Fëanaro doesn't have to wait long for the answer. Mirfin shows up the next morning with a summon and tries to explain the proper protocol to him, but the noldo couldn't care less. He isn't interested in showing respect to the maia anymore. He believes no lip service is going to keep Mairon from hurting him. If his apathy annoys the Mulak, for once he refrains from lecturing him about proper behavior.
He moves slowly and with care. Uruk medicine heals but does nothing to dull pain. Despite the salves and his own strong, valinorean constitution, his back is hurting horribly and makes him lightheaded.
They are escorted by four betas, all armed warriors. This time they walk in the middle of the street and everyone makes way for them. They stride up, toward the Great Plaza.
"The other quendi from Middle Earth call us the Seventh Tribe, because those you call Avari have six tribes in the east. We are divided into fourteen Nations, each led by a Mulak and a Gashan, who live in the Inner Circle, so that we can all have quick, physical access to Mairon."
The white-haired elf's silence allows him to react or ask questions if he so wishes, but Fëanaro lacks the interest to do so. His usual curiosity sleeps somewhere deep into his mind, and he cannot think of anything but the dread of meeting Mairon.
"The Plaza is separated in three tiers. On your left is the House of the Mother, where the Lady Fluithin resides. On your right is the House of the Dead, the mansion of the Lady Fairëliantë. In the center of the plaza is the Temple of the God of the Gods, dedicated to the cult of Melkor. The House of Knowledge is behind it. All three houses have been built following the same plans with balance and symmetry in mind. As you can see, all three facades of the Temple are identical."
And of course everything was designed by Mairon, and carved on Mairon's orders, down to the fantastic sewage system. Fëanaro considers asking Mirfin to shup up, but he guesses he is not ready to stomach the fifty lashes for being rude to him.
The House of Knowledge looks deceptively small from the outside. Because everything is carved into the mountain, guessing the real volume of each building is often impossible. The House may be as big as the royal palace of Tirion or even bigger, and since Fëanaro cannot decipher the indication panels on the wall, it feels like a huge maze. Thankfully for his aching body, Mairon's chambers are near the entrance, dramatically located at the top of a great staircase.
"You go alone. Remember what I said about the proper greetings."
"What do you mean? You are not coming?"
"No. Formal requests for the termination of life are strictly personal. My role in this is only to inform Mairon of your desire to file such a request."
The noldo grows cold with fear. Somehow, he believed Mirfin's presence would keep the maia's sadism at bay, at least a little. He has concluded from their previous conversations that Mairon likes to give himself the appearance of a fair leader. Without the Mulak to witness the meeting, though, he is deprived of this precarious shield.
Fëanaro still has pride, and it is, ultimately, what drives him to walk forward. He knows Mirfin will not be moved to help and he will not lower himself to beg or wait to be pushed inside. He tries to look dignified and brave; he's depressed that he has to fake qualities that used to be a natural part of himself.
Mairon's office is tastefully decorated. Rich carpets and carved walls embrace masterfully crafted furniture of wood, a rare occurrence in Angamando. The lightening is few and the shadows deep. They remind him of a peculiar type of paintings that were very fashionable in Tirion in the last years before his exile, born of a bizarre fascination for darkness in their too-bright world. Mairon himself could have fit well in one of these piece of art, with his rare shade of hair, gold skin, and perfectly chiseled face. His whole being drinks the warmth of the fire and glows with it, not the golden or silvery radiance of Valinor, but the light of burning things, reflected in amber eyes.
He sits by a desk, his finger handling a metallic stylus with studied grace. He slowly puts it down, parallel to the sheets he was writing on. Everything is placed in an orderly, well thought fashion: the ink pot, the few ornaments, down to a crystal skull so delicately chiseled that it could have belonged to a living creature.
The whole setting feels rehearsed. Fëanaro can see its beauty and finds it scarier than mere brutality. Melkor, even at his best, was always rough, untarnished charm. He smelled of natural wonders and disasters. His mere presence made everything more: fires burned hotter, violent wind raged, and Fëanaro felt like Fëanaro brought to the power of ten.
The noldo remembers quite well his first meeting with the Vala. He was one of the very few who was strongly against his releasing, but he doubted his own solitary position. Like most Eldar, he had believed the Valar infallible, but how could they be both infallible and wrong? Paranoid, people whispered, faithless, arrogant. Too full of himself to listen to the words of a Vala and learn from him.
At time, Fëanaro had wondered if he rejected Melkor because he distrusted him, or because the rest of the world pressured him to meet him against his will.
He never came to Melkor. The Vala came to him unannounced (doubtlessly believing that Fëanaro would have gone away if he had known; he was not wrong in his belief), a bright smile on his face, barging into his forge like an ox in a glass shop. The smith had been working on a dueling sword, the blunted and very light ones they made for sport before they started to make them to truly hurt. He can remember the design no more (it seems ridiculous now that they have real ones), only that the moment Melkor came in, the furnace blazed so hot the blade was spoilt, half melted, and Fëanaro backed instinctively away to avoid being scorched.
He had felt fear, then, disproportionate for such a little thing. He was impossibly angry, amazingly curious at what could have caused this reaction, out of air and aroused by this smile, the smell of the fake flesh, the ageless eyes, the sheer power. Melkor made him feel more, so much more, that once Fëanaro had thrown him out of his forge (led by the rage of a hundred hours of works destroyed), he had feared such intensity. People used to say he was too passionate and excessive, as an excuse for their petty dislike of him, but this, this was passionate, this was himself brought to the pinnacle of everything. He saw in his head the marvels he could bring into the world with the increased speed of his mind and the strengthening of his will, hotter fires and a tireless body. He had needed days to feel the craving wear off, days spent fighting the crushing desire to run after the Vala and soak in his presence one more time.
He promised himself never to meet him again, for fear of addiction and servitude.
Mairon doesn't compare to Melkor. He is polished and controlled to the core. To imagine him knocking anything over is impossible. He is certainly a visionary, but one who makes everything fit into very precise boxes.
Now, Fëanaro wonders how many parts of him Mairon will break to make him fit.
"Sit," the maia orders, gesturing toward an elegant, yet comfortable high chair. "You and I have much to discuss today, therefore I expect our meeting to proceed with method. You are allowed to ask questions in a polite and constructive manner. You may use this hand-sign to request the right to speak. First, we will deal with what is left of our bet. You promised to find a fitting surname for me."
"I very much doubt you want to hear such a thing."
"On the contrary. You have quite a talent for language, good tastes, and the names of your sons betray a reassuring lack of imagination. Furthermore, I will have no obligation to make use of it. You will not be punished."
Fëanaro believes him not, not after the trick of Nelyo brought "out" of this dreadful place, but he cannot afford to disobey a direct order either.
"Thauron."
The maia stays pensive, lips forming the word in silence, eerily calm, but instead of the anticipated backlash, he only smiles faintly.
"I like it. You see," he adds with a charming smirk, "I said I would not punish you, and so I will not. Now, let us move to the second topic on our list. Your Mulak informed me of your request for life termination and memory erasing. I find it pertinent to point that both requests are by law fundamental rights for all my subjects and that I am only allowed to issue positive answers unless I am legitimately led to believe the decision was hasty or enforced by another person. In your case, however, Mulak Mirfin rightfully demonstrated that this right does not apply despite you being considered a subject of this lands rather than a prisoner of war."
"On what ground?" Fëanaro asks, astonished not by the answer, but by the fact that his backstabbing pretended brother argued against his case and didn't give him a clue. It is humiliating that he would go behind his back when, his truth, he has no need to.
"On the ground that the right for life termination is a privilege of the subjects of Angamando, meaning your status had to be clarified before we were legally authorized to statute. I accepted to consider you as a subject, since the Lady Fluithin expressed the desire to welcome you and her counsel is worth as much as mine. Nonetheless, as Mirfin pointed out, you lack several characteristics which would allow us to consider you as a responsible adult capable of rational and educated thinking, which means that you cannot benefit from the fundamental rights of adults and are, instead, under the protection of childhood."
The noldo opens his mouth, aghast. By the standard of this place time's count, he stopped being a child millennia ago, and that is not even taking into account his marriage and seven children!
"I'm very curious to know how Mulak Mirfin managed to prove that I am a child."
Especially since I am taller than he is.
"Our laws state that a subject can be considered an adult when its body reaches sexual maturity, when it speaks and writes the Language, and when it is able to contribute to our society."
"And?"
"It occurred to us that you cannot write, and thus cannot be considered as an adult."
"I invented a whole alphabet. This is ridiculous."
"Then you will have no problem reading this," he says as he aligns meaningless lines and dots on a clay tablet. It looks short, but Fëanaro must admits he cannot even start to guess. The runes look like nothing he knows. "Since you cannot read your own name, I think we can both agree that you do not qualify."
"Is it a game for you?" the noldo inquires, red faced with growing anger. "Why do you refuse me this small mercy? I know you hate me, and I hate everything in this place, including you. We could be rid of each other and be done with it."
"I am always serious when I seat as a judge, Fëanaro." Mairon's voice takes an edge of steel. "I also expect my subject to show respect. This is the last time I tolerate such a tone."
"I am not one of your subject."
It is a protest, but his tone, at least, sounds a bit more chastised.
"Would you rather be my prisoner? No, I do not think so. The Lady chose you and I don't have the authority to refuse her wishes. Whether you want it or not, you are now a subject of Angamando and a member of the nation of the Tatyarsh, under your brother's jurisdiction. Now that this subject is settled…"
Fëanaro does not think the matter settled at all, but he makes the effort of raising his hand instead of rudely interrupting the maia.
"What will you do if I decide to kill myself anyway?"
"You cannot kill yourself. Your spirit is still bound to your body. You will be healed, then punished for going against my orders, and the only thing you will have won is more pain inflicted to yourself."
"Am I going to be considered as an adult on day?"
"Of course."
"Should I want to die then, will you be allowed by your laws to refuse my wish?"
"No. But should this matter still be relevant then, it will mean we have failed to make a productive member of this society out of you, so I guess this will be no great loss."
"You will not try to find legal loopholes again?"
"The matter of your status is not a trivial matter. Not only does it defines your duties, but also the penalties that can be inflicted to you. Children aren't flogged and adults are forbidden to approach them with sexual demands unless they agree to them. Surely you will see that this status is far more fitting for you than any other, at least for the time being. Mirfin is trying to protect you, not to humiliate you."
"By depriving me of all agency?"
"What agency? I do not think you had any such thing when you were holed up in a cell. You have two choices, Fëanaro: to adapt or be destroyed. Do not bring Mirfin down with you if you chose the second path. Now, can we move to our next topic? Thank you. I have great matters to explain to you, but before I do, I have to warn you that nothing I will tell you can leave this room. Not even Mirfin will be made aware of this, and you should avoid talking of this with Fluithin, since it would distress her, and certainly not with Fairëliantë, whose loyalties are dubious at best. You should know that should you talk to her, you are endangering someone truly innocent. Melkor will not care, but the Valar will. Now, I suppose you know quite well the Valar's version of the creation of Arda, its marring, and the wars between them and Melkor.
As a scholar, you know the significance of sources. You should know that in the case of the Music, there is only one reliable source nowadays. Some Valar and Maiar understand the meaning of the Music better than others, but only two of us had a clear understanding of the Music as an event rather than as a meaning: Namo and the Voiceless, because they were the only one who didn't sing and were mere witnesses. Namo's testimony, however, is mostly worthless since his memories were partly erased by Melkor during the Spring of Arda."
"I do not think we were ever told of Melkor attacking him."
"Of course. I am not sure the other Valar actually know about it, and it was no attack. I was not here and cannot affirm that it happened this way, but Namo was willing to forget. I think he was trying to escape from his duty, but this is mere conjecture."
"But why ask Melkor instead of Irmo?"
"I doubt Irmo has the power to erase another Vala's memories, even if he was willing. I also think he would have tried to dissuade him. Melkor, on the contrary, used to believe that everyone should be free to do as he wishes, and if Namo wanted to forget his knowledge of the Music, it was his problem, not Melkor's. The fact that it would cripple the Valar's power as a group probably helped. The only things I know is that Namo was willing and Melkor apparently had no ill-intend, but as I said, I was not there."
"Who witnessed them?"
"The Voiceless. This is why you must never speak of any of this to anyone. Namo's legitimacy as the Doomsman comes from his supposed knowledge of the Music. He cannoy destroy Melkor, though he tried, but no one will believe Melkor if he claims this knowledge is gone. The Voiceless, on the other hand, is innocent of any crime and cannot defend herself against Namo should he try to harm her."
"I have never heard of any Vala or Maia using such an epithet."
"You would not. She is quite forgettable."
"Yet she is not forgotten by you."
"No, she is not. We were friends once."
"Not anymore?"
"We aren't enemies, but we have conflicting loyalties."
"She is loyal to the Valar, then?"
"Was. She left Valinor with your host. And no, I do not think she ever was loyal to the Valar, but rather to her own ideas of what is good for the quendi – ideas that do not exactly align with mine, but aligned with theirs for a time. The Voiceless is not the topic of today's discussion, however, and it is not my place to tell you more about her. I do not doubt you will have the possibility to ask her yourself one day. What is pertinent, now, is that she has the sole reliable account of the Music as it happened. She also has the ability to decipher other's emotion, as she sees them in hues of colors, and thus cannot be misled.
Why am I insisting on this event? The Valar consider that the Music was the first proof of the evil of Melkor. Yet the Voiceless, who not only witnessed the Music as a third party, but can also discern emotions, claims that Melkor was merely "overenthusiastic". Her words. For a long time she was on somewhat friendly terms with him despite her being able to discern ill intents. Namo himself did not refrain from asking for Melkor's help at the beginning. I, of course, did not consider him as evil.
It is true that Melkor destroyed many things in our youth, but does that make him evil? Children destroy things all the time without being accused of marring the world. Yes, he destroyed mountains, flattened forests and created rivers of fire, but he was hurting no one while doing so, much less Arda, who possesses no will of its own. We were all doing it, creating and destroying, since most of our creations quickly appeared flawed to us.
It is unfair to Melkor to consider that he was evil while his peers weren't. Manwë unleashed horrible storms in his youth and Ulmo drowned the earth more than once. Aulë and I created the first volcano and made it explode for fun, while Varda crafted stars and made them burst for the sake of it. The main difference between Melkor and others is that Melkor could do everything. He could command water, though not as well as Ulmo, and make the wind blow, but not as strongly as Manwë. He could make light and stone and plants. In truth he could do nothing as well as the others: he could not make the Trees like Yavanna did, but he could make trees, while Manwë cannot dream of it.
As time passed, the Valar started to envy Melkor. Iluvatar had made them all equal, not in power but in authority, and they started to resent the fact that Melkor, who was more powerful than them and could do everything, did not bother to listen to them. They decided as a group and he did not care to fit, or could not, and often ignored their commands. The group finally elected Manwë as a leader, thinking that he may be able to restrain Melkor."
Mairon shakes his head, almost sadly.
"Of course, it did not work. Melkor was absent when Manwë was elected King of Arda. If someone was to command others it should be him, not his little brother, who understood the world less than he did. The quarrel remained unsolved by diplomacy and Melkor left for his own kingdom. I followed some time later because I thought that Manwë had no legitimacy, and because I was fascinated by Melkor's abilities.
In the time that followed, Melkor and the Valar became aware that the Children were coming. The rivalry for Arda turned to rivalry for the Children, since we all grew bored of making mountains and earthquakes. A "peace conference" was organized. Amazingly enough, everyone managed to meet without trying to kill each other in order to discuss the matter of ownership of the Children."
"Ownership?"
"Did you truly think the Valar wanted you to come to Valinor as guests? It pleased them that your people came willingly, I am sure, but if none had come, they would have taken you anyway. Dogs and birds are nice, but apart from Oromë and Yavanna, the Valar found them quite boring by then. Your kind makes far better pets, or so we thought. The conference, however, was a failure. Melkor claimed Middle Earth belonged to him by right of war, and that everything on it belonged to him, therefor, should the elves awake in his lands, he should be their rightful king.
The conference ended with no agreement reached and both sides readied for the coming conflict. You know the rest: the Valar won and Melkor was brought to Valinor as a prisoner, leaving the Valar free to take the Quendi to their own lands.
There was a parody of a trial. I was not there, but the Voiceless was, and again she claimed that there was no perceivable evil in Melkor."
"Then why the imprisoning?"
"Firstly, because no one ever listens to the Voiceless. As I said, she is quite forgettable, and not the kind who actively seeks attention. Secondly, because they wanted to have Melkor under control. We may think ourselves superior to you and more powerful, but we also have genuine affection and desires for your kind. The war had brought enormous destruction to the land and we were all scared of destroying the Children before we could even get to know them.
I think it was hard for Manwë to admit that he could kill all of you just by getting angry. If you believe him to be mild mannered, that is because you have never seen what a tornado can do. With time, the Valar started to despise the most extreme, violent aspects of themselves. Gone were the two brothers wreaking havoc in the sky! Now Manwë became the benevolent Vala of birds and soft winds, and Melkor the bringer of tempest!
And so the Valar locked the, as they thought, worst parts of themselves in the palace of Mandos. What happened next I cannot know. I cannot know if Angainor did it, if the prison did it, if Namo did it, or if all three are responsible, but something happened to Melkor."
His eyes glow with anger, but not only. There's a notable discomfort twisting his face, if only so slightly.
"All creatures of Arda are linked to Melkor in some way. You breath air brought by him and Manwë, you drink water created by him and Ulmo, and eat food that grows thanks to him and Yavanna. Some, though, are linked to him more than others: those you call uruks, the creatures he tried to change, his own lands… and those, slowly, started to rot. Some springs went sour, the plants that grew in the dark and allowed me to feed my people withered. The deformities became worse. For a long time I thought the Valar had cursed the lands of Melkor… now that he is here, I know the land is not the problem. He's turning into something else – something that can be called Moringotto."
"Then your name…"
"Yes. I am rotting as well, and I cannot bear to give the name Mairon to the… thing, growing inside me. Thauron will fit it quite well, I am sure." A dry chuckle. "It was no pleasing realization, understanding, accepting that. You see, I always fancied myself a very controlled being. I believed Melkor and I were a perfect match, he the power and drive, I the architect directing his passion toward greatness. I believed it still when he came back changed, obsessed by valinorean Light, broken. I thought I could still control him until I found a cure, despite the aggression of your people, despite the need to prepare for the coming of the Valar – and trust me, they will come. They will wait for us to destroy each other and will show up as saviors at the last moments, either to finish Melkor or to keep him from winning."
He shakes his head in a disgusted manner.
"By your standards – or the Voiceless's, for that matter, I have no morality, I admit this readily. But I do have a rather strict code of conduct. I am a crafter, a loremaster, a creator. I thrive toward technical and scientifical progress. Destroying you the way I did is against everything I believe in. I would use you, control you, possess you, but not break you. Broken things are useless in too many ways. But I was foolish and arrogant. I thought I was above the rot – and thus I let Thauron control me.
I cannot say it won't happen again. It will. Moringotto is growing stronger and Thauron with him. I now know that fighting both is more than I can deal with. You know this too and are warned. If it happens, if Moringotto notices you again or if I start to turn on you in a way that contradict the laws, then do not think twice and run. Go to Fluithin. She will protect you."
Mairon stands and gestures him to follow him toward a shelf. The soft glow of his hair, eyes and face reverberates on pieces of gold etched into series of vases and other ceramics. The patterns look random, quite unlike anything Mairon usually does.
"Fluithin keeps dropping things she likes. She used to bring them to me for fixing, but some of them never look new again. She wanted to keep them anyway, so I decided to repair them with gold instead."
"Is that supposed to be a metaphor of me?" Fëanaro asks dryly.
"Not very subtle, was I?"
"No."
The noldo takes one anyway. It's a nice idea, more poetic than he would have expected from the maia, and reminds him of what a Teler may do.
"But I like the image better than a pile of ashes."
