The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age

A/N: Here we are, the second part as promised. This chapter has something quite interesting- a peek at the Dark Lord's own point of view. In the previous chapter, I had wished to provide a flourishing description of Tirion, but since I decided to write from Mormanar's point of view, I had to omit it. It is unlike him to note the superfluous details of appearance when there is a job to be done.

As always, thanks to Comedy Monarchy for reviewing. I'm glad Mormanar seemed like an assassin simply doing his job, since that is the effect I wished to produce. There is always a multitude of thoughts running in his dark mind, but his analytical nature compels him to reveal only the essentials necessary for the job on hand- everything else is strictly unnecessary. However, as for the Middle-earthed Darth Vader issue, I finally lose the battle and give up in this one, allowing him to go into Darth!Mode (Term).

This is the last chapter of Part One of this story. I wish to thank all who reviewed and I hope you enjoyed the story so far.

)-(

I am not quite content with how this has unfolded. I did a job that was not quite perfect, but satisfying enough for my master. With every new thought, however, He asks for more blood. And, to add to my ever-growing list of problems, there is a Maia to face- and a particularly potent one, at that.

"Their fire has been quenched by years of peace and plenty- four is not enough!"

My master's words ring in my mind as I swing my sovereign blade to stay the strikes of the Maia in front of me.

It is to my knowledge that he is fully capable of not only hurting but ruining me. That- I beg forgiveness, master- Eru-cursed Flame Imperishable burns very bright in him, one of the very brightest, I think.

He is as cunning as he is skilled, preferring to keep me at bay while hurling sorcery at me. Lightning bolts more potent than any I have yet been subjected to repeatedly strike at my armour, but they cannot pierce your shadow, master.

With roared incantations in Valarin he flings a barrage of that already thrice-cursed fire at me. I however, am more than up to the task. For was this not why you forged my sword, master?

You will be glad to know that the Ainunarcar holds firm, dissipating every fireball at its cold touch. At my cold touch.

And then, two Elves join the fight. The High King, having now gotten up from his examination of the elleth I felled, lets out a roar of rage and assaults me frontally.

His wise and powerful daughter attempts a more strategic approach, attacking me from the back. While attempting to strike me, she sends spells over my mind, attempting to coerce me into drowsiness and fatigue.

Fatigue? I feel none. My iron will which you have gifted me holds.

The Maia attempts a new tactic, singing a song of power. It is mighty indeed, and I feel myself pushed back.

Unfortunately, master, my lack of inhibitors in the form of feelings and emotions has proven to be somewhat of a curse. You know well that I am unable to sing. Hence, I thank you for giving me the power to resist song.

The wisest of the Maiar stands back, showering me with fire, lightning and the winds of Manwë, magic fuelled by his mighty song, while the High King crosses swords with me up front.

For one not aligned to fighting, his skill is tremendous- but so is mine. I see he has practiced, practiced with tremendous vigour after his brothers left for Middle-earth- but despite his might, he is no Fëanáro.

Your tutelage has shown me that the swordmasters of the House of Finwë rely on parries made at right angles to quickly adjust their positions and attack before their opponents can. Strike like fire, flow like water. His daughter, on the other hand, fights defensively. She also sings a song of power, and even I must admit it is a beautiful thing.

I feel their Valarin masters having been informed. I feel the aura of the King's daughter glow brighter- her husband is getting near.

Master, my calculation forewarns that this is impossible unless you intervene- do what you must, my mighty lord.

)-(

And so I shall. Fight, Mormanar, fight! It is time to unleash your full skill.

I see Manwë Súlimo having descended from Ilmarin, Aulë at his side. I notice the smith has brought a hammer. No doubt they have informed the rest of the Valar. My apprentice does not have much time.

This is where I intervene. I see the Elder King raising his hands to the air- curse him and his spells! Wind-king he is called, for he can dissolve his form and merge his essence with his winds, and instantly transport himself to whatever destination he wishes. The only other with this ability was Melkor, who could thusly manipulate darkness.

Persistent as he is, he has managed to learn how to transport other Valar along with him as well. But no matter- I, not Melkor, am Dark Lord. I am now master of the darkness. If I cannot use it to convey myself, I scan use it to halt others.

I see Manwë spreading his essence out to the winds, an inner, white light emanating from him- and then I strike. My shadows extend forth and drown the light. Jarring darkness forces the greatest of the Valar down, and out of the impersonal. This is my realm, Manwë. One does not simply manipulate my realm.

His fána reappears and he falls down with a satisfactory gasp of pain. Then, I see Varda Elentarí descend.

Hate it as I might, Love happens to be the most powerful form of magic in Arda. This emotional, uncontrollable, utterly contemptible phenomenon drowns the most powerful dark magic. It is the only thing capable of healing Melkor's discord.

The strength of the love between Súlimo and Elentarí is possibly the greatest on Arda. The latter I hate, and have good reason to do so- undoubtedly, she will be a thorn in my side, and she chooses to start now.

"Mānawenūz, my beloved, no! You cannot overcome this on your own!" she says, voice full of concern, curse her.

"I must, Vāradōz, I must! My beloved, a shadow threatens Valinor. I must end it."

"No. We must end it. I will not let you be hurt again, Mānawenūz. I sense a dark presence, and I will not let it touch you. Let it touch me if it wants. You are worth risking oblivion, my love." Eru damn their horrid, ridiculous, useless love!

"It is too dangerous for you, my love! What if the darkness strikes you next? No, my love, I shall do it myself. I shall not see you hurt." At least this tomfoolery is giving more time to Mormanar.

"Mānawenūz, there is only one way to do this and you know it. As always, we must do it together. Use my light to penetrate the darkness!"

He looks at her, still not willing, and sees the light of the stars burning in her eyes with a fierce determination. He places a kiss to her cheek (Cursed be these superfluous gestures) and wraps her in his arms.

The Cunning of Súlimo is great, as he calls the winds to himself and uses his spouse's light to scatter my shadows. Either one of them is fully capable of defeating me at the moment (though not without injury), and against both, I am as nothing. Cursed be their love, that amplifies their power so.

I make a last attempt to severely harm one of them, but Súlimo I cannot touch due to Varda's protection. I attempt to strike the Elentarí, but although I can hurt her, I will come off the worse. It pains me to attempt to touch her.

Therefore, I do what I can. I retreat, and extend forth to the Tower of Tirion. I see Mormanar's battle against his foes- but that is not my target. My fëa brushes against the mind of each occupant in the tower- simpletons, their minds are as open books for me to read and manipulate. I search and search, until I find a mind more guarded, more resistant. I have found her. She has woken up from sleep.

She hears the noises of clashing swords coming from above her. She is hesitant whether to go or to escape. Part of her wishes to remain in her room.

It is clear to me that the person Celebrían cares for the most is clearly her Elrond. Said Peredhel, I see, is in the Halls of the Weak, Unassuming and Utterly Useless Vala I have taken such care to depose, talking with Nelyafinwë Maitimo- an Uncle to him, if his brother Kánafinwë is to be considered his foster father.

She is aware that he departed for the Halls, though that was quite some time ago. I must convince her to go upstairs.

I create the perfect mental image, that of her precious Peredhel in pain. I fashion his image being dragged by my apprentice into eternal oblivion. I think of what he would speak- I know the way of these confounded ratlings aligned to the light, and I know he would never send his wife a plea for help.

"Celebrían, Go! Save yourself! I know not how much longer I can hold the darkness!" the vision says, and satisfied, I send it to her mind. I relish the panicked look on her face, as she does the exact thing I had hoped for- she seizes a sword and runs upstairs. Straight into the hands of my apprentice.

I feel the Valar, having completely destroyed my shadows. They will reach in a moment. Aulë is with them. Time ceases to be your ally, Mormanar.

)-(

The terrible black flash of the Ainunarcar struck Galadriel's eyes as the Black Blade clashed with Glamdring, its wielder trying to kill Olórin in one blow. Finarfin lay clutching his arm, his sword lying feet away.

The Noldorin King's duel with Mormanar had unfolded as if a tale of legend, a clash of titans both regal and terrible to witness. Neither Gandalf nor Galadriel had seen such skill on display in a long time.

Aided by Gandalf's magic and the mighty song he sang that imbued Finarfin's heart with warmth and fire, the King had fought tooth and nail, but Mormanar had responded with superior riposte.

The King had struck powerfully like the leaping tides and waves of the sea when attempting to throw his opponent off, and at times subtly, like many a flickering tongue of fire, when he tried to penetrate his foe's defence.

The Might of the Doombringer, however, was nothing short of tremendous. Raising a black palm to deflect and at times absorb Olórin's sorcery, drowning it in the void at his core, he struck one-handed with his Black Blade. Thrice he lashed out at Galadriel, and thrice she fell, the third time with a scar on her forehead.

A heated battle he had fought with the King, and try as he might, the Lord of the Noldor simply could not breach the Lord Doombringer's iron defence. Mormanar, ever the strategist, had willed more spikes and serrations onto the edge of his blade, the black matter flowing as a liquid as the side on which there were serrations changed in the blink of an eye.

Finarfin simply did not have the impossible strength and speed necessary to break through this deadly trap. His sword was not being deflected at right angles. It seemed horrible, the way it came back at him.

At that moment, Olórin had made an ill-advised attempt at unleashing a full storm of sorcery upon Mormanar, and the Doombringer had summoned forth shadows from the palm of his gauntleted hand. The void of shadows swallowed up Olórin's magic, and contrary to what any might have expected, spit it back out as a wave of darkness, hitting Finarfin and disarming him.

The King had had the good sense to immediately fall to the ground, although a thrust from Mormanar did manage to pierce his right forearm.

From where he had fallen, the King had first experienced pain, but it quickly receded, followed by a strange numbness. There had been no blood. The wrist simply felt infirm, as if sapped of all energy and vitality. Ever resourceful, he pulled out a tight cloth from his robe, and with a bit of wood, tied it firmly around his wrist as support- he could still fight.

Lord Mormanar, currently, was engaged in utterly disenfranchising the former Istar in melee combat. Olórin was forced to raise his staff several times to block the Black Sword, which hammered at Glamdring with strength superior to his own. His song ran mightily as ever, but Mormanar was using what measure of power he had to resist it. Although he could not choke it or drown it, he managed to keep it at bay.

"Aaahh!" exclaimed the Maia, as Mormanar unleashed a ruthless set of attacks that ended with Glamdring on the ground and a cut on the former Wizard's face. The Doombringer raised his ironclad foot, but Olórin saw it, and with a quick incantation, summoned his sword to his hand. Mormanar had slashed his sword at the next second, the Ainunarcar blocked inches away from Olórin's neck by Glamdring. Both pushed. Mormanar was stronger.

Something Changed.

Mormanar felt distinctly uncomfortable- in fact, he was in pain. Something or someone extremely powerful had arrived. This presence burned with light, light that was dissipating Mormanar's shadows.

The Valar were there!

Olórin felt the presence of his master, Manwë, and rejoiced. He thrust a hand out, an invisible force breaking contact between the blades and forcing Mormanar back.

'My lord Mānawenūz, here!' roared his mind, and the message was sent.

Celeborn burst into the room, sword at the ready. He stood beside Galadriel, snarling with controlled rage. Mormanar was surrounded. Finarfin had stood up. The point of his sword was at Mormanar's back. The Ainunarcar flashed wildly, as its wielder's face darted from Enemy to Enemy.

"Arōmēz, Tulukhastāz, TO ME!" shouted a deep voice, and Mormanar knew that the Elder King was there.

It was time to try out a new tactic. A cry of exertion, and Mormanar was on the ground, unaware of what hit him. Empowered by his lord's presence, the former Istar unleashed all of his power.

Music both beautiful and terrible filled the hall, as Mormanar suddenly got up and began thrashing about. His towering form was encased in a thick net of light. Olórin was out in front, on his face a look of pained concentration, as he chanted the powerful verses of the song known as 'The Word of Silence'.

Jets of pure light, light that made up his maiarin essence, were erupting from his hands, shaping themselves and latching onto Mormanar. The Ainunarcar flashed almost wildly as it was slashed to and fro, its wielder trying, somehow, to find a way to break through the net. The connecting cords of light were severed where the dark blade struck, but there were only so many nets the blade could cut. The maia constantly released forth light, resculpting the net by the second to keep his adversary restrained.

The Valar were coming! The Shadow would be ended!

)-(

"The Valar are coming. Your end approaches." The Cold words of his master resounded in Mormanar's ears. This was to be his end, then. The Doombringer felt an inward pang, a flash of- emotion.

Hate? Anger? Sadness? Nay, 'twas none of these.

It was- refusal.

He had just one chance, and he knew it. As the Valar neared, he felt power flood his form once more- power as he had never before wielded. Their power fuelled his strength. He came up with a last, final strategy to somehow scrape out victory.

Olórin certainly was suspicious when he saw his adversary's shoulders slump. The Ainunarcar flickered and died. It seemed as if his enemy was defeated- but something told him it was not so.

However, on seeing no reaction, he sang the last verses of his song, and bound the cords of light firmly together. Lifting Glamdring from the floor, he pointed it straight, and slowly, cautiously made his way towards Mormanar.

That one moment, the single moment of silence after the song, had been all he had needed.

There was an eruption of swirling shadows, and the next thing he knew, Olórin was pinned against a wall, unable to move. He tried to chant once more his song, but found an icy, invisible hand on his throat, choking it down.

Mormanar was resurgent. His armour was rent and burnt through from having burst through the confines of the net of light. His features, though battered, seemed to glint with an evil light.

One swipe of his sword, and the ceiling came down, the debris forcing the Maia down.

Celeborn knew his only chance was to defend, and wait for the Valar. Finarfin, however, was a Noldo, and Noldor, as ever, never wait for anybody.

"Lord Finarfin, No!" shouted Celeborn.

"Utúlië n'aurë!" roared Finarfin, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Mormanar swiftly countered, and with the blow came an unseen force that knocked Finarfin- and Celeborn- off their feet.

A dark palm was raised, and Galadriel slammed to another wall. From where he lay under the debris, Olórin contemplated whether to disincarnate and get out of his plight. He might be able to reincarnate in time and return, in a better position. However, something held him back- it was the knowledge that something terrible could happen in his absence, whether fleeting or not.

No. He needed to protect Finarfin. He needed to ensure the safety of Galadriel, and of Celeborn, until the Valar came.

)-(

The former Istar did not know that the Dark Lord was doing his utmost to delay the arrival of the Valar. The entirety of what power he had was being thrown at them to delay their advance.

Nahar, the steed of Oromë, had been put into an enchanted stupor which only few could break as a precaution. The great hunter thus had to make a detour to first deliver his beloved horse to Irmo's care before he could come on the scene.

A few of Tulkas' maiar had been struck down by shadow. While not dangerous in the least, it had heightened the rage of the Vala of War, but also impeded his advance as he took pains to ensure they were safe.

Finally, the entirety of the fearsome sorcery of the new Lord of Darkness was being directed towards the Elder King and his Queen, somehow, anyhow, trying to delay their advance.

Varda scattered the shadows as if they were but flies, but Manwë's winds were impeded by the darkness of the void. There were other things too- a biting cold greater akin to the evil frost of Utumno, a lashing fire that was sent at them periodically that the Elder King was forced to scatter, and a stinking, utterly horrible dark smoke that enveloped them.

The Dark Lord, however, was no match for either of the mightiest of the Valar. They walked through the smoke, their light piercing through, and weathered the storm with seemingly effortless ease. The Dark Lord knew it was not quite as effortless as it seemed, and sent to their minds visions of horrors past and prophesised. They saw the bloody reaches of Angband's prisons, the murky halls of Utumno's torture cells, the ensorcelled storm of fire unleashed from Barad-dûr- but wills of iron they had, and wavered not.

Mormanar was aware his time was running out. Yet now, with the Valar so close and still so far, he wielded power greater than ever he had.

His dark might rippled in waves of cold, pitiless scorn as he clashed blades with Finarfin and Celeborn. His concealed power unleashed, he was as a storm of death. Galadriel was subjected to repeated torment as that same, invisible force threw her from wall to wall, as the Dark blade clashed with Finarfin's and threw him staggering back.

A tremendously fast-paced exchange ensued, Mormanar now the aggressor, ending with a brutal whip-lash stroke made after a turn that cut a scar across Finarfin's chest and threw him bleeding to the ground.

Mormanar raised his blade, and pointed directly at Celeborn, who was swept off his feet. The Dark Entity, finally forced to jump, pushed himself off the ground with force, and aimed what would have been a painful impact at Finarfin.

The Door opened.

Mormanar saw it and made a split-second adjustment, throwing his sword at the newcomer, who gave a shriek and ducked. It sliced off a few strands of her silver hair and came spinning back.

The Doombringer instantly recognised his master's hand at Celebrían's presence, and sprang to obliterate her. She was his new target.

The wife of Elrond, who was scanning the room frantically for her husband, and staring with shock at her mother, Galadriel, who was pinned to the wall, was forced to raise her blade and block the strike.

Mormanar struck with a vicious, lashing quality, intent on utterly destroying her. It was to Celebrían's credit she did not get annihilated. Finally, he brought his sword up with such force that it forced her hand up as well. He quickly changed grip, to cut her hand off…

And was blocked.

Finarfin was still standing, somehow. As was Galadriel, who, released from his grip, had thrust her sword painfully into the collar of his neck.

'Naïve as you are, Lady of Light, you know not where to strike. That would have been lethal- if I was but a creature of flesh and blood.'

His master knew well the limitations of flesh, and had therefore not clothed him in a body of such raiment and feature. Nay, bound to his armour he was, with no limitations- a pure shadow of darkness.

She should have struck near the heart, and spread her essence around the root of his being- only by light could he be vanquished.

This enabled Mormanar to turn sharply around, depriving her of her sword, and with buffeting, dark winds, he threw her to the ground.

The Valar were almost there.

Mormanar was aware of many things- that he had to somehow finish the High King in severely limited time. That he had to incapacitate his daughter such that she was not able to impede him. That he had to remove her beloved mongrel from his sight for he was an annoyance. And that he had to deal with this whelp of Galadriel and Celeborn as his master saw fit.

He was also aware of the Maia he had seemingly crushed, and how he had steadily been diverting a large flow of power filled with hope and strength towards the Eldar, essentially rescuing them from his strikes. The Valar were nearing. He saw the Maia, and regarded how the debris was sliding off as if on its own. He saw Olórin rise seemingly rejuvenated, ready to fight once more now that Mormanar was aware of him. He timed it directly for the maia's re-entry into the fray.

In that day, in that hour, on the Tower of Tirion set afire into a multitude of red hues by the setting sun yet darkened by the forces of doom, Mormanar fought with the greatest skill he ever had fought. It was as a blur, as reality, to him, passed into the steady, unending rhythm of the void.

Clang. Crash. Swiff. Clang. Crash. Clang. Ssssss. Clang-clang-kkkhhhttt!

Mormanar and the Ainunarcar were one, Olórin realised. The two were the same darkness, the blackness of the void that had come to devour them. The Doombringer's sword blazed with unlight as it was slashed through the darkened, stagnant air, crashing with irresistible force onto first Finarfin's, then Celebrían's blade, the shadows accompanying it blasting them to and fro.

The one who was until recently Gandalf was barely aware of time, so slowly and yet so quickly it seemed to fly, and within moments, the Black Sword was at his heart. He pushed his fear away and swiftly turned it aside, but it was impossible.

What could he do against such a need, such a desperate need to kill?

The walls of the Hall were broken apart as shadows, visible and black, rained down as if thick, choking winds and swirled around Mormanar. Rifts opened where they turned their eyes and out poured tendrils of the void- sentient darkness clawing its way to any form of life to latch onto and devour.

However, there was something else.

Above the storm of darkness, another one brewed. This one was a thing of light, of hope and yet of swift demise to evil.

An immeasurably mighty song pierced the air. Sung by a deep yet soft voice, it was clear as the purest wind, and more powerful than the mightiest hurricane. It also had an air of justice about it- it not only sounded of burdens to be lifted and happiness to be revived, it also rang a sound of light extinguishing shadows, of bringing destruction to darkness.

Fuelled by the song, a true hurricane did form above their heads in the sky, winds of pure power buffeting them different ways. Mighty bolts of lightning more potent than any other possible in Arda blasted out of the storm and struck near Mormanar, who was momentarily stymied.

There were more voices added to the song. At a feminine, truly melodious note, the light of the Valacirca was visible as the stars came into view much quicker than usual, shedding their glorious light solely on Tirion and dispelling Mormanar's shadows.

A deep, resonant voice joined them, the earth seeming to raise itself and form a wall around them. Fire leaped up from newly-opened chasms. This fire did not hurt the earth, but it did indeed have the power to hurt- the target of these fires had currently formed a cocoon of shadows around himself to fend it off.

Mormanar's time was up- and he struck like a tyrannous storm. The Ainunarcar flew out at speeds impossible. It was sometimes swung, sometimes thrown, always returning to its wielder's hand.

Mormanar, his limbs tied to the task at hand, was somehow using his mind to manipulate hwt shadows were left. Rifts opened up at random places to suck his opponents in. Many copies of the dark blade, all capable of cutting as well as the other, emerged from thin air and flew towards his opponents.

In the middle of it all, the Dark Lord's apprentice fought with might more fearsome than that of Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs, when he struck down Fëanáro.

What was left of the walls was rent apart as a mighty spear, forged fully of pure (damned and cursed) light, blasted a path through, narrowly missing Mormanar. Oromë was here.

Footsteps pounded the stairs, a mighty presence easily discernible- Tulkas was here.

Options having run out, Mormanar went for the kill.

Wham! Glamdring was blasted far, far into the distance;

Crack! The staff crushed underfoot;

Slam! Celeborn blasted away in what direction he cared not;

Aaargh! Olórin screamed as Mormanar tried to rend his body apart with consuming darkness, nearly succeeding.

Clang. Clang. Clang!

Finarfin was almost completely overwhelmed by the onslaught of doom incarnate, being thrown aside.

Mormanar went for Celebrían, who defiantly raised her sword. She would hold out, or go down fighting. The Dark Lord's apprentice had no intention to see the former happen, and finally, his attacks were fuelled by rage brought on by urgency. As he gave into that cursed emotion out of necessity, finally letting down his iron restraint, he struck with a vengeance, smashing Celebrían's sword this way and that.

A clawed hand was thrust out behind him, and Galadriel was raised into the air like a marionette. A waving motion and more debris spilled on Olórin, who was spent, and Celebrían knew it was do or die.

The Door burst open, the Mighty Tulkas bursting in to crush his foe. The wall at the other end was blasted away, shoing a resplendent Oromë on the other side.

A blade in Mormanar's path blocked his strike on Celebrían, but the doombringer used what shadows were left to crush it. He struck out with his fist, hit her to the ground, and the sword followed, like a strike of lightning…

And hit.

"Nay!" was heard the bellow, as Tulkas' great fist smashed into the Doombringer, ripping apart his armour and smashing him into the wall. Oromë raised his spear of light, aiming directly for the shadow's heart.

'He, he, heh, heh, ha, hah, haah…" Came the cold, cruel laugh from Mormanar's mouth. It was not a sound produced by Mormanar, but by the Dark Lord. Manwë and Varda came up then, and saw the terrible sight- Celebrían was bent over crying over a supine form that was glaringly familiar- Finarfin's.

The High King of the Noldor had used his body to block Mormanar's strike when his sword could not. Varda rushed over immediately, trying to save the Noldorin King. Oromë looked at Manwë, who radiated an air of justice, nodded his head once, and let fly. The Light of the Elder King restrained all of Mormanar's power, in a much mightier net than Olórin's.

The Doom of the Doombringer was nigh.

A void, a rip in the fabric of reality, appeared directly above Mormanar. The battered shadow's armour faded away into nothingness- and in the split second that the void persisted, Manwë could see no body.

The Darkness stretched wider still, and swallowed up the hilt of the forsaken sword, before abruptly closing up. Oromë's spear disappeared as well. Nobody knew if it had hit Mormanar or not- there was an anguished scream, resisting against immeasurable pain, and the void, pushed to collapse by the Valar.

Finarfin saw hope. He had no power, no energy left, but he saw hope. The Lady Varda was near. Yet, there was something else- a dastardly green light that haunted his eyes. It encompassed everything. He hoped the Elentarí was not going away- yet there she was, slipping slowly and slowly further. Please, hope, do not go away…

A dark, spiritual hand grabbed onto his heart, crushing that hope within seconds as his fëa was wrenched away. He was being torn apart from the inside, It was the end for him, and he knew it. He hoped Anairë had been saved from that same, horrible fate…

)-(

The Dark Lord regarded his newly burnt, scarred hand with almost scientific curiosity. It had been a much closer shave than he had wished. The shattered remains of Oromë's spear of light lay at his feet. He had caught the weapon as it had come through the void he had opened, gaining the mastery and breaking it, but not before it burnt his hand.

It was not as if it caused him any pain. He simply refused to feel pain- it was detrimental.

He could regulate what he felt as he wished, such control he had on his fëa. Mormanar had tried to come to him- he would see later whether the enforcer he had worked so hard to create lived or not; if not, he could wait for his power to return to him, and start anew. He could wait all the years of the world if he wished.

For now, another matter had his full attention- The Matter of Middle-earth.

End of Part One- The Shadows Gather

Part Two- Rise of the Fell Kingdom will be out soon.

)-(

Translations (please forgive the lack of accent marks due to my tiredness)

Utulie n'aure (Quenya)- Day will come again

Aromez (Valarin)- Orome

Tulukhastaz (Valarin)- Tulkas

I have also invented 'Varadoz' (Varda). When one regards the etymology of the other wrds, 'Varadoz' sounded like the most likely option for 'Varda' in Valarin.