"Him the Almighty Power
Hurled headlong flaming from th' ethereal sky
With hideous ruin and combustion down
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
In adamantine chains and penal fire,
Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms."
-John Milton, Paradise Lost
In his dreams, he is still a god.
He slumbers deep within the bowels of the earth, nestled in a cradle of bedrock. Far below dark things scurry through a world of endless night –nameless things crawling through tunnels and sliding through subterranean lakes with blind eyes. On the surface, though he cannot know it, it is night, and the stars shine down upon a still world. But between the two, he sleeps. And he dreams.
In his dreams, he is flying through the air, high above a green earth that has yet to know the touch of sunlight. His wings are vast and golden, and he shines with divine light. It is another age, before the world knew corruption. Before he fell. In this dream, he is with his brothers and sisters, and all is right.
He stirs, and the earth shakes. His dreams now are dark ones. He dreams of the Deceiver, who sowed the first seeds of doubt within his mind, who stirred his jealousy and turned him against his companions. Melkor, he was called then, mightiest and greatest of the Valar. Melkor had spoken to him kindly, sweetly. He had seemed so wise then, so reasonable. How could he have known then that those words were poison? How could he have known that following him would bring war to heaven?
Still he remembers well the terrible grief within his heart, the realization that he had turned against God Himself, and that He had turned His face away from His fallen children. His grief gave way to despair, his grief became hate, burning away all else inside until rage was all he felt. And yet still he followed the Deceiver, hating his dark master just as he hated himself. Valinor was denied him; the Maiar who had once been his brothers and sisters loathed and scorned him, and he hated them with the bitterness only guilt can feed.
He remembers a battle, great and terrible, fought in the light of the Trees Laurelin and Telperion, of which the Sun and Moon were only pale reflections. He remembers cowering, hiding while his master is chained and brought before the judgment of his former brothers. For long ages he stalked Arda, bereft of his master yet still seeking to defile and despoil all the goodness and beauty he found. In his scorn, he sought to unmake the labors of his former brethren. After many nights, the children of his enemies –the Quendi, the noble Firstborn, and later the Hildor, the stubborn Men- appeared. He took them, sometimes by force, sometimes seducing them with whispered words and promises of power, just as he himself had been corrupted so long ago.
And then the world grew dark once more.
He remembers being called, pulled irresistibly towards his master's command as the monster Ungoliant, swollen and bloated with the life of the Trees, attempted to devour he who was once prince of all the Valar. He and those like him, others seduced by the Deceiver's words, hurried to rescue their fallen master, hating him yet compelled to aid him.
Long ages followed. The Firstborn sailed with the Valar across the sea. He remained behind with his lord, knowing paradise was forbidden to him. He remembers the long ages of unending war against the Elves. He was even then much diminished from what once he had been, but he was still possessed of power and might beyond any foe that would dare challenge him. He slew kings and princes with fire and sword, and at the head of armies he razed proud cities to ashes. He forgot what it was to fear, to cower before the might of the Valar. For the first and only time since his fall, he feels mighty once again. But no amount of death can still the despair or calm the rage within his burning heart.
He dreams now of the last great battle, where the gods themselves brought their wrath to bear against him and his dark master. The land itself was shattered and sundered, vast forests and proud mountains swallowed by the sea. He is cast down by the Maiar, broken and defeated before the feet of gods he had once called friends. He fled, like so many others who had served the Deceiver, great and small alike. He crawled into the cracks and crevices of mountains, losing himself in a world newly remade. Deep within the bowels of the earth he slumbers away the centuries, wearied by millennia of strife and hopeless rage. Deep below the place called Moria, he sleeps.
And he dreams.