Story [Tolkien] "So Lights the Night" | Epic Ficlet Collection; The Silmarillion - LotR; Ensemble Cast

Title: "So Lights the Night: The Revised Tales of This Taste of Shadow"
Author: Mira_Jade

Fandom: Tolkien's Legendarium
Genre: Everything!
Time Line: Everywhere!
Characters: Everyone! (See the Index for more details)

Summary: For the Shadow cast upon Arda Marred, there was ever a light to match . . .


Notes: Hello, all! It's my pleasure to welcome you to what is a very personal project for me. Over ten years ago, I wrote a collection of Tolkien stories - ranging from drabbles to vignettes to novelettes - called This Taste of Shadow, fleshing out the events of The Silmarillion and The Histories of Middle-earth, with forays into The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings and beyond into the Fourth Age. That collection ended up being ~450k words, and, needless to say, its writing very much shaped me into the author I am today. So, in honor of this month's 12th anniversary of This Taste of Shadow, I decided to celebrate with a revamp!

However, this will not simply be a reposting of my old work, but rather a revised, chronological edition of the collection - along with entirely new writing in-between to flesh out the overarching tale even more so. (I can't say to completion, because only just imagine the word count then. ) With the wisdom of hindsight, there are stories in the original collection that are painfully amateur and/or OOC; stories that are unnecessarily redundant; stories that require a fair amount of overhaul; and others that just need a little bit of TLC for how well they've surprisingly withstood the test of time - or, at least, so they have in my opinion. This should address all those issues and end as a complete, linear story, properly closing a chapter on one my dearest fanfiction ventures to date.

(As a bonus, too, I thought it might be interesting for anyone who knows LotR, even just from the films, but maybe not the entire story, if this starts at the very beginning and negates the need for any prior knowledge. )

That said, updates to this thread may be intermittent at times, as my current writing projects will take first priority. Yet, slowly but surely, we'll get there. To anyone who stops in along the way, I welcome you, and hope that you enjoy!


Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, but for the words. I am just a humble traveler, wandering through the Professor's world.

---

"For not we but those who come after will make the legends of our time. The green earth, say you? That is a mighty matter of legend, though you tread it under the light of day!"

-- Aragorn, from "The Two Towers: The Riders of Rohan"​

---

So Lights the Night: The Revised Tales of This Taste of Shadow
​

Part I: Tales From Before the Sun and Moon

I. "In My Name You Will Create"

• Part I | The Springtide of Arda | Sauron & Melkor; Aulë, Saruman, Manwë/Varda, Tulkas
• Part II | The Springtide of Arda | Sauron & Melkor; Tulkas, Cwildred

~ MJ

 

Author's Notes: We're going to start, as all things start, in the beginning - with the Music of Eä and the fall of one Maia, in particular. This is almost entirely new writing, except for the section Seek, which has undergone changes of its own.

Spoiler: Background Notes and Definitions

The Vala(r): The spiritual beings who aided Eru (God) with the creation of the world.
The Maia(r): The spiritual 'helpers' of the Valar.
The Ainu(r): The combined Valar and Maiar.
Fana(r): The physical bodies the Ainur take.
Fëa(r): The incorporeal spirit of a being.

Eä: The universe created by the Song.
Arda: The world as a whole, within Eä.
Almaren: The first dwelling place of the Valar in Arda.
The Two Lamps: The first "sun" and "moon", set on massive pillars.

Aulë: The Smith of the Valar, concerned with the physical earth and craft. Návatar is another name for Aulë, which means "Dwarf-father", as he was the creator of the Dwarves. (Creating new life was a blasphemy, yet Aulë wanted true children to teach his craft to. He created the Dwarves with his own spirit, and they were bound to his will without true life of their own. When he realized that he had angered Eru by acting beyond his purview, he went to destroy the Dwarves with his hammer, and they shied away from him - which is where their stature originates. Yet Eru took pity and stayed his hand. Eru gave the Seven Dwarf Fathers true life, and adopted them as the Second-born Children - with the First being the Elves.) Aulë was the most like Melkor in thought, and Melkor was ever jealous of his work, more so than any other Vala.
Curumo: A Maia of Aulë, better known as Saruman.
Manwë: The Vala of Heaven and King of Arda, concerned with the air and winds. In Middle-earth, the Eagles are his messengers and bearers of his will. Melkor and he were brothers at the beginning of creation, and Tolkien wrote that he never gave up on his love for Melkor, as his heart could never fully comprehend evil in any way.
Melyanna: A Maia of Estë, better known as Melian.
Olórin: A Maia of Manwë, better known as Gandalf.
Oromë: The Vala of the Hunt.
Tulkas: The Strongman of the Valar.
Varda: The Vala of the Stars and Queen of Arda. The Elves venerate her above any other Vala. Īthē is said to be her unspoken name, which I like to use as Manwë's name for her, if not her original name in Valarin, since Tolkien only defined a few names for the Powers as such.
Yavanna: The Vala of the Earth, concerned with all flora and fauna. After beseeching Eru for his power, she created the Ents when Aulë, her husband, created the Dwarves, out of fear for her forests, as the Dwarves would need wood to feed their forges.

Melkor (Morgoth): The Vala of Discord, Chaos, and Change. (If I had to define his powers, at least. ) He was the firstborn of the Valar, and the strongest. He, above all else, desired the power of creating life. When that was denied to him by Eru, he poured his discord into the Song that created the world, marring Arda with his essence. As such, the entire world of Arda is Melkor's "Ring". He thus considered Arda as his dominion and endeavored to destroy the works of his siblings, which he viewed as lesser. Many Maiar viewed him as the rightful ruler of the world, and abandoned their own Valar to enter into his service, including . . .

Mairon (Sauron): A Maia of Aulë. He was the strongest of Aulë's Maiar, and at first faithful in resisting Melkor's overtures. Yet he was dismayed by the Marring of Arda, and became disillusioned with what he perceived as the stagnation, and thus weakness, of the Valar in their oversight. Eventually, he allowed himself to be seduced to Melkor's side. While Melkor wanted to unmake the world, Mairon wanted to order and rule it - though, in the beginning, he solely served Melkor's ends out of devotion and a true adoration (I quote Tolkien there), and it was his cunning and attention to detail that saw Melkor's raw power and strength of will channeled into fully realized action.

Sulfur Flame: This is a very small side note, but when I describe Melkor, this is what I have in mind. Enjoy your fun fact for the day!

In short: in the beginning, the world of Arda was sang into being by Eru (God, loosely), his children the Valar, and their servants the Maiar. Melkor was firstborn of the Valar, and the strongest. He brought discord into the world - marring it - out of a desire to dominate all creation. Many of the Maiar were swayed to his side, including Mairon of the Vala Aulë, who would someday be better known as Sauron . . . (Also, to note, if you look at no other definition under the spoiler tag: Olórin is Gandalf's original name, as a Maia of Manwë, and Curumo is Saruman's original name, as another Maia of Aulë.)

This story will be divided into four TBD parts.

Enjoy!

(Oh, and to disclaim, my title is taken from Les Friction's Dark Matter . . . you know, for reasons. )

---

I. “In My Name You Will Create”
(The Springtide of Arda | Sauron & Melkor; Aulë, Saruman, Manwë/Varda, Tulkas)​

Sung

In the time before time, you are not you, but we.

Bade by the Father, voices sing a Song of creation, with each individual refrain only adding to the glory of the whole.

And we agree that the harmony is beautiful.

Not like the First Theme, not when -

- yet, with a sharp clarion of enmity, That Voice returns, and begins to sing, rising above the unified whole.

(And the Song falters;

fractures;

fragments;

melds as one new imperfect arrangement;

just the same as before.)

We become you, and you know displeasure for the sound – is there even such a thing as anger and aggravation? Yes; there is, for He has Sung it so. It is something ugly – and that too was new – amidst the previously unmarred beauty of the Music; chaos amongst order; a variation from the perfection of the world the Ainur strove to birth.

And so passed the Second Theme.

Upon the Third, you do not know if it is His Song that is wrong, or the Song your own mouth continues to sing – for the power of his voice is something that you think may be -

- he knows is -

Yet you shy away from the unfamiliar division of that thought, and fade to become we again. This time, the Father does not silence the Eldest; instead, the Father allows both songs to be sung, together, interwoven as one. You do not understand, but still you raise your voice as bade – as we know to sing – until -

in one chord,

deeper than the abyss,

higher than the firmament

- the Music ceased.

“Eä!” the Father proclaimed. “Let these things be!”

At long last, You open your eyes as I -

- and Mairon (you recognize the note your Vala bestowed upon you as me) saw with dismay the marred world the Song had birthed. It was an imperfect thing, he frowned to consider, even as the sound of His voice continued to echo – and then the Eldest (the one who'd named himself Melkor; Might and Foe and Darkness) sank down into the shadows of the World, there to claim for his very own.



Stoke

Following the clash of Powers against Power in the Primordial Days, Arda, at long last, came into its Spring.

And it was decided that, with Spring, should come Light.

In pursuit of such a great undertaking, the remaining Ainur (with the Eight now Seven, and far too many misguided Maiar having gone the way of the Foe) gathered together to shine that Light. Great would its radiance be, they decided, if mingled over Almaren alone – for Melkor had yet to surrender his claim to the whole, and his power ever reigned beyond the Isle of the Valar. His evil now rested, festering rather than bleeding from new wounds, yet they knew better than to tempt the Dark by chasing the shadows from his realm.

At least, for now.

Yet he had no cause for such ruminations, not then, and so he pushed the thoughts from his mind. Instead, Mairon took his place, first amongst his siblings, in order to aid with the construction of the great Lamp that Aulë shaped from the raw earth. Rather than bearing the hallowed construct on the back of his spirit – as the lesser Aulënduri did – Mairon took his place at Aulë’s right hand, mirroring Curumo on his left, and kept up a steady flow of magma for their master to craft.

Mairon knew pride for the honor bestowed upon him – for pride was the note of the Song he yet clearly heard, above all else. To show his Vala that his trust was well-deserved, the stream of molten earth that passed through his hands was white-hot and pure (far more so than Curumo managed – and even, a distant voice whispered, the likes of which Aulë himself could summon) and eager for the shaping. His fana then was not fana so much as a myriad hands and tongues of wings and an ever watchful eye, just as Aulë at once dominated the horizon as the mountains and shone as a singular pillar of light – burning hotter than all matter in Eä but for the stars themselves.

When the time came for the Valar to rest from their labors, it was upon him to keep his master’s work from cooling – with even more hands and a gaze unblinking from the foundation of the earth to the boundary of the heavens. In full trust, Aulë took on his typically favored form, and reclined on the silvery grass between Tulkas and Manwë. There, he drowsily closed his eyes, even as Varda ceaselessly continued to inspect the bowl above from her summit in the night sky.

(For his part, Mairon kept his gaze respectfully lowered from Varda’s notice. He had never felt wholly at ease before the Queen of the Valar – nor had he since the Music's resolution – as her starlight ever seemed to burn in a way fire itself did not.)

Yet Aulë could never be truly idle, and Mairon felt his attention turn to his efforts. That sense of pride stoked and leapt to feed from his Vala, rekindling his strength anew. Then, the blacksmith commented to the warring figure at his side: “I never understood why That One turned aside Maiar of his own, for I can imagine no world without them.”

“I never desired Maiar for myself,” Tulkas shrugged. “That alone, perhaps I understand of the Foe.”

Aulë huffed, causing the grasses to ripple in a warm, dry breeze. “That is because you too are a brute,” he countered, if with affection. “You have grown far too used to your solitude.”

"What you call solitude, I better dub peace – and without constantly giving myself away as if from a sieve held to my soul. Truly, but I shudder for the thought."

“In might, he was once the greatest of us. Power was naught his concern,” Manwë murmured – with the Lord of Heaven bowing his head to consider the brother he once had, when it was just they two alone amongst all creation. “Melkor would have a host of his own, but only if created by his own hand. It grieves me to imagine what he could have achieved in concert with us, rather than opposition, even as a counterpoint – for I believe that creating for the benefit of others would sate his desires far more so than his current hunger now consumes. Yet that, Melkor could never understand.”

Only rarely did any of the Ainur call That One anything but Foe or Might or Darkness, for names ever held a power of their own. Naught did, but for their lord, and the very air around them seemingly shivered for the syllables. Mairon felt the sound resonate between his spirit and his chosen raiment, flickering as one then did for the other, waxing and waning as a living flame in performance of his duties.

“You have always been overly kind in heart – sentimental, even,” Tulkas said, even as he inclined his head with the respect due his king. “Now that the Song is sung, I am happy to eternally leave the desire to create to the likes of you, Návatar – for you have a want enough for children for all of us.”

“The Dwarves I may truly call my own, but my Maiar are both more and less than what you dub children – they are part of me, yes, but they are, first and foremost, my vassals – tools as useful to me as the hammer in my hand, and extensions of my will.”

For a moment, his hands stilled, and Mairon tilted the head he yet bore from his fana. This was not the first time his master had described his servants as such, for that was their purpose – his purpose -

his reason for existence;

his role within the Song;

his rightful place in the Order the Father had established;

and he took pride in his place.

(Did he not?)

For how could a Maia ever think higher than a Vala – how could they even exist without a Vala of their very own?

(He had no desire to ever know.)

“The Foe understands that much, unfortunately,” Tulkas scoffed. “How many of your Maiar has he absconded with now? He ever hunts for tools, far more so than he cares for fealty or true adoration.”

“Those gleaned from my halls by the Dark are beneath my notice,” Aulë’s voice hardened for the first. “They are as the slag cast from the purest gold – and nowhere near the likes of, say, my Admirable One.”

For Aulë's words, Mairon felt Manwë’s attention fixed upon him like a cool wind. Far above, Varda too shared her husband’s notice, and the cold heat of starlight caught over the red-hot earthglow he yet held in stasis for his master.

Until -

“Mairon, where is your mind?”

Startled for the rebuke – drawn as if from the bellows of the forges in ire, and all the more scalding after speaking in praise only moments before – Mairon saw where he’d allowed the flame of his hands to bank. His eye had blinked, and a black spot had cooled on the intricate filigree covering the Lamp stem in answer.

Immediately, his spirit flared anew. “Forgive me, my lord,” Mairon's entire fëa rippled in penitence – and was thus so absolved.

. . . and yet, no matter how he concentrated, the blight on the Lamp still remained.



Seek

They called the season Spring, yet it was to be but a season, as all seasons were.

In the time since the First War, his siblings’ vigilance had waned. Even Tulkas turned weary on his guard, and blinked against the appeal of slumber. On a night when his eyes fell closed, Melkor cast himself as a shadow, flickering between the distant places of the earth, where the hallowed light of the Lamps did not reach.

Soon, he allowed himself the indulgence of anticipation – soon would he turn his attention to the Light, but not yet. He would not strike too soon, not before his forces were yet equal to the ends he sought.

Thus, towards the fulfillment of his will, he flickered as a wraith through Aulë's halls, casting his presence like a net, calling those of like soul forward as he flew through the belly of the blacksmith's forge. To those unworthy who perceived the weight of his might, they passed it off as nothing more than a terrible thought in the unwaking hours; a fell chill in the dead of the night.

The work of Aulë was done for the day – with the Vala seeing no need to work as ceaselessly as he once had, when there were yet mountains to wrought and valleys to set, over and over and over again as Melkor cast down what his siblings rebuilt. The great forges had all but emptied, with only two of his brother's Maiar remaining to see to tasks of their own. Curumo first he recognized, a servant whom Aulë spoke of well enough, but did not draw his interest long enough to linger.

Yet, for the second, Melkor paused, his curiosity drawn. Strong hammer-falls danced against a white-hot fold of steel upon the anvil, the rhythm seemingly resounding in Melkor's chest, even without a body to hold such a pulse. He gazed on, drawn by the Maia attending his craft, shaping what he distantly recognized as armor, if ceremonial in shape. Where Curumo was white and silver – frost on frozen steel – the other was a flame, with braided hair the color of molten copper and catlike eyes, all liquid gold and wreathed by fiery sclera, a stare fit to rival the Flame Imperishable he had first sought in the time before time.

Mairon, Aulë had named this one – the Admirable, first in lore of the earth-smith's house, and jewel of the blacksmith Vala's collection of spirit followers.

Entranced, Melkor drew near, joining the shadows to listen, and heard . . .

“Despite what our lord Manwë has decreed,” the first said aloud, “I misbode an impossible war yet to come – not indefinitely will what we call Spring last in peace.”

“And so it must be,” Mairon neutrally gave, his attention better taken by manipulating the red-hot metal with his ember-glowing hands, working with careful precision. “Tulkas is a blunt-force instrument. His might may have given the Dark pause, yet you heard the discord in the Song, just the same as I did. He will not indulge a retreat for long.”

Melkor startled – for he too well-recognized that voice from the Music. This particular voice had sang against him, yes – but he had sang where far too many of the weak fools around him had fallen silent, uncertain as for how to resolve the melody as it unfolded. Yet, that voice had hesitated, if only at first; even now, Melkor remembered singing into the notes between the notes left empty.

“Many are those of flame who have joined his cause. Some from Oromë's fold have joined, as well, to say nothing of our own ranks,” Curumo’s voice was yet shaped in consideration – testing the waters. Melkor could taste his curiosity, like salt upon the skin.

“Be wary of treason, Curumo, even in supposition,” came Mairon's reply. The words held a rebuke, but his voice was level – even disinterested. (And yet.) “The Dark may be first of the Father's children, yet he lacks the discipline necessary for true control, for complete conquest. It would be folly to even contemplate giving such a being your allegiance.”

“I have no wish to join the Fallen,” Curumo sniffed. “I merely know how to espy a formidable foe, Mairon.”

The golden one made a soft sound, unconvinced. Yet, no matter the seemingly unyielding stance taken against him, Melkor let the hands of his will shape like talons, hearing as he could the near shrouded undertone in the Maia's voice. He, who’d sung the original counter-song, could now recognize that same dissidence, that same discordance in another. Mairon may have spoken one way, but his thoughts were not as wholly opposed as his words. His spirit betrayed him, ever searching and building as it was, thinking in numbers and fixed figures and the order of sums paid in balance.

(For balance, there was currently naught of in Arda marred.)

Ravenous, Melkor's spirit spread in darkness – coveting and torrid and consuming. He had not wanted to devour another for his own since first looking upon Varda’s radiance and aching to possess her stars in place of the Flame his Father ever held just beyond reach. And now . . .

“A formidable foe, indeed,” Mairon muttered before turning back to his work, unaware of the shadow that had joined his own, ever there to stay.



Snow

If spring was known to the Ainur, then so too did they understand winter.

Yet winters in Almaren were then passive seasons in the pattern of what would someday be quantified as a year. Come winter, Yavanna's great forests shed their leaves for slumber, and the land withheld its yield as the fields took their rest for spring. True cold never set in; not beyond the silver gilding of a frost, all until . . .

One day, white flakes flurried from the heavens, cast from grey clouds thicker and darker than they'd ever known outside of the First War. (For rains too in Almaren were gentle as they skipped and sang, ever letting the light of the Lamps shine through their glittering droplets.) The flakes fluttered on the breeze, almost indistinguishable to the eye as individual, crystalline shapes until they clung together, falling to cover the ground in a soft, powdery layer of white.

The novelty drew forth Vala and Maia alike to observe the phenomenon – even Manwë stepped down from his place in the heights to observe how the snow (for its note in the Song spoke its own name) danced and gathered and blew. He was praised by his fellow Ainur, who credited the Lord of the Heavens with this newest aspect of its nature, yet Manwë did not answer but for a troubled expression that he turned upon a distant point, unseen in the north, and let linger.

For himself, Mairon paid the novelty but little heed – unable as he was to see a use in the fugitive accumulation, that melted as soon as the Lamps reached their zenith at noontide. It was not until the light waned once more, and he felt a cold draft of air – not just cold, but truly frigid, as Almaren had never experienced before – that he paused, and took note.

Then, his interest roused, he followed that chill, intent on discovering its source.

At first, his footsteps were merely thoughtful, boundless as his curiosity ever was. Yet, as the cold deepened and the snow turned stronger – blocking out the light in a true storm that accumulated in great drifts that shifted and crunched underfoot – he gave up on the limitations of his fana and took to the wind. North and north and north he flew as an unbound spirit, to where the light of the Lamps was ever dim, and all the more so in their current facsimile of night. He flew and flew and flew – so far that he anticipated overreaching the uttermost boundary of the Great Lands for the Encircling Sea.

And there, he came upon the Storm itself.

The heart of the blizzard (blizzard, he knew) was an entirely primordial fana, such as had not been worn by the Ainur since the battles of the First War. Since then, by Manwë's decree, they'd taken on forms similar to what the Children would someday wear, all in accordance with the Father's will. Yet this being was at once a mountain and the deepest pit of the earth; at once the space between stars and the blinding white of lightning; at once the intransience of smoke and the certainty of solid ground; all fangs and obsidian and claws and nacre and wings and carbon and spider silk and the viscosity of dripping, pooling tar rising into tidal waves, the likes of which existed before the dry ground first arose from the raging depths . . .

Even as a Maia, his physical eyes struggled to articulate that which he saw – only his incorporeal eyes could comprehend the whole of the Vala before him.

The Vala.

Even as Mairon watched, that undefinable whole focused, closing in on itself to condense into the illusory raiment of a solid, bipedal being. (Before he consciously understood his intention to do so, he mirrored his own form in like manner, crouching on physical legs behind a granite outcropping and staring down into the valley that had formed from the epicenter of the storm.) The Vala blazed like a sulfur flame, with void-dark hair and pale smoked skin and nebulous blue eyes that were almost impossibly bright. His armor was black and his gauntlets black and his cloak black, just as, many would say, his fëa itself was black in direct opposition to the Father's light. (Or rather, the absence of the Father's light, once it had been removed.)

Melkor, Mairon at last understood, even as his own fëa immediately recognized Mbelekhoruz, long before the advent of his conscious thought.

Yet little could he see Foe in favor of Might then, as the Vala waved his hands in a beckoning manner. Water answered his call, melting from the snow on the air in a great flourish before hardening, crystalizing, freezing again into -

- ice, he heard the new note sing, and knew it by its name. His own hands, which had grown used to crafting ornamental baubles and senseless things commissioned by the Valar in the seemingly never-ending Spring of Arda's rest, suddenly itched with impulse and want, the likes of which he had never felt before, not even during the Song itself, when his desires were informed by and ever a part of the whole. His throat ached in silence, and he had to lock his jaw to keep from lifting his voice where he was not expressly bade; for such was not upon him to decide, Maia as he was. Inexplicably, he tasted ash when he did so – and swallowed the cold cut of the snow.

Yet Melkor had no such compunctions leashing his own power. Instead, his laughter was a steel shape on the wind, sounding with triumph and satisfaction and joy, as such glory could be called for the swift realization of his intentions, rewriting the very reality of nature in accordance to his will.

Again, Melkor gave a note of command, and the sea itself sloshed in answer before its waves bound together and froze – with massive floes of the newly dubbed ice erupting and raising in veritable mountains from the shore. There, Mairon kept to his place to watch, and there, Mairon wondered – awestruck, drawn, and transfixed -

found,

brought,

bound,

- until, only at the summons of his master, wondering for his place, did he pull himself away. With a last look back at the Storm, Mairon collapsed on the wind, and returned to the familiarity of Aulë's halls.



Stare

Long were the turns of the Lamps that the snows continued.

Thus, so long did Manwë continue his own vigil, staring out from the high summit of the world, looking, not to where his Maiar soared with great wings on the currents below, but to where the horizon blurred between mountain and sky for the haze of the distant storm.

No, not just any storm, Varda knew with a heavy heart, but Storm. Next to Manwë, she could hear the distant notes Sang between land and sky, just as, with his powers complemented and strengthened by her own, he could see through the misty shrouds and white walls of the blizzard to its blackest eye.

And there did she listen and there did Manwë look, until: "Have you heard?" she broke the silence to ask.

After a pause, she was answered in kind: "Eru All-father has remained silent to my queries. His counsel remains his own."

Just as the Father so often was, she thought, not in judgement – for she would never suppose her own thoughts higher than the One – but in sorrow for her spouse, who so dearly wanted for guidance, in these matters above all else. In private, Manwë ever doubted his own ability to rule – a quality that Varda rather thought stood as an assurance that the rightful head bore the crown of Arda – yet all the more so did he misgive the scepter in his hand when it came to Melkor.

For Manwë's love ever ran deep, and never would he be fully able to surrender that part of himself that belonged solely to his brother; his very spirit was capable of no other choice.

"It is not a harmful creation, in and of itself," she at last ventured. "Indeed, it may even be of use for the whole of Arda, in its proper place."

"Perhaps," Manwë muttered. Varda knew that, to a great extent, he agreed with her words – for he had yet to keep the snow from capping his own mountaintops, and she rather suspected that he never would. "Yet rarely is one thing entirely for the ill or entirely for the good. There is a duality in nature, and rightly so in balance."

That duality was one that their Father may have first intended for his Eldest to embody before his spirit twisted and turned from his appointed course.

. . . and yet, that was a heavy thought to bear, just as it had been since the last note of the Song had faded for silence.

"It is not this new winter that I afear foredoomed, but rather," yet Manwë hesitated, searching for the words to explain that which was – and perhaps always should have been – beyond explanation. "Can you not feel it, my sublime one – the shadow that races beneath the storm? I can espy its exact nature not, and that, more so than all else, troubles me for what it may portend."

"There shall ever be Shadow amongst what is Marred," she said softly. "It walks even under the brightest light – yet it cannot touch that which you secure within that same light."

Varda reached over, and turned his face towards her – away from the Storm growing in the distance. His eyes were a blue almost too bright to comprehend with physical eyes (entirely like his in every shape, mirrored and yet opposite as they were in every way but this one), but she who gave the stars their burning hearts beheld him without blinking. Sorrow dimmed his gaze, where perhaps no other would ever see, and everything within her yearned to see him returned to radiance once more.

"It has no hold on you," she soothed, cupping his jaw and running her thumb over the high arch of his cheekbone, needing the comfort of physicality then as much as she suspected that he did too, "and no hold on me."

"Yet," he whispered, "if it is the Shadow itself that I . . . "

mourn,

regret,

aggrieve,

. . . love.

"What then, Īthē?" he asked of her ears alone. "What then?"

For that, she had no answer – perhaps there was no answer, but for their Father's yet unseen will.

So, where words would not (could not) wholly do, she leaned her brow against her husband's, letting his eyes behold naught but starlight as she, in turn, listened to him breathe.



TBC


~ MJ

 

Here I am with a few replies, and then I have the next part ready to share.

Aw, thank you! Writing TToS was such a formative experience for me as an author, and it's brought me so much joy to return to this world again.

lolol! I'd expect nothing less! Would that be Lúthien and Celegorm, by any chance? (That's a very Vi arc that I think you'd vibe with - all of the Fëanorian dumpster fires may just end up endearing themselves to you. ) That unrequited love hurts, even if Celegorm more than deserves that pain. Then, Eöl/Aredhel is probably one of the most dArk and TwIStY things Tolkien ever wrote as far as romance is concerned - because you have to work in those dark fae stories too. I think that I wrote two stories for them total, and didn't even post one of them here. If that's what you stumbled across.

&

This is already the best compliment you could have given me! It made my day to hear that I am making Tolkien's world a little more accessible by pulling all those little pieces together. I am so excited that you're here for the journey, because it's quite the epic one, to say the least, and I can't wait to share more!

(Plus, your comment was absolutely perfect, don't you worry! I ate up every word! )

So, so fitting! It's the gift that keeps on gifting, it really is!

And, yes! YES, YOU DO need to get moving on Shadowmoth for more Dark Matter feelings. I have spoken.

*pester, pester, pester, pester!*

Because it is mind-blowing! So many of the characters we know in LotR have greater relationships in unexpected ways, and those relationships really help enrichen the story. (Gandalf was a contemporary, too, and will show up in Part 3. ) As for Saruman, this absolutely helps better inform his character, I feel. He's always played second-fiddle to Sauron, from the beginning of time. He will continue to do so in order to serve his own ends - especially when he knows how powerful Sauron is better than most - but always with that sense that he'd someday attempt to oust Sauron from the top, had LotR ended differently, you know? Which is a dynamic I am definitely going to continue to explore.

And, I have to confess that I very much like Mairon too. () In some ways he's incredibly relatable - in that curiosity killed the cat kinda sense, and that artist looking for a muse manner that we in particular may identify with better than most - and overall just so intriguing as a villain for how he went from a respected servant of the light to . . . well, the Lord of the Rings. I am having far more fun exploring his fall than I should, it perhaps goes without saying.

*success!*

These are the kind of characters and scenes that I love describing - let the purple prose fly! - and it makes me so happy to hear that those descriptions resonated with you too.

Compared to my Austen work, there's definitely more my own style of prose than Tolkien's here, for sure, I feel. But when it comes to characters and events and themes? Those, I try to adhere to as closely as I can! Again, this was such a big compliment, and I thank you.

Melkor and Mairon's relationship absolutely fascinates me - and I love how it's curiosity and fascination that draws them towards each other in the beginning too. (Even if Melkor dove into the obsessive deep-end a lot quicker than Mairon. ) That, combined with pride, is going to be a tricky course for Mairon to navigate coming up, but that's half the fun in telling the story.

And the Storm! That was definitely a combination of a) Melkor practically working on building his Fortress of Solitude super evil lair of evil in the north, b) him gambling on Mairon's curiosity in order to draw him out, and c) Melkor totally showing off when he does so, you're right. But, more about that soon.

Thank you, again! I love that you picked up on this, because yes: while there's always going to be obsession and devotion and love/hate in Mairon's relationship with Melkor, there's no small amount of resentment there too. On both sides, I feel - especially during the First Age. Ultimately, Sauron's actions in the Third Age are a continuance of Melkor's will, yes, but also a stroke of defiance - proving that he's stronger than the Valar and stronger than his former master in achieving what he failed to do. All for nothing, of course - and thank goodness - but dang if that doesn't add depth to the giant eye in the sky one-note villain of LotR in the meantime . . .

Manwë and Melkor's relationship absolutely kills me dead too, so yes! You better believe that I am going to bring more of those brotherly feels, for good and for ill.

Now you're just picking all my faves. I was proud of that line twelve years ago, and still am today.

Your review was absolutely lovely and made me giddy to read - which I have, several times over! Again, I am just so happy to hear that you enjoyed this first offering and can't wait to share more!

lolol! It was a pleasure to have your support during the original posting of TToS, and I am so glad to see you back again! Tolkien's world is just rife with possibilities to explore, and I'm thrilled to share more.

Again, thank you so much for taking the time to read and review, as always!

 

Author's Notes: And here we go, onwards with this story! (Or downwards, as the case may be. ) Herein you'll find some of my fanon, pulling together the various pieces of Tolkien's lore for this age while endeavoring to keep faithful to his original vision - but as to the success of that, I'll let you judge.

. . . also, after reevaluating my outline, this story will definitely be longer than four parts. I'm not going to put a number on it except to say less than ten, because I know myself too well. Yet I really mean it when I say less than ten. You hear that, muse? Less than ten!


Now, towards that end, it is my pleasure to share . . .

---

I.II. “In My Name You Will Create”
(Sauron & Melkor; Tulkas, Cwildred)
​

Steady

He was being watched, and not for the first.

Yet, no matter his awareness, Melkor took no measures to hide himself from view. Here, in the ever-twilight of the newly wrought Iron Mountains – out of reach of the Lamps and beyond even Manwë's eyes (or, at least, beyond what and where Manwë chose to look and see) – he welcomed all those who dared peer into the darkness to come forward and glean.

(If, of course, to a point and to a purpose.)

The first Storm of his new creation had passed, yet the ice and snow he’d birthed would remain to dominate the uttermost north of any shape Arda took from now to its unmaking. That impulse had been as much a simple urge indulged – for Melkor saw no reason to deny himself when the entire world was his very own, and thus his sacred privilege to advance or decrease; to maul or beautify or possess – as it was the result of long and careful consideration. The next age of the world was even now forming, and he knew the shape he would have the epoch take, in both the material and the immaterial.

As for the material, he chose to both elevate the Song for its own sake, just as he sought the necessary means of constructing a corporeal realm of his own – much the same as his irreverent siblings dwelt in their own supposed paradise of Almaren. He was ready to anchor his spirit to the stuff and substance of Arda, just as the face of Arda would soon open in welcome to the Father’s children. Here, Utumno had already existed in the deepest chasms of the ground, piercing as far down as its molten belly, but now he extended his might upwards from the earth, erupting from the cold and the barren and the lightless to give dread itself form, built as it was upon unshakable, unspeakable foundations.

Then, as for the intangible . . .

Well, that too was in fulfillment of his will. He had called, and – just as he’d foreseen, with insight and instinct recognizing like for like in like purpose – he had been so answered.

"Normally, I am the one accused of lurking in the shadows,” Melkor sent his voice up from the glacial plains and the sharp granite peaks as much as he did from the lungs of his fana. “Not often do the shadows spy on me in return."

He would have been disappointed if the Maia kept to his place, but Mairon did no such thing. (You would not have yearned so acutely otherwise.) Instead, the Aulëndur came around the shielding crest of a nearby outcropping, struck like a spark against the grey unlight. He glowed like a molten ember in his usual favored form, bipedal and symmetrical as the Ainur preferred – so much so that Melkor spared a moment’s thought for his own appearance, briefly ensuring that he had an acceptable number of teeth and hands and eyes for polite conversation.

Just as he smoothed away the third and fourth eye from his brow, the Maia respectfully knelt and bowed his head. When Melkor focused his newly binocular vision, he took note of how only one knee touched the ground, weak as his siblings ever were in enforcing their claims – yet that was a quibble for another time, as claws here would ultimately fail to serve his will. Most intriguing, however, was the way Mairon boldly stared, rather than demurely averting his gaze. Nonplussed for the attention, Melkor allowed the lesser Ainu the honor of meeting his eyes, uncontested.

"I do not lurk, Lord Vala, nor do I spy,” Mairon answered from his place. “I merely observe.”

Melkor paused, wondering if the words were a neutral remark, couched in respectful subservience, or a forthright statement, attempting at assertion. Either way, a cold smile cut into his face. (He still bore far too many teeth, serrated and sharp.) “If that is so, I welcome you to observe closer, little one,” his amity rumbled through the ice, causing a great shelf to crack in the distance. “I do not bite – no matter what you've undoubtedly been told.”

He did no more to release the Maia from his obeisance than those words – and was thus pleased when Mairon remained kneeling for a moment longer, and then another. Mairon only stood when Melkor himself turned, and even then, his step forward was cautious. Physically, Melkor gave no impression of paying the other any heed, even as his unseen eyes watched most closely. Instead, he resumed his work, shaping the snowy mountain slopes and exaggerating the great bare ridges all the way to the mouth of the sea, where black waves groaned underneath the weight of the vast icy floes he set upon them.

An orange-gold light – restrained, yet present – cast across the barren landscape as Mairon’s curiosity overtook his caution. Thoughtfully, he pressed a hand to one of the new formations of ice. The ice pulsed nearly topaz blue at its frozen heart, and that color only darkened and deepened near to indigo for the seeking presence of the forge spirit, setting it alight.

"This substance is remarkable," Mairon said at last, studying the impression the heat of his touch had left behind before freezing again, so great was the cold of the air.

"It is.” Melkor did not boast; he merely stated what was. “Poles, glaciers, ice – winter. They shall be as integral to Arda as what Manwë now likes to call spring."

For that, Mairon did not comment – indeed, Melkor suspected that he was yet too much taken by the creation, rather than its creator, and that simply would not do.

So: "You understand its properties already, I see." With a wave of his hand, Melkor let a new floe of ice rise from the frigid depths, standing so imposingly upon the water that it seemed to be a continuation of the mountains themselves. “Try for yourself, Aulëndur,” generously, he extended his offer. "I welcome your creation."

"I am a Maia; I do not create.”

Mairon’s answer was given as quick as a blinking, with no thought proceeding the reflexive statement. Distantly, there was the crackle of groaning ice as the new shelves settled into their exaggerated shapes. It was all Melkor could do not to grin outright.

"Do you not, master-smith?" Melkor returned. He gestured, indicating the rings Mairon wore – such as he did not think common to Aulë’s Maiar in whole.

Mairon's fingers flexed. Melkor wondered if he would hide the ornamentation from view, or even clench his hands into fists, yet he did neither such thing. Instead, stillness held him with all the constancy of a self-fed flame as he merely raised a copper brow over one burning eye. “Aulë allows us some freedom in individual expression,” he acknowledged. “However, it is not upon me to create unless expressly bade by my Vala.”

The opening he gave was all too easy: "I am a Vala,” Melkor drawled, “and I do so bid.”

“You may be a Vala,” that brow rose even higher as Mairon gave the smallest huff of breath – amused, perhaps, in spite of himself, "yet you are not mine own.”

(Though he soon would be.)

Yet Melkor left that thought veiled – if only for the time being.

"No?” instead, he returned with affected surprise, neither bemocking nor bemoaning the laws of his brethren and yet expressing amusement and pity and challenge, all at once. “As you please, then, Aulëndur – the choice is yours. You may continue to . . . observe, if you wish – for I am not at all an unwelcoming host.”

Wisely, Mairon hesitated -

(Intangible claws opened wide.)

- before: “Thank you,” he could not help his Maiar’s manners to say. “My Lord Vala is most generous.”



Strain

Mairon was left with much to consider upon his return from the North. The Vala’s words – and his answers – rang in his mind like the reverberations of a hammer-strike, leaving him incapable of processing but little else. As he brought his mind to order, he found himself walking the vast miles in his physical fana, wishing to delay his return to Aulë's halls until he could better regain his composure. He had not the current disposition to volley Curumo’s pointed questions, let alone field Aulë's concern if the Vala noticed the unsettled ripples of his spirit and wished to seek the cause. No; these thoughts would yet remain his own.

(How could he even answer such a question from the Smith when he knew naught of its truth for himself?)

Yet his iron-wrought control lasted him only until he neared the boundary of Almaren, drawn as he then was beyond all resistance. The veil of true night had begun to fall, creating a living shadow in direct contrast with the absence of light in the north. It rained upon the waning hour, with Arda refreshing itself as the Lamps dimmed their light from the day’s full brilliance. The droplets glittered in the twilight, dancing down from the heavens to greet the trees and dripping from leaf to leaf to leaf before falling to quench the thirsting earth below. Mairon watched their descent, singing in joy as they played their part in the greater cycle of life and its living.

tip-tap patter tip-tap patter patter

Wordlessly, he harmonized with their Song, taken by their rhythm.

tip-tap patter tip-tap patter patter

Yet, before he picked up the refrain again, he considered, and added -

patter-patter tap tap patter pitter

tap-tap-tap patter tap pitter tap-tap patter

. . . all before giving into the curiosity that had thrummed beneath the surface of his fëa ever since that first snowflake fell and he’d glimpsed the void-eyes and sulfur-blue of the one who was perhaps more so Might than Darkness or Discord or Foe.

With naught the powers of a Vala to his use, Mairon raised his hands and withdrew the warmth from the air. He could not create anew so much as manipulate what was already created. As such, he hummed a note, finding the core Song of the rain and blowing out a cold breath of power to command -

- and, in place of the rain, pellets of hail fell for the first.

Instantly, the cadence of their Song turned sharp – strident, percussive, tinkling – as they struck the leaves and plunked into the water and chattered against themselves upon the ground. They quickly coalesced into pebbled masses, clotting the grasses – coating the rocks and roots and streams – and shocking the warm earth into new awareness. The very air filled with a question, uncertain of what to ask and to whom, and he found himself poised to lift his voice and answer -

patter-strike patter-strike strike strike patter

- but no.

No.

It was not his place to answer such a question from Arda itself, nor could it ever be.

(He served Arda; he did not command it.)

It could not be his place.

(He was not so defective as to wish that it was.)

It would never be – just as was right and good and proper within the Father’s order.

For hail had not been a part of Eru's design – nor would it be. Duly admonished by his own higher reason, Mairon grasped his lost humility. Immediately, he flared his spirit bright in repudiation, and watched as the hail melted against the hot skin of his palms before evaporating entirely.

tip-tap patter tip-tap patter patter

The rain sighed in relief from the sky, and Mairon listened as its natural melody resumed.

tip-tap patter tip-tap patter patter

(Just as it should have ever Sang.)

It would be unwise to ever return to the wastes of the north, he knew in that moment, and so he told himself (he yet could not vow) that he would not.

And so, Mairon did not.

. . . at least, not for a time.



Strength

Ever since that first snowfall, Tulkas kept his eyes open in watchful guard.

It was upon that day’s waning of the Lamps – a time of coming, rather than going for the lesser Ainur, all but for those whose duties came alive in the night – that he espied one of the Aulënduri making their way in the opposite direction of their master’s halls. The spirit’s carefully concealed presence, manifesting as no more than a passing of the wind, may have gone unnoticed by most – yet Tulkas had been created with eyes made to pierce and fists made to clench around the throated machinations of the Foe. Such was his sole purpose; his reason for existence; his place within the Song: to be that which was righteous about war and honorable in valor and essential of chivalry.

Thus, in fulfillment of that purpose, he opened a single hand and held it high -

- and made a fist.

The same as plucking a piece of fruit from a high bough, he pulled the passing fëa from the ether and flung the newly realized fana to the ground with a growled note, commanding the Maia to retain his raiment of flesh -

that he still;

that he hold;

that he yield;

- until the Maia had no choice but to obey, his open mouth forced to silence. Tulkas made no move to immediately withdraw the overbearing shape of his spirit, yet the Maia managed to lift his head underneath the weight, no matter that he was otherwise pinned to the ground on his hands and knees. Tulkas held the pressure for a moment longer before he lifted his fist and opened his fingers, thus allowing the Maia to resume control over his form once more – if only to assume a proper pose in genuflection before one of the Great Ones and explain his doings. It took the Maia a moment – just long enough to be noticeable in defiance, rather than recovery, Tulkas misbode – and yet, kneel he did.

"Where do you fly to so fast, forge mite, and with such stealth?" he asked, his suspicions clear.

The Maia finally lowered his gaze in a show of respect, hiding scorching eyes from view even as the line of his shoulders remained rigid. "Forgive this lowly one his assumption,” he muttered, “yet I did not think my kind beholden to the likes of War.”

The words were softly intoned – and perhaps even true in utterance – yet Tulkas only bristled.

"Some would call it curious,” he remarked, “for a Maia to bear such a blunt tongue as yours before any Vala.”

“As my Lord Vala may say, it is neither to me to agree nor disagree.”

“I am far more interested in what you have to say than I,” Tulkas found himself growling. “Explain your purpose. Where is it you steal away to in such secrecy?”

The Maia's answer came easily, without prevarication: "I go in search of inspiration.” He spoke true, as far as Tulkas could sense, which he did not yet understand – before he added, as if unable to resist the urge, “My Lord Vala may know that such journeys are not uncommon to those amongst the Ainur who still nurture a desire to create."

Somehow, Tulkas felt as if he was being mocked – though he knew not exactly how.

Yet he did know how to deflect a blow. Doggedly, he ignored the strike, and focused on his original target. "What inspiration do you seek that cannot be found upon our fair isle?"

"Naught as I fear it possible to explain to one who does not already understand."

Tulkas waited – the hulking form of his fana leaning forward in a silent threat as he crossed his thickly muscled arms across his chest – but the Maia remained obstinately quiet. He may have knelt in that moment, yet did not bow. The sight snagged against Tulkas' now roiling temper, and he pressed down once more with the great cast of his spirit, enforcing his point. The Maia hissed in a breath, losing the battle to remain upright as he fell from one knee to two. Yet still he resisted – as should have been impossible of the Lesser Ones, not only in strength, but in desire. Maiar were tools meant to serve the will of the Valar, and so they served, and served gladly. The sword did not dare presume to wield the hand that held it, let alone turn its blade upon its rightful master. Anything else went against every natural law that kept their world in harmony to an unprecedented, incendiary degree.

Confused as much as his fury was hotly roused, Tulkas pressed yet further still, satisfaction filling him as the Maia’s spine was compelled to bend, bowing lower and lower until his head and shoulders too fell forward. The Maia caught one hand against the ground, viscous red-gold leaking from his eyes, before even that defiance failed him, and his face was forced down into the still-damp earth, where he sputtered and gagged and struggled to take in air. Yet Tulkas did not ease his will, feeling as bones were pushed to their limit and blood-vessels compressed and fleshly organs threatened to collapse entirely. Lungs lost their breath long before vertebrae cracked and delicate airways crushed underneath the pressure of his rebuke. Still, the lesser Ainu fought back – against he, Tulkas, the Strongman of the Father’s Children, equal in might to the Foe himself and perhaps even more so, if in power of fana alone. The audacity – the arrogance – of this Maia’s defiance astounded him, and teeth filled his mouth in reply.

The thought then crossed his mind that he could destroy this strangely obstinate spirit. He could smother and suffocate and deny this unnatural thing the incorporeal air with which to feed its burning soul until it wisped out entirely, insubstantial as a plume of smoke. Oh, he knew that it would take Aulë at least an age of the world to forgive the loss of one of his own, let alone their Father, but did that truly matter if -

Yet Tulkas abruptly paused, drawn up short by his own rage as shame filled him. His temper died a quick death, and with it his hold on the Maia – who immediately lifted his head, choking and gasping for breath. He sat back on his haunches, not bothering to wipe the mud from his face in favor of raising his hands to defend himself – not so much as to appease, Tulkas noticed, but in preparation to resist another onslaught. The Maia's neatly ordered fana flickered – allowing him to glimpse lidless eyes and molten tongues of flame, punctuated by a myriad clawed hands and leathery wings and irisated scales as hard as diamonds yet rippling with aurulent light – for his true form, flaring bright and then collapsing upon himself the same as the elemental fire-song that sounded at the core of his being.

Tulkas felt his regret grow, watching the Maia struggle against the aftereffects of an attack from a Vala. He had acted beyond his purview, he knew – he had wanted to act yet further still – but now, he only wished to make amends.

(No matter that his suspicions still lingered, and would remain long beyond this day.)

Drawing his fëa as close to himself as possible, Tulkas held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Peace, little one,” he made to assuage, “I do not intend to - ”

" - my name is,” the Maia boldly interjected, only to be forced to pause from his rasping, struck mute as his vocal-cords knit healthy flesh anew. “Lord Aulë has seen fit to give Mairon as my name – or Aulëndur will do, if it is to Your Lord Vala's preference.”

Tulkas studied the Maia – Mairon – as he regained control of his physical form. He pursed his mouth, torn between a seeming dozen thoughts and impetuses and a still lingering sense of misapprehension. Ultimately, however, all that Tulkas did was wave his hand, and allow him to rise.

". . . Mairon,” he sounded the name slowly, “I bid you go in peace. Only recall that foul things lurk in the shadows beyond Almaren. Keep from the dark places for the inspiration you seek.”

"My Lord Vala’s concern is all undeserved kindness,” Mairon’s reply was cool. “Yet I assure you: I well know to keep to the light."

Tulkas let the Maia depart without a word, watching until he disappeared from view, the dark of the waning Lamps swallowing his figure whole.



Seep

Only moments ago, the creature had existed as a moth.

Yet Melkor’s hand had flown faster than its fluttering wings and caged it between clawed fingers. The Vala had then hummed – illustrating the point that had previously been in debate – to echo the creature’s core Song, vocalizing until its struggles slowed and then lulled completely, hypnotized by its own making. Yet, unlike altering a single note to turn water to ice, it required more to shift what the Father had declared Sung into a new melody entirely. A mere counterpoint would not do to break a harmony that was already so absolute. Instead, Melkor gave of his own Song, his own self and will, and twined the two together in a discordant chord to birth -

- the moth he released was no longer a moth at all. No; now it was a mammalian creature with blind eyes and a snubbed face and sleek brown fur, all crowned by large, flickering ears. Gone were its dual wings, extending from its cold exoskeleton; in its place, muscles flexed and hot blood flowed while hollow bones arched to support fleshly wings, beating against the air to a new rhythm, a new pulse of being, a new life in Song.

A bat, it bespoke its own name, and Mairon watched, wide-eyed, as it took flight – its hunt changing with its altered existence to seek out new prey in the night.

“It will go on to devour its own kind now,” Melkor took pleasure in commenting. “There will be far less of Manwë’s inane little pests chattering on the air after this eve, Eru bless us all.”

Yet Mairon could not address that casual bit of irreverence – which would have once prompted hesitance, or even a disapproving glance as the accord between them grew – in favor of trying to understand that which he had just witnessed.

. . . what, exactly, had he witnessed? No matter the proof of his eyes, he could not manage to accept what his mind comprehended as true. How was he to see such comprehension through, when only impossibilities remained to answer him?

(Impossibilities?

Nay, the profane, his better reason whispered;

the darkest of arts;

a perversion of nature;

. . . blasphemy, by its highest definition.)

Slowly, he formed his thoughts into what semblance of speech he could, “I thought it impossible for any but the Father to create life.”

“Is it?” Melkor challenged mildly. “Or has Eru just declared it so?”

Mairon reflexively darted a quick glance to the heavens, no matter that he knew he’d see nothing but for the blue-violet firmament that ever spanned over the north. But few of Varda's stars glowed here, and, for those that did, their light was distant.

“It should be impossible . . . it perhaps is still impossible.”

For the Vala had not created new life – not quite – instead, he had twisted that which had already existed, dominating its very self with his own will in order to birth . . .

Melkor, he then understood, was watching him very closely. A distant prey-sense tingled, fluttering up and down his spine, even as that same voice of reason muttered:

What shall he change in you, if you but allow him to?

It was easy to forget, at times, that the ruthlessly mercurial entity who breathed out glaciers and called forth mountains – who was all sharp good cheer one moment and uncanny intensity the next – was not just Melkor, but rather He Who Arises in Might and Foe and Darkness and everything marred in the Song that yet bound them to Arda. No matter his ease with answering his every query – for Mairon yet had so many unexplained things that he wished to understand – those queries could never relate as to how he’d marred the Song in the first place.

. . . and especially not how he continued to mar the Song yet further still.

Or is he? Another voice – dangerous in its growing belief – spoke to murmur. Is he marring, or merely building upon that which is already his very own?

Mairon knew better than to humor that voice – just as he certainly knew better than to attempt to answer that question for himself.

(He knew,

he knew,

he knew.)

“Aulë bore his Dwarves from his will,” Melkor argued. “Was that not an act of creation? He carved them from the deep stone of the earth and then blessed them with the cadence of his own Song.”

Mairon could not agree. “The Dwarves were facsimiles of creation. They were not truly living.”

“Yet who are we to decide what life is and what life is not? The Dwarf-kind breathed; they had command of their bodies; they formed thoughts and spoke words and followed the orders given by - ”

Yet Mairon then startled himself by interrupting a sovereign Vala. (Especially with his encounter with Tulkas still so fresh in mind and aching about his throat.) “That is the very point in fact. The Dwarves could only follow orders. They had no free will of their own before the Father’s intervention. They were merely reflections of Aulë will, and would have remained as such.”

And that was when Melkor said perhaps the most dangerous words of all: “Is there anything truly wrong with that?”

The Vala’s voice was low, rippling from the ground up into the air itself to challenge him with unrestrained intensity. Mairon blinked, and caught glimpse of the thousands of eyes that observed him in actuality, rather than the mere two that studied every detail of his reaction. Even the ever-heat of his eternal spirit took on a chill in answer, marked and shuddering in the cold.

After all, how could he argue something so very obvious to the contrary? Words failed him; he could not immediately order his thoughts to speak within his own mind, let alone respond aloud.

So, Melkor pushed forward with his advantage: “If the wisdom of one being is higher, then should those lesser not share it? You yourself are linked to Aulë – would you say that you have no free will? Do you exist only to act as he would have you act?”

From the very beginning he would have answered – and he yet still believed – that his will was nothing but a reflection of his master’s will. He was a Maia; he existed solely in bondage to his Vala; indeed, he wanted nothing more than the fulfillment of Aulë's purpose, and through him, the Father's.

Yet Mairon knew that Melkor would only view those words as supporting his own view – which they very much did not.

. . . didn’t they?

No; Mairon knew that his existence was part of the natural order of the Song. Anything else was nothing more than a perversion of the Father’s creation; a mockery, sacrilegious and unspeakable.

“Perhaps it is,” Melkor mused in answer – no matter how closely Mairon had bound his thoughts to his own mind.

The Dark Vala was quickly becoming unerringly adept at reading his every unspoken word – as even Aulë struggled to do as of late, although he doubted the Smith had yet to notice.

(But that was another thought that he locked tightly away – even from himself.)

As was his way, Melkor was unsatisfied with his dubious belief. So, in furtherance of his argument, he ordered: “Let me see.”

At first, Mairon frowned – all before he understood the wordless command filling his mind. (As was once Aulë's purview – as was Aulë's purview over one of his own.) He looked down at his hands, and the golden ring that he wore. Amongst the far more ornate he'd since created, this one was a simple band, with the craft perhaps somewhat lacking compared to his present abilities. He yet wore it out of sentiment, as it was the first work he’d created for himself, with his own physical hands and his own individual inclination, following the settlement of Almaren.

Slowly, he withdrew the ring, and gave it to the Vala as bade.

(He did not once think to deny him.)

Melkor turned the ring over in his palm, the gold even brighter in contrast to the mist-grey of his skin. “No,” he finally determined. “You unconsciously understood with this one.” Another moment passed, and then he declared: “I will keep this.”

Mairon blinked, taken aback – both by the surprise of Melkor’s words and for the (alarming?) sense of satisfaction that he felt for the Vala's approval, pooling hot and honeyed to join the already molten core of his spirit.

“Oh,” was all he managed aloud. “Yes, please do.”

(Little as it was to him to approve the Vala’s decision, of course.)

“Another,” Melkor demanded shortly, holding his hand out in expectation, and Mairon obeyed.

The ring he chose to offer was oxidized silver, a gleaming charcoal in color, studded with the pulsating glow of a dozen perfectly symmetrical peridot stones. The settings between gem and metal were nearly invisible to the naked eye; instead, it appeared as if the peridots yet grew from the dark of their deep-mantle birth. In look and design and execution, it was a feat of craftsmanship, yet Melkor only gave the ring a moment’s inspection before he crushed the trinket in hand, returning it to its base elements. He held his palm open, where the decimated particles hovered and coalesced into the appearance of a loop. Then, he began to hum.

Immediately, Melkor found the note of the elements' composition. He harmonized with their Song and the particles shuddered, turning to a seemingly viscous liquid, swimming faster and faster in an endless circle of thrumming green light.

Then, Melkor then began to alter the Song ever so slightly, and into its melody he Sang himself.

Mairon watched with a transfixed sort of horror as the new refrain bonded with the old and solidified back into being again. He almost refused to take the recast ring entirely when Melkor returned it to him, yet of course he obeyed and accepted. He could do nothing else.

(He wanted to do nothing else.)

“Even dead metal may be imbued with preexisting life,” Melkor explained the art of his craft. “This ring now carries the essence of my will.”

Dumbly, Mairon could only turn the ring over in his hand. He could not yet don it for how his senses were still left reeling for the seemingly effortless display of power. Caution told him to leave it where it lay entirely, if in an ever quieting voice.

(He wanted to wear it.)

(He would do so proudly.)

“I have even succeeded with hewing bits of my fëa and shaping my spirit into new life, in an endeavor to create Maiar of my own. I have been successful . . . if to varying degrees. For I have granted consciousness and birthed my will in flesh and bone, yet the finer points of design and execution is where I yet strive for finesse. I have yet to perfect the forms I wish for my servants to take.”

The ring rippled against his palm, and Mairon thought to hear an invitation there – no matter that he did not fully understand to what end. Nor could he even contemplate the thought when he was yet taken by the enormity of the unnatural bit of discord that sat so innocuously in his palm. It was . . .

grotesque;

aberrant;

sinister;

. . . and, above all else, utterly and completely and irresistibly fascinating.

Instantly, Mairon found his feet.

“I have to go,” he announced, his entire fëa rippling with unease.

It suddenly felt imperative that he do so now – now, before it was too late.

(Too late for what?)

(As if it was not already.)

And Melkor made no attempt to stop him.

(He would never have need to again.)

Instead, the abrupt change in his demeanor was indulged with a knowing sort of expression – as if the Vala was aware of an aspect of his own nature that even he himself could not fully comprehend.

Mairon’s jaw clenched, and he resisted the urge to dissolve into an intangible form then and there and flee. Instead, he slowly turned and walked away with a measured, purposeful stride. All the while, with every step, he told himself that this would be the last time that he ever sought the Dark Vala's company. It would be. It must be.

Yet: “Until next time,” Melkor’s voice rang out from behind him, sounding deep into his fëa as he spoke as both the night sky above and the cold air that filled his lungs with every breath.

Mairon said nothing, and it was only when he was out of view – he would never be free from his view again – that he took to the sky, and made his escape.



Steep

You, who were once called Šebethiȥ in the First Tongue, now know yourself by a new name.

You – who now have years to your existence, rather than days – stand apart from your former brethren, all of whom have now passed their time and parted from Ëa, with your bones and your blood and your fur and your fangs and your blind eyes. A bat, the Higher Forms will yet and have already called you, and Cwildred, you call yourself.

Your quest for succor and roost has taken you south, far to where the snow does not hold to the dead grasses and the air is sweet and the flying creatures you hunt plentiful. You spend much time merely existing as yourself, thinking your new thoughts and sensing your new senses and living in your new form.

It is not until a season has passed – time now has more meaning to you than it once had, even if the concept yet remains elusive – that you feel moved by a murmur in the Song, and you fly, seeking out an echo of your own self.

That distant melody takes you to the belly of a place deep within the rock – in the shadowed eaves of the earth, where you suddenly feel a place of belonging enough to call home. Yet you do not immediately find a perch in the caverns to sleep until the day waned for the night. Instead, you are drawn towards a brightly glowing hall of heat and flame and steel – caution! your ear-sight implores, for great is the potential for danger here. Yet there too is your Song – your master’s Song – humming from a small round thing that bears no life, not as you know life. It is there on a long, low place before the hungry furnace, where one of the Higher Forms also sits, lost in thought.

(You know that sense of distraction – it is one that you ever seek in your own prey.)

The being holds the echo of yourself in its hand. The ring, you hear its name speak, is held but not worn, spinning slowly and yet inexorably between the Maia’s fingers.

(The Song is very loud here, and Sings of many new things.)

So you come, fearless before one of those whom you would have instinctively thought to avoid before, and fly down to land on the anvil. Burning eyes turn to study you, even as you look up to the flame.

“Cwildred,” the Maia murmurs. “You have found your name.”

You have no way to make reply, nor even much of an inclination to; yet the Maia knows.

“Did he send you, or was your flight your own?”

You give a screeching sound, and in your voice echoes the Song of the ring.

“I see.” A pause stretches, long and slow. “Well, then,” the Maia slips on the ring, and holds out that same hand in welcome. You accept the perch, your left claw securing over the cool-hot metal band. “Let us see what we may create today, shall we?”

You do not nod as the Higher Forms do, but your wings flutter, agreeing to the sense of the words even without fully understanding their meaning.

And, all the while alongside you, eyes look out from your own blind gaze, and stare intently, humming along with your Song – with the Maia’s song – with every moment that passes . . .

. . . and grows.

Spoiler: End Notes

A Note on Utumno: Built all the way north in the Iron Mountains, this stronghold will eventually become Melkor's primary fortress during the Years of the Trees. Following its destruction upon Melkor's chaining, the westernmost outpost of Utumno became Angband when Sauron rebuilt from its remnants. Utumno is also called Udûn, which you may recognize from Gandalf calling the Balrog of Moria "Flame of Udûn" during their battle in FotR. And yes, all that ice, upon the destruction of the Lamps, will become the Helcaraxë . . . but, more about that later.

A Note on Peridots: I don't know if this seemed like an odd choice at first, but here's a fun fact! Besides diamonds, peridots are the only gem that is forged in the earth's mantle, rather than its crust. They bubble up to the surface through volcanos - the Hawaiians once called them Pele's tears for that reason - which felt more than fitting for Sauron as a fire spirit. If you want more stone-meaning parallels, ancient Egyptians thought peridot the "gem of the sun" that could protect its wearers from "the terrors of the night" - which I found more than ironic for my storytelling purposes.

A Note on Melkor’s Ring: Though it will become clearer in the next update, I want to say now that this ring is not a compelling or corrupting force. It’s merely a means of communication – and a reminder and an example and a temptation all at once. I’m not letting Mairon have that easy of an excuse for his fall.

A Note on Cwildred: This was Tolkien’s first name for bats in his earliest notes for Middle-earth, though it was never used beyond those notes. So it felt like a fitting name for the first bat here.

A Note on the Birth of Monsters: Bats are one thing, and not inherently evil. But, for every other fell creature you can think of in Middle-earth, from the greatest to the least . . . yep. We’re going there.

Until then: !

~MJ