"Cold be hand and heart and bone,
and cold be sleep under stone:
never more to wake on stony bed,
never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead.
In the black wind the stars shall die,
and still on gold here let them lie,
till the dark lord lifts up his hand
over dead sea and withered land." – J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Fellowship of the Ring".
Q. nukumna adj. "humbled". Nukumnon – humbled one.
I used the name "Nukumnon" for our lovely Maia, seeing as no one in their right mind would call him Mairon now in Valinor, and yet, Sauron is a bit too harsh after all these years.
-.-
1.
Across the flat, dun horizon, colors now swirl: black and orange, mostly, with the occasional flicker of vivid red and silver. His chest is tight, his lungs empty. He feels as if a mountain is crushing him. He tries to scream, but no sound comes out. Light blinds him, and that light is the wreck of his home, it is a tidal wave, it is gold melting away to cool into stone. And it is a mourning that's lodged itself forever in his heart.
Gone!
Frigid blue eyes regard him, shining in the dark, and the darkness is alive. It smoothes away the pain, lifting the mountain enough for him to fill his lungs one last time and scream - - -
Nukumnon awoke in his bed, in the house of Manwë. He was sweating, panting, the hunger in his chest driving him mad. He haven't felt this agonizing longing ever since Manwë found him after the Ring was destroyed, pale and adrift, and made him his own. Every Maia needed a Vala to anchor them and give them strength. He was no different, and Manwë had been merciful. The hunger was dulled. It didn't hurt anymore.
He was restored now, his soul calm and tame. The markings of Morgoth were removed from his mind and cleansed away. When first he was taken to Valinor, he was made to toil to make up for all the harm he did throughout the ages. It was hard, very hard, hated and hating as he was, but as millennia trudged on and piled up into millions of years, the struggle subsided. All the deep emotions harbored on both sides became remote and disassociated. Like so many other things in the over-long lives of the Undying, they no longer seemed relevant.
The Eldar thrive on memory, they say, but even they can grow weary of remembrance.
But his peace of mind was completely wrecked about a week ago, as much as time was still counted now, when he was summoned to the Vala's presence. Such close interviews were a rare thing for Nukumnon, after the initial cleansing of his mind.
(he still remembered his horror, his violence on the throne hall's polished floor as he tried to get away from the hands that held him down, and then from the tendrils of thought that penetrated his mind and rearranged it, stitching back all the rips and tears made by his former master, making him bow – )
He bowed before the King and Queen, and, rising up, noticed the tension in their faces. The Elder King's lined features were always serene and composed, although Nukumnon knew how terrible his wrath was – he still remembered what Manwë did to his siblings on the day that he was taken away from them. He assumed a neutral expression and waited for whatever might come.
"I have some… news that might concern you," Manwë opened, uncharacteristically hesitant. "Our Lord decided to send us back my brother."
Nukumnon stood there, face unmoving, as if he didn't hear him. From the corner of his eye he saw Eönwë and Ilmarë exchange concerned looks behind the thrones of the Monarchs.
Manwë continued. "Our Lord restored him to his original faculties, before he rebelled, and erased the evil from his mind." He got up and started pacing the room, his passage lifting whatever remains of ruddy hair that still clung to Nukumnon's scalp. "I must confess that I do not comprehend His purpose, but I cannot question His wisdom. I shall accept it, as always."
"Do understand," Varda said, and he moved his gaze to her cold eyes, glimmering in the frame of her now gray and lusterless hair. "He will not remember anything he did, anything he was, as if none of it had ever happened."
Nukumnon tested his voice. It was sufficiently stable. "And what am I to do about it, my Lord and Lady?"
(lies, lies. He never did swear fealty to either of them. He wasn't even asked to do it. He was as much their servant as he was Nessa's, for that matter. But some things are better left unsaid.)
"You must not go near him," Manwë said decisively. "For whatever reason. And you must not tell him anything of the past."
"Why?"
"Any sign of the past that he is given, any memory, might awaken the darkness in him and reverberate in his nature until it resurfaces, to the loss and ruin of us all. He would be punished for any infringement, of course, quite brutally. But our punishment would be far worse as we would have to see everything we built – everything you, too, had built – destroyed. This must not happen."
"It's crucial that you heed our words, despite any difficulties that may arise." said Varda. "He's got a second chance, we all have. We cannot let it go to waste."
"And the rest? The Maiar, the Elves?"
"They were instructed accordingly. But I wanted to make sure that you in particular understood the gravity of the situation."
"Very well," he said. "When is he coming?"
Manwë paused and the room stilled.
"Today," he said. "He's descending today."
-.-
Nukumnon exited the throne room, feeling the numbness of shock finally dissipating from his brain. He's coming. Unbelievable as it was, after all this time, but it was true. And in this latter age, when all the fires in the belly of Arda had cooled away and the flames of his soul long turned to ashes, Nukumnon did not know what to think about it.