Disclaimer: The great J.R.R. Tolkien created this marvellous world. I am just playing with it for a little while.

A note on the anthology:

The stories in this collection are organized more or less chronologically, with the exception of one or two. They are in a variety of genres, and though most of what I have planned has yet to be written, they will be mainly General Fiction and Humour. Together, they present no plotline as such, but I hope that they will be able to showcase the nature of the relationship between Manwë and Melkor as I see it.

Enjoy.

Genre: General

Rating: G

Author's Notes: Beta-read by Elwing-Evenstar.

"In Arda his delight is in the winds and the clouds, and in all the regions of the air, from the heights to the depths, from the utmost borders of the Veil of Arda to the breezes that blow in the grass."

-The Silmarillion, Valaquenta

Súlimo

It was the last time I saw you sing.

In later days, I hear a distant echo in the hidden places of Arda, places that have known nothing but Darkness since the very beginning, and this echo lends power to the atmosphere of those places so that all who pass feel dread and terror though no physical harm has been done to them. I hear it in the wounds upon the earth that burst open with great fire and violence, scarring the surface with liquid stone and metal; I hear it in the desolate north where few will ever dare to tread, in the miserable howling of the winds that have been wrenched from my rightful dominion and condemned to the repetition of that same dismal song. Yet I will not see my brother sing again.

I remember the place; it was a newly-raised mountain near the east, one that, alas, did not have a chance to survive until this day. I was indulging myself on the gentle winds that swirled in a mystical dance from its base to its peak, and I watched the clouds gather around its magnificent heights as a misty veil to lend it a semblance of mystery. A smile, rare in those ages of struggle, crept like a rivulet of water up the thin gaps between rock and rock upon the lips of my physical form, seemingly defying the laws that bind all of Arda. It was not to last long, for I perceived you in the valley below. You were a small figure to my eyes, located high upon the mountain as they were, and you were not robed in wasteful splendour as was usual. I felt myself grow curious at this break in the almost-rhythm of our wars of attrition, and, since we were alone, entertained the notion of meeting with you amidst the yet-barren and jagged terrain.

With the haste and silence of the brisk spring breeze, I descended from my perch, and heard you sing. It was a quiet song, and I wondered why the sound of it was not brutal to my ears. It sounded rather sweet, yes, sweet and unassuming as the song of a forgotten stream with only the wind as its company, rippling its slow-moving surface, and though the melody was powerful, it was a song without words that would have added potency to it.

I was of two minds at that moment. I knew that alone I would not be your equal in a battle, yet I longed to stay and find out your reason for being near to one of the works of Aulë and meaning no apparent harm to it. After a few moments I heard a change in the melody, almost imperceptible to ears other than mine, and out on the far boundaries of awareness I felt a corresponding change in the surrounding air, but I heeded it not then for it was no threat. You continued to walk, bare feet somehow finding purchase between the crowds of stones on the ground. You continued to walk, and to sing, and I followed the wake of that song, and did nothing.

I cannot recall a time when you were not cunning, or deceitful; had the same events passed in these days, I would not doubt for a moment the insincerity of your actions. However, on that nameless mountain I was still young in struggle, and could still clearly recall the songs we made together before the Creator himself, and could still pretend that I understood your intents.

Then, the song changed.

I say the song changed and not you sang something different, because it was the same song to the ears, just not to the mind. There was a flash of white upon the grey ground, and it was frost that appeared where your feet trod; white shards of crystallized water, sharp and stinging in mockery of the gentle snow, tumbled from the now tumultuous clouds above, and where they struck the foundations of the mountain cracked, and soon there was a latticework of fine fractures beneath me. They could not harm me, but Aulë's creation began to suffer.

The air began to become biting to exposed skin, and I sped towards you to try to stop you, though the unbearably cold winds were bewitched against me. Already stones crumbled beneath me as if they were made of delicate baked clay that falls to dust in the slightest wind, yet they were of hardened rock, tempered by flame. Even then I marvelled at your power – and cursed my own foolishness.

At last I found myself on a ledge directly above you. All around us was the glittering whiteness of ice, all the moisture having been drawn from the now arid air and made to creep like a disease between the tiniest gaps, the most inaccessible of cracks.

You looked up at me, raising an entirely too lovely face, your dark hair billowing freely in the wind, and smiled. O, cruel brother! You knew all along that I would not attack you on sight, and your song – which was treacherously innocent, which reverberated around us, which you continued to sing – suddenly became filled with terrible wrath and madness. Though I knew not fear, I trembled at the cacophony of sound. You continued to smile mockingly: behold, how easily your control over the skies can be wrested from you, and how unwilling you are to confront me! Who shall set their sight upon you and revere you now?

The spears of ice continued to fall.

You prised the winds from my hands with a song, a soft, tinkling song…

…and I was compelled to watch the repercussions of my temporary weakness…

Tendrils of frost crackled around you; your smile grew twisted, and your eyes gleamed with malicious light. So cruel.

Sometimes you favoured the cold, sometimes the agonizingly hot, but always your methods were brutal, though they were also true spectacles to any observer. I must comment, though, that the ways in which we the Valar hew valleys and build mountains were not any less impressive – and such was our fate as I foresaw, glory confronting glory. I knew all we do to be within the constraints of the Music, so our seemingly endless wars can only emulate the conflicting themes, the broken chords and melodies, and can never deviate from them. But it was of little comfort at that time.

I knew that in ages to come, I would be called Súlimo, the Lord of the Breath of Arda. There is no such title for you; to most, you did nothing to deserve one. However, in this matter my opinion differs from the others'. If I am the Breath of Arda – that refreshes it and gives it a tether to life – then you must be the beat of Arda's heart, ceaseless in your activity, alternating between extremes, pounding out almost-regular markings in the history of its creation as the pounding of red metal between hammer and anvil.

I believe that the burning blood that runs deep underground gave the world its warmth. I believe that the wildly changing climate made the foundations of the earth sturdier.

I believe that your relentless attacks only served to make the world stronger.

Behind me, I heard a deep rumble, and turned to see an entire face of the mountain shear clean away and produce a great and hideous pall of dust that rose as a monster into the sky. My brows furrowed in frustration, and when I tore my eyes away from the sorrowful sight, you were gone.

Only the frost remained, and soon, not even that.

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