The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age
THE RISE OF THE FELL KINGDOM
Chapter 25: Lords of the Night
'At last is come this vale of shadow- at last is come the dominion of my… quarry. At last is come the day when my hunger is sated, and when this cursed firmament shall face my might. At last is come the time when this terrible pain of… singularity… consumes me no more! This night, I feast- for this night, Arda, you shall meet your fate against the darkness in which all life dies… and tonight, 'Dark Lord', you shall face not he whom you named "benighted one" but the true master of the drear night- and ere the end, you shall find yourself the one benighted.'
The ragged, harsh breaths came in near-pants as the Void-lord marched on, his shadowed wrath melting away the very snow that flitted down from the heavens.
And thus did the reckoning march onwards to the Fortress of Nightfall, strength derived from sheer will, deliberation unstoppable, thirst unquenchable.
The sunken, dead eyes that Môrdath called his own flashed for a moment bright yellow from their usual tint of clouded grey, for thoughts unbidden crossed his mind.
'It is cold- terribly, terribly cold'.
It was that which brought his march to a halt- a simple thought had done what no power on Middle-earth could. In that, it was unique- for the thought's very existence could be put to question.
The Void-lord was no ainu, for none can trace to him any singular concept relative or absolute- yet the conclusion that may be drawn from his character is that he possessed, among his abilities, the power of thought. His… brother… and sisters… could be thought of as 'spheres', dynamic as a whole, but limited in that boundary. He, however- he was a line. Focused at one dimension, in one direction, and unending. And thus did he hold the same power over his thought, as when he had set his sights upon the fortress of the Dark Lord and his ears upon his mighty song, he had barred from his mind all else.
In his nature, he was unique… for he was his mind. His thought was action, and his fëa was thought.
He paused awhile, and held up both his hands… elegant yet gaunt were they, and he pulled, with careful deliberation, the glove off one.
The blizzards, they raged, the storms, they howled- and Môrdath felt his fingers shake and numb. And now his mind was thrown off its course, to thoughts more haphazard and mundane… how fragile this mortal fána was, yet how… beautiful. He loved this form as it was substantial, when he was, in truth, naught but darkness.
It was this reality to which the Void-lord held any weakness… for he knew his nature, and he hated it. He hated and cursed himself for it, doomed to forever hunger. He devoured for he had to, and this act he despised- It was in his nature to see a story to its conclusion… and he had been robbed of it. Robbed- by his dear sister. He would never forgive her.
And even when he took life, his hunger never was sated. He had considered ceasing his battle with his curse, to allow himself to be devoured by his own shadows, as he considered it now…
And that was when the thought ceased, and the light left his eye. A curious medley of complete calm and utter hatred was painted upon his face as he donned again the glove with a careful precision- for his mind would sway no more. He would never cease his fight until he had taken his revenge.
His sister may have been utterly, completely beyond his reach- he knew, in truth, that she was beyond the reach of all but Ilúvatar- so be it, then! He would revenge himself upon Ilúvatar and all his creations for the blight of conceiving his sister! If it meant a destruction of this world, then may it fall, and a thousand others in its wake!
It was so very beautiful, however.
He recalled the music of the ainur, as he had watched from afar. He could not understand their grand song, as it was beyond him to listen- but their creation he admired with undisguised wonder, ere all was taken from him. He gazed now at this land- shadows rose around him and about him, and he felt his power complete- yet he did not like it.
He longed for one last glance at a green field, a pasture or a meadow ere his terror ended the existence of such delicate things.
This unbidden thought the Void-lord allowed reluctantly to persist in his mind as he resumed his inexorable march to challenge the Shadow of Doom.
'The world is grey, the mountains old, the ancient spark is ashen-cold'.
"We… the men are wearying, my lord. How long must we march ere the turn to the Iron Mountains?"
Herumor, for the first time in hours, brought his visage to meet the eyes of another.
The ancient Núménorean, admit it though he would not, was near the end of his strength. He would not be carried- he knew men respected a lord who would walk on his own two feet alongside them- but he knew not how much further he could continue. Yet skilled was he in the art of stoking flames in the hearts of others when his own were near their end.
"Wearying? Hmm. Must I put to question, then, the will of my… disciples… to toil for the greater good? Must I be brought to ponder the frailties of mortal men, and the impossibility of any great task when put a-front those I have been sent by Lord Melkor himself to do his holy bidding?"
"M-my lord… The mind endures, but the body may weary. The fire may reign in soul but not limb. Fatigue we may allay, but not all minds may hold absolute mastery over what they may control. We are mortals, my lord, and we would give for you our lives… but many fear that chance shall not come in glorious battle. Would you wish the indignity of such a death by… marching on blighted terrain upon your men?"
Ah, this was a clever one. He most certainly knew the art of phrasing his statements- a close eye would need to be kept on him. If only his own would not blink or close as they were nowadays prone to.
"Indignity? Strength is what defines us, teaches Lord Thû- but he learned from the hand of the almighty rising lord, Melkor, that strength is what one must transcend. Those who fall of fatigue are those deserving of such a demise and naught else- the true chosen of Melkor will find strength from their very will to rise, and to fight! I see naught of passion- what a pity, as all else is a lie. From your passion, you shall gain strength- and from your strength, victory. May this word reach the ear of all that would falter, and may they find for themselves their place."
And thus dismissed, the man set off to spread the word. Herumor, however, had not answered the question- and it was to his delight that he found the answer would be 'Now'.
He knew not if the farseeing eyes of Stonehelm's folk had witnessed his march- although he had taken great pains to ensure the contrary, he knew of the curious abilities of the Dwarves to simply know when their lands were trespassed upon. It appeared as if the very earth spoke to them, and the mightiest among them could hear its voice. Thorin III, Herumor had found, was a formidable king- perhaps it was that he had known all along. He cared not. He would reach Angmar if it cost his life and countless others- The Dark Tree must blossom.
He felt a bout of loneliness strike him again- and thus he reached, once again, below the great veil that covered his 'friend', who growled in appreciation.
"And thus I command you, Storm-master, Lord of the Night."
From where he knelt, his cloak sweeping the floor, he uttered for once his words without a blemish in his speech.
"And thus I obey you, my master."
Raising his great halberd, he stood, and cloak billowing in the chill wind, marched forth to his appointed place to see his task done.
Lord Mormanar, the Death-master, stood already in grim silence, the ring adorning his hand of iron. He, however, would not be told- it was imperative that he not be told.
Not even the most perfect of plans could claim to nary a flaw, and, thoroughly tired, the Dark Lord took with deliberation his seat upon his dark throne.
In this battle, he would have no part- it would tell, however, if he would have a part in aught else afterwards. He felt, not for the first time, the throes of exhaustion- but never had the feeling enveloped him so very completely. He gazed, then, at his fortress- the Black Court of his throne-room was complete. The hall but missed the thrones of the 'courtiers'- in due time, they would rise. 'Shadows under his great shadow'.
Construction had begun on the highest and most greatly shadowed part of the fortress- the inner sanctum which he would soon put to dark purpose. Dûrnost would have no towers or spires, nay- it would be a labyrinth of defense and secret darkness. The bastion of unyielding might that stood forever as a speck of sheer black in the distance.
Death-master, Storm-master, Shadow-master. The Lords of the Night.
His existence he had based upon his plans- nay, plans within plans. Should this succeed, the Lords of the Night as an order would be complete- and he, the Lord of Darkness, would come into his own and rule. Should it fail… He wished, sometimes, to such possess an emotionless nature as Mormanar. Perhaps it would cease his damned habit of caring so much.
The Dark Lord sighed, as he never was wont to- it would seem pathetic, would it not. How pitiable he must look, craving sympathy, wishing solace. How utterly shameful. How very unlike a true Dark Lord.
Some evil, he reminded himself, was necessary- as was his. He promised Arda, his dear Arda- he promised her and all her peoples that after the war ended, he would care for them and give them life as none had. For now, however- he was the most terrible, most horrifyingly dark and powerful being to walk upon Arda. He would do well to remember it.
The Dark Lord consigned himself to watching, ever silently, the work of the weaver-traitors.
The Reckoning was come.
Amidst the waste dark as night, where the day had lost its light, silent, soft footfalls fell.
The avalanches of Angmar came yet again, and as before they were banished from material existence. A black hood blanketed the grim visage of Môrdath as he marched unhindered into the Nan Gwáthren, the vale of Carn Dûm.
The treacherous shadows summoned by the hand of the Dark Lord now betrayed their master and flocked to his, as Dûrnost loomed in the distance. The land itself appeared to array against him, and served only to strengthen his resolve.
Great power lay concealed within the fortress of Nightfall, and so he raised his voice to challenge-
When he found that no words would leave his throat, and no sound would escape his lips. It appeared as if a shadowy hand, ethereal and yet icy in its grip, had clamped itself upon his neck and silenced his voice.
He lowered his gaze from the fortress to behold the path ahead- and there stood the terrifying figure of Lord Mormanar.
The Lord of the Void, faced with the one who would consume it.
The Shadow of Doom arisen to face the Master of Night.
The black-cloaked, towering figure that was the very incarnation of terror inspired none of the feeling in Môrdath, who nursed instead another thought. Oft had his aim ended in silence and inevitability- oft had he destroyed with nary a foe to challenge his might. Not this day- a challenge would belay him. An adversary would oppose him. How wonderful.
He observed how a few shadows, blacker than the rest, rose and crowned the silhouette of his foe- of how he ever remained in a sphere controlled by his own black thought and that of none else. Mormanar struck him as an eye of calm, yet not amidst the storm that was he- nay, the eye faced the storm, in opposition as direct as could be.
With a single surge of his will, the void-lord quelled Mormanar's word of silence to utter these words, as he recalled from the Dark Lord's initial verse-
'Shadow of Doom, Lord of the Night, Darkness crown'd with Iron Might'.
'Void-lord, unbeing, these lands thou would'st swathe- by the Dark Lord's will, thou shalt not."uttered the dark, sinister voice in reply, the metallic resonance echoing off the mountainside.
'So be it. By you and your master, so be it- By Eä, so be it!' roared Môrdath harshly, and there was no deliberation to his motion this time- naught of delicate elegance. His palm was raised in a jarring sweep, and within an instant, the shadows that crowned Mormanar gathered- after which all happened at once.
The air appeared to constrict around where his once was, and tendrils of sheer blackness surged forth to devour his shadow within their greater shadow. Yet Lord Mormanar Death-master was wary, and his own form had dissipated, no trace to be seen.
Môrdath then sang a song of revelation- yet that it could not be called, for it was no song. It had no words, for the meaning was contained in the dialect itself- yet there was no melody, no tune, not even one aimless and chaotic.
It was as if the wave of a vibrating instrument was one-dimensional, for no sound was heard, and yet the effects felt. His shadows searched for those treacherous, and yet with full patience he sang, rather chanted- for when the Doombringer was found, he would pounce and claw, and he wold be cast from the realm of shadows.
And ere the song ended, Môrdath felt a chill… an eerie chill, one of fear, not of cold- and at once he leapt aside, arm thrust out.
A deadly thrust of Ainunarcar, the liquid, shadowy blade, bit deep into his fingers and spilled blood upon the ice black as ebony- and yet the blood was red, crimson as would be a man's. Yet Môrdath's motion was granted success, as a wave of shadow and darkness threw itself upon Mormanar, whose form was smitten and thrown to the mountainside.
To this battle as well there would be a silent watcher, yet it was no being of shadow, and it underwent considerable torture to maintain its silence- for its fingers were flitting to and fro, and the feathered helm it wore would oft peek from the rock-face.
Môrdath obliterated the mountainside above his foe, to effect the rest falling upon him. In spite of the song of sedation that the Void-lord sang, Mormanar rose and threw himself to the ground ere the mountain smote him unto ruin.
Tendrils of Darkness closed around his form again, and now a different tactic was employed- for he sent forth his own to strike Môrdath. The Void-lord, taken aback, turned his tune to one of docility and wrested control of the treacherous manifestations of darkness, when he saw that Mormanar had dispelled his own entirely and was nigh upon him.
Although unfamiliar with avoiding a swordsman's aim, Môrdath knew danger when he saw it- the once he did not, he had paid with a fate worse than death. 'I thank you, sister dear' thought he viciously, as Mormanar's strike barely cut his flesh. It was, however, enough- for even with the barest cut he felt Ainunarcar's bite. The very same chill, that dreadful chill which had naught of relation to the cold then overcame him, and in his one moment of weakness, he felt a terrible strike and fell to the obsidian floor of ice, helpless.
His cheek was rent and gashed, torn ruthlessly by Mormanar's gauntlet as he struck him. The Doombringer he now beheld as a wave of shadow, the cursed, damned Black Sword skirting the ground, coming inevitably onwards. In that moment, Môrdath for the first time felt fear- for it was not a figure in black armour that he beheld- it was death itself. How could demise touch one who was beyond it? How could he, the unconquerable, be slain? As he beheld the shadowed mask, the silent haste and the deadly blade- and he knew his end was nigh.
"Shadow of Doom thou mayest be- yet doom's true lord thou art not. My fate is mine own to take, Death-master!'
It was fear that gave him strength, the threat to his existence that raised his power in defence. A grand wave of shadow struck Mormanar, who was halted in his bid as he strove to tear it apart with his own, and cheek rent, hand bleeding, Môrdath summoned the strength to stand, having saved himself.
He harried Mormanar anew with his devouring darkness, and as the Doombringer's own fearsome shadows proved no match, the dark form dissipated yet again, and now Môrdath would not look for him. Nay. Mormanar would come, if… compelled.
The dark power of Mormanar's master that flooded the air was now taken from his grasp, rising to answer a new master, as Môrdath raised his voice to a terrible chant. He commanded the shadows of Angmar to expel his foe, he twisted the fabric of Eä- not with a furious wrath but with a subtle mastery.
The Dark Lord's own eyes beheld the spectacle- for Môrdath, in defiance of his very nature, was become mighty in songs of power. He stood as the Dark One had, singing a song of creation- only that his song was a chant with one verse and one objective, not defined by tune or timbre. The Dark Lord had created- Môrdath would destroy.
How much mightier he could have been in the realm of song had not doom turned him benighted… and yet how inconvenient that would be. As he now was, he was a weapon- one that could be finely tuned and turned to his devices. And thus, the Dark Lord awaited the fulfilment of his scheme.
Mormanar would be forced unto physical form- that was inevitable- and without further course, would thunder towards Môrdath in all his dark might. He would be slowed by shadows more numerous than the hairs on a dwarf's head- ever more spirits of darkness in each wave would assail him and halt his advance.
Even the Doombringer would reach the end of his unmatched strength, and Môrdath, with a sweep, would open a facet of the void to end its would-be devourer.
The battle raged half in his realm and half in his mind, as he watched it unfold before him and yet not. He did not behold with his true eyes the moment when Mormanar's armour ceased its motion, did not see when the metal came to an utter halt as it the influence of the shadow within no longer persisted.
He saw, however, as his deadliest servant was raised to the airs, his injured and yet redoubtable foe victorious, yet staining the shadowed ice red with his dripping blood.
The Dark Lord feared little, and knew no terror, save for that which accompanied the failure of a plan- but even his mind of steel was tested when he felt a dagger of Môrdath's will against his own.
With a grim anticipation, he faced the knowledge that Môrdath, as he sought to deconstruct Mormanar's spirit, had found the link between the Dark Lord's fëa and the Doombringer's own.
In utter surety of his triumph, he shouted finally in challenge:
"Lord of the Dark! If thy greatest servant thou didst send, he did rend my flesh, he did mar my visage- but I stand victorious at last. Thy creation I commend- for truly it was more terrible a foe I faced than ever I have. Thy power is great, and yet it cannot stand 'gainst the darkness in which all life must die. Forth, now, and meet me at thy gate, for this I chance I shall give thee to suffer thine end in the dignity thou dost deserve."
His own shadows were taken from his hands as Môrdath commanded them. The most powerful being in Arda could do naught when faced with the primordial force of Darkness itself- and yet, the Dark Lord made no answer.
Môrdath struck the Dark Lord yet again with a dagger of his mind, and was yet repelled sharply and completely, as the Dark Lord sat steeled and unyielding.
'To the end thou shalt defy me… so be it, my lord. So be it, as thou didst wish.'
He sang a song of draining, of taking. He would devour the Dark Lord's might through Mormanar, and he hoped beyond hope it would sate his hunger- for if it did not, Arda would follow.
A scream rent the air.
It was Môrdath's own.
The Void-lord howled in sheer pain and grief- it was a mortal's scream, and that of one subject to the most terrible torture.
A thousand bolts of terrible lightning coursed through his frail fána, burning flesh and charring bone.
He fell to his knees, hot tears unbidden falling from his eyes, crying in pain and terror as the lightning struck him yet again.
Bolts struck the ice on his side, in front of him, behind him, and some thundered as far as the mountains beyond. The same helplessness overcame him- but now born not of fear but of sheer pain.
The lightning ceased its course through his veins for an instant, and in that instant was unveiled his hidden foe- nay, his torturer- for Hellërúcir, the Storm Knight, marched forth from the rock behind which he was hidden, glee unbound as he struck Môrdath yet again with lightning stronger and more terrible than before.
The Chaotic maia revelled in his foe's suffering- he had struck on his master's order, in the very moment at which he had ordered intervention. He had treated it a duty- but it never had struck him that it would be a duty so thoroughly enjoyable.
It was an evil joy purely Melkorian in nature, as dark cackles of glee escaped his mouth as he yet neared. He needed not the skies, although forked bolts rained lashes upon the Void-lord as he commanded them- for the lightning spewed forth from his very fëa.
It was his purpose, his sole purpose, and in this knowledge his found deep satisfaction.
It was, however, not the end of the Void-lord's strength- for in his agony, Môrdath yet found a remnant of strength, which he used to speak a mighty word of silence. The lightning ceased, as did the cackling, and he grasped blindly at the air- yet his shadows found their mark, and the Storm Knight's palms were closed.
His flesh burned and his cheek yet dripping blood, he stood in blind rage, in readiness to end his foe-
And that was when he saw it. He saw the light of his own doom.
His own shadows turned on him, and those he had taken from the Dark Lord's grasp deserted him for their true master. Hellërúcir watched with equal awe as he did himself when his hands were bound behind him, when his throat seized and when his knees buckled yet again.
The very facet of the void he had himself opened unto Arda had been opened anew- and he saw, with a terrible fear, that it was closing in upon his own self.
It was then, when he thought himself finished, that an Iron hand clawed around his throat, blood dripping in fine lines from where it was gripped, and he beheld the fell witch-light in the terrible eyes of Lord Mormanar Death-master.
He saw his sister, whom he hated- he saw her spider's form devouring herself. A thought came to him then that he would not be allowed the same luxury- that he would be annihilated by the Doombringer. The vastness of the Dark Lord's might seemed to strike him only then- as well as the insignificance of his own self. To him, that was the greatest indignity.
He wished to scream, but could not. He wished escape, but was bound. And thence was subjugated the will of Môrdath the void-lord, as he was thrown harshly to the ground, his might spent, his aim crushed and his resolve utterly defeated by the Death-master and the Storm-master, the Lords of the Night. His form would have choked to death on his own blood if he was to be told, in that moment, of the irony of the Dark Lord's scheme, as to his own place in the Grand Design.
After what could count as both an eternity and as an instant too small, the blizzards rose and the gales raged, hail pouring upon the land. The Cloaks of Môrdath's captors fluttered in front of his vision, as both the black and the brilliant blue figure knelt down in reverence.
Ah, their master would now show himself, to poison his wounds yet further, to herald his triumph.
The world bowed to the footsteps of the greatest being that walked upon it, and the land quaked- yet to a rhythm.
It was to his tremendous surprise that he felt his injuries healing.
The bloodied cuts were closed, and his flesh knitted itself together. Not even traces of the scars he had been given persisted. Only the terrible burns from the tortuous lightning remained- but the flesh was no longer red, and the skin of his face, which had been made to sag, appeared to turn crisp and traight yet again.
'Master' he heard his foes say in unison, and when he mustered the courage to turn his head, he saw a figure of deep concentration.
He beheld a King without crown, yet more glorious in its absence. The Dark Lord stood over him, and his strength appeared to return.
A dark hand reached down to convey him to his feet- pah. He would not accept it.
As his brow furrowed to spite his foe, however, his strength failed him mysteriously, and he fell again to the ice. He knew then that the strength as not his own, and was granted by the Lord of the Dark- and when the hand was proffered again, he took it and raised himself to his feet.
"If thou dost think I shall serve thee…" he ground out with revulsion, only to be halted.
"Nay, I ponder it not. Thou shalt indeed serve me, as shall all. Yet thou shalt be no servant- my regard for thee stems higher than it would for a slave. Thou shalt learn at my hand, for I can teach thee, impart to thee what thou dost crave above all."
"None in Eä shall I answer to- none in Eä shall I call 'lord'!"
"Lord? Nay. Tarry not in thy defiance for it shall herald only thine end. I know thee, void-lord- for I did listen to thy tale as did none else. I know thy fate and thy suffering- I know the doom that assailed thee upon the action of thy sister, Ungoliant. I am no deceiver, and I shall not lie- for I shall teach thee to belay thy hunger and to control the tyrannous might thou dost call thine own- and time is not a foe beyond me. Serve me well, and I shall grant thee thy revenge."
Môrdath wished to scoff, but only then did he behold upon Mormanar's finger the One Ring- and he was struck at once by awe and wonder. He had watched the tale of the Third Age unfold from his place in the Timeless Halls- and he knew well its fate. Here, however, it sat, a band of gold unadorned and a speck of beauty in the darkness- here it had been only now used to bring him to defeat.
He asked, then, unable to bring under further scrutiny this being whose servants- servants- had silenced his great darkness, and yet he would not bow his head.
"T… truly? I have fallen before, how now must I know thou shalt not do unto me what sh… she… did? I had sworn, then, that I would bow to none- how canst thou break a vow of the fëa? Th… thou shalt not!"
"A thousand vows far greater than thine I have seen broken with mine own eyes. If thou shalt forgo opportunity for the sake of defiance, then so be it- for at my slightest command, Mormanar shall end thee forevermore. And yet, if I do wish thine end, I shall have no need of him- silenced as thou hast been, I shall tear thy fëa apart, dismantle it such that it may ne'er reform. And if thou dost consider in this death a 'dignity'- I shall leave thee first to the devices and whims of Hellërúcir."
Bravado would be futile- and the Dark One would offer him no dignity in a final end.
Though he never would admit it, there existed a part of Môrdath that would leap greedily at such a chance of revenge, deception or not. Seeing naught else but one end to the path he now walked, he knelt himself, bowing his head to the ice as did his now former foes.
"Thou hast, then, conquered me… my… l-lord."
"Nay, call me not lord. Thou shalt not be a slave- to me, thou dost hold fear greater value. Thou shalt be mine apprentice, as shalt thou call me 'Master'."
The order puzzled him thoroughly, and yet he complied- finding that he would indeed prefer this address.
'I pledge myself, my might and my service to thee, my master.'
"Then rise, Môrdath- Rise anew as Master of Shadow. I grant thee thy place at my side- Lord of the Night." uttered Mandos, Dark Lord of Arda.
GLOSSARY
Nan Gwáthren- The Vale [in which] light [is] dimmed
In case none have yet noticed, 'Shadows' in this tale are as they have been defined by Christopher Tolkien in 'Annals of Aman'- small 'manifestations' of darkness, half-formed thoughts of Iluvatar or sometimes fully-formed spirits. They hold a large influence on Arda and form a lot of Melkor's power.
Author's Friend's Note: It is according to the DarkLordofDoom's wish that I am writing this note. I'm Tom, and old friend of his. If you notice anything off about the chapter, it is most likely a result of me compiling and editing it from his notes. A rather serious situation had threatened his life, yet he is recovering very nicely and is nearly well- well enough, in fact, to write this note in my place.
Congratulations to Arinariel, the only one to have divined the Dark Lord's identity- you must know my friend's mind better than I, for I most certainly did NOT expect that. Although I am not supposed to give spoilers, I shall say that there lies a dark plot behind the treachery of the Doomsman, with Melkor at its heart- unfortunately, it does not seem to have ended well for him.
He'll return to updating this story as soon as he is completely well, and if he doesn't mind, I'll post another chapter as well. Cheers to all the readers.
