.
"The eldest [Maedhros], whose ardour yet more eager burnt than his father's flame, than Fëanor's wrath; him fate awaited with fell purpose."
~ J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lays of Beleriand
Chapter 7
The chains they left behind in his vault but still tightly bound his hands behind his back. Maitimo grew ill as his surroundings passed by in a blur. He worked to stand and walk of his own volition, but his feet felt to erupt with fire upon each brushing against the course ground. But Fankil and the others bracing him upright slowed not their pace, dragging him onward when he slowed and wrenching him upward when he stumbled. But now he grew faulty of foot again, nigh collapsing to his knees, and a cry ripped from his throat, for his feet felt like they were pierced with nails when walking on the lacerations originally delivered to prevent any walking at all. His arms felt to be nearly ripped from their sockets as his overseers violently forced him upright once more, and Maitimo nearly heaved come the faintness from all the wounds flaring anew.
He forced his eyes open but could see little. Beasts of a countless number encircled him, their growls and granite cackling echoing on the walls, and he could feel the singeing heat of the Balrog in his wake, its diabolical glow the sole luminosity for their march. But Maitimo knew where they headed and his hearted pounded with the knowledge. They went down. They marched him downward, and only one fell fate existed at the bottom of this descent. There was only one place to go.
For they passed no Elves in toil and labor, for though the thrall vaults lay deep beneath the smithies they slaved at, Maitimo's own prison lay even deeper. And he still could make no sense of their direction as he was led and hustled along the labyrinthine tunnels and dungeons, the pits and stairs, marked at every turn by shapes like carven trolls and the entombed silence savagely broken by his escort of Orcs. Left, right, stumbling on uneven stairs, they went ever downward, utter blackness before him and red of living fire behind him.
Until in the consuming darkness, Maitimo could see amid his dazed vision the grinning portals of the Nethermost Hall, and his chest seized up as he was shoved with vigor through its cavernous mouth.
The room was not empty. It was lit by fire, and Maitimo was struck anew by the familiar sight of the beastly crowd that gathered, countless in number and filling the chamber along every wall. Everywhere. Monstrous creatures stood and lay everywhere. Throng on throng of Orcs, Úmaiar clad as beasts he could not name, spirits of flame lesser in size and might than Lungorthin behind him, canine and feline animals all savage and cruel. They were everywhere, yipping and yowling and growling, and Maitimo fought to breathe as his fëa was overwhelmed by the suffocating Darkness that assaulted him with no warning, his breath literally robbed at the cold and terrible evil made manifest in the cavern. He gasped desperately.
Smack!
Maitimo collapsed to his knees as a spear shaft came from behind and swept them from under him, and his inoperable knee felt to break three times over at the impact. Waves of agony washed over him, but after subsiding he paid no heed to the thought of even rising. He knew the deed was done to humiliate, but really…he was off his feet. The tendons felt to split in his knees and his body screamed at the trembling that wracked it, but he was off his feet. So many a time before had he fought, burned with indignation at the debasement of being forced to his knees, but he cared not. He would rather spit in the face of such naysaying than be made to stand and bear his own weight. He would but collapse and suffer the further torment for falling. Maitimo bowed his head, hair of soiled and shorn locks falling to curtain his face, breaths audibly ragged and face contorted in raw agony as he fought to overcome the onslaughts of pain that would just not go away. He could faintly register the vicious laughter of the Orcs at his reaction, hear the beasts roar in a speech black and heathen to the ears, but he felt the heat of blood trickling from his mouth and ignored them.
That was, until he felt the razor point of a spearhead at his throat. Maitimo went still, a hushed silence falling in the Hall, and a bead of blood dribbled down his neck as the broad iron blade sliced into the skin just under his jaw, bidding him to lift his head. Knowing already what sight would meet his eyes, he did.
Moringotto stood before him, but he was not alone. An Elf was poised in front of him, his back to the Vala's chest, and Moringotto held him immobile by a vicious hand to the mussed hair and the other clasping his throat, the thrall's own hands clawing at the Dark Foe's arm to lessen the pressure. And all the while looking at Maitimo, the Vala whispered to the Elf, his lips brushing his ear.
Maitimo's brow furrowed at the sight, his throat closing up.
By his blistered and bloodied hands, the captive Elf was a thrall tasked to mine iron ore deep in the pit and he looked as forlorn and oppressed as all thralls were, his body beneath the tattered garb marked with abuse and eyes alight with a despairing and dying hope. But the Elf right now had a look of terror on his fair face. Maitimo could only fathom how he would feel in not knowing why he was there before all these evil entities fey and ruthless, and why the Dark Lord's focus was on him when he had undoubtedly been doing nothing but slaving way, head low in contrition in effort to avoid the flailing scourge. So strong was his terror that it manifested in the harsh trembling along his body, and he looked more panicked at the Dark Lord's whispers, more confused; he knew nothing of what was to happen or why.
But Maitimo did.
He knew what Moringotto said in the Elf's ear, knew the words too well. And when the Elf suddenly turned a look of shock on Maitimo, one revealing a very sudden, very real panic and dismay, Maitimo looked on with deadened eyes. Even when the Elf let out a despairing wail in his native tongue that carried all woe to be had in response to what Moringotto said, Maitimo looked on, eyes desolate and empty.
Moringotto ended his words in that soft and muted language, however much his eyes remained trained on Maitimo, and a grin twisted his mouth. Even as the Elf desperately began to fight the hold the Vala restrained him with, now knowing his fate, Moringotto gripped the fair being's neck with the fell claws of his fingers and, in one firm swipe, he slit the Elf's throat, the nails piercing so deep he almost ripped it out entirely. Blood spurted far and gushed heavily from the gaping slashes, and Orcs jeered as the Elf fell limp to the ground. Eyes open, throat disfigured with cavities and blood pooling around him, he was still.
And Maitimo looked on. He stared at the Elf strewn haphazardly at the Dark Lord's feet. Still, limp, blue eyes empty. And he stared.
The Dark Lord huffed. "One more Elf now in death to hate you," he crowed to the Noldo. And he looked to his right unto a crowd of servants, nodding to Tevildo at the back and gesturing loftily to the dead Elf as he walked away. "For your thanes!"
The mass of felines sounded out a baying of approval as the fell beast descended from his perch, cords of muscle rippling beneath his fur. The mighty cat leapt forward with a growl, jaws and savage fangs clamping down on the Elf's ankle. With a jerk, Tevildo dragged the corpse around Maitimo and out through the mouth of the Hall, a trail of blood left behind, and his felines and not a few canines eagerly followed.
Maitimo knelt unmoving and Moringotto looked at him with a faint smile. "One might have thought your lesson to have long ago been taught," he spoke with a sigh. He absently flicked his fingers, flecks of blood speckling the iron-veined floor. With slow steps he paced the Hall to his throne, daunting gaze never leaving the Noldo. "Taught and heeded, yet still you persist."
Maitimo finally lifted his eyes, and their grey irises swarmed with a fierce light, though clouded over with a deathly pallor. Awareness returned and he looked around, though only fleetingly. The Nethermost Hall could only be described as an evilly dark wonder. Vast and cavernous, the chamber was lit with flaming braziers and full of wizardry that singed the air, and strange shapes moved with feverish movement in and out. The many pillars that upheld the lofty roof were ghastly carven and towered like trees with boughs like serpents. But snakes of great size curled and uncurled without rest about the pillars, and the Hall was filled with instruments of death and torment. And Orcs. Always Orcs.
And beneath a monstrous column loomed the throne that the Vala now sat upon.
The Lord of Angamando watched him, his wet, bloodied hand vibrant against the obsidian darkness of the throne. Maitimo remained quiet while looking at that evil face. But, as every time before, his eyes flitted upward to what lay nestled in those hideous iron claws, and it was difficult to look away.
The Silmarils blazed with a white and hidden fire, for self-luminous and living light kindled clear even in that Hall vast and drear. Maitimo felt his heart swell with emotion too raw and fierce as he beheld the fire of his father, immortalized as its own light, shine from those three Gems like marvelous stars at night. And though he had long ceased to wonder, it remained a marvel to him that these Jewels ever waxing the brightest sheen never burned his eyes like the smallest lick of fire did, as the lit braziers of the Hall now did. No pain. But the glance to his father's mastery was fleeting indeed, and he forced his eyes away before Moringotto could make damning fuel from it.
The Vala tilted his head, a terrible light in his eye. "How many now makes that Elf?" he questioned mildly. "Many assuredly, as you must care little for your fellow Elves in my vaults. But what new number tallied he?"
Maitimo was silent.
Moringotto lifted an eyebrow. "Speak. Your voice is able now," he said, giving a more deliberate flick of his bloodied hand, and the Noldo's eyes were drawn to the further speckles of blood falling from it.
But Maitimo did not speak, though not out of insolence. Really, he knew his voice was indeed able, for as bidden by the Bright One Fankil had restored the cords of his voice just enough to speak, just as he had enabled the lessening of the crippling wounds so he could barely stand, just as he had stopped the internal bleeding that had come during the Bright One's visit. Nowhere near ample, but just enough to be dragged here. And Maitimo knew he could speak, but just as greatly as he also knew the fire that would scorch his throat when he did.
The silence went on and Moringotto scowled. "Ready an Elf!" he barked to the restless throng of servants.
"No!" Maitimo yelled without delay, and as foreknown, his throat tore open all over again with the cry. But not that threat. Not another one.
Moringotto visibly subsided. "Then answer. How many now is it?" Further silence followed, and his dark voice deepened to a very real warning. "Do as I bid, O mighty Noldóran."
Maitimo gave a weary shake of his head, afterimages swimming before his sight of all the Elves he had witnessed be killed in the same manner.
Moringotto snorted. "Lost count, have you? A shame, truly, that not even those Elves' reason for their deaths would remember the number he fated to die, knowing well that death would be their end." Maitimo watched mutely, eyes growing more dazed and dark the further Moringotto spoke. And so he spoke on, mocking and vile. "I would tell you the name of that Elf whose blood shines bright alongside you. After all, putting to memory the names of those whose deaths you are to blame is a courtesy you never granted to that boat haven of Lindar. But," he digressed, "like you, I simply have no care to. The thanes devour him even now, so let him be forgotten, no?"
Further silence, but the Dark Lord narrowed his eyes at the sight of Maitimo beginning to sway, his body wracking with trembles and eyes distant with pain. The menace in his voice grew. "Do not dare turn your eyes from me, Noldo."
Fankil approached Maitimo and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking back with a vicious pull until Maitimo's eyes were upturned and trained once more on Moringotto. He gasped at the vice to his scalp and could not move, even if he sought to. Orcs tittered and savored the sight, but Moringotto spoke over their noise.
"Know you well I grant only three pardons," he reminded. "You will listen and you will speak, or else it shall be a score of thralls made ready. Heed you my words?"
It was a final warning, and the very terrible darkness in his face commanded obedience, but Maitimo was already weary. With no curtain of hair to hide behind, his face was made plain, the blood and filth old and new that stained it and the welts that colored it. And the skin beneath was sick with a pallor more appropriate for the dead or dying.
But, Melkor discerned, something different was made far more manifest than the misery the Elf endured. And Melkor saw it and hated what he saw. Nelyafinwë may be crippled by his broken body, but that fëa he had bid Mairon annihilate now fanned bright as it never had before, emitting a wild light fueled by an ardor that burned even more fiercely than had the fire of Fëanáro in all his righteous wrath. Melkor wondered at it, confounded as to how it could be possible. Nelyafinwë looked upon him not with defiance, but…something else. Something he could not name. He hated it and committed to beating that out of the Noldo as well.
He waited until the Firstborn's eyes were focused, as well as they could be at least, and shook his head. "You are determined to not fail, are you not? To not let another thrall be sentenced to the cold slade of death? You failed today already, but truly, why care you at all for them? For thralls not your kin and speaking a tongue nigh unknown to your ears? After all, they are but an extension of those you slew at Alqualondë, and the deed speaks for itself in how little a part they had in your heart. So why waste away concern for Moriquendi when you offered not even a morsel of it to the Lindar?" He waited. "Speak."
Nelyafinwë's face was empty of any thought, though his eyes swarmed with something dark. "I have nothing to say." He grimaced with the words, the sound of his voice coarse and broken from a throat shredded too many times from abuse. Melkor marked it as a fine ignominy of all that was an Elven voice.
He scoffed. "Mark the day a Noldo has naught to say. Mayhap my Orcs should feel honored they were slain by the same sword that spilled Elven blood on the pearlescent strands of an Elven shore. Perchance when you come again to my throne, you will drink the blood of the next thrall slain. My children speak often of how savory and sweet is its taste."
Nelyafinwë visibly grew ill at the very proposal, his body lined with repulsion and horror, and Melkor smirked, delighting in the sight. "Enough of this." And in a manifestation of his mood, the very air and illumination of the Nethermost Hall grew more dark and drear. Melkor lifted an eyebrow. "Never answered you the query of my servant. What shall it take to show you in full the folly of whatever vain hope sustains you? Why persist you so strongly against my will?"
Nelyafinwë provided no answer, but Melkor caught sight of a vague sentiment in his grey, exhausted eyes that came and went all too swiftly. "Ah, you do not know, do you?"
Though he maintained the eye contact as unwavering as he may, Nelyafinwë remained silent.
Melkor felt a glimmer of impatience and the chamber grew darker. "This is it, Your Majesty. My patience with you grows thin."
"So kill me," he grunted, the words delivered listlessly.
"And you would love that, would you not?" Melkor huffed in amusement. "Greatly do I find it comical how you Firstborn believe to know what is always best. You want to die, but have I not granted you long ago such a delight? You kneel there bound and desirous of death when already you have it, despite your body living on. After all, life without living is naught but death without dying. And you live such a death well, I must say." He once more flicked his hand, but the blood had started to harden and no specks flew from it. But he raised it nonetheless and gestured to his brow and the crown that adorned it. "Want you to reclaim these three Jewels fair and bright or not?"
Nelyafinwë's eyes flew immediately to the treasures mightiest of his House, and the distrait longing could easily be seen in his face, whether he willed it so or no. It was a silent gaze both sad and sincere, and Melkor felt his rage boil at seeing the glimpse of such wholesome purity, especially in the face of a slayer of kin. No one of such an evil deed could still be so selfless in a desire, for surely the Oath would have rendered such a yearning corrupt after so many years. But Melkor stayed himself from his yearning to replace that open gaze with one of misery. Nelyafinwë spoke no answer, but verily, the look upon his face, floodlit by the very Gems he ogled, was answer enough.
"Upon the bending of your knee you shall thereupon walk free, taking with you not one Jewel or two, but all three," he recited slowly and meaningfully. "So spoke my servant, and yet unbending you remain? Why be you so unwise when it is so simple a deed to take hold of what you vowed to reclaim?"
Nelyafinwë shook his head, grimacing at Fankil's violent fist. "You will not give them."
"Again you dub me a teller of lies?" Melkor chuckled. "Pray tell disassemble this one to prove my words false."
"I –" Nelyafinwë coughed heavily and spent a moment long and painful to recover from it, wheezing away. He struggled to stay upright as he glared at Melkor, pushing the words past dry lips. "I need not to dismantle your lies when I know them to be lies in truth."
"This again?" Melkor grumbled. "The ever-circling enigma of lie and truth? Need I recite to your addled mind again my foretellings that blossomed in full, such as the secret of Men?" Silence. "Well?" he drawled.
But Nelyafinwë spoke no response, his eyes growing distant with thoughts Melkor could little discern. He narrowed his eyes, curious that an Elf once so fiercely defiant now remained so eerily silent. Before so bold, but now so meek. "Why devote you no effort to defend yourself?"
Nelyafinwë raised a skeptical eyebrow, a hint of derision in his eyes. "In seeking such answers you have no sincerity, and I would rather walk in silence aplenty than be played as a puppet."
Melkor scowled. Forget a lack of boldness. "Ready an Elf!"
"No!" he again cried, and any derision was swiftly and wholly replaced with defeat. He bowed his head, but raised his eyes to Melkor, and in them burned such hate that the hopelessness mixed with it was seen only just. "I will speak," he conceded, a whole world of loathing in the raspy voice.
Melkor held up a hand to bid halt to those Orcs and Boldogs that had shifted to fulfill his order, and the Hall went still once more. "Good. Then answer me this: I will sanction any desire, so why resist that I offered you so simple and free? I have done naught against you to warrant such obstinacy."
Within a breath Nelyafinwë's expression had morphed into one of incredulity at such a claim, and he stared at Melkor, agog and aghast and appalled. "You killed my grandfather!" His voice cracked on the adamant shout and it had to be painful, but so great was his fury that he seemed to care little.
But Melkor smiled in the face of such wrath, a delighted gleam entering his eye. "I slew the great Finwë? What say you to the fact I went to save him, not slay him?" The smile grew at the look the claim put on the Noldo's face. He nodded. "You were all fleeing and saw naught of what occurred. My Ungweliantë was insatiable to devour the treasures of your hoard, but Finwë stood before the shut doors. On these thither lands you saw not a remnant of her silken web, for upon arrival in my demesne, I summoned awake my spirits of flame and bid they slay her or make her flee back over glacial kame. At my displeasure she quailed in terror and turned to flight, and my servants pursued her with whips of flame. And she fled into the night. And now she is here no more, as my Balrogs made assured."
The room erupted in a sudden spasm of light as Lungorthin in the rear unleashed a cloud of fire, and Nelyafinwë hunched over as the heat seared his skin. But the deep, nefarious laugh of the Balrog rumbled in the Hall, the sound rough as rocks cascading, and all there knew the beast was pleasured by the memory of the tale.
Melkor smiled, recalling how vicious Lungorthin had been in the hunt. He looked back to Nelyafinwë. "See you now? As attested behind you, my account of events is true."
Nelyafinwë did not speak, but Melkor could see the uncertainty in his eyes, made greater by Lungorthin's sudden vigorous agreement. He knew the Noldo remembered all the other treasures lost and stolen with the Silmarils, the Darkness that thoroughly blinded them, and that though his grandfather had lain slain before the doors blackened and wrecked, he had never truly seen the happening of their King's death.
Melkor cast to him a questioning look. "Why would I desire to smite your father's sire? He gave me no reason, so I did not."
Nelyafinwë shook his head dismissively, grimacing in pain as he clenched his jaw. "You lie again."
"I speak no lie and seldom have I. This you know," he snarled. "Was it a lie I spoke when foretold I to your father that the Valar would bid he break the Silmarils? Was it a lie that Ñolofinwë would sit upon the throne if granted the chance? Was it a lie that my Brethren lured you from Cuiviénen unto their own nest? Was it a lie that from Valinor you could fly free and the Valar could do naught to stay your feet? That time was a harvest of Truth if there ever was one. So, O wise king, when had I ever lied?"
But Nelyafinwë already was shaking his head, his eyes disgusted. "What work you to convince me of when by your lies you turned the whole of the city against my father?"
Melkor chuckled, reclining in his throne. "That was a masterpiece. For you see, my fellow king, you love so much to boast to me the potency of your father's tongue, yet not even he could disassemble the delectable fruit of my toil, no more than any can invert the chronicles of Time to undo that done. Fëanáro revealed to be so poorly learnt in what it was to be an artisan of true might and mastery. But just as the mold of his fate was bent from my will, so now also is yours." He leaned forward, his voice sickeningly sweet. "Recall you the promise I made you long ago, royal thrall? Even if from these dungeons deep you achieved to flee, you will go not without my taint on your heart. And more cancerous shall the growth of the taint be the longer you stay from yielding and bowing to me."
Nelyafinwë met his foreboding gaze, forlorn but steady. "Then you will have to kill me, for before ever that day comes I will live in death to suffer the Everlasting Dark."
Melkor almost rolled his eyes. "Aye and aye and yea. More salvaged and resaid is that speech than the thralls' wailing for reprieve. Have you nothing new to vie with me?"
Nelyafinwë looked a complicated assortment of pained and dismayed and revolted. "I vie for nothing. You may shred from my body my skin and leave my bones shattered, but if believe you truly I would bow to what you have shown me here –"
"Greater is that I left unshown," Melkor interjected knowingly. "Really, Noldo, must I deliver delicate words coated in honey unto your sensitive ears?" In a movement silent and swift he stood from his throne and approached, a wake of darkness wreathing him as he looked down at the Elf on his knees. And in a voice of doom he said clearly and deliberately: "Ñolofinwë and his host came not, having turned from the sight of fatal ice and glacial air, and even now heed to the whim of Valarin mercy in that Land wholly darkened. And you can only fathom what toil they be bidden to undertake for the amends they must make. Your kin come not for you. Makalaurë and your brother princes I long ago chased away south with my clouds of vapors and poisonous fumes, and now in new lands they make merry with new lives to live and be consumed with. Your brothers come not for you." Melkor lifted an eyebrow, an acerbic and evilly amused smile touching his mouth. "And need I speak of my Brethren? They, whom against you rebelled? They, whom you waved away with a conceited hand? They, whom even if they sought you would fail? For is it not they, numbering fourteen, who could never defeat me, numbering one? They, who war with me ever in reluctance and with no hope of real victory? My spirit and will runs in the World deep and potent, in the veins of mighty mountains and in the ravines of rushing waters." Melkor shook his head, appearing amazed at the folly. "Only now do the Valar begin to see that I won come the moment they freed me. In all, the Valar pay you not even a second thought. They come not even for innocent Moriquendi enslaved to the forges and pits, so why would they for Elf who spat in their face?"
Nelyafinwë was once more silent, but this time Melkor saw within him the desolation such words were intended to stir. He saw the growing despair that ate at him, the settling of his damning words in his mind where they might stay and fester. Nelyafinwë did not respond, did not even move. Melkor knelt down in front him, his presence overwhelming and causing the Noldo to already struggle to breathe.
Fankil released his hold on the copper hair and retreated as Melkor leaned close, staring deep into Nelyafinwë's eyes until he trembled from the invasion. And Melkor broke not the gaze as he spoke in dark promise: "Your stay here will be fulfilled. And you will dread me with a binding terror. This sooth I shall hold over every Noldo of your host, that I shall seem ever nigh them even should they far from the Hells of Iron be, and their hearts will quake and they will flee not even when they can. It shall be a bottomless dread, for though you and your people may be swift of foot and surpassing fair, sad will their sweet mouths sing and their eyes with tears quivering."
Melkor tilted his head. "Know you why I have not yet killed you? Because the day will come when I parade you before your people. And they shall behold the sight of their King of a scant and to-be-forgotten folk kneeling before me, and your brothers after you and all those whose fealties to you are true. So left in desolate and ruin shall you be, that even if all Elves gathered and marched hither to your rescue and conquered this unconquerable Mountain, you would still desire death even then."
Melkor paused to let the dark words soil the air, and the silence that smothered the Hall, even by his servants and children, was alike to that of a tomb.
Nelyafinwë's face was unreadable, however deathly still he was in body.
Melkor watched him, delighting in the reaction. He lifted his blackened hand to his Iron Crown, though wary not to brush the planes of the Jewels. He watched as Nelyafinwë's eyes followed the gesture. "Was it worth it?" he asked in a tone both scathing and honeyed. "You claim you shall yield never to Darkness, but how tasted your Oath on your tongue when you vowed words as dark as the Darkness you loathe? Was that sole moment of glory wholesome and great worth the bitter fruit of your new fate?" The Dark Lord's voice grew in strength, the sarcasm strong and mockery clear. "After all," he crowed, "behold the sight before me! The King of Noldor, deep in gen, adorned with no crown and entombed in rock. Weak and flightless as a newborn chick, naked on his knees, decked with stripes of pain, and bound always in the damning links of his chains. If only the righteous Noldor might see their King now!"
Nelyafinwë did not lowered his eyes. "Just as the Valar saw the face of their Eldest forced down at Manwë's feet?"
Melkor was rendered silent, and he stared at the Noldo in crazed disbelief. The shock of such a mockery lit the wick of his temper quickly and hotly, and Melkor burned with black rage at the memory conjured by the words. Such insolence….Such insolence! For a long time that caliber of impudence had not been voiced, and Melkor had long believed it to have been beaten from Nelyafinwë wholly and completely. He already put to thought new methods and use of devices to see it done anew.
The Nethermost Hall had fallen still with an astonished silence, and many an Orc cowered and went to crawl away as they awaited the impending wrath of their Master. And Melkor's eyes indeed seemed to light with a fire as he stood, his harsh breaths echoing along the cavernous walls. "I was not the only being in that Ring of Thrones to be shamed, or forget you your father's own humiliation before all his kin?"
"My father said –"
"Your father is dead!" The strike to Nelyafinwë's face echoed in the Hall, stronger than the fist of an Orc and more fell than the claws of the canines. Blood splattered harshly as more flooded the Elf's mouth, and Nelyafinwë nearly toppled over with a cry from the impact. "Smothered by death in full and his words with him."
Nelyafinwë worked himself upright back to his knees, and it was no easy task with his hands bound at his back. He visibly shook at the agony undoubtedly coursing through his body, his face not the least. He spat out globs of blood and dazedly looked at Melkor with a brief, mirthless leer. His teeth were no longer flawless, no longer white, but crusted with old filth and blood gone dry and the sheen of the new blood. But he forced out the words even so. "Your hate is no decree, for his words live on if solely in me."
"Aye," Melkor chortled in disgust, "they live on manifested in the fulfillment of your desolation and broken body. How grateful to him you must be! So let his foul mouth die as the swiving pomposity it was, for only I now can free you of the fell fate he wrought for you."
Nelyafinwë gave a brittle laugh, one touched with insanity. "I will boom every word of my father till my death and in death kiss the feet of Manwë ere ever I give allegiance unto a foe as black as his heart!"
Melkor moved like a wraith and in a heartbeat had Nelyafinwë's face tight in his bloodied hand. A pain expression touched the Elf's visage and Melkor squeezed his tender jaw until the expression grew into a full grimace. With no utterance of words Melkor leaned forward and breathed long and steady upon Nelyafinwë's eyes, and withdrew.
For Nelyafinwë then beheld before him a familiar sight; Melkor as he had walked in Valinor. And the vision was breathtaking, a form coeval with that of Manwë and wreathed in a brilliance more bright and potent than the Silmarils combined. Fairer in face than Manwë himself and sheerer in beauty than even the Trees, in power and majesty he shown greater than any other of the Valar and was a vision painful for Elven eyes to endure. For it looked to shadow even the Silmarils bejeweling his brow.
Melkor stared at him in scathing challenge. "How black am I, spoke you?" he seethed, even as the vision faded to return unto his form dark and terrible. "Or forget you so swiftly how you all looked in awe upon my form in Aman? Of the praise that reached far of how lesser in greatness even Manwë looked at my side?" He cocked his head. "What say you to that?"
"I say you cannot thunder with a voice like his," Nelyafinwë rasped without a pause. "And I would first seek death's embrace before I endure to see the majesty of Manwë bow to you."
Melkor's face grew black and wrathful, and he felt the ire grow consuming and smothering within. He looked at Nelyafinwë, shaking with rage and a hate so potent the air about him shifted and stirred, and he readied a strike that would render the insolent creature before him dead in truth. But before he lifted his hand to deliver the blow, Melkor stilled.
He narrowed his eyes in sudden suspicion.
For looking deep into the Incarnate, Melkor realized an anomaly in that vocal display of Nelyafinwë. Aye, such defiant words were as raw and riling as those of Fëanáro himself. But though he spoke shorn of any hesitation or fright perceivable, though his fëa shone from his battered body excessively bright and terrible, though his ruined voice grated out all the anger and resentment and loathing better suited for an apostle of Darkness…though all fueled on the brazenness he voiced, Nelyafinwë's eyes were empty. Empty of the defiance he had long ago broken the Elf of, empty of any pride he had long shredded and torn asunder…just empty. Nelyafinwë spoke words bold and rebellious, but his eyes did not mirror the passion of them at all, as though he were too worn to see his daring proclamations whetted by the fire of his fëa. His eyes were just empty when they should have shone with the fervor and intensity of his words alone. And Melkor understood.
Nelyafinwë sought to madden him enough that, in a crazed fury, he might smite the creature here and now.
What a swine.
The Elf was more cunning than he perceived, Melkor thought. But he reluctantly doused the inferno within, reacting not to how the mere mention of Manwë made him burn. He would not grant the pest such satisfaction.
Looking into waiting eyes he gave a dark smile. "The sight of Manwë kneeling to me you will see, and I would fain keep you and all worshippers of my brother alive to have the sight burned to your memories. His day draws nigh, for many Ainur of the Song have followed me and serve me at my call. In the Days far gone before Time was weaved, I the Potent had claimed many a Maia not of my People. From Aulë, from Oromë, from Vairë and Varda. From others too they hailed and cleaved unto me and would never flee lest their Existence be ruined. This they know well. For unlike you and all Amaneldi ensnared by the Valar's mesh, they grew learnt from my revelations of the fickle thing light is. In that though light may ward off the darkness, it is but an illusion in truth, for the lesser brightness that stands before the greater becomes a darkness." His face morphed into one of delight. "This Manwë will be made to admit, made to see, and he shall end his self-deception and come to me. All you Elves shall, for were you not the lesser brightness and thereupon dark when standing beneath the Light of the Two Trees? Just as Manwë is shadowed by my glory. Just as your father's flame, of all Elvenkind most fierce and bright, was smote and made pitiful by a greater might. And now look at yourself, Your Majesty," he taunted. "A thrall made from the mold of kings and at my feet kneeling with no strength to rise." He paused to let the indignity fester. "So proud your father would be."
Another bout of silence resounded, but Nelyafinwë's face was a subtle morphing of many emotions, flitting too quickly to discern and growing darker upon each shift. He stared at Melkor, no new crafty words of insolence on his lips. Moringotto again kneeled close before him, dark eyes shimmering with all the smothering wonders beyond the Folds of Eä, all the molds and secret fires found only in that Eru-less place.
And he lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. "Tell me, dear king. How sounded his scream, his wail? How felt it knowing upon your ride to Valmar that you would be first to speak to him of Finwë's death? How felt it having to stand there, looking into eyes you knew so well, and knowing your impending words would be to him a death knell? Felt you to die a little inside come every minute change that transformed your father's fair face in that moment? Knowing your sire was breaking because of words delivered from your own lips? How felt it knowing in full that the Valar left you the burden of the telling how Finwë died and that it would also cut your father as a scythe? How felt it after the telling, to stand there unknowing of what to say?"
He grew elated at the bleak response it was conjuring in Nelyafinwë's face. "How felt it upon Losgar to watch burning ships, to look across the sea and know you left there your abandoned Findekáno? How feels it to wonder what he must think of you now? How felt it to thrust your blade into the first Linda you slayed? Was it difficult to pull free, the sound of the flesh sickly and sweet? How felt it to watch your father drown in madness, knowing you could do naught to stop it? How felt it to watch it consume him? How felt it watching the light fade from his eyes? How felt it watching him as he died? How felt it being able to do naught but watch?
"For now, esteemed Nelyafinwë," he viciously crowed, "you may fathom wholly and freely all the hate and depth of bitterness in Eldamar left in Fëanáro's wake for him." Melkor huffed. "If only he might be alive to taste it, for sorely did he deserve it."
Nelyafinwë's face had morphed drastically amid his speech, such sharp and severe emotion ranging from bleak and wretched to despairing anger and devastating remorse. But all the extreme sentiments coalesced into a pure expression of incredulity, too raw to conceal, and Nelyafinwë stared at him, distressed and in crazed disbelief. He shook his head without thought, brow furrowed and eyes baffled. "What had he done to you?" he finally rasped, his throat so spent the words were nigh inaudible. "What did he do? Why have you such hate for my father?"
Melkor scowled at him, unimpressed, and he leaned close. "Because he deserves it," he sneered. "Nowhere deserved he a place in the Themes, and that he was given their highest pedestal is a disgrace! By all nether wastelands of Eä, if I had foreknown the mere shell of his existence, a fell melody in the Song for him would have been weaved." And none ever shall slam a door in his face again. "And verily, why not? All others had."
Nelyafinwë shook his head, brow furrowing. "Not true."
"No?" Melkor crooned, eyebrows raising. "Your father I played as a lute. Well-tuned and well-strung. And now by naught but his ill deeds and bitterness is he remembered. And that, Fëanárion, is his legacy. All your woes you may lay at his feet, for as your father went to be consumed by wrath fierce and fell, he in turn left you nothing but a death knell. And looking upon you now, this, dear Elf, is true. And you know it."
Nelyafinwë's face crumbled and his body trembled, and so clearly was it seen how he fought not to break. Melkor knew he had nothing to say, as was only proper. Any fervent light in the princeling's eyes had faded, replaced by that sheer anguish he had now long exhibited. Good.
Melkor returned to his feet, looking down with a glare. "So indeed, little thrall, what have you to lose? You live now this fate, and this sooth in full you now know intimately. As my servant bid you consider, to my offer what would your father say? Upon bending your knee you shall reclaim wholly the Gems, all three, thus and at last fulfilling the Oath that drove you to these vaults. Mayhap you might then find the liberation of death's door, but of all reason for defiance and resistance you have run dry, and to that I say you can dispute no more. The time of denying your fall has ended."
A silence long and still met the end of his speech, and the tension wrought from the finality of the words was palpable. Melkor waited, willing the Elf to break the silence for once, and he would remain kneeling there before all until he did. But sooner than expected, Nelyafinwë looked up. At the sight upon his face, Melkor frowned. Though the Noldo looked long broken and defeated, Melkor grew disconcerted at how the brightness of his fëa's fire had not diminished. Indeed, it was as excessive in ardor and potency as when first he arrived.
But Nelyafinwë spoke with resolve, however dark was his face. "Should I not live, I will be still taken in death in honor of my father. He may have went wild in wrath, he may have been taken by madness, but he is my sire. I vowed his Oath without his asking and with my dying breath I will curse you anew for all you had done to him!" His voice grew in anger the further he spoke and his grey eyes shimmered with a wild grief. And Melkor's mien darkened. "You may have brought to ruin the pillars of his life and seek now to destroy him even in death, but the glory of my sire will be sung far and wide so long as one of his sons goes on."
Melkor gave a tight smile, but it was mirthless and his eyes sparked dangerously. "Rather empty words when the reason you are here now presently crowns my brow."
Again Nelyafinwë's eyes flitted up to Jewels, but just briefly. And the first glimpse of true mockery and derision settled upon his face. "My father at least had the fire to create while you had forfeited yours! You speak of lesser light becoming a darkness before the greater, and the Jewels of our House may sit on your brow, but ever will you be the lesser light in face of the glory my father encased. The sole reason why you wear the Silmarils that are ours alone by right was because you could not replicate their make. So truly, my lord, who exactly stands lesser than a creature made from the dust?"
"And behold where such creation destined your father!" Melkor snarled, the hot air churning. "He is dead, now imprisoned by the Valar beyond Arda's end. Aye, such a thing to boast of, to be a creator of wonders and yet too weak to stop it from bringing you to ruin."
"It changes not that he was the one Elf you could not sway, that you could not beat."
"He failed to evade death ere such shame would have befallen your House and your name defamed," Melkor declared in a rising voice. "Fëanáro never tasted the full bitterness I would have fain delivered, and had he met me on such a front, with but one hand I would have seen him smote."
Nelyafinwë let loose a chuckle, coarse and with unbridled disdain. "High or low, even at the highest peak where reel the dizzy senses at Thangorodrim's crown –" He grimaced as he coughed again and gasped for breath. "At least my father could still create wonders while you could not."
Melkor's eyes widened, a crazed fire lighting them, his body stiffening, and his rage was unleashed in full. Nelyafinwë was again cast to the ground, and so painful and devastating was the blow that this time he could not rise. Melkor looked down upon the Elf crying out in agony and face a display of overwhelming pain, and his hands itched to just take hold of him and tear him limb from limb. He dared…he dared to speak of that!
So consuming and palpable was his rage that the braziers' fires burst into inferno, and Orcs began mewling and rushing with frantic speed to flee the Nethermost Hall. The air scorched with the stench of sulfur and the rumbling of quakes that wracked the earth beneath the Mountains resounded in the vast cavern. Melkor's vision grew black the longer he stared at the deplorable creature writhing at his feet. He turned from Nelyafinwë in a flurry of robes and static sparking in his wake.
"Make ready the stake!" he barked, voice thunderous and terrible. Many moved swifter than their wont to heed his command. And after several paces away, he turned about once more to glare at Nelyafinwë, and he did not turn his eyes from him as he ordered further: "To the thrall vaults go and gather a score of them, propounding unto the others the doom that now comes. And take our royal guest back to his chains and deliver His Majesty to the cavern to await the price he paid. And upon his return inform my Lieutenant of this change in course!" He saw Nelyafinwë's eyes go wide in a panicked mixture of horror and despair that grew with every new order. Good. Melkor willed that such dread would rot him from within, for the Noldo knew well what was coming. Already he began to regret, but he had never yet tasted the full bitterness of such a pill, and would be given no reprieve until he drowned in it. He would see personally that the bliss of death remained far from him, that he be driven in madness until he no longer knew what death was! Melkor narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth, voice lowering to a terrifying growl. "Remove this creature from my sight."
He watched as Nelyafinwë was manhandled without care, broken cries being torn from his throat at the brutal jostling, his own boiling wrath practically channeled through their vicious pawing. Not even granted a chance to stand, by hair and bound hands he was dragged from the Nethermost Hall, swallowed by the darkness beyond the mouth, though his agonized cries and racket of the beasts echoed on. Melkor paced the room, too enraged to sit, and so black was his face that any servants remaining fled in terror, their scuffles filling the Hall with deafening sound.
Melkor cared not where they went or that they fled, for he shook. Ai, how he shook and felt to rupture within! Visions filled his sight of Nelyafinwë ruined with new devices, new methods, new pains. New torments to drown in more vile and vicious, new woes to suffer more crippling and malicious. He thought to have suffered to worst by now? Ha! He would fain see the whelp go to survive the plight of the true woe he had yet to taste of light! He spoke as though sure it could do unto him no more, well then, let him be swallowed wholly and cruelly by the brazen words of his mouth. Where reel indeed the dizzy senses staring down from Thangorodrim's stony crown! He tasted but a shade of just how far in the depths reached Melkor's designs where not even his Brethren braved to delve. Sooner would he open his black gales of lightning and pestilential fumes to see that writhing worm sweltered by the Valar's Sun, and by that bane be consumed! To see his foul mouth be broken, his sanity wrecked –
He dared! Melkor spun around, seething and shaking. The words echoed as a haunt and his chest felt to burst with an eternal fire. And with a venomous swipe of his hand at the air that made the braziers dance wildly, Melkor fell to his knees. And he screamed.
It was loud and thunderous, more unearthly and petrifying than even the most hideous fiend. For it was raw and wild, a vocal manifestation sharp and fell of all malice to be had in the deeps of Arda and Eä beyond. In the pits, Elves in thralldom collapsed to their knees, curling upon themselves and shutting their ears desperately from that sound able to make sullied their fëar in a most irreparable way. All within the walls of Angamando heard it and, be he foul or fair, servant or thrall, not one being remained unshaken, for even the Orcs' raucous laughter was made beautiful in face of that hellish shriek.
But it ended and Melkor gasped, hunching over and closing his eyes tight as tremors wracked his corporeal frame. How dare he, he seethed, shaking his head, coarse hair cascading down. His face morphed into a clashing mixture of rage and grief. How had he known? How had he perceived? That damning swine spoke of things beyond his gen, and he did not need such infuriating impertinence when Manwë still haunted him against his will! Always Fëanáro, always Manwë and, by all dark wizardry of Void, Melkor would see the World crumble, bid the weavings of Eä's mold unravel, and not end his labor until the very existence of their names be unmade!
He shut his eyes tighter. With all his might he willed it away, but still an afterimage swam maddeningly before his face that he always failed to erase. The war circling Utumno had been the wright of his Brethren's' most grievous plight, but he still remembered plain and clear that the war had been made on behalf of the Quendi, that his fortress of unconquerable iron and cold in the North had been broken in their name. But oh, how he had made them fight, made them expend every morsel of strength! Fourteen to one it took. Fourteen to one! Fire and tumult from earth to sky with snow-capped heights belching flame, how the shape of Arda's lands had changed and broke and the seas moved and boiled….But it had come to an end. Though he sent forth vast legions against the hosts of the Valar, winged servants and creatures of blood, he could not stay the memory of the glorious sight of Manwë's retaliation: a host sailing the skies of Mánir and Súruli, sylphs on the airs and of the winds. And the whistling of Eagles with them.
But though the sylphs had eluded his clutch, many of Manwë's holy Birds had not. For he had caught many Eagles amid the descent of their flight, and had chained them against sharp rocks to squeeze from them the enchanted words whereby he might learn to fly to take his battle with Manwë even to the sky. But they had not yielded.
Melkor felt better at recalling cutting off their wings when they would not tell, the sharp agony in their whistles as he sheared from their bodies their means of flight and crushing their beaks of steel. But even that delightful memory still could not erase the image of his Brethren besieging his Utumno. The memory of sitting on his throne and watching as they approached with all haste.
The memory of Manwë in all his wrath and glory slowing to a stop before him, his look of anger turning into one of shock.
Brother, what hast thou done to thyself?
Melkor whimpered at the cutting image of his brother, at how Manwë had looked at him. He could not forget what Manwë had seen, for he had not realized it himself until he saw his little brother after so long a time; that he himself was no longer the same. There Manwë had stood, cloaked in majesty and arrayed in glory most holy, and veiled in flesh that could not contain his voice of thunder or spirit so divinely bright for which he was named. And there had Melkor sat upon his throne, cast in a shadow by his brother, and appearing so withered and worn.
Manwë had been stunned, his feet stilled and tongue silent from his surprise. And Melkor knew he had mirrored it, however masked in the intemperate abhorrence that had flared upon sight of him.
Melkor knew he had been dispersed into the World. It had been his intent! But it meant not he decreased as a person or that he now wielded less personal force than Manwë, as his brother would that he perceive. In this Manwë went to deceive! Went to do any and all things to see his elder brother ruined at his feet. But he would have none of it, no. He had feigned his humiliation for three Ages and more, and now Manwë's time to pay his due was nigh. But Nelyafinwë's bold words echoed again over the perverted thoughts of his brother, and he again trembled violently, unseeing eyes flitting to and fro in uncertainty.
He could not remember when he had first begun to lose his inherent power to Sing, the ability to summon by Song something out of nothing. He could not remember when came the first instance when he could no longer create beyond transforming the created, perverting and violating it according to his desire. And he could not remember when the changing from fana to aura, changing from the flesh akin to that of Quendi back into his true form, had become painful to endure. By fire, it had been so excruciating upon his last transformation in Avathar. He had since attempted it only once upon reclaiming these Dark Lands, but the pain had been so crippling that he could not shift, could barely will away the solid stature of his body. In the flesh he was caged, he could not spirit out of it, when all Ainur could free themselves from their forms of Arda at will. And he knew not why.
Such was why he had tormented the Eagles to learn the enchantments that gifted them the talent of flight, so that he might uplift himself from the ground and battle Manwë throughout the skies, fouling the airs as horridly as he had done the earths. But they had not said, and thus paid the price by the loss of their wings.
Melkor's mind spun, image after image of history long ended yet still so raw running over each other, but he still knew not when he had first begun to lose the power of Song. Another memory long buried and damned surfaced to his mind like the last remnants of smoke skimming a ceiling, and Melkor tore at his hair at recalling how Manwë had loved to hear him Sing. Loved to follow him on his heels into the water reeds in the Timeless Halls, asking him often to lift his voice in a melody pure and sweet and divine before adding to it his own. And so many things magnificent and fair had been born from his Music.
But now, he could create nothing of anything anymore. Even his Orcs stood as but a mockery! Made in hatred and with hatred filled, Orcs and all pitiful creatures of their ilk took him for Lord and upon occasion called him Father and Creator, and they were corrupted in all parts of their beings, their fëar dragging down their hröar in its descent of hate and destruction. Though deliberately perverted, Orcs were naught but beasts in truth of Incarnate shape, and their talking was naught more than a reeling off speeches that Melkor had imbued in them long ago. He even knew of their rebellious words! For he had taught them speech, and as they had bred and still breed, they inherited the powerful hate Melkor had dispersed into the World and the subterranean heats they were molded from. But it was their Elvish strain that aided them in rising above just being a listless animal, not anything from him. But still, they had as little independence as a steed might of its master.
For they were to nothing more fain than to aid in the basest of purposes of their Master. After all, his children were in just as dire thralldom as the Elves wailing in his pits now, for they had little chance of resisting the domination of his will. So great indeed does his pressure upon them become that when he turned his mere Thought towards them they were conscious of it, wherever they might be, be it deep under the mountains or upon the edge of the sea! And when Melkor departed from Angamando for a time short or long, he knew of the brawls and vicious fights they engaged in, for the fear of his presence was removed to a distance. And his Maiar…so many servants fervent and great….The hint of a smile ghosted across Melkor's face. Like Mairon, many had been gullible and were lured to his side by love or admiration of himself upon revealing the full might of his Power. And though they might be more conscious of their rebellion, he had darkened their fear of him, and now it was too potent to overcome. So they adhered to him as a captain, a protector, becoming at last too terrified to return unto their former allegiance. So perfectly loyal. But it was a web still all spun by skill….Not by gift.
My father at least had the fire to create while you had forfeited yours.
Melkor sounded out another fell shout, though this time brief, though the fury felt to sear him from within all over again. And consumed by the second impulse of the same desire, Melkor removed and held before him his Iron Crown. The Silmarils, blazing lustrous in their claws. Made from the glint of all other gems gathered by the light of white lamps and silver candles, from the bathing of pearls and faint half-colors of opals in the phosphor-light gathered of foam in the dark places, and bathed again with the radiant dew of Telperion and a tiny drop of the light of Laurelin. And then housed in a body of flawless glass made stronger than even adamants. Melkor gazed upon them enraptured, but also perplexed.
There was a last element, one that enmeshed all substances of the Jewels' make together. One that remained unknown to him and it drove Melkor to madness. Nelyafinwë claimed it to be the manifestation in truth of the Fire of Fëanáro, but it was an element of living fire that by no means would be doused.
And that enigma should have been beyond the make of any Elf, great or not, and it gnawed like a fire at his heart and sent black clouds unto his mind! To Darkness Everlasting damn it all! Melkor inwardly wailed as he tightened his grip on the crown, unable to rip his eyes from the dancing hues of Light pure and bright. He could not handle this again. He could not be made to suffer it! But deep in the Light of the Gems Melkor caught the sound of a very familiar Music, and again Melkor saw the face from which such exalted Light hailed, from whose Voice boomed such a sweet Melody. Look away, Melkor urged, cringing in pain. Be gone from me! It was horrid enough that Manwë's Song was ever-present in Arda and Eä beyond. It was why he had poisoned all the airs in and out of Angamando, why he fouled them and sent them back as black vapors! And may he suffocate on them, whether upon Oiolossë or amid marching to Melkor's Gates! And by them be consumed! By molten fire, why must the essence of his conceited brother be in every wisp of wind, every bramble, every dew drop and leaf and every animal?
Melkor closed his eyes again, his throat closing up.
He hated him.
He needed not the torment of his brother's unique Song, for within every interchanging melody of his Resonance sounded the echo of the Greater One in sweet and tender beauty. The One….Melkor felt his blood run cold and he could not stop the burning of his eyes.
Eru had wept. The memory most painful and buried most deep surfaced also, and Melkor wanted to tear down the walls of Angamando in agony of it. He had journeyed to the Void shorn of any counsel to learn, to grow in might, to find the Secret Fire, and in his own Music he had woven what he had learned. Straight away had harshness and discordancy risen around him, many of those that had been playing near him growing despondent and their own Melodies feeble, while others had attuned their Music to his rather than to the great theme wherein they began. And many harmonies of the beauty of His design had been broken and destroyed at the touch of his secret thoughts. But such destruction had been a testament to the power and might to be had when one took that faithful step unto Darkness to learn it! To harken to its secrets and hidden gifts of power and wisdom! If he and all his Brethren had answered the call wholly and completely and found the Secret Fire, they would have then been able to bring things into Being of their own, not simply watch it be done. So often and so deeply and so insistently had he spoken to Manwë of this need, but that foolhardy coward just refused to listen! So he had gone on his own, refusing to be restrained in growing in might when he, among all Ainur and as Eldest, had been given the greatest of it.
But Eru had wept.
Melkor beheld the Silmarils, but his vision blurred as tears stung his eyes. But no hatred of Manwë or Fëanáro or of all things beheld in Arda and vast Eä could stay the unraveling of his mind. And he hated it. Hated them for it. He shook his head vehemently, desperate for the memory to vanish unto the bottomless Deeps of the Void, willing it to be so. But the memory remained.
No! No memory. It had not happened. No Father was there. No Father here. No more smiles fair and endeared. No one anymore to call him son. No! As all would in hatred ended be, so had all in hatred first begun. For Ilúvatar did nothing! Ilúvatar watched on as they, his Brethren, mightiest of all dwellers of Eä, made fools of themselves. Watched on inactive and doing nothing!
But He had wept.
Tears fell hot and heavy down his wretched face, and he hated it. Hated the feeling of a razor slicing him without rest from within. For Melkor looked upon the Silmarils, blessed and of undying fire, and hated them. Hated being consumed wholly by the need to take it unto himself. Take all of it unto himself. He needed it. Needed to find it. He needed to gather it all, every morsel, every hue, every beam. All hated light unto himself until none remained, and its creation upon the Song of his brother's lips was brought to ruin. But of the Jewels, he could not yet discern how to shatter their houses of glass and rape them of their Light.
Yet He had wept.
Melkor hunched over, chest tight and growing in excruciating pain, and he trembled as seldom before. He beheld the Silmarils, and stared. Stared and stared, bottomless eyes glinting like the reflection of stars. He raised his charred and ruined hand, drowning in the consumption of its lure. Of the center Gem enmeshed in its foul claw, he brushed his fingers along the flawless planes so akin to the beauty of adamants. A moment when they flared bright. And just as violently as the fiery eruption of a mountain's peak, anguish of the likes he had felt only once before ripped through his fleshly form unto his very ëala. Pain. Burning. Melkor let out a cry keen and terrible that went beyond the far reaches of his fortress. It went unheard by neither beast nor thrall, and rocks were riven asunder both great and small as the gales ever cloaking the Mountains of Shadow clashed in a terrifying display of lightning and thunder.
And about Angamando the molten fires spewed and the vaporous airs churned, for so great and excruciating was Melkor's wail as he wept and was burned.
A/N: Some events in this chapter, such as the Elf slaying at the beginning, alluded to events that will be fully revealed in an upcoming story titled "Hells of Iron" that is currently being written.
Tevildo: Prince of Cats and master of thanes, one of the servants of Melkor, his tale told primarily in The Book of Lost Tales I & II
Mánir and Súruli: one of the great hosts of Manwë made of lesser beings, the sylphs of the airs and winds (HoME The Coming of the Valar I.65)
Manwë's Eagles: Amid their war at Utumno, Melkor captured the Eagles and put them to torment, cutting off their wings when they wouldn't talk (HoME The Fall of Gondolin II.193-4)
The Silmarils: very few knew their making, though Tolkien detailed in few places on how they were made and by what (HoME The Coming of the Elves I.138)
Oiolossë: Quenya in origin, and most common name among the Eldar for Taniquetil, though it's the uttermost tower of Taniquetil where Manwë dwells.
"You cannot thunder with a voice like his." From Job 40:9, verse taken out of context
Eru wept: This was not a dramatic flair on my part. Ilúvatar did actually weep at what Melkor had done (HoME The Music of the Ainur I.51)
