Tears of Strangeness
Disclaimers: Middle-earth and all its inhabitants belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate. I intend no infringement of copyright and am making no money from this.
Rating: G.
Summary: First at the last, and a fallen angel weeps.
Feedback: Yes please.
A/N: As far as I know, this does not contradict Tolkien's writings on the Dagor Dagorath. If it does, I am sorry. As I understand it, the Professor's writings on this were rather vague, and so I hope it does not need an AU warning. Thanks to all the people on LJ who helped me out with this.
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He cries now, and he remembers that he never has before, as
he looks upon the light undying.
At first there were no eyes for weeping, no sight, no touch, no taste, nothing
but the soaring arc of the song, and that terrible, unknowable presence, that
sense – if sense it was – of being beholden to something which even he,
greatest of the Children of Thought, could not even begin to comprehend.
They sing now, for might, for majesty, and for the simple glory of the singing,
and he wonders if he can ever sing again, can ever transcend that awful melody
he wrought.
Afterwards, there were eyes to see, wide open, and gleaming, but still no
tears. For who cries when the world is before them and the heavens above them,
all for their taking? Who dares cry when Nienna weeps bitter tears for their
deeds?
There was no daring, no might, only the all-encompassing will, to succeed, to
rule, and, in the end, to destroy.
There was no daring in the legions which marched under his banner, nothing but
indomitable fury. There could be no tears then, for the blood was his,
nourishing him with each spilt drop.
No tears even for the youngling riveted to the rock face by one clawing hand.
No admiration for the friendship which drove another across the wastes to his
succour. No hatred –although they named it to him – for the rending of flesh,
the captive set free. For how can there be hatred for such a petty thing when all the world is fury?
Not a drop spared, either, for the pain of the soul when the gem was hewn from
his crown. Hatred, then, a little, for he perceived in that a fragment of what
he had forgotten, of love which does not die, and even in the dark places there
were foreshadowings of the end. But not a drop, never a drop, for the Lord of
the World does not cry, and that was the desire of his
heart, black beyond blackness, dark beyond the infinite night.
Where is there mercy for sorrow, even if the sorrow is one's own? A lesser thing, not worthy of his consideration. And still
no tears, as they dragged him in chains, imprisoning him beyond the Walls of
the World.
And only laughter for he who styled himself the Lord of
Gifts, even in his fall and dissolution. For it was a
usurped title, although he could no longer remember from whom it was stolen.
No laughter, either, for the kingdoms of Men as they fell into ruin, as he knew
they would. The Aftercomers, his in the end, their bloodlust,
their fury, as if it had been born of his own heart.
No joy in the ice, no tears for its retreat.
Nothing, nothing but the most hideous anger.
How can there be tears in the void? Nothing is there but cold so absolute it
frees, so sure that there is nothing but certainty. And no
tears, not even for himself, for why shed blood when there is no one to see?
And then freedom, freedom so dauntless it seared him, although he knew not
whether he broke his bonds or they were broken for him, whether this last
battle was of his will or no.
No hope in the fell forces who rose up to meet him. No
desire for victory, although the earth and the night were certain of it as the
mountains spewed forth fire. No hope, for hope is despair's enemy, its ally and
its twin. And those who despair must weep.
Nothing but destruction, raging, always raging, take without give, have without
hold, the eternal, irrefutable absence of everything, of light and dark, of
love and hate: the end of all, for in the beginning is the ending, and the
ending beginning.
Only darkness so absolute it blinded him, as those he had entrusted with the
burden of hate turned against him, as mortal embraced immortal, and faced him
in one unbroken line of defiance. After all, had he not hated them? And where
are there tears for treachery deserved?
And then light, light which was not of himself, could
never be of himself, such was its brilliance. And still no tears, for had he
not expected it? Had it no ever been within him to make obeisance before it?
The Music was before him, and after him, and he, mightiest of the mighty, was
just a chord in its wrathful, merciful whole.
And yet no tears, for why cry when all is done, and all is brought to its end?
No tears for the Silmarilli broken open, for the blistering light spilt forth,
for it was as it was, and had he not seen the light and coveted it?
Darkness weeps not for the light imperishable, for it is beyond its reckoning,
beyond its compass. And it was still part of the World that Is, the eternal
dance of light and shade.
And then the dead came forth, and all the peoples wept and sang. And he smiled, a bitter, sorrowful smile. But still no tears for
him, until the Touch was upon him, that Presence he had no need for, mighty
among the mightiest.
And finally, broken and remade as the world itself, he sees in his terrible
discord but one part of the whole, and, at the end, there are tears, tears to
drown the oceans and raise up the mountains in glory.
Tears, tears that had never been, tears which defied the Ages, tears until the
immortal essence is shaken and dry, remorseful yet freed from remorse.
There is light without shadow, and all he has striven for is sped away, but in
the midst of the tears he cares not, for the Song is ineffable, and none cowers
before him, and his voice, once raised in dread majesty, is but a part of the
whole.
As it was in the beginning, so it is in the end, and the light is upon him, and
he is darkness no more.
And so he sings, amid his tears, and the song and the tears are one.
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