The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age
THE RISE OF THE FELL KINGDOM
Chapter 24: The Lie of truth
'For now, however- there is one very dear to me who would much like to speak with you.'
The words of the Elder King yet resumed their echo within the mind of Aragorn- indeed, they were akin to the lowest thrum of an elven-harp that would never leave memory persist within the fëa itself long after the note was in verity played.
He could say naught of what had come to pass in Valinor, yet he would hazard that Lord Manwë had drawn his gaze awhile from Gondor. It was curious, however, that the holy light yet remained, in all its ennobling majesty.
And then the footsteps.
Not one among the three of them had forgotten the very distinct clatter of those footsteps- they were measured yet decisive, pausing at some points, with perhaps a bit of huffing involved. What their ears missed was the heavy thump of the cane or staff the owner of the gate would regard indispensable.
At the same instant, their faces lit, as the prospect of a reunion with their friend of old brought elation to the heart of they who were once and were yet sung of as the Three Hunters.
With Gimli and Legolas crowding his either side, Aragorn let a smile that belonged and went away with the departed Third Age light once again his face- and they were all of them disappointed.
Before them stood a Maia, one who belonged in the grand light of the Valar, and indeed cast a part of it himself. They saw then the face of Olórin the Wise, not that of their old friend Gandalf.
The King could not explain, in any capacity, the presence of the sole tear on his cheek- it was not there but an instant before, yet there it was, dropping as a pearl from his twinkling eye.
He could see Gimli's head droop very slightly beside him, and he could feel the silent lament Legolas sang in his mind for Mithrandir of old.
"Hail, King Elessar- for that is the name you… wear… now, is it not- Aragorn, my old friend?"
"It gladdens my heart to see you Gandalf, as always." said Aragorn, his voice… missing… something.
"By the Lord Mahal, does my beard tingle to see the likes of you again, old friend." said Gimli, but his cheer was somewhat… feigned.
As for Legolas, he had set ajar his mouth, but he said nothing- for one word was on his tongue-tip. 'Mithrandir'. He would call him Mithrandir, and the name would be erroneous, for this was not Mithrandir who stood in his sight- and yet the elf could not in any event bring himself to call him by any other name.
It was at that moment that Legolas realized something had died within him- as had in the hearts of his two greatest friends as well.
Earlier
'In a single instant'.
For the Dreamlord, the term 'instant' would bind to itself a new meaning-an eternity.
Perhaps Námo was correct- perhaps they were all fools. Non-linear time, it seemed, was the correct interpretation.
Time was not of the form of a line- nay, it was a plane, prone to curvature.
The torture his brother must have felt, every instant an eternity, every day an ocean in which others were set adrift, and he the only one who stood firm, unable to extend his hands to the rescue of those adrift lest he lost his own firm hold…
It occurred to him how he had time enough to contemplate these thoughts, as he witnessed the Elder King summon his might to him, as he felt that one moment in the impersonal.
He could hear voices. Voices begging for the sound of his silent voice, pleading for him to gift them sleep. Were he to oblige them, he would be capable of doing naught else, and thus struck the duty of a Vala- to ignore and to pass onward.
Too long did this instant take, too much time had flowed in this one instant of equal measure and duration to any other.
And Irmo cast himself from his thoughts to come with haste unto his brother's side, as the Elder King watched them with an eye of concern, the thought twinkling in that infinite expanse of sight.
Indeed was the Doomsman possessed of a great strength, ancient and unyielding, as he cast whatever shadows plagued him from his fëa, willed his illness away by thought itself and rose to his feet, black robes lined with silver rising with the gust of wind Manwë conjured involuntarily.
The Lord of Mandos was come to his hall, and it had been violated.
Possessed of a sudden fury of action, the Doomsman's brow furrowed and his form… flickered… and he was gone.
The Lord of the Breath of Arda and the Fëantur had little choice but to follow in his wake, knowing not where to search ere it struck them that he must have gone to Vairë. Following the path shown to them by the innumerable tapestries of beauty beyond understanding, they came at last to her chamber, seeing the Valië seated on her throne, being gently rocked by her husband and eternal love…
…Nay. It seemed to them now that she was the one who rocked Mandos. His head was upon her shoulder and hers upon his… yet a clenched fist told them the tale they wished to know.
Vairë had her hand buried in Mandos' hair, and it was clear that something passed between their thought as their fëar sung to each other… and it was then that Manwë felt the chill.
A sensation of cold hatred, of restrained fury struck him. He could not fathom how vast it was, having naught of darkness himself, but he could see it well- it was terrible.
He knew from whence it came, silenced and dissipated though it was.
"Dūrdāthir māchanāz! Ardōstāz umūbārthol…"
'Náromoz! A tîro nîn!" said Vairë, in Sindarin. She reached for his other arm, which was clenched in air- the part of the throne he had curled it around had since become ash.
"Námo- whatever has struck you, you must cease. This- this is not our way. You know, perhaps more intimately than any, that Eru has bestowed upon us all an equal store of wrath- and should but one of us unleash it, the fabric of which this firmament is woven will shatter. Thus it is that we must never wield it."
The Judge of the dead, at this very much imperious pronouncement from the Elder King, unclenched his fist, and made to rise slowly, yet Vairë would not relinquish his hand. He made as if to wrench it in order to rise, but Manwë made clear that he needed not by making a short bow to Vairë himself, communicating to them that they ought to remain seated.
It surprised him how heavy the thud sounded as the Doomsman took his seat, lips quivering, somewhat, but otherwise having enforced again that impossible, iron control upon his self.
'The Dark Lord.' he said, utterly calmly.
'Pray tell.' asked the Elder King, summoning with his winds two chairs for himself and Irmo.
Mandos looked once at Vairë, who bent her head and yet did not bring it up, as if in grief…or… shame? Irmo, for once, could not decipher her expression.
With an impressive calm that seemed almost forced, Mandos uttered the tale, face expressionless: "A… display… of chaotic might. Discord, in all the treacherous forms of Melkor's invention, yet forced to obey a single, greater tune. He had waited in the shadows- silent in my very halls…"
Manwë made a mental note to have words with Varda afterwards- the Dark Lord could not have struck had she remained. The deed must have been done when she walked forth from the halls to bring her stars to their correct places in the night. It appeared, then, that the Dark Lord was terribly familiar with every step and thought of theirs…
"A psychic scream shook all within the halls… yet none without. Pain in death… a concept so very terrible… it was felt by the fëar with great power. It was then that my wife's fëa rose to the… rescue of the fëar that were scattered, and then that leech… that lord of rats and scu…"
'Námo.'
"Ah…" said the Doomsman, colour returning to his cheek. "Forgive me, Vairë. In fact, I deem it best that you speak of the rest, for I have not the words… argh…"
She nodded slightly, caressing Námo's fëa. It would not be easy for her to say the rest, but she would do the tale justice.
"Irmo, my lord Manwë, I… I heard that which I have not heard since the beginning. A song more beautiful and terrible than any we can bring forth in this age. It was to my thought that we… lost this… we lost the ability to send forth music from the very fëa after the arkhāst ayānūmuz. It was… majestic… and I was taken with thought of my Námo having come to me. Each song is unique, but this… it was an impersonation so utterly perfect that I was fooled. Beware, my lords- it requires power beyond power to attempt such a feat- power even I have not the ability to fathom. I was caressed with your voice, Námo… your voice… and so was I taken by torpor, for that was what I thought you commanded, and I obeyed."
What shock the Elder King was taken by was tremendous, show it though he did not- for even he, with all his vast might, lacked the power to… replicate... the song of another Vala. Nay, that power belonged to only one, but to a certain degree.
It simply could not have been Melkor, and yet could not have been any other than Melkor.
Irmo's thought, meanwhile, was centred on another matter entirely.
'The thread, Vairë, the thread!' he exclaimed, and followed the current path of the golden thread of the Weaver's thought, furiously examining her latest works for any inaccuracies.
"Sit down, Irmo. There is naught here that was not done by my hand." said Vairë softly, but with an air of command. Irmo stepped back, as she had told him the futility of searching for an inaccuracy.
The Elder King seemed once again in one of his great trances of deep thought.
Námo, however- he was quite the Vala of action, it seemed.
'Naught here that you did not weave… perhaps you did weave it? You would not know a change in the path of history, as whatever was changed would occur to you as the original history.'
Irmo walked to his elder brother, wonder in his eyes- for though Mandos himself regarded him the greater in power, he confessed to sometimes standing in awe of his brother's exceptional abilities. If the thread of fate was altered, none else would know- save him.
Long moments they waited, when an epiphany seemed to strike him, and he nearly fell backwards, to be caught by his brother.
'Nothing that has never been can you record… yet nothing can ever have been if you did not record it. The Dark Lord must have well known this, curse him!'
"Lord Manwë! What is Atar's thought?" he asked.
'Atar? Nay… Atar was not in my thought, Námo.' said the Elder King, rising from his reverie.
Perplexing though this was, Mandos ignored it, and Manwë was thankful, for he did not much wish to reveal his thought.
"No matter. The plane of time runs smooth- ever too much so. This Dark Lord, whoever he may be, must have taken tremendous pains to ensure it so. The future… for the first time, I find it… clouded. A change must have occurred, then… but a drastic change in the future itself would have been… too obvious. I judge our foe to be possessed of far greater cunning- it is the past, then, that he has turned."
Examining the dooms of the past and the stories that came in the First Age, Mandos could see naught. Oldest though the age was, it remained freshest in his memory, and any shattering or violation of its tale would strike him immediately.
The Second Age was one fraught with sorrow for the Valar… for it was with Andor's fall that they forsook the guardianship of Arda. Every event ere it took place was quite clearly visible to his eyes… and all after, not.
After the downfall, all Námo could see clearly as if it were ensuing directly under his gaze was the history of Valinor, and not of Ennor. Of Middle-earth he could not See, and could only Think- for it was the dooms that his eye could discern, but by laying down his duty of guardianship, he had forsaken true sight.
It was a simple matter to deduce that nothing could have changed in the interval between the Downfall and the Last Alliance's war, for he could see no turning in the river of time, no parallel path taken by history- and therein lay the problem.
It was to the Third Age, then, that the Dark Lord had looked. Of course.
He knew not why, but he felt as if Middle-earth itself was taking some form of… revenge… against him by denying him sight of its history. He recalled all the dooms he had seen, and found that they remained fulfilled… but how?
He did not notice his lord, Manwë, who had divined his thought- and the Elder King would not say that he had felt the same guilt. He had felt it for an age, as if Middle-earth was calling, and upon the Valar's choice to not answer, the call had ceased entirely. He knew not how it felt to be cut off, for none of the Valar could ever claim to truly understanding Arda- but perhaps Melkor could. The Lord of the Breath of Arda had sighed and cast away the thought as yet another of the unending sorrows it was his eternal duty to bear.
"The Third Age, lord Manwë, the Third Age! Of course!"
The Elder King bent his head slightly, knowing of the import of the matter. It seemed that 'the Age of the Secondborn' was not to be ignored as he had thought, and he knew well that their ignorance could be used against them.
Yet he observed now as something passed yet again between the minds of Námo and Vairë, as well as Irmo, who seemed to have the same innate understanding of the matter as did they.
In silence, Vairë strode towards the tapestries that depicted the Third Age- the history of which the inhabitants of Valinor knew and cared little, yet was perhaps the most glorious of Arda's ages for the peoples of Middle-earth.
Irmo recognised the subtle yet tremendous aura of power of the Valië, and although Manwë could not understand it as he did, he could appreciate the performance of a feat sedate and innocuous in appearance but of mightier power than any storm of might.
The thread of each tapestry was woven of thought, and as he watched, every thought came alive. The threads glowed golden, and every strand told its own story, as the Valië somehow heard them all without losing a single detail among the sands of time.
And there it was. The Valië's hand came softly, almost unconsciously, upon a single tapestry- The Battle of the Black Gate.
"Where is it?" said Vairë suddenly, and when she opened her eyes, it was with an expression of sudden wrath.
'My love?' asked the Doomsman. He was not very given to calling her aloud by this title, but the concern clearly visible on his expression indicated otherwise.
"Where is it?!" she repeated, loudly this time, before curling her hand in a fist and striking the tapestry harshly.
She did so again, furiously this time, and nearly struck it off the wall, before Mandos caught her and had her take a seat.
Vairë's face showed both fury and an odd degree of… embarrassment. She parted her lips as if to speak, but decided against it. Mandos sat down beside her, and yet again, there seemed to pass something unheard between the minds of Vala and Valië. Laying a calming hand upon her shoulder, the Doomsman rose swiftly. He had his lord's attention.
'Lord Manwë- I bid you, observe. This... this tapestry tells of a grand battle worthy of song, and yet hides within a little tale- a tale far greater in import to the doom." said he, laying his hand upon the large tapestry depicting the battle of the Black Gate.
He could sense faintly the thoughts of the participants, although he could not See the events as clearly as could the Weaver. And he did notice how they were… inconclusive- how there was more to the tale.
'Vīyarēz?" he asked softly, and Vairë, with a single word of command, summoned to view another tapestry- this one small and easily overlooked, yet detailing a great event that none of the scholars of the Third Age would ever forget.
A small depiction of a hobbit dangling the One Ring over the fiery lava of Orodruin.
The Valar knew of it as the defining instant of the age.
"Do you not see? The tale this thread must tell is so very… inconclusive… so… ambiguous… that it is all simply incorrect!"
"What is your meaning, my sister? Do we not have to this tale its conclusion? We know of the fall of the ring into Orodruin, and of the rescue of the hobbits by my lord's thoronath…"
"Hush, Irmo. There is apparently yet more to this tale." said Mandos, having understood his wife's words beyond what they could ever mean to any else.
"Come now, my beloved, bring to us the entirety of the tale."
As if the words needed not be spoken, Vairë spoke another word of command, and summoned the tapestry of the hobbits' rescue. It was then that she placed her hand on both in succession, and with an unlikely shout did proclaim her suspicion.
"Look, my lords, look! This is the very next tapestry that would follow the former, and yet there appears something… disjointed! I know not what is between them, but I shall bargain my fëa in favour of the knowledge that there indeed is an event hidden from our eyes!"
"Ah. I may not have your skill at deciphering the threads of history, but I must say, Vairë… there is yet a piece of this tale of which we know naught. Nay- say it not- I recall nothing. It is clear, therefore, that the past has been altered… but in what way?" said Mandos, turning to his lord for assistance.
"If yet the ring survived, I would know it. I would have felt the restoration of the link of power between It and Its Lord, who resides in the void… and Aulë tells me of the invulnerability of such a bond. We knew Mairon while he yet persisted in the light… and he was, no doubt, a very skilled apprentice. The power he invested into the ring was of the fëa itself- and it was Atar's will that the fëa is indestructible. If his dark will yet persisted, I would know… lest it be that my mind is clouded by a power beyond compare." said the Elder King.
"It cannot have been the ring, therefore… but if not, what else?" mused Irmo, knowing of the impossibility that any could ever hope to deny Manwë sight.
"Whatever it may be, it will elude Valinor. If this 'Dark Lord' does indeed exist and hold power, it must be to Middle-earth that he has turned… and it will be in Middle-earth that this tale meets its conclusion. Rest now, Námo… I must have words with Olórin as to what has transpired… no doubt Envinyatar must be warned. A pity that war must assail him yet again, and a testament to his unconquerable courage… but he must stand, stand for time enough so that we may strike when the opponent is revealed, and end this darkness."
The Fëanturi recognised the dismissal, and Vairë returned to her unending task. Four thoughts now hounded the vast mind of Manwë-
The first, that Eönwë needed not be told. His herald was still deeply upset about Mairon's trial, and it was too much to ask of him, for he would no doubt forsake his rest in pursuit of the matter.
The second, that he would soon need to visit his dear brother in the void. He was convinced that it was only there he would proceed further to the unravelling of this mystery.
The third, that he would need to send an envoy to the hobbit, Frodo Baggins. Perhaps the ringbearer would have some insight into the matter, if any changes did indeed occur.
The fourth was a thought he dared not acknowledge- the terrible thought that occurred to him as he fell into a reverie. There could be a traitor in their midst.
'People of Rhûn… of Harad… of Arda!
I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, we shall prove ourselves once again able to rise above the ashes of bitter defeat, to ride out the storm of adversity, and to outlive the menace of the Reunited Kingdom- if necessary, for years… if necessary, alone.
That is the resolve of the Dark Tree and I its progenitor- that is the will of the Lord Tar-Mairon and Arda herself!
Even though large tracts of Mordor and many old and strong fortresses have fallen into the grip of the King and all the odious apparatus of Gondorian rule, we shall not flag or flail! We shall go on to the end! We shall march to Angmar, we shall march on despite the most terrible frost and cold. We shall march with growing confidence and growing strength in the mountains, and we shall defend our honour, whatever the cost may be… We shall never surrender!
And even if, which I do not for a moment believe, our lands or a large part of it were conquered and starving, then in Angmar lost, armed and guarded by ancient sorceries of old, we would carry on the struggle- until in Melkor's good time, the new believers, with all their power and might, step forth to the liberation of the old!"
It was, without a doubt, the greatest feat in oratory Herumor had ever achieved. There was something terribly poetic about it- something truly inspiring. And mere words have achieved what no promises of power or wealth could- his ranks had swollen sevenfold. As they marched along the Red Mountains, careful to avoid the farsighted gaze of the dwarven watchtowers of Erebor, Herumor felt only pride. His old, elite warriors were all flanked by new men… young men. The remaining fell beast flew low near the edge of the mountains… a strategic threat to be used conservatively and hidden at all cost.
The Black Núménorean, however, hid a far deadlier secret… for in the centre of his caravan, covered by a massive grey cloth and flanked on all sides by men was Ringlach the cold-drake. The dragon missed the skies and he knew it- and so, on instinct, he reached blindly into the folds of the great canvas.
And as he knew it, his hand was met by an enormous, scaly snout, with his petted and rubbed softly. The Dragon let out a low, satisfied growl, and Herumor for a moment forgot the numerous aches that assailed him in his age. He was, at that moment, completely and utterly content.
Night blanketed Angmar, yet there was no new darkness to fall on Dûrnost, the fortress of Nightfall, throne of the Dark Lord of Arda, for it was shrouded perpetually in shadow.
Lord Mormanar lay yet in wait outside the fortress, summoning the might of the ring to lift yet more iron from the blasted ruins of Old Carn Dûm, finishing the structure of the fortress with his dark will.
As the Dark Lord walked into his throne room, black cloak swishing in the gales that were constant, he could not help but worry. It was a gamble, a tremendous gamble to summon Môrdath the void-lord to Arda.
Despite his position as the most powerful ainu upon his usurpation of the power of Morgoth, the Dark Lord was no fool- and he knew that Môrdath's defeat would not come from his hand.
The marred flame was useless against one forged from the very substance of it. For all his power, he knew that if he would stand in front of him, he would be devoured, as would all the rest- for magnitudes of power mattered not against the Master of the Night.
Mormanar would have to be informed, for he was capable of defeating this ancient shadow- it was indeed in his very nature to counter the shadows of the Void-lord, for was he not created to devour the void itself?
Yet the Dark Lord's hope of victory was placed not in Mormanar, but in Hellërúcir, the Knight of Storms. He had summoned the chaotic maia to his throne - he would be terribly late, as expected – for there was a very specific instruction to give.
For now, the Dark Lord contented himself in watching his maiar work. He had summoned numerous maiar from his hold- some were skilled in architecture and construction, and were yet finishing the halls of Dûrnost. The Black Court of his throne room would be the last to be built.
As for the others, they were… traitors. Weaver-traitors. He watched two of Vairë's former maiar- corrupted by Melkor in ages past- work tirelessly on their own corrupoted versions of the tapestries of Arda's history. It was by the Dark Lord's will that his dark deeds were hidden from the mind of the weaver, but were recorded nonetheless… in his halls.
His shadowed gaze moved then to a particular tapestry displayed on a place of honour next to his throne- the very same missing piece his brethren had found lost.
Lord Mormanar death-master standing triumphant, the ring held aloft and his palm alit with black flame, the prone form of the ringbearer Frodo Baggins lying unconscious and unaware.
GLOSSARY
In case you did not recognise it, Herumor's speech is indeed a twisted, evil version of 'We shall fight on the beaches'. I am deeply sorry, but it had to be done.
Fëantur- Master of the fëa. Singular of 'Fëanturi', a term used to refer to Mandos and Lórien.
"Dūrdāthir māchanāz! Ardōstāz umūbārthol…"(Valarin): Wretched Dark Lord! I curse him with this doom…
'Náromoz! A tîro nîn!"(Sindarin): Námo, look at me!
Arkhāst ayānūmuz (Valarin): Music of the Ainur
Andor (Quenya): The Land of Gift. Another name for Núménor.
Vīyarēz (Valarin): Vairë
Thoronath (Sindarin): Eagles
Author's Note: I have but one thing to say- in the next chapter I shall conduct the 'big reveal' of the Dark Lord's identity, as well as a titanic battle between The Void-lord and His Deadliest Servants.