggle it is to maintain a position of relative neutrality, never to pick a side for it is bound to provoke chaos, even when one seems more enticing than another.

He sees, at last, Findekáno efforts – yet his unwavering devotion to Ñolofinwë, how he needs to stand tall next to his Atar.

Finwë sees the crevices going deeper and deeper into the ground.

He is not blind to them. He merely does not know how to fix them.

“But we will be very pleased to have you with us, grandfather,” Maitimo is saying, now pouring them all a second tour of tea. It is a rose one, soft and pleasing to the tongue. “We could accommodate your attendants if you wished to have some with you. May I ask how long did you plan to stay with us? Has council been put on hold, and should I be on my way to Tirion?”

Nerdanel is still suspiciously silent, and Finwë is not entirely sure that there has not been a spat. Fëanáro has softly confided in him that their fights had grown in intensity and numbers, and Finwë was ever concerned for the happiness of his son.

“Council is being held under the regency of Ñolofinwë, but there shall not be one requiring your input until my return. I did not have a defined duration in mind,” Finwë admits. “I was perhaps thinking of a few days, but then thought I would enjoy to stay the season. Perhaps so will I witness Fëanaro’s return. And it would please me intensely if Tyelkormo and Makalaurë were to visit during my stay.”

“Makalaurë planned to visit,” Maitimo tells him, his smile gaining a few more degrees of brightness. “In a month of time, if I am not mistaken. His wife will be there also.”

“Ah, it is a delight to hear. She is the very picture of grace, as their daughters are.”

“They are indeed,” Nerdanel now says. She has not touched her tea, Finwë notices. He is more concerned than ever. “We have been graced with the most beautiful of grandchildren.”

“The most loquacious as well,” Maitimo teases.

A laugh, from both sides. “What less to expect, from Makalaurë?”

“They are already quite talented at the harp,” Nerdanel agrees, a floating smile on her lips. “Fëanaro has planned to make some strings from turtles, and offer it to them on their next begetting day.”

“Has he?” Finwë listens with rapt attention, as ever when his eldest’ talent at the craft is the topic of the day. “I expect nothing less but perfection. Fëanáro changes sand not in glass but gold.”

Maitimo bestows him half a nod, inclining his head towards him. Upon noticing that the biscuits rest untouched, he apologizes. “It is not the quality your cooks offer you in Tirion.”

Finwë hesitates, but takes one, silently apologizing to Arafinwë. He will tell him he has wronged the study. “It is delicious,” he assures, with a great smile. It really is. “If my cooks were as skilled and fine at the kitchen than you are, I would be very blessed indeed. Ah! But I take no jest at them, I am grateful for their work.”

Yet another smile, and the conversation dwells towards lighter subjects. Maitimo’s latest loremastery topic, astronomy, how does his life fares in Tirion, his brothers, and Nerdanel’s work at the shop. He swiftly avoids the subjects of Belegûr, and how he had woven his way into their lives. But Finwë asks, in subtle, soft questions, how they do. Truly.

They make their way to the dinner table, then. It is fascinating to him still that they refuse attendants. That there is no servants in Formenos. Fëanáro’s refusal to be served – when he judges that there should be no hierarchy between elves. It is peculiar, to see Nerdanel and Maitimo rise to prepare the dinner – and of course, Finwë offers help.

It warms his heart to be doing this with them, to be cutting onions and tomatoes, slicing bread, warming the stone oven. He has no time for it in Tirion, and dinner is always prepared when Indis and He take the stairs to it. Sometimes Ñolofinwë and his children join him; rarer Arafinwë, and even rarer still, Fëanáro.

Finwë’s heart tightens again. He loves his son, perhaps like no other on this realm. It is a terrible thing to say. He feels terrible upon thinking it. He adores Arafinwë and Ñolofinwë, would sacrifice everything he has for them. But Fëanáro… His eldest will aways bear with him a part of his fëa, of his soul. In Fëanáro he reads the cleverness of Míriel, and his son, who he remembers raising alone – long before Indis had entered his life; his son, he cherishes.

The dinner is a peaceful matter. Nerdanel has brightened up since his arrival, and it is spent between hearty laughter and tales of old. Mostly they enjoy the absence of Fëanáro to take some good-intentioned jabs at him, as the way he had first sputtered and blushed when he had met Nerdanel, the way he had looked at Maitimo when he had seen him for the first time, the way he had searched in all the forest for a toy Maitimo had lost; the way he had spent nights upon music books to understand more of Makalaurë’s passion, and so on.

Finwë stays fifty-seven and a half day in Formenos. Makalaurë indeed visits with his wife Silrìen- and his daughters Orelnith and Lûthel.

As Makalaurë had once done, taking on the tutelage of a music master, his daughters seem intent in pursuing the arts. Orelnith is skilled already with the brush, giving life in any ink she puts upon paper – and Lûthel, much alike her Atar, has of mind to Sing for the hearts and fëar.

Finwë could not be more proud. He remembers, when Fëanaro had been not very older than ten, how he had pursued Aulë’s apprenticeship – how he had went to the forges, how he had asked to go there. He had not begged, of course. Even then did his son not beg, even when he had taken for Indis for wife, even when Fëanaro had burnt with the desire to ask Finwë for a choice. Fëanaro did not beg. Fëanaro convinced.

And so had he convinced Finwë, that a mastery in the craft was what he sought and what should appease his troubled mind – and Finwë had granted it to him. How he had looked small and young then, his long black hair braided on a crown atop of his head, his face devoid of hesitation but his eyes choke-full of them, his delicate fingers yet untouched of any calluses. How small he had looked, how very young, and how Finwë’s heart had tightened – and how he had longed to ask, to plead for Fëanaro to reconsider, to stay next to Indis, young Ñolofinwë and him.

But Fëanaro, as all things he did, had not looked back. He had embraced Finwë, protested not when Finwë had cupped his cheeks and kissed his forehead and nose, climbed into the carriage, and disappeared from his sight.

Now when Finwë looks at Makalaurë, so very bright and yet so very prompt to speak of what annoys him, so very radiant when he looks at his daughters and wife – he sees his son, and he sees not of him. Of all his grandchildren, Makalaurë is the one who looks the less alike to Fëanáro, even before Tyelkormo and his fair appearance. It manifests in the way Makalaurë seems to hold a melancholy to his eyes, the way his long dark eyelashes are prompt to hold tears, the darker hue to his silver eyes and the way they shine when he gives way to anger. Makalaurë is softer in the face, none of the cutting lines of Fëanaro’s cheekbones, and his hair hold a tone of blue that Fëanaro does not possess.

So very impatient with children as well, although he adores his daughter. While Finwë remembers Fëanaro’s eternal patience with his five sons, how he had never raised his voice to them. To Nerdanel, certainly. And she did it, as well. To his sons, never.

When supper is finished, on a day where Laurelin has yet to let way to Telperion, Finwë comes to take seat next to Makalaurë – on the stony stairway that leads way to the house.

Makalaurë lets out a choked sound, and hides something in his pocket. Too late nonetheless, for the smoke that comes from behind him betrays him.

Finwë smoothens the lines of his robes. “You might want to take it out of your pocket,” he says. “Or it will set it ablaze.”

A widening of silver eyes, and Makalaurë hastily takes his pipe out of his pocket. True to Finwë’s words, the fabric has beginning to let smoke as well. He lets out a curse, then pinks terribly upon remembering Finwë is near and apologizes instead, tapping furiously at the pocket to extinguish the fire.

Finwë takes the opportunity to steal his pipe from his hand, and closes his eyes, inhaling. He lets out a puff of smoke, as Makalaurë watches him as if a second head had grown on his shoulder.

“It is not very good quality,” Finwë comments. He has a laugh in his tone, easily. “You should find a better supplier, Makalaurë.”

Makalaurë goes red all over. “You-” he gasps out. “Grandfather!”

“I could recommend one or two to you, if you wished to acquire something of better taste,” Finwë continues, diligently ignoring the way Makalaurë’s eyes are bulging out of his head.

“You- But-!”

“Which kind of King would it make of me if I knew not of the fancies of my subjects?”

“Fancies-! N- of course not-”

There it is – a flash of weariness in Makalaurë’s as he stammers. Finwë frowns for a second, uncertain of what troubles him so, when he realises the turn of his sentence. Fake rhetorical ones, is bound to cause nervousness in any relative of his son. It is how, after all, that Fëanaro engages a fight – with those soft, seemingly curious, words.

Finwë pats Makalaurë’s shoulder. “Breathe,” he smiles, does not have to force it for it to be full of brightness and love. “Makalaurë, I have known of this even before your Atar’s first begetting day.”

Makalaurë swallows, gives him a faint nod. “I am not hiding,” he says – with that haughtiness that had not left him since his teenage years. “I am keeping a secret garden for myself. And, ah, I would most appreciate if you were not to speak of its existence to Silrìen.”

He laughs – a sunny, hearty, laugh. “Worry not, I will not freely offer the key to it. Although, it is of my own experience that secrets are never kept long away from wives.”

There is the faintest trace of a smile that blooms on Makalaurë’s lips. A child of Telperion, as the Ñoldor said, who had a better disposition for tears in his eyes than smiles on his lips. It makes Finwë wish even more to bring them to his features, to have them be animated by amusem*nt and happiness.

He steals again Makalaurë’s pipe and in the wince it tears out of him, manages to do just that, to change the smile into a laugh.

Just as it should be.

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“Do you,” Fëanáro softly asks. “-believe me uneducated, Belegûr?”

Melkor very ardently wishes to say yes. He does not say yes. (This is a lie.) Of course he says yes. “Upon which criteria?” he asks back, smiling. “If we come from the postulate that being educated is to know of all there is to know, then, you are painfully ignorant.”

Fëanáro inhales. There is a sword straddled to his hip and enough venom in his eyes to kill an elf a thousand time over. His slender fingers clench in tightened fists at his side – much alike Melkor would remember Mairon to do, the times those syrupy jabs at made been made at him. Faked incompetence or incomprehension, he has learned, are amongst the things succeeding in aggravating like nothing else.

Naremir is fast asleep in a bag across Melkor’s shoulder. The dragon is young still, not yet endowed by the might that he will later possess. From time to time, Melkor can hear a sound coming from the bag, a little snoring one – exhales. It is a relief that the dragon is yet not so skilled at breathing fire that he can wield them in his sleep.

“If I say,” Fëanáro continues, fingers twitching as if hitching to pinch the bridge of his nose, “-that North is this way, then it is. It is a question of logic. This is Polaris.”

With the tip of his index he points to a star high in the sky. Melkor raises his eyes skyward to follow the index, a faint smile escaping him upon remembering an idiom fancied by men – that the wise showed the moon, and the idiot gazed at the finger. He knows of a great many things, but Melkor does not know of stars. He has, vehemently, refused to learn of them.

Petty, Mairon had called him once. A word thrown over his shoulder, and Melkor had not denied it. Vindicative, he would prefer, but its rougher synonym worked just as well.

“Perhaps,” Melkor acknowledges. He laces his hands behind his back. Naremir twitches in his sleep. “Are you certain, or do you rely more on the confidence you think you possess?”

They have set foot on the ground since a few hours, and before Laurelin had waned, had been following Melkor’s mere instincts upon towards which way to go. They have also yet to find a compromise on a plan. In all fairness, for notorious long-term schemers, none had truly thought of a plan.

The woods through which Fëanáro and Melkor are making their way is dense and lush, filled with tall trees that towered over them. Many branches of trees intertwine overhead, creating a natural canopy that filter the moonlight and cast eerie shadows on the forest floor. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth, decaying leaves, and the faint aroma of wildflowers. Such wildflowers, Melkor remembers witnessing Yavanna shape out of thin air. He remembers, with a slight air of wistfulness that is wont to fade, those days – where everything had been unknown, where everything was yet to be made.

But he digresses. The forest is alive with the sounds of nocturnal creatures, from the hooting of owls and the chirping of crickets to the occasional rustling of small animals in the underbrush. It is not a surprise that the occasional call of a night bird or the howling of a distant wolf add to the eerie atmosphere of the forest, making it clear that Fëanáro and Melkor were not alone in this vast, mysterious wilderness.

Despite the danger that lurk in the shadows, the woods had a certain beauty to them. Ah, danger, at least, for any other than them. Brave, and fool indeed, would be the ones daring Melkor and Fëanáro in an opposition of strength. Melkor often rises his eyes to the trees, whose trunks are smooth and straight. The faint light of Laurelin causes their leaves to shimmer in the moonlight, casting a silvery glow that gave the forest an otherworldly quality. Mosses and vines clinging to the trees, creating a tapestry of green that seem to pulsate with life.

As they make their way through the woods, Fëanáro and Melkor have to navigate through thick underbrush and dodge the occasional fallen tree. More than once they needed to watch their step to avoid tripping over roots or getting snagged on thorns.

“Trust me,” Fëanáro says, the word gritted through clenched teeth as if physically painful to come out. Perhaps it is. His silver eyes find Melkor, with a fierce determination. “I know the sky.”

He could very well fight Fëanáro on this. But Melkor finds himself wishing to come the quickest as possible to Mairon – and merely gestures for Fëanáro to point him the right direction. Fëanáro does, to his credit, without as much as a triumphant jab; and Melkor resumes his walk.

So do they walk, as Telperion has deepened into the night, giving Beleriand a tainted hue. Light is as not as bright in a land devoid of the Two Trees, and the skies are darker when Laurelin wanes, certainly. But nonetheless, the stars shine bright, and they shall be their guides for tonight.

Telperion’s soft light basks Fëanáro’s face in silver, casting upon his eyes a gleam that is reverted back. Melkor watches it with slight fascination, for he remembers well how such eyes had seen the flames of Angband dance in them, how they had burned – and burned, until Fëanáro himself had been an inferno of fire and hatred.

“Belegûr,” Fëanáro begins, the first echoes of curiosity alight in his gaze. “Have you not learned of the stars?”

“Melkor,” Melkor swiftly corrects, making his way through the woods. “Belegurth, if truly you insist. And, no, I have not.”

“Why shall I remember thy name correctly when you give my sons not the same courtesy?”

Another honey-dripping smile. Melkor turns to him, bends forward to look at him in the eyes. Still in the bag, Naremir lets out another shuddered exhale: of one deep into sleep. Slowly, Melkor says: “Maitimo Nelyafinwë, Makalaurë Kanafinwë, Tyelkormo Turkafinwë, Carnistir Morifinwë, Atarinkë Curufinwë, Ambarussar.”

Surprise and incomprehension flash in turn in Fëanaro’s eyes. He takes the time, to step over a root before answering, his voice curious. “Ambarussar?”

Oh, yes. “No matter,” Melkor bats the subject away – as he does with a branch coming his way. This damned forest. “Think of the other five. Have I not remembered, Fëanáro Finwion?”

“I thought it to be ignorance, but I see it is merely childish aggravation.” Fëanáro is following close to Melkor, the humidity of the forest barely impairing his physical condition. “I should not be surprised, expected nothing, yet found myself disappointed nonetheless.”

Strangely enough, Melkor would have expected to suffer more. But he does not, making his way through the woods as if they were no annoyance at all. It makes him wonder on many things.

“You will keep being disappointed, do not hold your breath on being impressed,” Melkor says casually, without sparing him a glance. He stops, hisses at a snake that is leisurely napping on a branch – sending it slithering away. Spares a chuckle for himself.

“Why would you do that for?” Fëanáro asks, closing the distance between them. “You are Ainu. It is not a snake that will unhouse you, or if it does, then we shall have to hold such creature in the greatest of esteems.”

Melkor does not answer. The collar is impairing him more greatly than he would have thought and he grows to despise it by the second. It flares a certain frustration in his heart, one that swings much alike a pendulum that would go from mild annoyance to premises of rage. He closes his eyes for a long second, exhales through his nose.

Contrarily to what might been thought, although nobody certainly thought of it, Melkor was not the most impatient one between him and his spouse. Or, perhaps was it truer to say, he had not been at first. Slowly did he try to revert back to the patience he had in the beginning, when Eru had Sang them into existence.

Melkor had been able to muffle his fury then, to shape it into a weapon, into syrupy cruel whispers, into specific destruction. He was aware, painfully, that the Silmarils had changed that.

He looks at his hands – blackened still. Estë’s spell still holds, and he feels no pain for them. But they are burnt as if coal, and he knows that without her help, he would never have been to wield them again.

There is no precise reason for why he does things, sometimes. He just does them. He does not say as such to Fëanáro.

But Fëanáro is not done. Perhaps it is the frustration of hours of walking through the woods, with little to no sustenance, perhaps it is merely that Melkor’s presence brings darker thoughts into his mind and heart.

“I thought you uneducated,” Fëanáro says, his tone stunningly flat. “Before I met you. I do remember Makalaurë making an astounding impression of you.”

“Of me?” Now he is surprised, although curiosity mingles with outrage. And amusem*nt perhaps, if he has to speak the truth of his heart. “How could he when never before had he met me?”

“It as I said. We thought you uneducated.”

“Then, by all means,” Melkor silkily whispers. “Do not deny me such impression.”

There is a wiggle on his back, and for a second, Melkor believes that Naremir has awakened from his sleep. It is not the case, nonetheless. A red wing pops up from the bag, comes to tickle at Melkor’s nape; but no dragon follows it. Instead, the snoring sound intensifies, and Melkor lifts his eyes skywards.

“Later,” Fëanáro says. As they walk, Fëanáro’s gaze fixates on the star-strewn sky overhead. Melkor catches sight of this and lets out a snort of disdain.

"What do you see in such stargazing? What do you seek in the stars?" he asks, his voice seething with contempt. "It is a worthless pursuit. You are so consumed with creating, yet what good does it serve you if you are unable to appreciate the beauty already present in this world?"

Fëanáro spins to face him, his eyes alight with a fervent intensity. "You speak as though creation is finite, as though all has been discovered and nothing remains to be explored. But I know that there is always more to be discovered, more to be created. The stars are a testament to that. They are a reminder that there is still much we have yet to learn about the universe."

This earns him a dismissive shrug, although Melkor’s eyes are glistening with an echoed fervor. "What does it matter? In the grand scheme of things, elves are mere fleeting beings. Why trouble thyself with such trifles?"

Fëanáro’s brows creases in a scowl. "Trifles? How dare you say such a thing? The stars are the very foundation of our existence. They guide us, inspire us. They are a source of wonder and beauty. I may refute the dominion of Valar over us, but I do not refute those of their creations – when some of those outshine the beauty the Valar have given themselves.”

"Beauty?” Melkor laughs, mockingly. “You speak of beauty whilst the world around us falls into ruin? Look at what the fleet of elves to Aman hast wrought, Fëanáro. It is all but a facade, a hollow distraction from the true nature of our existence. We must embrace the darkness, embrace the chaos. That is where true power lies."

Fëanáro scoffs at such words, answers him with a shake of his head. "Nay, Belegurth. You are wrong. Creation is not a distraction, it is our purpose. It is what gives meaning to our existence. And the stars are a symbol of that purpose, a reminder of the infinite possibilities that lie before us."

Melkor comes to a sudden halt, his gaze locking onto Fëanáro’s with a fiery intensity. "Thou art a naive fool, Fëanáro. Thou clingest to these idealistic notions because thou art afraid to face the truth. The truth that there is no purpose, no meaning to our lives. Elves are naught but playthings of the Valar, of Eru Iluvatar, tossed about by the whims of fate. But I shall not be a pawn in his game. I shall forge my own destiny, and I shall do it by embracing the chaos, by embracing the darkness."

Fëanáro stands his ground, his eyes unyielding as he stared down Melkor's piercing gaze. "Thou mayest think that, Belegurth, but I know that creation is not a mere distraction. It is the very essence of our being. And if thou cannot see that, then thou art truly lost."

The two stand there, their eyes locked in a fierce debate. The night air is alive with the sound of their voices, their words echoing through the woods. And, neither, in truth, are willing to abandon a debate that goes beyond words being said. It is a matter of proving one right and one wrong, of a subtle game of chess.

"I still believe that the stars hold the key to unlocking the secrets of the universe," Fëanáro says, his eyes scanning the night sky.

Another snort is the only reaction he will cause. "The stars are but distant points of light, Fëanáro. They hold no secrets, no magic, no power. They are merely objects in the sky."

"Thou art mistaken. The stars are the embodiment of the universe's majesty and mystery. They guide us, inspire us, and challenge us to explore the unknown. Without the stars, we are but lost wanderers in a vast and empty world."

Melkor rolls his eyes, with as much dramatics as he could gather. "Thou art as melodramatic as ever, Fëanáro. The universe is what it is, and we must accept it for what it is. To believe otherwise is to court madness."

"I will not accept the universe as it is, Belegurth.” Fëanáro’s eyes blaze with anger. “I will change it, shape it, mold it into something greater. And the stars shall be my guide, my inspiration, my hope."

But Melkor is merely laughing sourly, keeping his gaze riveted before him. He will not turn to offer Fëanáro a returned gaze, even upon feeling the silver eyes as two flaming irons on his neck. "You are a fool, Fëanáro. The stars will not guide thee, nor inspire thee, nor give you hope. They are but cold, lifeless objects in the sky, and you are but a fool to mistake any meaning into them.”

Fists clenched by his side, as Fëanáro looks away. "Thou art wrong, Melkor. I have seen the power of the stars, and I know that they can transform us, enlighten us, and elevate us beyond our limitations. I have done it. I have made stars of my own, and see the power they could offer."

Melkor shakes his head. "The stars have no power, Fëanáro. They are mere illusions, born of our own need to believe in something greater than ourselves. But in the end, they are nothing." He marks a long pause. “The Silmarils are no stars either.”

Fëanáro is about to respond when a bright shooting star streaked across the sky, lighting up the forest with a dazzling display of light and color. For a moment, both Fëanáro and Melkor are silent, caught up in the beauty of the moment.

Then Fëanáro speaks, his voice filled with wonder. "Behold, Belegurth, the magic of the stars. They are not mere illusions, but the very essence of creation itself. And they have the power to transform us, to inspire us, and to guide us to greatness.”

And so Melkor spins as well, to look at Fëanáro in the eyes. “I confess myself surprise that you would put the origin of creation upon a object in the sky rather than your own will.”

“The stars are not the origin of creation, Melkor. They are but a reflection of my own will, my own desires."

“What do you mean, Fëanáro?” Melkor looks at him skeptically. “Do you claim to be the creator of the universe?”

A scathing look. “Do not feign daftness. It is ill-suited on you, Vala of Chaos. Nay, Belegurth. I do not claim to be the creator of the universe, but I do believe that my own will, my own desire for beauty and perfection, has shaped the world around me."

Melkor crosses his arms. "That is a bold claim, Fëanáro. How can one elf have such power?"

"It is not just my own will, Belegurth,” Fëanáro insists. Melkor is too stunned in truth by such arrogance that he can only listen and stare, fascinated by this aspect of Fëanáro that had once enthralled him. He had tried, truly, to convince the Ñoldo to join his side. He had been cast away, called jail-crow of Mandos. “There are other forces at work, forces that help to stimulate my own creativity and imagination. The beauty of the natural world, the wonder of the cosmos, the mystery of the unknown. All of these things help to inspire me, to push me further in my quest for perfection."

Ha! Now those were words he is most familiar with. Quests for perfection, always and always. He does not see the appeal. Melkor looks at him with a curled smirk. "And what dost thou hope to achieve with thy quest for perfection, Fëanáro? Dost thou seek to create a perfect world, a utopia?"

Contrarily what the jabs might suggest, Fëanáro does not take offence. Instead he laces his hands behind his back, and sighs. "Nay, Belegurth. I do not seek to create a perfect world, for such a thing is impossible. But I do seek to create something beautiful, something that will inspire others to reach for greatness, to strive for excellence in all that they do."

“And how dost thou plan to achieve this goal?”

Fëanáro looks up at the stars once more, his eyes shining with fierce determination. "Through my art, Melkor. Through my music, my poetry, my craft. Through these things, I will leave a mark on the world, a legacy that will inspire generations to come."

Certainly, Melkor thinks to himself, having witnessed himself which kind of legacy Fëanáro had left behind him.

He smirks. “Oh but be careful,” he silkily murmurs. “In wielding such fire, you will eventually burn your hands.”

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Laurelin blooms bright over Taniquetil, casting its golden rays across the balcony where Finwë stands, his keen eyes watching as a group of Ñoldorin elves gather below. The air is charged with tension and discontent, and Finwë feels a weight settle upon his shoulders. He knows the reason for the gathering, for he has heard the whispers and rumblings throughout the city. They are here to demand justice for Annatar.

Finwë is tired, his heart heavy with the burden of his people's troubles. He knows that something must be done, but he is at a loss as to what. His mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and worries, but he remains outwardly calm as he watches the Ñoldor begin their protest.

The sound of shouting and chanting fills the air, led by Torthedir, most passionate of them all, who believes that Annatar has been falsely accused. Finwë watches as the group demands that Annatar be freed from his chains and given a fair trial. The realization that Annatar was, in fact, Melkor, the fallen Vala and sworn enemy of the Valar and the Elves, had shaken the Ñoldor to their very core. And yet, yet here they stood, fervently advocating for his freedom, their hearts clouded by the cunning words of the Dark Lord.

He turns to Ñolofinwë, who has yet to speak, standing beside him on the balcony. "What do you make of this, my son?" Finwë asks, his voice heavy with concern.

Ñolofinwë face is grave as he surveys the scene below. "It is a dangerous situation, Atar," he replies. "The Ñoldor are agitated, and they are seeking justice for Annatar. I can not understand why.” Ñolofinwë pinches his lips in distaste. “Which words has he wrought upon them that they should be such fierce advocates for his rights? He deserves none.”

Finwë nods, his heart heavy with the knowledge of Melkor's treachery. He remembers the destruction that the dark Vala brought upon the world, the ruin and devastation that had taken so many lives. "I know, Ñolofinwë," he says, his voice low. "But we cannot ignore the concerns of our people. We must find a way to address their grievances."

As they watch, the crowd below grows more agitated. Finwë can see the anger and frustration etched on their faces, the desperation in their eyes. He knows that they will not be satisfied until something is done.

Suddenly, a voice calls out from the crowd, silencing the chanting and causing a ripple of hushed whispers to spread through the assembled Ñoldor. "We demand an audience with Manwë!" the voice cries out. "We demand justice for Annatar!"

Finwë feels a pang of fear in his heart at the mention of Manwë, the King of the Valar. He knows that a request for an audience with the Vala will not be taken lightly. And yet, he also knows that it may be the only way to quell the unrest that is brewing among his people.

He turns to Ñolofinwë once more, his eyes seeking reassurance. "What do you think, my son?" he asks. "Should we seek an audience with Manwë?"

Ñolofinwë pauses for a moment, considering his words carefully. "It may be our only hope, Atar," he replies at last. "The Valar must be made aware of the situation, and we must seek their guidance."

Finwë nods, his mind made up. "Very well," he says, his voice resolute. "We will seek an audience with Manwë. But we must proceed with caution. We cannot afford to risk the safety of our people."

He turns to his chamberlain, a trusted advisor who has served him well for many years. "Summon our most trusted messengers," he instructs. "We must send word to Manwë and request an audience."

His fingers come to rub at the bridge of his nose, instinctively.

Eru, Finwë thinks, why have you allowed your creations to go to such a state?

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A cozy abode nestled amidst the verdant trees, their home is a sanctuary of peace and tranquility. A place where one can hear the whispers of the leaves, the melodies of the birds and the tinkling of the stream. A place, where Melkor had dwelled, not long ago. The interior of the house is embellished with intricate carvings and adorned with vibrant tapestries. The air is perfumed with the scent of flowers and herbs, and the soft glow of the fire fills the space with warmth.

In one corner of the room, there is a large woven basket with a black and green dragon each sleeping soundly. The black one, Ancalagon, is adorned with iridescent scales that shine like obsidian in the light. Wilya, the green dragon, is much smaller but just as enchanting with her emerald green scales and playful spirit. (Or Wilwarin, had she been, when Melkor had graced the household with his presence, when everything had gone smoothly.)

But it is not what is of interest in this house. For there is something, or someone, who fills this place of peace with frantic nervousness.

Irmo, Vala of Dreams.

He is gesticulating, wildly. The kaleidoscope of emotions in his skin and hair intensifies, a dizzying array of color that fills the room with an otherworldly glow.

Irmo's speech continues to grow more frenzied, each sentence tumbling out in an uncontrolled rush as though he is racing to catch up with his own thoughts. His eyes dart around the room again, his attention flitting from Este to the baby dragons, to Estë, to the dragons, to Estë, again, again, again, again.

“Oh dearheart! Melkor, Melkor, Melkor,” he is saying, his voice growing louder with each repetition. "He is imprisoned, unjustly, unfairly, not as it should, no-no-no-no, unjustly so! The Ñoldor do not see, do not understand, do not comprehend the depths of his heart, his soul, his fëa, his heart, his all!"

He pauses again, this time to take a deep breath. Irmo’s chest heaves with the effort, and for a moment, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of his ragged breathing. Then he begins again, his words pouring out in a torrent.

Eyes wide, frantic, all twelve of them on his features.

“They accuse him of manipulating, of plotting, of scheming, and- oh did you know that foxes were seen as scheming animals? How peculiar yes? - but they know nothing, nothing, nothing at all!" His words are almost a scream now, his voice rising to a fever pitch. "He is a being of great power, yes, but also of great love, great passion, great- dearheart, you know, I know, we know, we have seen, he has seen, we know the depth of such heart, of such love-”

Irmo stops again, this time to giggle uncontrollably. "Oh, Ancalagon, Wilya, my little ones," he says, reaching out to stroke their scales. "You are so adorable, so lovely, truly, dearhearts, are you, yes you are, so-" His words trail off into a fit of giggles once more.

Estë watches him with a mixture of concern and amusem*nt, her hand coming to take his in hers. "Dearheart,” she calls, softly. “Dearheart. Listen to me."We will find a way to help Melkor, to prove his innocence, to-”

Irmo interrupts her, his attention suddenly diverted again. "Look, look, look, look, at the butterflies!" he exclaims, pointing to a group of them fluttering around the room. "How they dance, how they twirl, how they-"

His words are cut off by a sudden change in emotion, his skin and hair shifting to a deep shade of blue. "But Melkor, Melkor," he whines, his voice growing somber once more. "He needs our help, our support, our-"

Irmo stops again, this time to let out a piercing laugh. "Oh, I just remembered, remembered, remembered something funny," he says, wiping a tear from his eye. "It was about a tree, a tree, a tree that grew-"

Estë waits. She smiles, as ever, knowing that there is no use trying to steer his mind back to the matter at hand. Instead, she simply waits for him to tire himself out, to exhaust himself with the endless stream of words and emotions that pour from him like a waterfall. But she is concerned, nonetheless. Melkor’s disappearance has provoked a—

She does not mean—

But Irmo had calmed down since Melkor has been living with them, and she would never hope for Irmo to be different, of course not… However… She knows how worse his mind can be. She chews on her lips, without departing of her smile.

And eventually, he does tire himself. His words slow, then stop altogether, and he slumps back in his chair with a contented sigh. "My dearheart, my sweet, my precious," Irmo says, eyes still wide, reaching out to kiss her cheek. "Thank you for listening, for understanding, for-"

But before he can finish, his attention is drawn again to the baby dragons, and he begins to coo and giggle at them again.

With a sudden and nimble leap, Wilya bounds onto Irmo's lap. The green dragon's scales shimmer in the light, and her eyes sparkle with mischief as she nuzzles his snout against Irmo's chest. Irmo chuckles softly and strokes Wilya's head, his fingers tracing the ridges of the dragon's horns. They are beginning to grow, yes, yes, yes, he thinks, beaming.

Estë watches fondly, her eyes alight with warmth and affection as she leans against Irmo's shoulder. Ancalagon watches from a distance, his sharp eyes taking in the scene with keen interest.

Irmo's lips brush gently against Wilya's snout, causing the dragon to let out a happy chirp.

“We will find something, dearheart,” Estë murmurs, her hand trailing in his pink strands. “We will help him, I promise.”

But Irmo’s attention is already gone, fleeting as it is with Melkor’s departure, giggling to himself as Wilya licks his cheek.

Chapter 20: Lesson 20: don't voluntarily put yourself in a hostile environment

Chapter Text

Once, when the world had needed to be shaped by hands older than it, Yavanna had poured much of herself into Arda. For a mind who remembers when the first notes of Discord had been Sung into the Great Music, Annatar sees in Beleriand of her design more acutely than everyone else.

As he makes his way though the forest of the Windan, he sees her touch everywhere. Towering ancient trees, branches intertwined like ancient tapestries, forming a verdant canopy overheard. Soft rays of sunlight passing through the mosaic, illuminating the woodland floor. An atmosphere infused with the rough scent of wildflowers, wet grass after a rain, and even the earthy fragrance of moth-covered rocks.

Annatar has seen more of Yavanna than any other Valië. She had been the one to stroll the forges, ever in search of her spouse; and many times Annatar had been the one mandated to tell her that Aulë was unavailable. The memory is bittersweet. He does not quite remember her, not in the way of behavior and words, but he remembers her mercurial moods.

The way of nature, perhaps. Sometimes the softest of touch, sometimes a realm of vibrant greenery, of flowers that bend under the barest puff of wind. Sometimes harsher than the rocks he has built his own realm upon, sometimes cliffs with the allure of fangs wrought into stone.

Draugluin barks wordlessly, running next to Annatar’s horse. As every time Annatar slides his eyes to the great grey wolf, he is filled by a certain smugness and appreciation. Draugluin is taller than his horse now; and had it not been for spells woven into his heart, the stallion would have been beside himself with terror.

But what delights Annatar endlessly, is the speech abilities given to the wolf. He speaks seldomly, it is true, but when he does… Ah, when he does. It is as if the heavens themselves tremble, a deep rumble that resonates through the air. If he were to speak now, it would echo with a thunderous resonance that would break the serenity of the forest. A primal energy coming from the pits of Angband, the very bowels of the earth.

It is also so that Annatar wishes to intimidates the remaining Windan who believe not in his words. Near everything is ready for the invasion. The Balrogs are waiting under Gothmog’s supervision, the orcs have already assembled near the shores, the boats finished construction. The Windan, to whom Mairon is going, are waiting for further instructions…

It is not a matter of months or years anymore, but days.

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The Windan take favorably to his words, as was expected. Annatar never thought otherwise. Even if his words had not been sufficient, if enough silver had not been poured within them, the presence of Draugluin would convince the most reluctant of foe.

He is sitting in the King’s study, reviewing paperwork. This, Annatar thinks to himself, is the most tedious task that ever comes with leadership. He ought to delegate, he is keenly aware of it: but to whom? Orcs? Goblins? Tevildo, who lacked the opposite thumb to hold a quill properly?

Thus it is him who is stuck in front of mountains of papers. In the case of the upcoming onslaught, it is mostly logistics. Annatar is tremendously bored by it. It is a paradox in truth: that he would rather be entirely rid of it; but trusts no other to take care of it.

His talons tap against the wood of the table. Draugluin has been left to hunt somewhere, with the strict instruction not to feed upon the wooden elves. Now this would put quite a dent in their growing alliance, Annatar fears.

The King, settled at another desk; with his own stack of paperwork, looks cautiously at Annatar. He has allowed Annatar in his office, for Annatar would not have settled for less, but Annatar can not yet ask of him to depart it. Although he hitches for it, for silence, and sweet loneliness.

“Tell me again of Valinor,” the King demands.

He has demanded more and more of it, recently. Annatar is not certain to know if it comes from curiosity or dread. Perhaps a mix of both – for he had truly woven a wonderful tale of elves enslaved by the Powers.

Annatar rests his quill on the table. He feigns annoyance, but is in truth quite relieved for this opportunity for a pause. “What do you wish to know of it?”

“It had long been promised as a land of wonders,” the King says. “Tell me of it. Tell me what had happened for the Valar to go back on their promise, to betray the trust our kin had given them.”

Annatar, assuming a carefully calculated air of grief, leaned backwards. “For the later, I can not say, o king, for I pretend not to understand the mind of the Powers. But I can tell you of the lands. The cities of Valinor are beyond mortal imagination. Towers of silver and gold reach towards the heavens, shimmering with the light of the Two Trees. Fountains of crystal waters flow through lush gardens, and the air is filled with the enchanting melodies of song. It is a place where beauty and harmony prevail.” Annatar marks a pause. “At least, it was what had been before the enslavement of our kin. Then, as suddenly as the thunder strikes the sky, the minds of the Valar changed.”

“Without any warnings?”

“Perhaps they were some that we were not able to decipher in time. All I know I that they grew weary of us, and the talks we had of sharing the wonders of those lands. We talked of returning to our ancestral lands, to bring many of our latest discoveries to you, to perhaps bring some with us, we talked of sharing, and we talked of going beyond the golden prison they had made for us. In this time, we had not realized it for what it was : a trap, honeyed in truth, but a trap all the same.”

Grief strikes the face of the Windan King. He leans forward, listening intensively. “It wounds me to think of the horror suffered by the elves,” he murmurs. “Are they shackled then? Is it manacles that our weapons can break? Or are there spells?”

“It is more of a psychological prison, o king,” Annatar pauses, allowing for his words to sink in. “For our kin knows no better. They have no way to escape, for the boats have been destroyed – and they have lost faith in themselves. The Valar can not strike you physically, for it had been forbidden by Eru Iluvatar, and they hold his words to their heart. But they can speak poison into the hearts, and they can shape the minds with carefully crafted words – making it so that the will to fight have deserted our kin. It is why our rescue of them is primordial.”

The Windan King nods, once. In the midst of the conversation with Annatar, he exudes an air of regality and curiosity. His tanned complexion speaks of a life intertwined with nature, while his silver hair cascades like a shimmering waterfall, framing his face with an otherworldly allure. His bright eyes, filled with a mix of skepticism and fascination, bore into Annatar, searching for the truth hidden behind the veil of words.

White tattoos adorn his skin, seeming to come alive with every gesture, telling stories of his people's rich heritage. Feathers delicately woven into his locks dance with each movement, adding a touch of ethereal grace to his presence. As the conversation unfolds, the Windan King's demeanor remains poised, his expression a blend of determination and a thirst for wounded knowledge, as he seeks to unravel the mysteries surrounding Valinor and the elves held captive within its mythical realm.

The Windan King leans forward, his gaze fixed intently on Annatar. "And when will your forces be ready, Annatar? We cannot afford to delay any longer."

Annatar meets the King's gaze, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Fear not, o king. Our preparations are nearing completion. We have been diligently charging the goods onto the boats, ensuring that everything is in place for our grand endeavor."

The King's anticipation rises, and he leans even closer. "Tell me, Annatar, what are these goods? What is their significance? I have seen some of the weapons you have been moving through the forest, but I know not of their use."

These goods, o King, are the means to solidify our power and dominance,” Annatar says. His eyes gleam with a calculated excitement. " They contain the resources and tools that will aid us in our conquest, ensuring our success in the face of any challenge."

The Windan King's brows furrow slightly, a mix of eagerness and concern crossing his features. "But what of the consequences, Annatar? What will be the price we pay?"

A shadow passes over Annatar's face, but his voice remains smooth and persuasive. "There may be sacrifices, Your Majesty, but the rewards will far outweigh any temporary setbacks. Trust in our cause and the strength of our alliance, for soon we shall reap the benefits of our carefully laid plans."

As the conversation continues, the Windan King's excitement becomes tempered with a sense of unease, aware that the path he treads is not without risk. Yet, driven by selflessness, he leans further into Annatar's promises, ready to embark on a journey that will shape the destiny of the elvish kin.

.

.

.

“Yes,” Melkor is saying to Naremir. Tiredly. It is important to note it. “I am aware that it is not quite what your reptilian mind must have envisioned when you decided to join me, but I would let you know that I never called for you. You came out of your own volition. Did you not?”

Fëanáro and him have long left the forest – and the insufferable swamps that lay within it. After what had seemed an eternity, they have found their way through the branches to what seemed to be a path. In sorts. Melkor was not yet certain of it, but Fëanáro had assured that the longitudinal lines in the mud had been made by the wheels of a cart, indicating that either merchants or nobility had made their way through it. It, Fëanáro had said - crossing his arms on his chest as if it brought more weight to his argument - meant that a village must be somewhere nearby.

Tired enough to comply without protesting, he had acknowledged Fëanáro’s insight.

But then Naremir had woken up from his long nap, hungry and desperate for every morsel of attention he could gather. Leading him to now, perched on Melkor’s shoulders, being mouth-fed pieces of dry meat and yet managing to complain. And it was not elvish, or Ainu complaints – those were dragons complaints, which mean high-pitched cries and much flapping of wings.

Contrarily to what Melkor would have thought, it is not annoyance that manifest most strongly on Fëanáro’s face. It is curiosity, and a strange sort of fascination for Naremir. Instinctively, Melkor tightens his grip on the dragon’s tail – no trade would be made in exchange for a Silmaril. He does not quite like this gleam in Fëanáro’s eyes.

Melkor, his voice tinged with a hint of cunning, poses a question that cuts through the conversation like a dagger. “Tell me, Fëanáro, would you trade a Silmaril, your radiant gems of immeasurable worth, for the gift of a son?”

Fëanáro’s eyes widen, his brows furrowing with incredulity. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts before responding firmly, his voice filled with unwavering conviction. “Of course not. The value of a Silmaril cannot compare to the priceless bond between a father and his child. No treasure, no matter how precious, can replace the love and joy that a son brings. How can you ask this of me?”

“Ah, Fëanáro, your answer betrays the very point I seek to make,” Melkor hums. His lips curl into a sly smile, his dark eyes gleaming with a flicker of triumph. On his shoulder, Naremir steals another morsel of dried meat, chirping in happiness. Ah, this beast. Such a greedy one. “Just as you would not trade a Silmaril for a son, so it is with me and my Dragons. With Naremir. I have seen how you look at him. They are not mere beasts, but companions, allies, and extensions of my power. Their worth cannot be measured by material possessions."

It causes Fëanáro to mark a pause, drinking in his words. “You have made them? I thought you not able of creation.”

“Not in the sense you are thinking of,” Melkor admits. Perched still on his shoulder, Naremir lets out a happy chirp at being mentioned. He understands more and more of his surroundings, as he grows. Soon enough he will be able of true speech – more than repeating the moniker he has for Melkor. “But I have reshaped them from the initial form their hroä was meant to take, yes.”

Naremir playfully snaps at an imaginary prey. Then darts his fiery eyes back to Melkor – to seek immediate approval. It earns him a sigh, and a pat on his back. “Yes,” Melkor tells him. “Congratulations for vanquishing an invisible fey.”

Another happy chirp. Smoke burst out from his nostrils.

Fëanáro’s eyes narrow, studying the dragon on Melkor’s shoulder. “I suppose their loyalty shall be undeniable. But what of their use? Did you meant them as transportation for yourself?”

They continue walking. When Fëanáro’s feet grow irritated by rubbing against the rough leather of his boots, he motions for them to stop. Wordlessly, he picks up oil from one of his pockets, rubs it against his ankle, before pocketing it once more.

Attracted by the scent, Naremir jumps from Melkor’s shoulder. He scurries over where Fëanáro sits still, now unto diligently applying the oil on his irritated skin. Fëanáro looks down, startled by the sudden presence of the creature at his feet. He chuckles softly and gently extends his hand, allowing Naremir to approach.

"Well, little one," Fëanáro murmurs, his voice filled with amusem*nt, "are you curious about this aromatic concoction?"

Naremir sniffs at Fëanáro’s ankles, his tiny nose twitching with interest. Encouraged by the dragon's curiosity, Fëanáro continues his task, rubbing the lavender oil onto his skin with practiced care. At his side, the red dragon eagerly rubs his snout against those ankles, seemingly enjoying the fragrant touch.

The smile that pulls Fëanáro’s lips up is a genuine one. And, on the contrary, Melkor watches the scene unfold with certain bafflement – bemused truly that Naremir would seek to give comfort to a foe. Well if foe Fëanáro is, truly the elf is something strange, that Melkor is not certain to name. Once true enemy, now reluctant associate.

“It seems Naremir has taken a liking to you,” Melkor comments; arching an eyebrow up. “Dragons are indeed creatures of many surprises.”

“Mmh. Perhaps it is more likely that his liking is to the oil.”

Fëanáro scratches the scales of Naremir on top of his head, and the dragon lets himself fall to the ground, rolling around to expose his red belly. Perhaps chunkier indeed than he ought to have been; as Estë had long warned; but Melkor cares not. Glaurung had been imposing in both height and width, and if Naremir wishes to follow the step of who he had once been, it is of no matter to Melkor.

As Naremir's playful nature takes center stage, his behavior begins to resemble that of a mischievous feline. Fëanáro, sitting cross-legged on the ground, is taken aback as the baby dragon arches his back, tail swaying back and forth, his eyes fixated on a nearby object. With quick, agile movements, he pounces on a loose strand of Fëanáro’s hair, playfully pawing at it. Fëanáro lets out a laugh, then, momentarily forgetting his own scowling as he watches the dragon's antics.

"You have the spirit of a curious cat, Naremir," Fëanáro remarks, his voice filled with amusem*nt. "What adventures do you seek in this vast realm?"

Just as Melkor will answer, unimpressed, that Naremir is not yet able of full speech, his attention is diverted by the distant sound of approaching hooves. He turns his head left, both of their gaze searching the source of the commotion.

Then, suddenly, through the dense foliage, a group of horses – adorned with vibrant harnesses for a cart trailing after them – emerges onto the road.

Melkor and Fëanáro exchange a glance, wordless affirmation passing between them. One way or another, they will find their way unto that cart. Naremir lets out a squeak and jumps on Fëanáro’s head, nestling over his hair.

There is a merchant ahead of this cart. His eyes widen when he spots them both. He guides the horses closer, expertly maneuvering them to a halt. The gaze of the merchant scans them from head to toe – and then decides them Lords, for the regal of their attire, and the all too familiar sneer tugging Melkor’s lips down.

"Well, isn't this a fortunate encounter," the merchant says, his voice filled with genuine surprise. "Noble lords such as yourselves, traversing these roads by foot. How can I be of service?"

Fëanáro steps forward, his eyes glinting with a shrewd determination. "We find ourselves in need of transport to the nearest town, good merchant. Your arrival with these horses could be a fortuitous solution."

Melkor lets him talk to his fill. He wishes not to exhaust his saliva and energy when he knows Fëanáro is more than able to trade for them a place on that cart. He tugs once more at his collar, growing quite frustrated with it. The more time passes, the more he wishes to claw at his own neck to get it off.

It is incredibly frustrating.

Meanwhile, Fëanáro and the merchant find themselves in a series of quick words and negotiation. Melkor watches it with rapt fascination. It is always intriguing; and quite the sight, to see Fëanáro deep into his ‘convincing others’ state of mind.

He had witnessed it a few times, of course; an eternity ego. Back when he had assisted to councils of Finwë, disguising himself amongst the crowd, murmuring words of poison into the mind of the Lords. But he never tires of it, not really.

After a few moments, the merchant finally agrees to make a detour for them – bringing them to the nearest town. Fëanáro wastes no time, climbing unto the cart to come sit near the amphoras the merchant is carrying. He takes one sniff, then laughs, quite joyously for an elf so grim in Melkor’s presence.

“Honeyed wine? We have fallen on someone having good taste as well as heart.”

Melkor rolls his eyes, climbs as well into the cart. Finds himself a comfortable spot, throwing his boots out of his feet – despite the nose-wrinkling Fëanáro makes.

Soon he is lulled into pleasant daydreaming, as the wind rustles through the trees and the rhythmic clatter of hooves fills the air. Fëanáro has since long come closer to the merchant, his eternal need for quenching his curiosity causing him to ask question after question.

Noticing Melkor's weariness, Naremir seizes the opportunity to join him in slumber. With nimble movements, the little dragon hops down from his perch and carefully positions himself next to Melkor.

He playfully nudges his head against Melkor's chin, seeking his attention and affection. Of course, he does. When has he not? Melkor would swear that he has a house cat in the making, and not a dragon mighty enough to have ensnared Turin into immobility, and sacked Nargothrond in its entirety.

Melkor stirs slightly, his sleep-addled mind registering Naremir's presence. A roll of his eyes as he realizes the dragon's intentions. Nonetheless, he is quite used from such shenanigans from one another creature – whose preferred fana was a feline, and always seemed to find Melkor’s lap perfectly fitting for a nap. He welcomes the small creature's companionship and shifts slightly to offer a more comfortable spot.

Naremir, taking advantage of the newfound space, settles himself against Melkor's side. He snuggles close, finding warmth and security in it. With a contented sigh, the dragon closes his eyes and begins to doze off, his breath synchronized with Melkor's steady rhythm.

.

.

.

It is a few hours only before they reach the outskirt of a town. From their position, it is Fëanáro and the merchant who see it first: great walls of stone, standing tall and sturdy around the town, two guards standing in front of a bridge.

Fëanáro’s gaze is filled with awed curiosity as he takes in the sight. He nearly wakes Melkor to share with him the view he witnesses – before remembering himself.

“Is free passage granted?” he instead asks the merchant, as the horses begin to make way onto the bridge.

The merchant opines. “For those with permit. I will speak for you, but you must keep quiet, my lord.”

He gets himself a silent nod, Fëanáro leaning back in his seat as they begin to approach the gates. Those are nicely made, he remarks to himself, giving an appreciative glance to the craftmanship at work. Made to endure rather than aestheticism, which is for him the most important of things. Most certainly, a talented artisan of the craft could mingle both practicality and beauty; but for those who had at heart a purpose… There is little use to prioritize splendor over resilience. On the contrary, he had more often than not chastised his apprentices when trying to do just this thing.

How many times some of them had been over-eager: launching themselves into something ornated and complicated just for the sake of it, neglecting to take into account the resistance of their piece.

Fortunately, he thinks, his sons had never gone towards those mistakes. Even when Turko and Nelyo had been young enough to try their hand at the forge, wanting to do just like him, they had done the steps- Well, no, not entirely. Nelyo certainly followed the steps, Turko… had too been stricken by over-eagerness. That is, until he had begun to make for himself his own arrows and bows, and learned the mandatory art of patience.

Remarkable how Ñolofinwë believed him unable of it, when craftmanship required nothing but patience. Yet another striking proof of Ñolofinwë hypocrisy. For long had he lamented Fëanáro’s lack of it: how he seemed to fall prey to his worst instincts; only for the sentence to be a twisted portrayal of his own self. Shot back at Fëanáro’s self so it could not be applied to him, when in truth, it was.

He pinches his lips, but keeps otherwise silent. Next to him, the guards have begun inspecting the content of the cart – but Naremir’s head is hidden under bags of rice and grain, and Melkor fast asleep.

Before Fëanáro is taken out of his thoughts, the guards nod for the merchant to pass; and the gates open before their eyes. His eyes, since Melkor seemingly decided to indulge in his own sloth – when he was Ainu, and needed sleep not.

Fëanáro passes a hand over his face. He remembered a time in his youth when the world outside his window had beckoned with its untamed beauty, whispering secrets that stirred a sense of wonder within him. For he, trapped in a palace where every day seemed another play at stake, where every day was spent between honeyed words of Lords and whimpery lies, the great unknown had had the savor of salvation.

A place of uncharted territories, where vibrant hues painted the landscapes and unseen tales lingered in every passing breeze. Oh, how he had longed to venture into that realm and explore its mysteries, to feel the earth beneath his feet and taste the sweetness of untrodden paths. To be the one to discover them first; to wander where no elf had ever wandered; and find himself alone in the great wilderness of Aman.

Nobody else but his thoughts; no simpering, no lies, no sweet honeyed words who spoke of a truth and thought of another.

How his thoughts had wandered then! How he had been contemplating what lay beyond the confines of his sheltered existence. Maiar of all kinds spoke of the grand adventures they had undertaken, their tales weaving intricate narratives that painted vivid landscapes within his mind. There, apprentice in the forges of Aulë, he had listened intently, drinking in their words, allowing his imagination to sculpt the unseen vistas into palpable images.

And so, his yearning for the unknown had grown with each passing day, fueling an insatiable desire to step outside the boundaries of familiarity. He had yearned to venture into uncharted realms, to taste the thrill of the unexplored. His Atar had called it wanderlust, a restlessness that tugged at his core, urging him to break free from the chains of routine and embark on a journey of self-discovery.

Indis had called it the fire of his mother; in yet another attempt to appease to his heart by building bridge between him and his Amillë.

Fëanáro had called it dissatisfaction, spitting the word. He had not been proud of himself that day; for he had seen the ever joyous smile of his Atar slip, but still his lips had uttered the word, still had he gripped it tightly. Dissatisfaction it was, and no honeyed lies could hide it forever.

But where would he go? The possibilities were limitless, like stars scattered across an endless sky. Would he traverse vast mountain ranges, their majestic peaks reaching toward the heavens? Or perhaps he would wander through dense forests, where ancient trees whispered secrets of forgotten realms. The ocean, with its rhythmic waves and boundless depths, beckoned him to explore its mysteries. And there were cities, bustling with life and stories waiting to be unraveled, each with its unique tapestry of cultures and histories.

So had he wandered, Nerdanel at his sides – for she had been the only one to welcome his desire positively. She had not called it restlessness, nor ill compared it to his Amillë, she had not called it anything.

She had packed her own belongings, and laughed, when he had asked her what is it she was doing.

“Do you truly believe I would not join you?” she had asked; stupor mingling with amused exasperation. “And what, Fëanáro, dutifully wait for your return? I say go if your heart yearns for it, but do not begrudge me if my heart follows yours.”

Sometimes, Fëanáro loves her so deeply that he believes her a curse upon his fëa. So delicately woven into his heart and veins that trying to pull her off would ravage his own hroä. Gone so deep into his mind and existence, that the separation would only lead to madness.

“Here we are, my lord,” the merchant suddenly says – and once more the barrier between his thoughts and the world ahead shatters, leaving him breathless for half a second.

Fëanáro rises his eyes to the view.

Timber-framed buildings line the streets, their aged facades adorned with intricate carvings and faded paintings depicting scenes of local lore. Smoke lazily rises from chimneys, casting a soft haze over the picturesque surroundings.

Market stalls are scattered along the main thoroughfare, their colorful canopies sheltering a vibrant array of goods. Jewelers display glittering trinkets, while blacksmiths hammer skillfully upon anvils, fashioning sturdy tools and ornate armor. Fragrant aromas waft through the air, tempting passersby with the savory scents of freshly baked bread, spiced meats, and bubbling stews.

Pedestrians dressed in rich fabrics and flowing garments pass by, their footsteps accompanied by the jingling of jewelry and the rustle of heavy cloaks. Narrow alleys branch off from the main street, leading to hidden courtyards and charming taverns. Each corner holds a mystery waiting to be unraveled, every stone a piece of the town's intricate tapestry.

He smiles then, at the sight that greets him.

“Melkor,” Fëanáro calls. He needs not to rise his voice. Melkor is not truly sleeping; but has forced himself into a slumber he can wake at any point from. Here strikes again the laziness of the Powers; that they would not be inflicted by the same low needs of Incarnates but seek nonetheless to have them wrought upon them. All the time Fëanáro could spare if he needed not sleep; all the productivity that could be put to his advantage…

It dawns on him, more often than not; that Ainur should not be based on birth but meritocracy. If one contributed enough to the general progress and improvement of the society, then he or she ought to be rewarded in equal compensation. Instead, they are plagued with Powers incarnating the idea itself of apathy. Instead, they do nothing.

Melkor opens an eye, and Fëanáro’s voice is tight when he speaks again. “Pull yourself together. We have arrived.”

.

.

.

Finding an inn willing to overlook the dragon on Melkor’s shoulder is less of a hassle than they would have thought. Indeed, it seems that in those lands, a pocket full of gold is enough to overcome the reluctance they might have against their… peculiarities.

Thus, a flash of a few coins and the best table is offered to them – on a corner where they might look their fill to others, but where the shadows crown them enough to escape such returned gaze. Melkor gets Naremir out of the bag he has sprung into, and the dragon is quick to slide under the table: his only presence manifested by the red tail curling around Melkor’s ankle.

He wonders what he has done wrong with his dragons to be so… desperate for contact; and affection. He has not raised ducklings – that they would trail after him as if seeing their Amillë in him; but well. Melkor does not lose hope. They shall grow; and get rid of this overeager want to be on him at all times.

Naremir, undoubtedly, is the worst of them. Although he admits to being quite impressed with his tracking abilities. A hunter in his blood and genes, although he seldomly acts on it.

Finally, Melkor does take notice of his surroundings. Well theirs- but Fëanáro is seemingly fascinated by a menu, inspecting it as if it held all the secrets of the universe. Around them, the air is filled with the sweet aroma of freshly baked bread and honeyed mead; mingling with the fragrances of bouquets of wildflowers adorning every corner. Soft music, played by skilled elven minstrels, resonates through the room, creating a melodious symphony that carries tales unknown to their ears.

Inside, the tavern is alive with elvish activity. Mellor nearly feels cornered. Elven maidens in flowing gowns glide gracefully among the tables, serving crystal goblets filled with shimmering nectar and platters laden with delectable treats. For a brief second, it reminds of that nesi, who had come inside his fortress to deceive him, to steal from him. Lúthien; daughter of Melian; with her Song and her Dance. Even their laughter sound like hers, akin to the tinkling of silver bells, harmonizing with the mirthful conversations of the patrons.

The tables, crafted from polished oak, are smooth and sturdy, inviting the weary traveler to rest and partake in elvish hospitality. Soft candlelight bathes the room in a warm, golden glow, casting dancing shadows upon the intricately woven tablecloths, where floral motifs intertwine with elven runes.

All in all, it is very elvish.

Unsurprisingly, Melkor finds it sickeningly sweet.

He slides a glance to Fëanáro. Nearly lets out a laugh upon noticing his facial expression – as if having bitten into a sour lemon.

“Yes?” he asks, leaning forward.

Fëanáro’s lips twitch. “It is very… nature-oriented.”

Nature-oriented…?

He steals the menu from Fëanáro’s hands – near barks out a second laugh upon looking at what they offer. Ah, ah, indeed! Cooked snake on its bed of steamed vegetables, centipedes with potatoes mash, bowls of ants, and co*ckroaches on a stick. Melkor is near curious of the later. He does not eat, but it sounds far too repulsive for him not to try it.

“Might you find something a little more suited to your tastes,” Melkor snickers. “There will be no servants to serve you your favourite meals, Fëanáro.”

Fëanáro swiftly steals the menu back from him. “Nor any Maia to obey to your whims.” A pause. “Or any Maia to steal, to fit more the truth. Tell me, Melkor, why is it that you have none made especially for yourself; that you have to resort to theft? Is it so that Eru Ilúvatar himself has not seen fit to give you company? Unsurprising.”

He dismisses the matter with a hand. “Please, you do sound very redundant in your insults.”

“There is little need to come seek other elsewhere when those work already very well.” Fëanáro says, a gleam of defiance in his eyes. “I shall wait for the answer. I am curious of what self-reasoning have you made on the matter.”

Oh he has, Melkor thinks, gritting his teeth. And indeed, Fëanáro has marked a point he does not wish for him to realize he has. He is well aware of this… lack of Ainur created for him. Certainly, he would not wish for it – for it is far more agreeable to know that some have been made for others and chose him nonetheless – but he is a vindicative being, and the principle irritates him.

Another consequence of the Discord, when truly, Melkor has done nothing but a gift to Eru Allfather. The Songs had been perfect, dangerously so. Too much perfection leads to stagnation, and too much stagnation to self-destruction.

His attention is diverted to the innkeeper; looking like a true Avari with silver-streaked hair and ageless features, who now approaches them. His mission seems to be tonight that no guest shall be unattended, and he smiles already before coming to their level.

Out of spite, Melkor orders the co*ckroaches spiked-thing. And Fëanáro returns him a look, ordering the cooked snake.

Hesitation passes on the innkeeper’s face, but he nods – adds them two pints of their local mead. He does not walk especially faster when he leaves, but something in the tension of his back indicates he wants to.

Melkor returns his attention to Fëanáro. “Enough,” he says, tapping his fingers against the table. He tugs with his other hand at the great collar around his throat. It hitches. “You may despise me, but there is a stronger force at play – and I have not brought you here for snipes and jabs. I know where to find Mairon, but I fear the orcs might not recognize me – and we have to pass through them to reach him.”

“Orcs?” Fëanáro asks. “I am unfamiliar with the term.”

He would be, indeed.

“Creatures of my design,” Melkor says. “Terrible in wrath, and even more terrible to withhold. Twisted versions of elves, if you would like.”

A pause. Fëanáro contemplates Melkor in silence, his sharp eyes betraying none of his thoughts. It can be terribly unsettling sometimes.

“For which purpose?” he now asks, as quiet as the flow of a river on a day of spring.

“Which purpose need be when a race is created? I made them not to be pleasant to the eye, but for their arms to wield weapons mightier than them, for their thighs to be sturdy enough for days of marching and weeks of fighting. I made them to be resilient in both hroä and spirit: and for their hands to slay who ever shall stands between them and their order.”

“And you admit this freely,” Fëanáro says. “To mine eyes and ears: when you know that I could speak of my defiance for you, and have Aman in its entirety chase you out of it.”

Melkor continues to rap his fingers against the table. Beneath it, Naremir is gnawing at the wood. “Of course I say it freely,” he smiles. “You might be the only elf of Aman aware that I am not as kind as Annatar had pretended to be. I do the honor of being truthful to you. I assure you that it is even rarer than you can imagine. The orcs were made for battle, such is the truth. You have known even before leaving Aman that my intentions did not run in the same direction as the Powers.” He tilts his head to the side. “You make shields and swords, Fëanáro. Do they not serve the same purpose as my orc? Does it mean that your use of it will be mandatorily directed against those around you?”

“It does not fits the same format. The comparison is rather ill-fitted.”

“Is it, in truth? Are my orcs not a superior version of shields and swords? An extension of my arm?”

“Hardly,” Fëanáro says. His eyes are still as sharp as before, showing nothing of the possible trouble churning in his stomach. He passes the flat of his hand upon the wood, unblinking. “I would say them a perversion of nature, Melkor. Do you know why?”

“I thought you less tight on the morals imposed by the Valar-”

“No,” Fëanáro cuts him off. “Ever since the Incarnates have awakened in Cuivenen, we have made weapons. We have made them for the hunt, for the fishing; and we have made them as defense. I begrudge you not for creating weapons of your own – why would you not, if you have the means? It comes instinctively. They are a perversion for another reason. If made for nothing but fight; absolutely nothing else; this is a race wont to go extinct.”

Melkor’s corner of his lips twitch. “Why is that?”

The innkeeper cuts them at this instant, bringing their mead and meals. He smiles at them, a warmth that is not reciprocated – occupied that Fëanáro and Melkor are at considering the other.

Both take a sip at the mead. Melkor is surprised to find it quite pleasant. He rarely imbibe, if not for miruvore, but this is adequate enough. Now, the co*ckroaches brochettes… He grins at the thought.

Fëanáro takes a moment to collect his thoughts, his gaze fixed on Melkor as he responds to his question. “If weapons are created solely for the purpose of fighting, with no other function or purpose, then it signifies a race that is consumed by conflict. Such a race, solely focused on warfare and destruction, is bound to eventually bring about its own demise. The essence of survival lies not just in battle, but in the ability to adapt, to create, and to nurture.”

He takes another sip of mead, once more his features betraying nothing of his inner thoughts of it. His tone remains firm as he continues, “Nature itself teaches us that diversity and balance are crucial for the long-term existence of any species. When a race becomes solely fixated on war and conquest, neglecting other aspects of life, it loses its connection to the natural order. It becomes a perversion, disconnected from the intricate web of life.”

Melkor's lips curl into a slight smile, amused by Fëanáro's argument. Another innkeeper's interruption momentarily distracts them, and they send him away with a flicker of their wrist, but their focus quickly returns to their discussion.

Thus, he raises an eyebrow as he takes a bite of the co*ckroach brochettes, his grin widening. "So, you believe that a race solely driven by warfare would ultimately destroy itself, then? That they would be unable to sustain their existence?"

Fëanáro nods. He pauses for a second, searching in Melkor’s eyes for any sign of confirmation or dissent. "Yes, precisely. Conflict is an inherent part of life, but it must be balanced with creation, cooperation, and growth. When war becomes the sole purpose, it consumes everything in its path, leaving little room for anything else. It is a self-destructive path."

Well. Melkor takes a thoughtful sip of his mead, considering Fëanáro's words. He sets the glass down and leans back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Fëanáro.

“I would argue that it is the hand that wields the weapon, not the weapon itself, that determines its purpose,” Melkor counters. “If the orcs are guided and managed by a higher power, they can be directed towards a specific goal without turning their conflict upon themselves.” He pauses for a moment, his voice taking on a more mocking tone. "Consider the armies of Valinor, for instance. They are armed and trained for battle, yet they are not consumed by an insatiable desire for destruction. They follow orders, uphold a code of honor, and fight for a greater purpose. It is the guiding hand of the Valar and their commanders that ensures they act in a disciplined manner. The orcs can be shaped in a similar way. If they are given purpose, structure, and leadership, they can be powerful tools in the face of conflict. It is the responsibility of those who wield them to ensure they are used wisely and not left to their own devices."

Fëanáro narrows his eyes, contemplating Melkor's argument. He takes a moment before responding, his voice firm. "I still maintain that a singular focus on warfare, without a broader sense of purpose, will lead to an imbalance and eventual downfall." He takes a sip of his mead, gathering his thoughts. "The true strength lies in diversity, in finding harmony between the different aspects of our existence. While the orcs may serve a purpose in certain conflicts, I believe that a world where violence is not the sole solution is a world worth striving for."