From the moment that Melkor had been introduced to the puny flesh creature known as 'Finwe', he'd found himself beset by the overmastering desire to bash his head in.

Oh how that miserable Elf could talk and talk and talk!

Patience, Melkor, he told himself, play it nice, play it cool, just nod and act interested, just so long as it might take for those fools to take their eyes off your back….

Though every second that he was forced to feign humility just increased his desire to break that creature's mouth.

It was a day of festival in his brother's so-called 'city' (what's with all the bells?) and for the first time in the days since his release, he, the mightiest of dwellers in all this narrow cosmos, would, at last, be suffered to attend – but first, his brother had taken him aside and explained, in that insufferable, serious voice of his, what he might expect there.

"It's important that you understand, brother-"

It took every bit of Melkor's fortitude to refrain from repeating this in a squeaky, mocking tone.

"-that your actions have consequences – especially now, that we no longer have this world all to ourselves. See that child over there – though his time has been brief compared to ours, he is accounted one of the wisest and eldest among his people, who hold him as a beloved and cherished leader worthy of great respect.

Because of your deeds, he has been parted from his spouse. Surely you can understand his sorrow since you were not able to claim the spouse that you wished for."

'And whose fault is that?' thought Melkor, for like many great powerful men he was under the illusion that the lady of his choosing would have fallen to him by default if it were not for his perceived rival as if she were a magnet drawn to the strongest attractor, not a sentient being making choices.

When it suited him, he would admit to the knowledge that his brother must be too damn naive to realize that he was pouring salt into his wounds, but right now, he felt like taking it as deliberate mockery.

"I know that you never would have intended for this and must not have realized what you were doing -"

'Ah, do you? Do you, brother?' thought Melkor, though his lips said, "Yes, Manwe."

"-but this was still the result. You must understand that the Children of Illuvatar do not come into being in full possession of all their faculties and powers. For them, the flesh is an intrinsic part of their being, so they must grow and mature with it, meaning that they have at the beginning of their existence a vulnerable, impressionable period in which they require the care of their elders. And this one had to care for his offspring all on his own, though he should have had the help of his beloved – perhaps, you should speak to him, so that you understand the burden that your actions have imposed on him. I feel that you shall have great benefit from this if you do."

All his great power and it was still barely enough for Melkor to hold back a sigh, or desist from rolling his eyes.

"Yes, Manwe."

Honestly, all things considered, Melkor could not understand what the big deal was about – from what Manwe had told him, that Elf had been granted a replacement that was rather easier on the eyes, from a much more influential lineage, and much more pleasant than the mouthy shrew he used to have. The old one should've been useless to him anyway if she could not make him any more spawn to secure his power and do his bidding.

Furthermore, this 'Finwe' seemed to have done quite well for himself, as far as flesh creatures go, possessing riches upon riches beyond imagining and power far and wide. And the darn fool gave it away with open arms – had he not even pestered Manwe that they might go fetch that even punier batch of flesh creatures that were so fond of that blasted Ulmo and his bluish pits of slime, and sent them wagon-loads of precious stones until they knew not what to do with them and threw them all over the floors? Had he not gone and sent his underlings to polish up their piteous dwellings?

If it were Melkor, and he could have his way with any patch of land here, he wouldn't think of sharing it with anyone.

No wonder that that fool Aule seemed so attached to this particular batch since they shared his passion for throwing pearls before the swine.

But even throwing out his riches with open arms, this 'Finwe' creature was tremendously wealthy, and surrounded all over with those who would do his bidding, so why would he care for one lost creature, or that he must tend to his spawn alone? Why would he bother with this at all, when he could just leave it to his servants so that he might kick back to enjoy his wealth and power?

Melkor had lived a long time, and never once in all those eons had he encountered anything as bloody annoying as those 'Noldor' creatures. And yet, they seemed just barely the most tolerable out of all the kindreds. The once that dwelt by the shores were yet punier, and while the golden ones favored by Manwe and Varda were eminent in their power (by flesh creatures standards), they plainly seemed to lack all imagination – or that's what Melkor was telling himself after he'd spent long years in vain trying with careful, tentative probing to see if there was any way that he could derail their ways of thinking, envying the loyalty and obedience they had to his brother.

If only he could have got those bloody orcs to follow this diligently instead of devolving into petty squabbles…

Though, if they did, he would certainly do other things with them than to keep them close like pretty songbirds and listen to the effusions of their puny thought when Manwe could have made them sing only of his glory. Yet they praised him often enough even unprompted, unlike the orcs who had obeyed Melkor only out of fear.

So, like a child who could not have what he wanted, Melkor convinced himself that he wouldn't want the golden flesh-things anyways, nor any of their annoying poetry that so delighted Manwe.

To think that he'd spent three ages in that lightless prison for the sake of those puny things!

What was Illuvatar thinking?

He was yet to see what was all that special about those creatures, that his brethren were so enamored of them, or that Illuvatar would set aside this little place in all of Ea and say, 'this is just for them and you can't have it, unless you labor for its upkeep.' (as Melkor would paraphrase it) – and then there was, of course, his brother, going 'Naah you can't decide everything on your own here all of us worked hard' (also paraphrasing) – but who cares if they worked hard if they didn't have any bloody vision.

All the wide expanse of Ea tasted sour to him, knowing that he was barred from doing as he pleased with this one measly speck.

And for what?

These things like pretty songbirds, and the third batch of creations, which, insofar as Melkor had been able to discern (and here he was less aware of the limits of his own understanding than his brethren), were set to be even punier.

The old man must be losing his touch, for it seemed to Melkor that every batch of creatures was turning out less impressive than the last, starting with mighty forces like the Valar to end up with such limited creatures…

And yet it seemed they had more riches to their name than Melkor in his present state of humiliation.

Varda had instructed them specifically to not shower him with gems as they'd done with all his brethren until his 'atonement' was 'complete'.

Not like he wanted any, anyways…

Ah, but who was he kidding, Melkor very much did want them, like he wanted all things that they wouldn't let him have – Especially that shiny sapphire on Manwe's favorite staff.

'Aule has outdone himself with this one, huh?' he'd stated, feigning flattery, while his breast was full of ice and fire, blazing with piercing, frosty envy at the thought that he had not thought of this himself.

But it was not in fact Aule who had conceived of that peerless thing – no, as Manwe would have him believe, that was a gift from the Noldor, an artificial crystal fashioned to match the precise shade of the sky – and there Melkor was forced to admit that maybe those annoying creatures might have some worth after all, perhaps as thralls, if some greater will were to direct them to something useful…

And yet Manwe would have him believe that he treasured it mostly because it had been a gift from those new subjects of his, more than for its radiance alone…

Melkor wasn't buying it, truth be told.

Though he considered whether he ought to catch himself some of these, so that they may make him some of those nifty trinkets as well.

Though, since he was the mightiest, he fancied that he would deserve a jewel even brighter than the one Manwe had received…

But here he stood in simple white penitent's garb, while even the puny elf before him was laden with baubles. It was easy to believe that somewhere out there, beyond the walls of Valmar to which Melkor still found himself confined, there was a great white city stuffed to the brim with genius artisans, and that this man was its overlord.

Such wealth he had, and he spoke instead of how his subjects were squandering it with gifts or friendship or any flights of fancy that came to their mind. Such power he had, and he gushed over the ingenuity of his underlings, such an exceptional position, as one looked toward as a savior and prophet, and he spoke almost more of his personal life than of anything he did with his high seat of power, going on and on about the various pursuits and accomplishments of his over-many descendants.

Melkor would have loved to cut his family tree down to a manageable size if only so he didn't have to pretend like he cared to remember all their names.

So apparently, someone called 'Little Itarille' had built an impressive wooden model of a tower, much delighting her father, a grandson of Finwe and the head of the city planning council. Who cares? Certainly not Melkor. Some brat called 'Tyelperinquar' had an amazingly large vocabulary for his age? So what! But if you hear Finwe tell it, you'd think that kid was the best thing since the Two Trees. Also, a certain 'Artaresto' had… brought back nuts and rocks after climbing a large hill near Alqualonde? ...somehow, that last one sounded particularly unimpressive…

So yeah, Finwe Noldoran: He was loquacious, he was annoying, but most of all, Melkor could already tell that he would get nowhere with him. Sure, he was putting up a good impression of friendly chatter, but there was always a certain reticence there, a marked difference in energy compared to how he spoke to others. He knew the darkness; He had seen it with his own eyes, not just with the tales of others. He would not be convinced that it was other than it was.

He was acting friendly because he was making an effort to be so, but there was always a residue of something else underneath, a different, harder feeling, which he kept concealed, something that pulled from beneath at his charming airs, giving it the occasional tinge of awkwardness.

He was welcoming Melkor out of some willingness to see the good in people and most of all as a concession to his trust in Manwe, so, it could not be used against Manwe, without whom this Elf's wariness would only have increased. Maybe if it was him alone, Melkor might have contrived something, but Finwe's Queen would not even suffer to stay in his proximity for too long, and she was ever whispering into her husband's ear…

But there was no need to bother with them: Since the days of his imprisonment, when all the Quendi had lived in a few lakeside villages made of simple huts, their numbers had greatly increased, and all this hall was filled with younger creatures who never knew the dark – ignorant, sheltered brats they were, and yet brats with the capacity to make mighty tools, for each one nurtured in this hallowed land while the trees were in flower would have sucked in the light of creation with their mother's milk and become suffused in it through all the days of their lives to the point that it was basically leaking out of their eyes….

Most useful among these would be those who were already influential in the tenous web of their society – like for example, the children of the king. And since he seemed to be insisting on telling you all about those, you might as well take notes.

He went on and on, pointing out his offspring among the revelers, "There is Findarato, one of our greatest philosophers. Here is Maitimo, a gifted orator, much like his father. Over there is Tyelkormo, much revered in the order of the hunt, and there next to him is brother Curufinwe, a celebrated artisan and also something of an accomplished equestrian. And there is my son Nolofinwe, who has been a steadfast help to me in all things, and his son is Findekano, a jack of many trades, but most of all gifted at winning people's hearts… Next to him are Aikanaro and Angarato, the children of my younger son, Findarato's brothers. Those three are such good friends, they're always together! See, there is my daughter Findis, high-priestess of Varda. There is Makalaure, who has been hailed as the greatest musician in Valinor. There goes Artanis, the winner of our most recent athletics competition, but she is deep in all manner of skill and lore – she has been a student under Yavanna and Aule themselves until they confessed that they had nothing left to teach her... "

He just couldn't seem to shut up…

Melkor wasn't sure how much longer he could keep his gaze from trailing off. At last, he thought he'd glimpsed something like the opportunity for a segway: "Was it her who made that chain around your neck? The student of Aule, I mean..."

"This? Oh, right." Finwe grasped it with his hand – the marvelous, unparalleled thing.

He was king of a city of master artisans, a beloved ruler in peacetime, decked out in splendor, clad in radiance – and yet, of all that he had on his person, this one bright platinum necklace was the most opulent at all; The gems within it shone with colors too luminous to be real, their edges bright and without error, what could have clashed arranged in such a way that each part brought out each other's splendor, the metal that held it, pure as a mirror, except that if mirrors were grey because they returned all the light they caught in a slightly dimmer hue, this one had no such error, returning the light it reflected yet brighter than before.

The design was ingenious, there were shapes voluptuous as an omniferous tree laden with all kinds of fruit, and yet sleek elegant like the bare laws of nature themselves both combined into one continuous thing.

By all means, the king should have flaunted it like his very pride, and yet, this of all things was almost half-hidden under the layers of his garments, bright peridots, and deep garnets just barely poking out.

"You've been looking at it, haven't you?"

Yes, yes he had been, but in Melkor's mind, this pathetic little creature wasn't supposed to be capable of noticing that.

But he was not so observant to suspect the deeper thoughts behind it, too thoroughly distracted by whatever feelings or memories he connected with that splendid piece:

"My son made this, the eldest one. I always take one of his works wherever I go, so I can always have a part of him close to my heart."

"Sounds like you're very fond of him, huh?"

"He's my everything." the king confesses, in one unguarded moment of sincerity. Whatever his reservations, he does not seem to think that he needs to be too wary here amid the glory of Valimar itself.

"Now where might he be… oh, there he comes!"

But the sights of Melkor would have turned in that direction even if the little creature beside him had not pointed anything out.

The room was filled with… well. Melkor for his part did not believe that any of the flesh creatures would have truly understood what it was. The light of creation that gave all things their being; The light of truth that exposed everything. Of the ones gathered here under this roof, maybe himself, Manwe, and Varda could be considered to have an inkling.

And yet, one of those creatures had it bound up in three minute orbs of what looked to be diamond-glass, but must certainly be something else, for how could anything from within this world imprison that which had come from without?

When he cast down the lamps and spilled the greater part of what the Old Man had given to Varda, it never occurred to him – or Mairon for that matter – to gather it up in some handy, portable vessel. He'd thought that fool Manwe was just gushing and exaggerating when he said that the Eldar had gone on to surpass their teachers in some things… hard as though it was to believe that the one wearing these jewels was of the same kindred as the silly, garrulous king.

Melkor blinked, and looked again, with such subtle perceptions as were afforded to the mightiest of the beings in Arda, he looked at that Elf – and he could see that he was an elf, his radiant innermost tied quite firmly to his flesh, wholly incapable of some of the most basic things that even the least of Maiar could accomplish with a simple thought -

And yet, he had made those gems, and Melkor had not.

He recalled the echo of his creator's voice, about how nothing he could do would not in some way become the instrument of his plans and their beautification, and he knew at once that this ridiculous creature would not have been allowed by the laws of this world until he'd gone and bent them out of shape.

Melkor was no longer paying the least bit of attention to Finwe, and yet he kept talking, and his words trickled into the dark Vala's vast consciousness: "This is Feanaro, my cherished, first-born child, all my pride and joy… "

Every fiber of his being was ablaze with loathing and envy as he watched that glory-crowned Elf swing himself down on a couch next to a lady who could only be his wife, eagerly talking with his sons, taking a small child in his arms (no doubt, his spitting image of a grandson), discussing finer points of theory with a gaggle of fellow scholars, moving and gesticulating a lot, every step bound up in energy…

He came over once to speak to his father, holding a platter of entrees of which he offered some to the king, but to Melkor he said naught.

That Feanaro – for despite himself, Melkor couldn't help but think of him as a person with a name, an existence that irked him so much that he had to acknowledge it – actually had the gall to pointedly ignore the mighty Vala, so have him suffer the indignity of markedly clearing his throat, and then, when the elf prince just kept talking undaunted, got him to the point that he had to address him himself – he spoke with the sorts of obsequious, flattering words he would expect to work on most powerful men, and that drew Feanaro's attention indeed, but all that Melkor earned himself was the coldest possible glare.

"You – I know who you are.

I don't know what possessed your brethren to let you go, but you're not fooling me."

Now Melkor did not even need his eyes to be aware of the Elf's heartbeat, the tensing of his muscles, or the wavering of his spirit – he couldn't be as fearless as he looked, but he didn't crack.

There was a force driving him on like a storm of flames, driving him to voice what he must have wanted to make heard for all the many centuries of his life:

"I loathe and despise you, more than anything in this world, and I wish for you to know that if it had been up to me, they would have thrown away the key and forgotten all about where they put you."

Melkor couldn't believe the insolence; Were it not for his sheer disbelief, he might have forgotten all about his endeavors of getting in the others' good graces and eviscerated that Elf on the spot.

But he didn't and so, the prince lived to turn and leave, making a show of striding away proudly which his hair and clothing swishing behind him; He was gone before his father could manage to use his words.

For a moment, you might have spotted genuine alarm on his features, like on the face of any father who saw his child boisterously kicking a hornet's nest, but the king had smoothed it all over by the time he chose to speak: "You must forgive my son – He can a little… temperamental sometimes. He's always been something of a loner, the sort to be drawn to dark and distant places, only ever marching to the beat of his own drum… Still, he has been hailed as one of the most influential inventors, thinkers, and visionary leaders of our civilization. He has even been called the greatest of our people. He certainly is to me, though I cannot claim that my judgment is unswayed by the fact that I am his father…"

He said many more things, but this was enough for Melkor to understand.

Loathing festered in his heart as his eyes followed that insolent elf through the room… His gems granted him a spotlight wherever he went – and just moments before, Melkor would have been convinced that it was impossible for the light to sting his eyes, but…

His bold-faced scorn would have been more than enough for Melkor to begin contemplating the destruction of this 'Feanaro' person, but this went far beyond this...

"You're like me, yet you're successful?

Unforgivable."

That could not be allowed.

Not under any circumstance.

From that instant on, the idle thoughts of Melkor were ever drifting towards a means of contriving the ruin of his rival – for so he held him, despite the absurdity, despite the gap between their power.

He would stoop to pettier things yet; This here would one day be thought of as merely the beginning.

Valinor was by its definition a place of harmony and order – the bits that had turned out the most according to plan, painstakingly scooped up and walled-in in Manwe's desperate effort to salvage the wrack of the lamps.

But it was not entirely untouched, and neither were the guests that Manwe and the others had brought in from without – Their pity might yet come to cost them all.

As for the Elves, they were also free-willed creatures, and as much as that had vexed Manwe in his efforts to subdue them to his will, who said that this could not serve his purpose?

All he needed to do was to keep his eyes peeled, his ears sharp, listening for the very echoes of the melody that he himself had shouted into the void before all days, to look for a chip or a crack, a scent of blood in the water, so much as a single loose thread on which to pull so that he might unravel all of their neat, orderly paradise…

And before long, he found it: Just the slightest rift, begging to get a wedge jammed into it.

Sometime during the festivities, the Noldorin princes offered to relieve the musicians of their duties for a moment, and put on a little performance of their own. Some of the older brothers, the philosopher one, and the popular one with the golden braids, and one of the sons of Feanaro – what's his face? In Melkor's estimation, there were far too many of them…

Yet somehow, the posse of harping Maiar who had been there for the making of the world vacated the stage for the illustrious guests, who after a brief discussion set to work at once, ostensibly rather glad of the opportunity, and if you looked just at those three, they seemed unified enough, driven by their shared passion perhaps – Going in, Melkor was rather convinced that the princes' music would turn our rather puny compared to the musicians that Manwe had picked out from among his own people, which is to say, even punier, as Melkor already found it befuddling that they would bother with the instruments when they had themselves mighty voices like to wind and thunder, though only moments later, he would never have admitted to that claim once it had been proven wrong.

He might not have understood the delight that his brethren had in this world and its creatures, nor in the higher learning that might come from studying the works of others, but the beauty of the piece spoke for itself like the light of truth that cannot be denied, and even Melkor had to acknowledge it at least in the sense of wishing he had thought of it itself or failing this, that the ephemeral notes in the air were something that he might grab or take possession of, or that he might bring such songbirds as the other Valar had down into his earthen fortress.

He'd previously tried to fetch some of course, but by the time he had the orcs thus broken that they would serve his purposes, what was left of their capacity for song and dance were nothing to write home about, and yet he could not squeeze it fro them wholly in his spite, even if they only made crude marching musics of slaughter and plunder.

Like an accidental noise of falling thing, it was if compared to what the princes contributed on a whim for no other reason than the joy they took in their crafts.

Clearly, the eldest of the bunch was surely the most skilled, but though he was the greatest, he did not protest at having to share his stage with the others; The voice of the youngest, however, held power beyond the simple words and notes, a slight strain of the same kind power that had caused this world to be and could yet alter his fabric… and he was using it to adorn his performance.

Yet remarkable as they were, they had both mildly followed after the middle prince with the gold-plaited braids, who it appears had hatched this whole idea, content to have his own considerable performance serve as adornment for the others, and neither of these three could Melkor understand, nor the idea that any of them would forgo personal glory to pool their talents into something greater than its part…

But there was one piece of all of this that Melkor could not have failed to grasp, something he was bound to notice from the way that his eyes couldn't help themselves from ever darting back to Feanaro and his marvelous gems.

He had since sat down at one of the long ornate tables, with some generous helping from the buffet piled up before him, in the seat of honor to the right of the empty high-back chair that was likely reserved for Finwe himself – the Queen would have gone to his right, though she was currently catching up with her relatives in a different part of the room.

Her stepson, in the meanwhile, was not touching his hoard to various intriguing-looking snacks very much while his son was yet working the harp. His countenance and face were very much filled to great abundance with both fondness of price.

Seated next to the king's eldest child, you would expect the second-youngest, but she had her own place of honor with the rest of the priesthood – yet she could have that seat every day when there was revelry in Valimar, and no one would have been surprised if she had chosen to sit with her family on the occasion of their visit – but more remarkable than this might be the reason why she might rather pass on sitting between her brothers: For in place of his sister was the second son of the king, High Prince Nolofinwe, likewise very distracted from the fig that he had been chewing on by the musical performance – and while the songs went on, it would have been no surprise that the brothers weren't exchanging many words.

But even once the applause had died down, long after the younger princes had been each been pelted with flowers and confetti, the brothers did not speak much. They did not, as one might expect, immediately turn around to start discussing the performance, but kept looking right past each other, markedly avoiding whichever corner in their field of vision that the other was supposed to occupy.

It wasn't just the obvious tension between them, but the proud, stubborn refusal to acknowledge each other's existence. They each took their place because it was expected, but that was it, the best that could be expected of them.

At one point, the younger brother offered some token words of tepid congratulation, to which there was a terse, noncommittal reply from the elder, and that would be the extent of their conversation.

On their own, each was a majestic immortal being; Together, it seemed like every ounce of their spirits wanted to retreat from the other, leaving in their places a rigid skeleton or formal automatisms and a tight coil of thick, defensive bristles, at arms' length, just about as close as they could bear to be before the spikes each of their armor would rend the other's flesh – a fragile equilibrium it was, kept alive and sustained by hollow notions of civility and duty.

Ever since his release, Melkor had done little else but to conceal his grudges so he'd become something of an expert on the subject of biting back resentment – he knew it when he saw it, like Manwe knew justice and Varda knew purity.

He knew at once that he had found it – The weakest link in all of Manwe's perfect paradise.

It might be argued, of course, that if he had not found it here, he would just have kept looking until he found something else that would have served his purpose.

But he needed to look no further, and thus, the second most unhappy family in Valinor was spared from finding out the full extent of what they were capable of, and never made it into quite as many history books.

Melkor asked around – carefully, casually, after many conversational twists, turns, and misdirection – and what do you know? The unanimous consensus among the festival guests turned out to be that those two were not especially close.

Better yet: From some of the people he asked, he got a rather one-sided tale that suggested that they clearly favored one High Prince over the other. Feanaro was popular with the scholars, Nolofinwe with the courtiers…

At one point, Melkor had to stuff his mouth with snack cheese to keep from bursting out in gleeful laughter.

Bingo. Jackpot. He'd found what he came for – he could work with this. He could work with this alright – though his first order of business would have to be to keep sucking up to Manwe so that he'd be let out of Valimar and left to wander all of Valinor without supervision…

Do not suppose, however, that the dark Vala left this gathering still holding back his cackling.

For no sooner than his plot was hatched, his decisions made, a turnstile of fate perhaps locked into place, did its equal opposite reaction ripple back from the future.

Melkor's attention was drawn, at first, by mere curiosity, by an uncommonly tall Elf entering through one of the door arches, carrying a golden-haired little girl with a weepy, puffy-looking face, perhaps the reason why he had not joined the festivities earlier.

At once Melkor perceived the insignia of the royal house of the Noldor on his person, and he felt what couldn't be a chill running down his back nor a shadow falling on his soul, for both chill and shadow were of his own making and served his beck and call.

He perceived rather something like an icicle in the spring, getting thinner, more slippery, more transparent, though the final obliteration of its solid structure was still far away.

He would ignore this in defiance until the Prince escaped him on the worst possible day.

…

Inevitable as his works would seem one day, the Dark Vala had his work cut out for him, and in the beginning, his labors were long and unavailing.

He had no hope of swaying the king – He remembered the dark days of the beginning and didn't trust Melkor as far as he could've thrown him.

His first thought had been to maybe get one of the elder sons to take Finwe's place by stoking their resentment, only to find each of their loyalty to their father utterly ironclad, for reasons wholly beyond his comprehension.

Feanaro should have made the easiest target, since he was, in a sense, the one person in all this land with the most awareness of the Valar's limitations. He knew full-well they couldn't fix everything.

But there was a long way in-between healthy skepticism and any degree of useful hostility, and while it might be very much possible to move him there on account of his proud and grudging character, it was considerably more difficult if you happened to be Melkor, for the crown prince hated him with passionate fervor, and waste no opportunity to let him know this. He rebuffed all attempts to beguile him directly.

In all he did, he was aggressively independent, admitting only a small, select circle. I was a struggle to convince him of anything, even for his father or his wife. The number of people he trusted could be counted on one hand, unless you counted his sons, who might bring the count up to just under a dozen. Attempts to bride him with access to power or knowledge proved fruitless, for his disdain was so great as to overpower any other impulse and every time he asserted that if you wanted something done right, you ought to do it yourself… that the contributions of others would only dilute his thinking or get him lost in comparisons and imitations antithetical to true novelty.

Oh yes: That tiny Elf deigned to tell the makers of the world exactly how it's done, leaving Melkor standing there, seething with envy, preoccupied, as it were, with the 'kinds of comparisons and imitations contradictory to true novelty'

As for the son of Indis, he just so happened to keep some friendship with Ulmo, who had almost certainly warned him off. And this even though Ulmo hardly even came to Valimar! Talk about back luck.

Unlike his elder half-brother, he usually kept a veneer of dignity and propriety, but past this token courtesy, he kept away, refusing to even greet him, and telling all his household to do the same.

Out of all the royal children, he judged the younger princess the most credulous, but she was greatly swayed by the directives of her brother and besides harbored no detectable ambitions.

The other two were wholly hopeless, taking much after their mother's people; The older daughter held a great distaste for politics and a fervent reverence for the Valar, and the youngest was useless in Melkor's eyes – a quiet faint-heart, he would call him, so as not to think of his observant, knowing eyes.

Once, he'd gotten the elder prince to stay in a room with him by enticing him with a bit of verbal sparring, hinting ever so obliquely that one of his theories on the nature of the universe might possibly be wrong, he carefully strews in the insinuation for which all this setup has been but a stage: "You might be right in that respect – are you not the greatest of your people? They ought to listen to their betters, though perhaps it's not surprising that they do not when even the king does not follow you in this. We don't have parents or offspring like you do, so maybe this is just an aspect where the minds of our peoples are very far apart, but it does strike me as strange that you still have a lesser man ruling when a better exists."

This was, perhaps, too much too soon; He meant to flatter the Elf's ego; Instead, he was faced with his bristles: "What's it to you anyways?"

"Oh, forgive me if I overstepped – it is just that I cannot help but take an interest in you. You and I are so much alike."

That puny Elf ought to have been flattered, hardly deserving comparison with the mightiest being in this world, but instead, he had the audacity to scoff:

"What would I have in common with the likes of you?"

"Oh, I do not believe that you haven't noticed.

Look out at this fenced little garden, all running smoothly like clockwork, all very pleasant… for those who could ever be satisfied with such a thing, always walking in front of the cart than someone else straps to your back. But that could never be enough for men like you or I – Those who have the brilliance to aspire to true greatness, who would never be satisfied with dancing to someone else's Pipe… We do not belong in a gilded cage such as this. And how could it be otherwise, considering that I created you."

Bull's eye. For one moment, Melkor thought that the little Elf might forget himself, and attempt to strike his better with his puny little hands. But for all his bravado, even he was not so brave.

Though, if Melkor were able to die at all, there's a chance that the piercing brightness of those smoldering eyes might have done it.

He needed to seize this moment before the prince had the time to regain those famed wits of his:

"All your life, you have been looked at something suspicious. Something they don't understand. Sure, Manwe may pity you, too, but do you want his pity? Or do you even need it? They've told you that you've been the victim of an injustice, but come to think of it, this whole 'justice' thing' seems rather overblown, right? After all, that supposed 'injustice' has worked out rather nicely for you. It's not exactly 'fair' that you should be born with so much more power than has been allotted to the remainder of your people-"

Knowing naught of what was good for him, that wily Elf had the gall to spit at Melkor's feet.

Had he been holding anything at the moment, he might have been crazed enough to cast it at the Dark Vala's face.

"You actually think I'm going to thank you for killing my mother? Preposterous! Your lot must be very different from us indeed."

Melkor tried his wiles on the younger brother as well, when he invited himself to Tirion, putting on some spiel about how it would be an honor to be led around the place by the son of the king, such that Nolofinwe would feel honor-bound to comply, even if he kept all he said to a purely professional level, dropping not a single unnecessary word.

They were just passing by the ballroom of the palace, where there was a great portrait of the royal family in their younger years, the King and Queen with all their little offspring swarming all over them like ants – and right next to it, there was another, of a single sullen-looking youth taking up as much space on the wall as everyone else in the other image put together. A piece that was hung in this place for longer than Nolofinwe had been a life. It must seem to him now to be just a little longer, possibly less than the gap between his own two batches of offspring which had long since ceased to matter, the blink of an eye now – and yet it has been there for as long as he could think back.

"Ostentatious, isn't it? There's another huge one in his Majesty's study. You just can't get away from his mug inside this castle. You can't write a letter without using the glyphs he invented, you can't call in the lords for a meeting without using a Palantir, or pass through the inner corridors without passing rows and rows of those lamps, or visit a local soiree without everyone being about the latest work of his son at you – you know, the musician one."

"My brother is very accomplished." was all that Nolofinwe said to this, a simple, sober statement, wisely enough, continuing his stride unperturbed until they reached the next destination worth pointing out. But Melkor was pretty confident that he must be making progress at getting under his skin.

"I imagine it must be quite grating for you. You don't see him showing around any guests."

Particularly not those making a point to annoy the hosts.

"Believe me, I understand! I too would love to go a single change of the lights without having to hear everyone going on about my oh-so accomplished big brother! You can't walk two blocks here without hearing anyone singing the praises of Manwe. It's worse yet in Valimar… I mean, I am mightier than he, and yet, it was him who was put in charge of this joint! Can you imagine?"

"What I imagine is that Illuvatar would have had a good reason for that."

"Oh, how very faithful of you. How very faithful and loyal and hardworking… So very long-suffering and forgiving…. I just wonder if anyone's ever gonna reward you for it."

Though he resembled him much in face, Prince Nolofinwe was not so easygoing as his overly loquacious father. Melkor could tell that he was getting near to over-straining his patience. He knew that he had to be careful now lest his intentions should become too apparent… but what the hell? You've got to make your own fun in this place, and Melkor got so few opportunities nowadays.

"You know, you remind me a little bit of how my brother used to be, all the way back in the timeless halls. So reliable and steadfast and always eager to please. But you wanna know the difference between him and you?"

"No."

"Alright then, I'll tell you anyway, as a bit of solidarity between underestimated younger brothers… In Manwe's case, our father actually noticed. I mean, of course, he did – he's Illuvatar, the creator of the universe, the one who sees all things. Yours might be a king, but in the end, he's but a fallible creature of flesh and blood, sentimental and easily swayed by shiny things. You can't always expect him to know what's good for him… Oh, I'm sure he means well, but you've got to admit that your brother is ever so gifted at wrapping people around his little finger-"

Oh, would you look at that – that must have struck a nerve. There was a glint of something confrontational in the prince's eyes, a quick shift in his weight…. But whatever it was, it remained contained, for now, lending a firmness to the second princes' undaunted voice:

"It is true that my brother can be difficult sometimes, but he is still my brother. Watch what you say about the king and his household in the walls of his own house."

That irritating little…!

Okay. Fine then.

He would use other means then.

Melkor was not at all a patient person – Indeed his anger swelled ever further with every moment that it went without an outlet.

But he was older than the universe, used to operating on very different timescale even compared to the Eldar.

No doubt that Manwe and the others would feel that the peace of their paradise had been poisoned in the blink of an eye.

It had been more or less the same in Almaren – not everyone who'd been working for Melkor knew they were working for Melkor.

You don't need someone to agree with you; Indeed, you'd be surprised at how easily you can get them to accept some premise if they're distracted by trying to argue against you on a completely different topic.

A seed once planted could come to bear fruit many years later.

Though they might now rebuff him, he was certain that both the princes must even now be ruminating on some of what he said.

He swore that all their virtues would be made into his tools.

There is always, always a weakest link somewhere.

…

Once he got permission to leave Valimar, Melkor set himself up in Tirion permanently.

Manwe had bidden him not to accept any special honors, so as a show of penance, he took up fairly ordinary lodgings in the artisan's quarters.

The noise of the multitudes wafted up to him from the streets, the sounds of tools striking material, chattering voices, the smells of daily business, and smoke of forges and cooking fires poured from the chimneys;

Oh how he wished to change every noise in this place into screams and moans of agony, chained to the rhythm of his own, commanding voice, like to a single, cosmic drumbeat in the full extent of its splendor.

In the building across the street, there was a wainwright's workshop.

A little family business, in which all the artisans had known each other for days untold, and each spent hours beyond accounting perfecting his own specialty.

Any carriage or coach coming out of that place would be a wholly unique piece with its own charm and beauty, a love's labor of many hours, be it an opulent, representative piece for one of the local nobles, a practical vehicle to serve the needs of another local business or just a simple, ordinary means for a typical citizen to get from A to B.

Even the more humble pieces were elegant in their simplicity or may arrive covered in detailed geometric carvings if the user so desired… for this was the splendor of Valinor, where things of great beauty were like grains of sand on a beach.

The business had a long waiting list, but they did not refuse any sort of customer in favor of another, serving people from every station and status, and offering their services as much to visiting strangers as they did to their fellow citizens of Tirion.

There did Melkor knock on the doors to find himself a job, like any other citizen.

Manwe was sure to find such 'humility' pleasing, sigh contentedly to himself, and then move on to something different…

Though this was only part of his intentions.

The elves in the workshop are reluctant at first. They remember, correctly, that he is the brother of a king, and notice that he has to duck a bit to pass through their door frame.

Only the Vanyar are really used to seeing all that many Ainur on a regular basis. Of course, there are those among the Noldor who travel around the place, more so than among the other kindreds, visiting the inner plains and all that dwell in the lands of the Valar, but not everyone does, and those who do, don't stay too long. They have absolutely seen a Maia before (and possibly interested them in some carriages), even the other Valar, maybe out in the streets or during holiday ceremonies, but it is not an everyday sight.

They stand around in amazement, stumble over any instructions, and they cannot endure his gaze for long. Small pleasures, thinks Melkor, but on the surface, he claims to be looking for nothing other than penance and brushes off any attempts to address him as "Sir", "Your Highness" or "Milord".

There is a bit of method-acting going into his claim that he only wishes to reconnect with his original desire, which once upon a time was to simply make novel things.

At first, he simply does what he is asked, nothing more, nothing less, just long enough for everyone to get used to him, and then just a little bit longer for good measure.

But whatever he did, he made sure to do it well, garnering any number of "Thank you's" and ever so slightly working his way up to 'You're amazing'-s and 'You saved me'-s, as slowly as he could without appearing threatening. He waited until they'd say it as one would to an old friend.

Only Melkor himself would ever know if there was ever a moment where he felt tempted to become the mask, to abandon his faraway fantasies of grandeur to take up the joy of making once again.

But what is known for sure is that he must have studied the artisans in that workshop down to the most minute detail, their weaknesses, their flaws, their hidden wishes, and their deepest insecurities.

Within the decade, the Marriage of the Master Artisan was noticeably on the rocks, some of the most dedicated apprentices had struck out on their own over creative differences, and lifelong friends once united in passion had become embittered rivals.

Much of what made the establishment's style unique was diluted so that it would in time lose its prestige.

But not yet – not at first. In the beginning, the employees of that little business would have seen the star of their fortune rising, feeding the conceit that lent its teeth to each of their ensuing arguments.

Melkor was non remotely suspected – indeed, he seemed the architect of the recent success, at least the single one that everyone could agree on even if they were first naming themselves.

He would carefully plant an idea, and then watch the Master and his lady wife fighting over which of them had come up with it first.

"What if instead of producing each piece with long extensive labor, we would make them en mass from uniform, mass-produced pieces? We could deliver so many more!"

The artisans would never have agreed to compromise their quality and aesthetic all at once, but bit by bit, their carriages became less unique, less well-made, less long-lasting, and yet this seemed at first a success since it caused their customers a need for frequent replacement.

Others wished also for sudden success and were directed to consult Melkor, who then just proceeded to remind them ever so gently that he was far more than a common artisan and could offer them not just minor tweaks to their technique, but untapped knowledge from the corners of the universe.

That's how he got his foot in the door with the scholars, and he revealed to them in those days a great number of truths which, when only half understood, could be prone to throw the mind into doubt. It is not impossible that the misunderstandings here were, in the first place, Melkor's own, but he certainly wouldn't have refrained from misrepresenting anything that could be twisted to his use.

…

This was when the rare travelers would first have noticed something off, bringing back confused tales to the inner lands, or to the shore-rims of the foamriders.

It was not yet coalesced into a discernible cloud of disharmony and malcontent – No, the first sign that Princess Earwen of Alqualonde had of anything being amiss, long before the blood in the harbor, was when her eldest son returned from his travels to the white city, beset with a strange sort of melancholia.

He tries his best to hide it, but of course, his mother senses it at once, and tries undeterred to gently coax it out of him – She thinks at first that he's reticent out of embarrassment, that's a normal, harmless matter – a quarrel with Amarie perhaps?

For why else wouldn't he tell her, if their bond was always one of closeness and trust?

With some subtle, well-directed prodding and loving words, he got him at least to relax into her arms – he held onto her, suddenly, all too tight, careless of his strength.

He didn't resist her, but her touch brought him no comfort.

When he let go at last, he looked her in the face and asked her:

"Mother, have you ever wondered what will become of us when the Great Music is at its end?"

She had no answer for this.

…

Every movement, no matter how righteous, is going to have its crazy fringe.

That is why not everyone who supports the same measures follows them for the same reason.

Part of the mortifying ordeal of being known is that you cannot choose what people will like about you, what draws them to you, or what they might make you a symbol for.

There is no belief so pure that a wicked one could not fashion it into a club with which to beat others.

Some favored Price Feanaro because they truly believed in all his noble talk of freedom and independence; Others disliked the foreign Queen simply for being foreign and followed the son who despised her simply because he was a full-blooded Noldo.

And like it was with his detractors: There was much genuine criticism to be made of his rashness, and partiality, and there were those turning up their noses when he didn't always act like a conventional prince… or at all conventional. To them, Nolofinwe did the trick simply because his mother was a princess.

Even among those who held steadfast to the Valar you might find those who did it with a holier-than-thou attitude, a love of looking virtuous more than a love of virtue itself, which was more like to put people off than to lead them back into the fold.

All these scattered embers, Melkor went to find, and to stoke, and soon there were little fires everywhere.