To anyone reading this - thank you from the bottom of my heart for putting up with my tardiness. You won't go unrewarded. Better late than never, as only those who are always late are suspiciously eager to say. - Philip

The Music of the Ainur

Part 2 - Fugue

Chapter 13

Evening was setting in; or, at least, what passed for evening on Arda. The LaMP stations – Light And Metaphysical Power – had been constructed to Aulë's exacting specifications over the course of several months, leaving the colony in permanent starlight until the switch was finally thrown. Having just spent close to a year living on a sunless spaceship, however, the sudden appearance of light was the more difficult circumstance for the colonists to get used to.

Designed to imitate the legendary island-city of Almaren, the colony had taken its form, shape and even its name from semi-myth; slabs of marble in a dozen different hues of white had been hewn out of deposits specifically made for the purpose and flown in their millions to the green jewel in the middle of the Great Sea, as it had been (somewhat unimaginatively) named. The automated building drones had built a city fit to house 10,000 in obscene luxury within two weeks.

Manwë's office occupied a building grander even than the architectural wonders that stretched out to the sea line from every direction. In the original Almaren, it was the palace of the God-Emperor Adze; magnificent as it already was, some legends even had it that the entire building had been clad in tiles of pure gold, so that it would glow to remind Adze's servants of his divinity. Thanks to a series of debates which had at times threatened to descend into farce, it was decided not to accommodate this particular aspect of the legend. But, Manwë thought privately, the adherents of the "Gilded Palace" legend must have struck a bargain to drop their protests by being allowed to decorate it. Polished marble floors stretched from one corner of the palace to another, providing a welcome distraction for those who thought life didn't provide enough opportunity to sprain an ankle. Columns decorated in jade and turquoise rose to support impossibly high vaulted ceilings where the merest whispers coalesced into deafening shouts which echoed endlessly against frescoes of scenes from Ain myth; the creation of the world, the First Men, Adze himself.

Amidst all this pretence of antiquity, however, the furniture was of genuine vintage, donated by some of the richest families and most venerable museums on Ain, a priceless cross-section of the epitome of craftsmanship throughout the eras. Manwë's chair was a huge, wing-backed affair in oak and silver, padded with velvet and leather cushions into which he found himself sinking further and further every day. The visitor's seats, a pair of four-hundred-year-old Cabinet seats from the first Democratic world council, looked shabby in comparison.

The mingling of the lights at dawn and dusk still held a childlike fascination for most, having gone – in some cases – their entire lives without seeing a real, unobscured sunset. Despite not being quite the same thing, it was the closest they would ever get, and they were grateful for it. They had been quick to grace the stations "Illuin" and "Ormal" after the twin lamps which were once believed to have been their Sun and moon, and the pun had stuck. Manwë was not immune to this fascination, and every evening at the mingling of the lights he could be found on the balcony of his office, bathing in artificial moonlight. Only the buzz of his communication device drew his attention away from the aurorae that snaked across the sky – a peculiar, unforeseen side-effect of the clashing lightfronts.

"Manwë," he mumbled into the device, still staring at the sky.

"Commander Ulmo to see you, Sir," came the voice of his adjutant.

Manwë sighed. The real world was intruding on his few moments of true freedom. "Send him in", he replied, making his way back inside. Ulmo appeared, silhouetted against the huge doors opposite Manwë's desk, and strode forward with a knowing smile as Manwë brushed past the curtains covering the exit to the balcony.

"Stargazing again?" Ulmo asked.

"Not much else to do around here," Manwë replied, indicating for Ulmo to sit. "What's the matter, Commander?"

"Nothing I can't take care of myself," Ulmo replied as he took his seat, "I just wanted to see how you're settling into life behind a desk."

Manwë laughed, swinging his feet up onto the huge, polished-wood desk that separated the pair of them. "I'm getting used to it," he said.

Ulmo raised an eyebrow. "So I see," he replied. "I must admit, it suits you."

"What does?"

"Command. You wear it well. Eru chose wisely." Manwë averted his gaze, abashed. "Have you spoken with him lately?"

"We try to keep in touch, but it's been difficult of late," Manwë admitted, taking his feet down from his desk and hunching over it. "The crew are getting restless. He's been hearing rumours that people think he's micromanaging. I don't believe so," he said, shaking his head dismissively. "If you were in charge of building a planet, you'd want to keep an eye on it too. I don't feel too oppressed."

Ulmo nodded. "Some of them must have got their way, they wouldn't be shipping out so soon otherwise," he said. Manwë sat up a little straighter in surprise.

"When are they leaving?"

Ulmo smiled, embarrassed. "Within the week, I heard. No doubt the old man wanted to tell you himself," he shrugged. "Sorry. Look surprised."

Manwë sighed deeply. As self-sufficient as Arda was, the presence of the Iluvatar had been a constant reassurance, a link to Old Ain. Shuttles went back and forth between ship and surface daily, bringing lucky visitors to see the world they had built first-hand, and sending members of Arda team back for one last catch-up with friends they would soon never see again.

"Well, we knew the day had to come eventually," he muttered. "It's just a bit daunting now we're actually facing it, you know?"

"Yes, yes," Ulmo agreed, shifting in his seat. "This is it. No going back."

"Any regrets?" Manwë asked, resting his chin on his hand. Ulmo paused.

"No," he said. "You?"

"Only that dad isn't here," Manwë replied with a sad smile. Ulmo nodded solemnly.

"He'd be proud of you. Both of you," he conceded, graciously. Melkor, despite being even less sociable on Arda than he had been on the Iluvatar, had spent every hour the gods sent working to complete the LaMP stations and the colony's electronic infrastructure to his own demanding specifications, and had earned a grudging respect from all. The distance between the brothers had also gone some way to mellowing Manwë's rage, and the two were back on speaking terms.

A knock at the door precluded Manwë's response, and Varda emerged from the other side with a covered tray. "Am I interrupting?" she enquired.

Ulmo got to his feet immediately, offering the salute to his superior; as Manwë's elected second-in-command, Varda technically outranked Ulmo, and the pair of them had been sure to rub it in as much as possible.

"At ease, Commander," she laughed.

"Is this what the Deputy Commander of Arda's job entails, then?" Ulmo quipped as he stood easy and made to leave. "Getting the Commander his dinner?"

"Yeah, and opening letters, greeting visitors, that kind of thing," Varda replied.

"And don't forget the foot rubs," Manwë added. Ulmo snorted as he shut the door behind them, leaving the couple alone.

"So," Manwë began, sitting at the edge of his desk as Varda crossed to his side, "what's this?" Varda smiled, eyes sparkling, as she took the lid off the tray. Two silver cups sat steaming before him, and a long-forgotten aroma filled his mind with a flash of old, happy memories. "No," he breathed. "No!"

"Believe it," Varda whispered to him, setting the tray down and taking a cup. The hairs on Manwë's arms prickled with excitement.

"Coffee," he sighed, longingly. "Real coffee?"

"The first beans of the first-ever Arda crop," Varda replied as Manwë took the cup in his hands and inhaled deeply. "They thought that Glorious Leader should have the first cup."

"Very nice of them," Manwë said, a gormless grin fixed to his face. "Have you asked them about the grape harvest yet?"

"Wine takes a bit longer, dear," she replied, lifting her cup. "To Arda, I suppose."

"Please," Manwë scoffed, "I'm not Eru. How about…to us?"

Varda's smile spread like the sunrise. "To us," she repeated as they touched cups and took a sip.

"Oh!" Manwë groaned, throwing his head back in joy. "Oh!"

"You like it?" Varda giggled.

"No!" Manwë laughed, setting the cup down. "It's horrible! But it's real!" He swept up his wife in his arms and spun her around, eliciting a squeal of joyful terror. They laughed together in Ormal's fading light, kissing beneath the aurorae.

"Come out onto the balcony with me," Manwë asked as he kissed Varda's ear.

"You're not thinking of recreating that story about Adze's last wife, are you?" she replied.

"Of course not," Manwë protested, taking his wife's hand and leading her to the doors. "We don't have a lion."

"Very funny," Varda said as she squinted into the dying, but still strong, northern light. Her breath caught in her throat as the city unfurled before her clearing vision like a developing daguerreotype. Dusk made the marble spires of Almaren glow gold, almost beating out the electric white of floating power couplings. From her vantage point Varda could make out the sea beyond the city, stretching from horizon to horizon, a perfect tropical blue. The whole place seemed an opalescent gem in a crown of azure.

"Gods of starlight," she breathed. A flock of seabirds wheeled and circled in the distances, their calls echoing over the quietening city. "It's so beautiful."

"It's ours," Manwë said, slipping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. "He chuckled. "You know, there is another legend, about how Adze used to consummate his marriages," he muttered, his hand slipping slowly beneath Varda's waist.

Varda's knees buckled as her husband's rough hand pressed against her. "Oh, Commander," she whispered, "think of the scandal…" she moaned as his fingers slid deeper between her legs.

"No-one's around," Manwë cooed, his other hand sliding up her torso to squeeze her breast slowly. "Come on, before they put us in the Tank."

"Estë assured me that everything works just as it used to," Varda replied. "She and Irmo have made very sure, apparently…"

Manwë laughed as he held Varda's body closer to his own, his arousal pressing into the small of her back. "Trust those two."

"Manwë, we can't," Varda giggled between moans. "There are people…"

"No, there aren't," her husband replied smugly. "No-one's disturbing us."

"Are you sure?" Varda asked tremulously, her back arching as Manwë's fingers sent a wave of sensation through her body.

"Very," Manwë growled. He bit his lip as his wife slowly bent over, her dark hair spilling down her back, bracing her hands against the stone wall of the balcony and pressing her hips back. Manwë's pulse raced faster, and faster, until-

"Commander?"

"WHAT?" Manwë roared into his communication device before immediately composing himself. "Sorry, what?"

"C-commander Melkor is here," his adjutant replied timidly. "He says you have dinner plans." Manwë seethed silently, closing his fist tightly across the little black box at his collar as Varda hung her head so low her long curls brushed the floor.

"Please," she muttered, "please can I kill him?"

"Wait your turn," Manwë muttered, adjusting himself discreetly as he turned to return to his office. Varda sighed deeply, still bent forward, and now thoroughly disappointed. When she returned after spending a minute to perfect a facial expression that didn't convey revulsion, she found Melkor and Manwë engaged in tense, quiet conversation in the middle of the room, their jaws tight and faces stern. Melkor gave Varda the most imperceptible of nods, before returning to talking to Manwë as though she were not even present.

"Are you boys going to stand there talking shop all day," she piped up to cover her indignation, "or are we going to eat?" The pair parted to allow Varda to walk between them to the door, flashing identical smiles which almost simultaneously disappeared.

Manwë let out a long, satisfied groan, sinking another six inches into his seat. The bright red shell of a two-foot lobster lay in tatters before him.

"Remind me", he said, unfastening his belt, "to send my congratulations to Yavanna's team."

Dinner was being served in Manwë and Varda's private dining room, just one part of the complex of rooms which comprised their quarters. A large octagonal table dominated the small room, which, in keeping with the general theme of the Royal Palace, boasted yet more murals and paintings on every wall. Ormal's light trickled down from a skylight above, competing with electric lamplight to project phantom curlicues on the polished wood.

"What'll that say?" Melkor replied, eyeing the glut of empty plates which surrounded Manwë with disgust over his half-finished meal. "'Dear Biotech, Thanks for all the animals, sorry I've eaten them all, Love, Manwë'?"

"Well if you won't eat them, I will," Manwë retorted, refilling his glass with wine. "Finish your rabbit food."

"Meat makes you slow," Melkor muttered in response, pushing a radish around his plate with his fork. "Makes you sleepy. Dulls your senses. My eyes are more open than they've been in years," he said, casting a huge-eyed stare at Varda.

"I think you need to get out more, mate," Manwë chuckled, glancing over to his wife. She gave a fragile smile which made his heart ache. Despite his usual boisterous turn, acting the life and soul of the party, Melkor's very presence had set his brother on edge; never the stockiest of men, Melkor's recent vegetarian diet had rendered him practically skeletal, his wrists looking as though they'd break under the weight of his cutlery and his face drawn and pinched, exposing jutting cheekbones. But there was something else to him; the feeling of menace and unease that seemed to follow Melkor wherever he went seemed to have been concentrated and multiplied, manifesting itself as a very real dread. It was in the way his eyes darted and head wobbled on his slender neck, like a viper preparing to strike; the way he always seemed tensed, coiled, as though conserving energy for some tremendous explosion of activity.

"I will," Melkor exclaimed, spearing a slice of carrot. "Very soon. Can't leave a job half-finished, though," he trailed off, nibbling from his fork. "Everything has to be perfect." He raised his ice water to his lips. "Perfect," he repeated, taking a sip.

Varda and Manwë shared a worried look. Melkor working himself into mania was nothing new, but there was an intensity to his distraction which chilled them both. Suddenly, he set his fork down and pushed his plate away.

"I'm done," he said, draining his glass and taking to his feet. "Sorry to leave you so early, but there are…things," he intoned cryptically, "which need my attention. I'll not leave it so long next time, though." Manwë faltered before getting to his feet and taking his brother's shoulder.

"I should hope not," he replied warmly. "Give my love to Enwe."

Melkor's face became a pale skull, eyes bulging and lips taut. "Goodnight," he muttered, before rushing from the room, without another look towards Varda.

"He," Varda said as Melkor's footsteps echoed down the hall, "is not right."

"Fucking tell me about it, love," Manwë groaned, collapsing into Melkor's vacated seat and rubbing his face tiredly. "I had hoped that having a girlfriend would make him a bit more normal, but he just seems to be getting weirder by the day."

"Do you think they've broken up?" Varda said, rising and circling the room to drape her arms around Manwë's neck. "He looked horrified when you mentioned her."

"Could be," Manwë replied noncommittally, leaning back to nuzzle Varda's throat. "Could just be working too hard. Aulë tells me he's been putting in twenty-hour days. They had to take him off the floor last week on Irmo's orders."

"No," Varda replied, incredulously. "How did he take that?"

"How do you think?" Manwë chuckled mirthlessly. "They nearly had to call security!"

Silence washed comfortably over the two of them, still entwined. "You owe me," Varda whispered in Manwë's ear, her fingers idly brushing the hair at the base of Manwë's abdomen.

"Oh?" Manwë replied, whispering into his wife's ear. "What's that?"

Melkor returned home as Illuin's light was at its peak, flooding through the high windows of the vestibule in vast sheets of blue. Despite the tiredness that gnawed at every bone in his body, and the hunger borne of eschewing half of his meagre meal in his hurry to leave, he didn't take the stairs to rest or eat, but headed straight for the back of the house, where his workstation was set up. Tossing his smart cloak aside and rolling up his sleeves, he got to work immediately, overseeing the ceaseless work of the drones that laid the thousands of miles of cables between the LaMP stations and Almaren and wired every building and computer system into the network individually. Swarms of light floated across his screen in patterns unreadable to all but him, hypnotising and entrancing him instantly. Several minutes passed before a croaking voice rose above the quiet hum of servers and the click-clack of keys.

"Melkor," it said, "are you not coming to bed?" Enwe stood in the doorway wrapped in a thin robe, her shoulders hunched and eyes dark with fatigue.

"Not just yet," Melkor replied, not taking his eyes from the screen. Silence fell between them like a wall.

"Please," she asked, plaintively. "It's been weeks."

"I have work to do," he retorted, pulling another screen closer towards him. Enwe took tentative steps across the room, reaching out to caress his shoulders.

"You work so hard," she cooed, her voice breaking. "You've done so much. Come to bed and…and rest." Melkor twisted his body sharply, breaking Enwe's weak grip.

"Go to bed, Enwe," he muttered impatiently. "I'm nearly done."

Enwe's hands curled into fists and she silently exited the room, disappearing into the blue-washed hallway and back to their room. As he heard the door slam he swept his hand before the screens, bringing up windows of schematics and calculations and the pale, intent face of Mairon.

"Are we clear?" Mairon's voice came cold and sinister over the speaker.

"Yes," Melkor replied, fingers typing frantically. "Was the shipment received?"

"It was."

"And everything was there?"

"All present and correct."

Melkor let out a long, desperate sigh. "That's the hard part done with, at least," he muttered. "Are your men trained?"

"I picked them myself," Mairon replied. "Each of them has considerable experience. You don't need to worry about our resolve, Sir," he finished, his intonation causing Melkor to look up from his work. Mairon coughed uncomfortably. "Permission to speak freely, Sir?"

"Permission granted," Melkor replied with an undercurrent of warning in his voice.

"Sir, the lieutenant's distraction has not gone unnoticed, least of all by myself," he said. "Strange as it sounds, I think I preferred her actively questioning your orders than the silence she now brings to proceedings."

"Are you accusing Lieutenant Enwe, Mairon?" Melkor hissed, eyes narrowing.

"No, Sir," Mairon retorted immediately. "But frankly, I do question if she is up to the task she has been given. I believe there are others who could shoulder her responsibilities more ably."

Melkor exhaled slowly, torn between anger at Mairon's tone and the realisation that he spoke the truth. The rift between himself and Enwe had only grown further since they landed on Arda, despite his graciousness in placing her so close to the centre of his plans. In recent days she had become more demanding, almost unreasonably so; expecting him to work regular hours, insisting that the two of them have time alone. It had been a huge personal disappointment to Melkor when he had decided not to entrust his contingency plan to Enwe, and instead began conferring in secret with Mairon.

"She knows too much," Melkor replied. "It would take too long to familiarise someone new with the remit of her abilities, and in any case there might not even BE anyone else with her unique mix of skills," he continued, a wistful sigh escaping his lips. "Leave it with me, Lieutenant. I'll make sure she pulls her weight."

Mairon nodded. "Yes, Sir."

"Mairon, when are you going into the Tank?" Melkor asked after a long stretch of silence, punctuated only by the clicking of keys.

"Tomorrow, Sir," Mairon replied. "Why do you ask?"

"I've been going over the code for the avatar projection system," he said. "Our good doctor gave me a copy, wanted me to double-check there were no bugs. There aren't, but I don't think any of them quite realise just how flexible that code really is. They say it works on your residual self-image," he went on with a quick glance behind him, "but from what I can see – and this is no more than an educated guess – it can't tell the difference between subconscious and focused conscious thought – albeit a very, VERY focused thought."

"Like a lie detector, unable to tell the difference between falsehood and nervousness?" Mairon replied.

"Exactly," Melkor hissed, eyes wide with excitement. "I don't go in for another week, so I'd like you to run a little experiment, if you would."

"What is it, Sir?" Mairon asked, instinctively sitting up straighter.

Melkor pulled his chair closer to the screen and looked dead into camera. "I want to see if you can change the colour of your hair back to blonde just by thinking it. If we can do that…" Melkor trailed off. The wild look in his eyes finished his sentence for him.

"As you wish, Lord Melkor," Mairon replied. A thin, cruel smile spread across Melkor's face, pale and menacing in his computer screen's green glow.

Heat. Unbearable, searing heat. Varda felt the skin of her cheeks pucker and roast, and opened her eyes to see her world ablaze. Oily black smoke crept along the ground, choking everything in its path, pouring from the fires that towered above her. The white marble of Almaren was stained grey with ash and soot, and all around her their mighty city fell; spires crashed to the ground, entire city blocks collapsed under the weight of their own stone with foundations rotten and framework splintered.

"MANWË!" she screamed, her throat torn to shreds by the smoke that began to smother her. "Manwë, help me," she coughed, hot tears hissing down her burned cheeks. Shadows began to flit across the flames, the gust of strong wings throwing her backwards. She looked up, and there she saw it; a monster, shaped like the fire-drakes of the oldest legends, descending upon her. It was unspeakably huge, seemingly bigger than the city itself, bearing down on her head-first. And between its horns, in armour as black as the depths of space and carrying all Hell in his wake, there stood-

Varda jerked awake, nearly throwing herself out of bed. Her heart beat against her breast so hard it made her feel sick. She stood and dragged herself to her dresser, legs still half-asleep, momentarily forgetting where she was. As she collapsed into her chair, she hid her face in her hands and let out a silent scream, her shoulders shuddering. She glanced back to see Manwë's figure perfectly outlined by the thin quilt covering him, his back rising and falling gently in unbroken sleep. With a sharp swallow she picked herself up and fumbled for her communicator by the nightstand, clipping it to her ear with trembling fingers.

"Nienna," she whispered into the therapist's secure channel, "I know you're asleep, but it can't wait. See me in the morning – I don't care who you have to cancel to do it. I…." she trailed off, her throat closing in fear as the dream replayed itself on the inside of her eyelids like an afterimage of the sun.

"I don't think they're just nightmares," she whimpered. "He's planning something."