Wow. Okay. I know. It's been...a disgusting amount of time since I updated this story - light of my life, fire of my loins that it is - but life has been...tumultuous, to say the very least, over the last year and a bit. But it's been tumultuous for a very good reason, and it's very, very good, that it's been resolved. You'll see why.
As always, a million, billion thanks to all of the readers and subscribers who have somehow stuck with this story for six bastard years. You have the patience of saints and the tenacity of termites. I love you all.
- Emily
Irmo removed his headset mic and ran his hands through his long, blond hair, sucking in an exasperated breath. "That's it," he mumbled to himself. "I'm done." He replaced his headset with a sigh. "Say again, Manwë," he asked, not expecting to understand any more than he did the first time.
"The anomaly," Manwë repeated, "is Melkor. Melkor IS the anomaly. They're one and the same - or rather, two and the same."
"Manwë, start making sense," Irmo groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Psychotropic remapping," Manwë replied. Irmo blinked in surprise. The words brought him back to a conversation which took place lifetimes ago, now barely at the fringes of his memory.
"That's the process we put Melkor through while he was unconscious," Irmo said. "Rehabilitation." A pause. "So, it didn't work?"
"Yes and no," Manwë replied. "Melkor's mother suffered from schizophrenia, amongst other mental illnesses. We had him tested plenty of times when he was a child but nothing ever came up - but what if something manifested later in life?"
Irmo's eyes fluttered as he had an epiphany. "A dissociated personality," he answered at length. "I did assume as much at one point, but I could never prove it. But how would Nienna have missed something like-"
"Melkor could shield his mind," Manwë replied, embarrassed and ashamed. "Nienna found out when they were put in the Tank together."
Irmo's heart skipped a beat and his face flushed with emotion. He had a flashback to that nerve-wracking moment when he pulled Nienna's body from her pod, naked and thrashing, sure that something he had done had nearly killed his colleague and friend. His hurt turned to anger as he remembered her reaction to seeing Melkor upon coming around, and her long and torturous recovery from it. He had always sensed she had been keeping something from him - a doctor's intuition, perhaps - but didn't want to jeopardise her recovery by pushing her. A hundred horrible realisations slotted into place, one after the other, building up the full picture at last.
"I see," he hissed, restraining his fury.
"But if Melkor did have a dissociated personality, then psychotropic remapping would just force the two personalities apart," Manwë expounded, warming to his subject. "Remember, it works by identifying and boosting positive memories - but Melkor's dark personality IS his negative memories."
"And so his mind reacted to the treatment by forcing the dark personality out," Irmo concluded, "but with nowhere to go - of course," he said. "It's trying to find a body."
"A body?"
"Every consciousness in the Tank is inextricably linked to the brain it came from. It's one of its most basic functions, to prevent consciousnesses being returned to the wrong body upon revival of the corpus. But," Irmo said, screwing his eyes shut as he ran through the heart-stopping ramifications of the situation, "but...if Melkor had two consciousnesses to begin with, and he was able to suppress his dark personality enough that the Tank couldn't recognise it as separate, then it would be seen as identical to Melkor's original personality. Like a fertilised egg splitting into identical twins. But…" he paused, sighing deeply. "Melkor's body already belongs to his own, true consciousness. And this secondary consciousness can't ever, ever claim that body."
"That's why it's killing us," Manwë said, numbly. Irmo murmured a note of assent.
"The connection simply isn't meant to go that way. Trying to force a second consciousness into a brain unequipped to deal with it…" Irmo shuddered.
"So what do we do?" Manwë asked. Irmo looked up at his display; the anomaly was still vacillating, as if unsure what to do.
"I don't know," he replied. "But I'm not sure how long he's going to hang about."
"How are you feeling?" Nienna asked Ingwë. It was a pointless question; even without her empathic abilities, Ingwë's nervous energy practically radiated off of him. The Elda shook his head.
"I never thought that going back to my people would make me more apprehensive than leaving them," he replied.
"Why is that?" Nienna asked with a kind smile.
"What will I say to them?" Ingwë asked rhetorically. "How can I describe the wonders I have seen? They won't be able to comprehend it. I barely can." Nienna squeezed his hand.
"I'm sure you'll find a way."
The five Eldar were waiting in the main atrium, being attended to by not only Nienna but a whole clutch of her underlings, junior Maiar who scurried this way and that to attend to their guests' needs, whimsical and random as they could be.
"I hope the journey home will be more pleasant than the journey here," Míriel sniffed, holding out a goblet to be automatically refilled with wine by an attentive server. "Oromë's shuttle stank like a swamp."
"We're sending you home in our finest ship," Nienna reassured her. "It's the least we could do." Míriel blinked slowly and looked away, as if to say she agreed completely, and took a long draught from her goblet. The palace's cellars had taken a severe beating once the Eldar had been introduced to wine; they had instantly gained the taste for it, but with their superhuman metabolism seeming to render them invulnerable to drunkenness, their appetite for the stuff seemed quite literally unquenchable.
Just one day in the company of the Ainur had wrought a change in the Eldar. They had arrived as wide-eyed innocents - "slack-jawed yokels", as Tulkas had unkindly described them - but were leaving enamoured of what the Ainur possessed, and trying their best to imitate it. Elwë had even mastered the art of peeling boiled eggs, but left detritus in his wake like a snake shedding its skin, dutifully brushed away by the stooping attendants that surrounded him.
Nothing exemplified the change quite so much as their appearance. The Eldar's furs and leathers had been long-since discarded (and, on Estë's insistence, burned) and replaced with clothes of outstanding beauty; Vairë, eager to contribute in some way, had spent the whole night designing new clothes for them all, and delivered them to the palace still warm from the assembly line. Ingwë wore a long, golden robe that matched the colour of his hair and the silver circlet of a prince; Míriel, a flowing red gown with golden thread which reflected her fiery spirit, and Elwë a dark suit with the short cape of an officer around one shoulder. Finwë, alone of the group, seemed uncomfortable in his new clothes; he kept habitually pulling at his drooping cuffs and tugging at his high collar. Nienna crossed to him and put a hand between his shoulder blades, causing him to jump a little at the sensation.
"How about you, Finwë?" She asked quietly, subtly turning him away from group to give them a little privacy and let him speak a little more freely. "How are you feeling?"
"Oh," Finwë mumbled, "I...I don't know."
"It has been a very intense few days for you," Nienna replied, soothingly. "I think being back with your people will help you to decompress."
"No," Finwë retorted immediately, shaking his head. "I don't want to."
"Don't want to what?" Nienna asked, confused. Finwë's eyes rolled backwards as though he were trying to look through the back of his head to his compatriots.
"I don't want to go," he whispered. "I don't want to go back to the dark and cold after being here. Here everything is...warm, and soft, and bright." He glanced upwards to a stained-glass window, where the light of the Trees, mingling in the dusk sky, flowed through in a dozen colours. "So bright."
Nienna's heart ached for the Elda. She had realised through her talks with him that he was an extraordinarily sensitive soul, and she understood all too well the keenness of the pain he was feeling. "Finwë," she said softly, putting both hands on his shoulders, "you are always welcome here. All of your people. Saying goodbye can be sad, yes, but we will see each other again. I promise." These words seemed to cheer Finwë, who gave a shy smile.
The sound of a fanfare caused them both to turn around and see a wide set of double-doors opening to reveal Manwë and Varda arm-in-arm at the head of the full host of the Valar. Nienna very nearly gasped to see the Lord Commander present, but regained her composure with a glance from Varda - a look which said "I'll explain later". As the Eldar gathered into a single group, Manwë strode forward and admired their guests.
"They're so...tall," he blurted absent-mindedly.
"This must be the brains of the operation," Míriel muttered under her breath.
"I'm Manwë, Lord Commander of Arda. Varda's...husband," he added, a trifle embarrassed. "I'm very sorry to have neglected you until now, but...I'm very glad to finally meet you all." One by one the Eldar were introduced to Manwë, offering their names and handshakes, and praise for the hospitality and greatness of the Ainur people. Manwë accepted all compliments with gratitude and an easy smile; Varda scoffed inwardly at how easily Manwë could switch from the depths of self-pity into the consummate politician. For a man who had just claimed he wasn't a leader, she thought, he certainly did a good impression of one.
The rest of the Valar slowly filtered forwards and reconnected - or, in some circumstances, met for the first time - with the Eldar. Shoulders were slapped, jokes were shared, and a convivial atmosphere reigned. Manwë's stomach lurched momentarily as a memory rose to the front of his mind; the festival to mark the beginning of Arda as an independent colony, so happy and fraternal until Melkor had revealed his true nature and launched his coup. "Not this time," he whispered to himself as he moved to the front doors of the palace and gave the order for them to be opened.
Manwë couldn't be sure how long had passed. Time not only didn't seem to exist in this space, but he found his own judgment of it somehow weakened, as though he were simultaneously at the most exciting party and the most boring meeting of his life.
"Any ideas?" He said.
"I told you, I'm thinking," Irmo replied. The doctor ran a hand down his wispy blonde beard. "The anomaly stopped moving when you entered Melkor's room," he muttered.
"Cell," Manwë grumbled, casting a guilty eye back towards the closed door.
"Whatever," Irmo cut him off. "There has to be a connection between the two personalities. Something is keeping them bound, keeping them aware of the other. Could be the quantum tunnelling effect, but that's one for the physicists."
"Okay," Manwë replied. "How does that help us?"
"Well, for a start, it means we have some control over it," Irmo replied. "We know that when Melkor is content, the anomaly is calm."
"So all I have to do is stay here forever, and we're safe?" Manwë asked. Irmo, despite himself, smiled. From anyone else, that question would have been sarcastic; from Manwë, it was a genuine offer.
"I think we can do better than that, Commander," he replied. "For now it gives us time, at the very least."
The doors of the palace burst open and a wave of sound greeted the Valar and Eldar. The entire population of the city crowded the streets, cheering and waving, letting off flares which belched brightly-coloured smoke, holding up flags and banners wishing the Eldar a safe journey home and a swift return to Valinor. The Eldar staggered back, overwhelmed, and Elwë even instinctively reached for his belt, to where he would usually have a weapon.
"Don't worry," Manwë shouted over the noise. "They're just giving you a good send-off!"
"There's nothing to be scared of," Nienna reassured a frightened Finwë. "They're just a bit excited, that's all."
After a few seconds of confusion and dallying, the Eldar began a slow, uncertain walk down the palace steps, flanked by guards in polished armour, to the main drag of Valinor and into the throng. The guards politely but firmly pushed revellers back to a respectful distance from the Eldar, allowing their guests to interact with some of them but stepping in after a short while to keep the march going. After a while, however, what was meant to be a procession instead turned into a very slowly moving party. The lower orders of the city used it as an excuse to press the flesh with some of the Valar, and ask questions of the Eldar that varied greatly in relevance and propriety. Manwë sauntered along slowly, lost in his own mind, and his own memories.
Manwë sat on his haunches against a wall that wasn't there in a house that didn't exist anymore. He was sticking his head around the door into Melkor's squalid room, just to reassure his brother he was still there, every few minutes. Melkor's relief every time Manwë reappeared broke his heart. Now, he was lost in thought. "Why didn't it go for me?" He wondered aloud.
"Sorry?" Irmo replied, his voice crackly.
"The anomaly," Manwë continued. "You said that as soon as I entered it would go for me because I looked like a way out."
"That was before we realised it was a consciousness," Irmo said. "Your signal is all over the place right now, given we're bouncing you back into the Tank from your own avatar. It probably can't tell the difference between you and any of the other shades in there now."
"So, me being in here is useless?" Manwë asked.
"For our original purpose, yes," Irmo answered, "but the circumstances have changed. Could be that your...for lack of a better word, immunity to the anomaly is just what we need."
"What are you thinking?"
Irmo cleared his throat. "Hear me out," he began. "I've been trying to find a pattern to the pods the anomaly has entered and destroyed, and I have to conclude that there isn't one. It's entering them at random, just desperate to find something that works."
"So?" Manwë asked.
"So, I reckon there's one body it would pass through fire to get into." Manwë turned and looked at the closed door.
"Melkor's."
"We need bait, Manwë," Irmo replied with a pained sigh. "Melkor's it."
Perhaps inevitably, refreshments were provided. The Eldar, by now aficionados of all things alcoholic, were more than happy to pause the journey to sample some more of the finest booze Valinor had to offer, and the Valar were content to take a load off at the same time.
"What is it with this place?" Tulkas wondered, laughing. "Any excuse for a piss-up."
"I used to wonder why all the old legends said the Gods did nothing but drink and fuck," Nessa replied. "Now I know. What else are you gonna do with immortality?"
"Are we gods, though?" Aule asked, philosophically.
"I always assumed I was," Tulkas said. "That was before going in the Tank, mind."
"I shudder to think what you're the god of," Ulmo chastised his friend, draping an arm around his shoulders.
"Well, we all know what you're the god of," Tulkas muttered back, waggling his eyebrows. The group laughed as one; a familiar chorus that had gone unheard in centuries. It tickled at the edge of Manwë's hearing.
"No," Manwë said firmly. "I don't mind risking myself, but I'm not going to risk Melkor. He didn't sign up for this."
"Manwë, we don't have a choice," Irmo pleaded. "We need to lure the anomaly away from the pods and this is the only way I can think of that will do it. Remember how many lives are at stake here."
Manwë swore inwardly. He could have kicked Irmo for reminding him of his duty, at this of all times - the one time when he would gladly let it hang. "Is there no other way?"
"Not unless you want to spend the rest of time in that room with Melkor. And even then, there's no guarantee."
Manwë rested his forehead against the wall. He felt sick. "What do I need to do?"
"Follow the plan," Irmo told him. "Take Melkor with you to the intersection. Lure the anomaly in and I'll close the trap."
"And how do I keep Melkor safe through all this?" Silence on the line.
"I don't know," Irmo admitted. "You're going to have to figure it out as you go along. But...frankly, if anyone can find a way to do it, you can."
Manwë stood and turned to Melkor's door. "You're damn right."
"You know how much I hate saying 'I told you so'?"
Manwë turned to find Varda at his side, smirking up at him. "That's never been my experience," he replied.
"No, it's true," Varda said. "I've matured an awful lot in the last few weeks and months you've been completely ignoring me." Manwë sighed. He was in, he imagined, for an awful lot of this.
"Well done," he quipped.
"Thanks. And I told you so," Varda finished, lacing her fingers through her husband's. "The Eldar were just what you needed to get you out of this funk."
"Not a funk," Manwë replied peevishly.
"It so was," Varda scoffed. "And everyone knew that you just needed something to fuss over again, like you did…" Varda stopped, feeling Manwë's hand unconsciously tighten. She knew she was heading for thin ice and reversed course. "Like you always did," she corrected herself.
"Fuss over," Manwë chuckled, mirthlessly.
"You know what I mean," Varda said. Manwë simply grunted in response. He knew.
Manwë pushed the door to Melkor's prison open. "Melkor," he addressed his brother. "We need to talk." Melkor pushed himself up from the filthy floor and stood attentively. "The other one," he began after a long breath to steady himself, "the...one they took out of you. It's...damaging the Tank." Melkor's brow furrowed in concern and dismay. "The Tank was never meant to hold two personalities from the same mind. And it...well, it's, it's killing a lot of people. Trying to get into their bodies." Melkor raised his hand to his mouth and turned away.
"What can we do?" He asked. Manwë stepped forward and grabbed his brother's shoulder.
"I've got a plan," he said, "but it's...pretty drastic, I won't lie." Manwë filled Melkor in on the plan over the course of a few minutes; even starved and half-mad, Melkor was an exceptionally quick study. He grasped the concept with ease.
"But what," he asked Manwë, "makes you think that we'll even get out of the door without it coming down on top of us?"
"This might just be a visual representation of a virtual landscape," Manwë answered, "but it's still bound by rules and laws. Even the anomaly - that's what we're calling it," he added apologetically after seeing Melkor flinch, "even it has to follow these rules."
"So it can't immediately travel anywhere, because we can't," Melkor thought aloud. Manwë nodded.
"Plus, I've got a theory of my own. I think that if we leave this room together, my immunity might...I don't know, shield you somehow." Melkor shot Manwë a skeptical look. "Look, I said it was only a theory." The brothers shared a look and both started laughing.
"I've missed this," Melkor said, smiling sadly and regarding his feet. Manwë nodded.
"Me too," he replied, extending his hand. "Ready?" Melkor steeled himself and took Manwë's hand.
"Ready."
Varda eventually peeled off to join Olorin and his colourful group of friends, leaving Manwë briefly wandering alone, the city-wide party slowly making its way to the brilliant silver ship parked and waiting in the main square. It was meant to be his and Varda's private transport, but nothing had been deemed too good for the departing Eldar.
"You and I," a familiar dark voice cooed in his ear, "have a lot to talk about."
Manwë turned and forced a smile to his lips. "That we do, I reckon," he said bashfully.
"I meant what I said back there," Ulmo said softly. "I don't blame you for what happened. I blame you for plenty else," he added, "but...nothing friends can't sort out."
"That's good to hear," Manwë replied, practically on autopilot. Unable to bear Ulmo's gaze any longer, he forced his head straight. Ulmo cocked his head to one side.
"Lot on your mind, Commander?" He asked, taking a swig of sparkling wine straight from the bottle and offering it to Manwë, who declined.
"You could say that," Manwë replied, as sullen and withdrawn as a teenager. Ulmo scoffed.
"Not surprised. I think we've both got lives to try and get back to." He took another swig and patted Manwë on the back. "Good chat," he said as he departed back to his old friends. Manwë took a deep, panicked breath as Ulmo left him. His old friend, usually the voice of reason and the definition of wisdom, could not be more wrong.
Hand-in-hand, the brothers crossed the threshold.
Nothing.
"Well, knock me down," Manwë muttered with the quiet terror of a man who has chanced upon a sleeping tiger. "I think I might have actually been right."
"Stranger things have happened," Melkor replied, in exactly the same mood.
"Manwë, what's going on?" Irmo's voice crackled.
"I'm out of the room, with Melkor," Manwë replied. "How's it looking?"
A pause. "Anomaly is stable," Irmo replied with the merest hint of a laugh in his voice. "For now," he added. The brothers laughed, pleased with their gambit.
"What now?" Melkor asked.
"We get to the intersection, as quickly and calmly as possible," Manwë replied, "and you put on some clothes." Melkor looked down and gasped, as if only just noticing his nakedness.
"How do I-"
"Just think of something!" Manwë snapped quietly, as though worried raised voices would somehow alert the anomaly.
"Alright, alright," Melkor grumbled, screwing his eyes shut. A moment later his favourite black suit covered him, far baggier in places over his emaciated frame.
"Good," Manwë replied. "Let's go."
Slowly, their hands always clasped together, Manwë and Melkor retraced the steps from Melkor's old house to the marketplace. It was empty, but for Ulmo standing stock-still in the middle, like a robot waiting for instructions.
"Ulmo," Manwë addressed him, touching his shoulder. Like last time, the shade of Ulmo burst into life and greeted his commander with a smile. "Good work getting the people off the streets. But we need your help again. Melkor and I need to get to the Palace, and I need you to tell anyone we meet on the way to get off the streets. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Sir," Ulmo acquiesced, falling in line besides Manwë. As the trio made their slow, nerve-wracking way to the Palace, part of Manwë dared to dream that this might actually go off even better than expected.
"Do you have a plan for when the...the anomaly comes?" Melkor whispered into Manwë's ear. "How are you going to stop it from killing me?"
"Don't worry," Manwë replied quietly. "I have a plan." They rounded a corner and the main drag of their former island home hoved into view, with the Palace laying at its end. The subconscious shades of dozens of their friends milled to and fro, going about their subconscious lives.
"Nearly there, Commander," Ulmo announced with a wide smile. Suddenly, a noise like the crack of a whip or a peal of thunder shook the entire virtual world, sending shades flinching and running. "What was that?" Ulmo blurted.
"Irmo," Manwë muttered, fear rising in him. "Enlighten us."
"It's coming, Manwë," Irmo replied, barely able to keep the terror out of his voice. "Run. Just run. And whatever you do, keep Melkor alive! The anomaly must not get his body!"
It took the best part of two hours to make the kilometre journey from the palace to the square where the royal ship was waiting, and most of the revellers were more the worse for wear than when they started. The Eldar, naturally, were the picture of sobriety. Once more the guards pushed the common folk away from their guests as steps descended from the hatch, and the Eldar boarded their vessel with a plethora of good-bye gestures. The people of Valinor sang them off, linking arms and swaying.
"Are you sure he's alright to drive?" Aule asked Vána.
"Of course I bloody am!" Oromë roared, walking a little uncertainly for a man making such a boast. He pushed a few rows of revellers out of the way and made his way to the pilot's hatch, which only barely admitted even his new, streamlined version of bulk. With the Eldar disappeared into the ship and the stairs retracted, the people of Valinor waved one last goodbye to their new friends as the ship gently floated up into the air before streaking across the sky like a bullet, disappearing over the horizon in seconds.
"Let's hope he comes back this time, hm?" Ulmo quipped. A few laughed, but most were aware of how close Vána's hurt still was, and looked down, sheepish. Manwë did neither.
Within seconds, Manwë had regretted ever calling it "the anomaly". Such a name didn't do it the slightest bit of justice. The truth of it was infinitely worse. It was an abomination. He and Melkor ran, hand-in-hand, down the coruscating road of their dreamworld. He had made the mistake of looking back once. It was not one he wanted to repeat. Far from the clean, monochrome ghosts that littered this virtual world, it was a cancer; an amorphous, geometrically impossible blob that bounded along on elephantine legs or rolled along under its own bulk. Its surface was a black so dark that Manwë felt that one more look into it would suck the light from his very eyes.
Beside them, Ulmo ran as fast as his mind's understanding of his own limitations would let him. They breathed hard, sucking nothing into their lungs and breathing nothing out. The shades around them ran for cover, seemingly possessed of enough self-awareness to recognise the danger the anomaly represented. A sudden scream - if it could even be called that, and not a rending of the fabric of reality itself - caused them to, despite all of their efforts, look back.
The anomaly had caught a fleeing shade. Its black, oily body flickered and hissed like static as it absorbed the shade into itself, deconstructing its subconscious and making it part of its own. The process seemed to take something out of the anomaly, however, as it was significantly slower to resume the chase after "feeding". It only spurred them on to run faster. But the Palace was still so far away, and the anomaly was getting closer and closer every second.
It stopped and snared the last shade on the road, tearing it to pieces with black tendrils that shattered psyches and absorbed impulses. Again it pulsed, flickered and groaned as it glutted itself. "We'll never outrun it!" Melkor cried.
"We will," Manwë replied through gritted teeth, feeling imaginary bile rise in his virtual throat as he tired.
"Manwë," Melkor whimpered, coughing with exertion. "Manwë, I don't want to die!" Manwë stopped, nearly tearing Melkor's arm out of its socket as he continued to race on. "What are you doing? Manwë, what are you doing?" Melkor asked desperately, trying to tear his hand from Manwë's grip. Ulmo had noticed the pair had stopped running and made his way back to them.
"We can't outrun it," Manwë sighed, defeated. "I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?" Melkor breathed, incredulous and terrified. "You're SORRY? You promised I'd be safe! You promised-"
"I'm not talking to you."
Melkor paused. Ulmo turned to face Manwë. The look of calm control that seemed permanently affixed to Ulmo's face faltered. Manwë's brow was resolute.
"Manwë-"
A vicious right hook sent Ulmo sprawling. Without losing an inch of momentum, Manwë turned on his heels and ran, dragging Melkor behind him.
Don't look back.
The Palace grew closer and closer.
"What did you do," Melkor mumbled, exhausted legs running on adrenaline.
Don't look back.
Ulmo sobbed. Pleaded. Begged to be killed.
"What have you done, Manwë?" Melkor babbled.
Don't look back.
The scream. Gods above, that scream.
They reached the Palace steps, exhausted, barely able to stand.
He looked back.
Ulmo was being devoured feet-first. His shade flickered and cracked, like poor reception on a video screen, as he let out a scream that seemed to break the world.
"Bastard!" He cried out, casting a shattering, splintering shade of a hand towards Manwë. "Betrayer!"
"NO!" Melkor cried out, running forwards before Manwë stopped him. It was enough, however, for the anomaly to get his scent. Leaving Ulmo half-eaten on the glowing road, it bounded towards the brothers on the stairs.
"Trust me now, Melkor," Manwë said as he held his brother tightly to him.
"You killed Ulmo!" Melkor raged, tears in his eyes. "Your best friend! Why would you-"
"YOU are my best friend, Melkor!" Manwë shouted back, his face twisted with sorrow and rage and guilt. "You always have been. You always were. And the gods help anyone who got in our way." Melkor's face dropped and lip began to quiver. "Trust me." The anomaly bounded closer and closer, its footfalls shaking the foundations of the universe, until at the last second Manwë flung Melkor aside with all his might, leaving himself in its path.
The anomaly passed through him as if he wasn't there, crashing into the stairs. As it tried to right itself and charge back, however, it crashed into an invisible wall barring its path. It beat against the wall with black, oily fists, to no avail.
"We got it," Irmo said dully. "It's trapped." Manwë let out a long, deep sigh.
"Irmo, I-"
"Shut up, Manwë," Irmo replied. His voice was shot through with disgust. "Just...shut up."
"You did it," Melkor said, rising to his feet and walking shakily back towards Manwë. "You stopped it."
"Yeah," Manwë said quietly. In the distance, the remnants of Ulmo's shade flickered and bled static.
"Was it worth it?" Melkor spat. Manwë stiffened up.
"Yes," He replied, darkly.
"Then maybe it's you who needs six hundred years of-" Melkor's rage was cut short as he made a choking noise. Manwë turned to see Melkor stumbling backwards towards the stairs where the anomaly still pressed itself against the invisible wall.
"Melkor?" Manwë asked, at first confused, then panicking. Melkor reached out a hand as his feet began to drag backwards across the road. "Melkor!" Manwë lunged forward to grab Melkor's outstretched hand, but too late. Melkor slammed into the invisible wall and started to scream that terrible, terrible scream.
"NO!" Manwë roared, trying to grab onto Melkor's flickering shade but getting a huge electric shock for his troubles. "Let him go!" He screamed at the anomaly, pressing its full weight against the wall, drawing Melkor in by some horrible attractive force.
The unmistakable sound of manic laughter filled the air. NO. HE IS MINE. OUR BODY IS MINE. YOUR WORLD IS MINE.
"Please," Manwë begged, beginning to sob. "Take me. Please, take me." Laughter rent the world again.
I WILL.
"-fuck is going on-" Irmo's voice crackled, breaking apart.
"LET HIM GO!" Manwë roared, struggling to his feet.
WHY SHOULD I? YOU COULDN'T.
Melkor's shade began to disintegrate, peeling away into millions of flakes of light and darkness. "You're trapped," Manwë argued. "You'll never get out. You'll never have his body, or anyone else's. You die with him."
NO. I DIE WITH YOU.
There was nothing left to do. Nothing left to say. Melkor was almost gone, beyond Manwë's ability to help. "Melkor," he said softly. "Can you hear me?" Melkor's glassy eyes turned to Manwë's with supreme effort. "We will be together again, Melkor. One day." Melkor's eyes closed and the last remaining parts of his shade exploded in a shower of stardust before the world beneath Manwë's feet disappeared and he plunged into nothingness.
The party continued well into the night. Lights were lit, fireworks were set off, and music suffused Valinor once again. Anyone who was anyone was there, apart from the man at the top of the mountain. Manwë stood once more on his turret, staring out to sea.
The days after the Anomaly had killed two hundred people were a blur for all involved, but Manwë most of all. He remembered only flashes. Irmo's look of murderous rage when he came back to the real world. The whispered promise that the only reason he was still alive were that doctors were sworn never to kill. Visiting Ulmo, a broken and dying man. The constant praise that eventually sickened him.
Ulmo never knew what happened, of course. He had no knowledge of what had happened to his subconscious. The only people who would ever know were himself and Irmo; and Irmo was bound by his oath to keep Manwë's secrets. As far as Valinor was concerned, Ulmo was just one of the hundreds of casualties of their worst disaster in centuries.
But in time, even these wounds would heal. Ulmo was mostly back to his old self. The Valar had a new distraction to amuse themselves with and pass eternity fruitfully. Even his marriage seemed to be stable again. Manwë pulled a remote computer from his pocket and checked the display. 43.46% complete, the display read. He smiled and put it away.
"One day, brother," he said to himself. "I promised you. One day."
END OF PART FIVE