A/N: Sorry this isn't exactly on time (understatement of the year), but please forgive me : ( ;)
Anyway I changed the format a bit so hopefully it helps.
The Valar had returned to the shores of Aman, dragging their captive bound in chains and yelling obscenities towards them, and there had been a recollective vision in Mairon's mind of the plains under an ominous shadow darker than evening, not easily placed in time and holding a sense of foreboding. Yet the possibility that it might portend something ill was never openly discussed, except in the form of some vague comment from Mandos.
His thoughts were thus distracted while he idly observed the pupils at work, only to be interrupted by one of the Elves frustrated with cutting the edges of a crystal.
Initially they were wary of the Maiar, who weren't often in a visible form and often approached without warning. He let out a shout of surprise when the gem was taken from him, and turned around to stare at the Maia. The latter traced along the edges with his fingertips, checking for flaws. "Like so."
He showed the method to him, and when he was identified Mairon smiled. He liked how they valued his help- the ones who did, anyway. Although Fëanor was too proud to be taught, it had been from his father-in-law, who in turn had been instructed by Aulë and his Maiar, of which Mairon was one. It was an indirect alternative to the real thing, but he had indeed borrowed more than enough to compensate.
Aulë walked in with his Noldorin smiths tagging along, ever reluctant to leave his side. He was holding a metal object, clearly the newest object of interest, while everyone gathered near him to take a look.
At last Mairon came forth. "Is this of your making?" he asked him, knowing it was far too embellished to be a work of Aulë's.
"No," the Vala answered, and nodded towards one of his Elven apprentices. "It's handy for crafting gems- similar to a chisel, but improved." He set it on a worktable next to a furnace and began tempering the metal, while being handed the appropriate tools to use. Sparks flew up from the impact of his hammer and lit the dim interior of the hall.
With everyone currently distracted, Mairon left the smithy and and descended the hill towards the city of Valinor. The road leading to Taniquetil was bathed in the bright light of Laurelin, and he pursued it, for Manwë had earlier requested his presence and he was not going to put it off any longer. Already he knew what he was to be accused of, and his heart began to beat faster in his chest. It came into his head to deny everything, or blame Melkor if it really came to that... but that might not be the safest option, when the Vala had made a point of saying he knew where to find him.
The light, harmonic voices of the Vanyar floated down the stairwell to greet him. Their choirs were nowhere near as powerful as those of the Ainur, but they were interesting to listen to in a different way, nonetheless. It seemed to be a natural talent, one many of the Maiar believed they had been graced with and in reality had not.
He walked through a gallery of hanging tapestries and into the spacious room where Manwë sat upon his throne. His long robes cascaded down in ripples of blue into a pool on the floor, twinkling silver under lamps of starlight. The Vala himself was staring off with a distant expression that only changed when Mairon knelt down and bowed his head, and he smiled warmly.
"I am grateful to you for helping Melkor, while he is in such a confused state of mind. He tells me he feels that everyone hates him, the Maiar especially, but that you alone have shown him some amount of kindness."
Melkor was not anywhere near as confused as Mairon at this moment- though he tried not to look it, fixing his eyes downwards. Manwë motioned for him to stand, and he did so readily.
The power of Manwë's voice echoed in the back of his mind. "If there is anything I can grant you in return..."
This was a trap, most assuredly. "There is nothing more I desire," he said automatically. Indeed, it was a response that seemed to please the Vala, and he left feeling a mixture of guilt and relief. Besides, what he desired was not even something Manwë could necessary grant.
It seemed no one was really questioning Melkor's miraculous recovery, much less guessing Mairon's involvement.
Along the stairs he met a few of the Maiar, and they called out to him. "Hallo, Mairon."
The craftsman passed on by, oblivious. He recalled those who'd chosen to serve Melkor, usually believing ill fortunate had befallen them. Or at least, that was what he'd been led to believe. But that certainly did not make him a traitor- such a word implied he possessed ill intentions, when he was doing what was best for Arda by shaping the world to his wisdom. It would be a waste to neglect such capacity. Why not use it?
Suspicious now, he glanced back at the road. Was it even him, or were they Melkor's words? The Vala could be influencing him, but it was hard to tell when his expression was always void and unrevealing.
He was able to discern a silhouette of a person below Taniquetil, which he recognized as Eönwë. When the herald's keen eyes noticed him looking he held a hand aloft in greeting. Mairon did nothing until realizing he was merely expected to return the gesture, which he thought rather condescending from this distance. He waved back and continued on, although he still felt that Maia watching him.
The Valar had not hesitated to spread rumors once he'd been imprisoned, knowing that after Melkor was released from Mandos and the firstborn beheld him, their dominion was over. Hence why the Elves typically avoided him, even if his skills were always offered and it never bothered them to make use of those.
After long and brutal years mainly consisting of staring at the wall in apathy, he was finally granted free roam, and spent much of his time in Tirion, bringing the Eldar materials only he was able to find in an attempt to win their friendship. But the high prince of the Noldor proved to be only to be a pain in just about every aspect.
The acclaimed Elf crafter was holding ores up to the light when Melkor approached, his tall shadow looming over him - and Fëanor swiftly turned and stared at him directly, flaunting a decorative emblem in his hair. Melkor assumed a friendly semblance, trying not to stare at it too long. "When you are done playing with rocks, come talk to me, Fëanor. Perhaps then you will be interested in what the eldest power can teach you."
Fëanor turned back around, heedlessly continuing. His dark brows were furrowed in concentration. "No thank you. I've little interest in learning how to cheat my brethren."
All they did in their early ignorance was listen to every detail the Valar related to them. Too often he was nearby when some great account reached the point in which astonishment turned into tension, and he would be forced to ignore all the stares in his direction.
Melkor glanced over the tome laying before him. "Hmm. I see. All of this lore and you still don't know anything. Whom do you think counsels Manwë in all his greatest decisions? Indeed, I was the sole voice raised in dissension against that decision to bring you here… but I've said too much already."
Someone reached forward and shut the book, sliding it from his reach.
"Do you then live willingly as a servant to Tulkas?" one of the Elves asked. A fellow smith gave him a reproachful look, whispering not to talk to him.
"A servant?" He laughed aloud at the notion. "I'm afraid you've been misinformed."
"Yea, as you say," Fëanor said, not caring at all. "Now if you don't mind, we're busy."
Melkor felt his fëa float out of his body and try fleeing, already fed up with what he had to work with, before giving up and returning to the dark figure standing in the street. His smile faltered, and he bit his lip so hard it bled. So this was the true purpose for bringing him here. To watch Manwë delight in everything he was supposed to have, while everyone under his rule had been ordered to completely disregard him. So far his attempts to reverse it had hardly proven successful, but failure would not suffice. Not with so much opportunity here, and so many nice things, wary though he was of Aulë's ability to sense if he went near anything.
While offering his aid to one of the guilds he was approached, and faced a group of Maiar with their hands on their hips. They were slightly taken aback, for his visage was fair and appealing to behold.
"Sorry, am I making you uncomfortable?" he asked, having heard that was a common complaint made against him.
"Someone has been claiming the Valar give cruel and unjust punishments, amongst other accusations against Manwë. I don't suppose you know, or whether you might have seen."
He looked around at the Elves, feigning disappointment. "Who said that?"
They tried to read past his guiltless expression. "Isn't there elsewhere you can be?" they asked. Aulë's people tried hard to take authority into their own hands, and it was increasingly provoking him.
He stared blankly. "I don't understand… I've done nothing wrong. And there is nowhere else I'd rather be, than with these wonderful persons." His tone took on concern, as well as a hint of smugness. "Oh, I'm sorry, are you envious of my talents?"
The testier of them acted out in sudden anger, reaching forward to seize him, and Melkor slowly turned his head to stare in disbelief at the arm restraining his own. He raised his eyes to the Maia.
A hush fell over the surrounding Elves, who were now fully attentive of the two Ainur. Melkor lowered his voice and leaned in to not be overheard. "Let go, before I break it."
The Maia unwillingly did so, what with the Eldar present and becoming uneasy. Melkor brusquely shrugged him off the rest of the way, covering up any trace of resentment.
To get away unnoticed he quickly turned a corner into the more esteemed workshops, and there was suddenly blinded by an intense white light that sparkled in his reflective eyes. Even after it faded some he remained staring at Fëanor-or more specifically, the Silmarils he wore.
Beads of sweat began to form on his brow. From a distance those gems were merely a tease, shoved away inside a casket. But now up close the image he saw in their glow was himself, as the splendorous Vala robed in light before Varda stole it from him. Melkor drifted closer, mesmerized by the figure in the dazzling gems, until he and Fëanor were mere inches apart and the latter grew annoyed.
"Do you need something?" he asked impatiently.
The Vala lowered his gaze to the bright set of eyes below the Silmarils, remembering he was there. But the Elf simply walked around him, depriving Melkor of the light.
He waited around to see them again, but with no such luck. Reluctantly he made his way back to his abode next to Tulkas's, unlocking the door and then locking it again behind him. In the mirror for "reflecting on his actions", he could see the desire kindled in his stare. No matter what appearance he tried, the look never left his eyes, like he could not rid himself of this pathetic form he'd arrived in.
No sooner had he lay down to rest, than he shot up with a start from one of Tulkas's barbaric games. Day and night he had to hear that stupid Vala next door to him, roaring with laughter or shouting loud enough to shake the walls. There was never any in-between.
Usually he could ignore it. But now he had a headache, likely from staring at the Silmarils so long.
He went to the window and opened the drapes, projecting his voice to the courtyard. "There are much more suitable places for your brute species, like out running in the woods with all the other wild beasts!"
The noise persisted. He decided to address that by going outside, but once he stepped into the open an arrow whizzed past him and struck the wall. He glanced at it, and then to Tulkas wielding a bow in his muscular arms.
"At least your aim has improved. Were you trying to hit the target at the other end?"
Tulkas measured from where he stood. "Five hundred," he announced, and pointed to the score keeper waiting with a quill. "Write that down."
Melkor's frown deepened, disliking how close this was to him. "What are you doing?"
"Preparing for a tournament."
"With whom? No one even likes you, Tulkas. They lie only out of fear that you are going to physically assault them in some way. Every time ye are gone we all gather together to reminisce on the years before you came and ask for Eru to take you back. Yea, even Mandos and Ulmo attend."
Tulkas just laughed, albeit it was mocking. He held up a hand, and as he approached Melkor stiffened. "As I recall, I came at a collective bidding."
He retrieved the arrow and Melkor averted his eyes away from that arm, pretending to have grown bored of this conversation. Instead he peered off and concentrated all of his hatred on the mountain that had brought him this torment, in the hopes Manwë felt it high up on his holy throne.
"I'm not sure where you've been running off to., but now that you're here you can go inside and help prepare the meals," Tulkas ordered. The Vala began walking away, carrying the weight of Melkor's glare on his back.
"Aren't you married?" he called after. "Or am I expected to fill that role now as well?"
Tulkas stopped, tensing his shoulders. "What was that?"
Melkor flew towards the main house, but once he knew the other Vala had gone away he changed direction back out to Valmar.
The hills were tinged silver and gold in the mingling of the lights when a company of Maiar returned from Tirion, climbing the great lawn stretching before the Mansions of Aulë as a figure came forth to greet them.
"Look who it is," it was loudly proclaimed. "We have not seen ye of late, Meticulous Mairon."
He clasped each of their arms in a gesture of friendly meeting. "Yes, purposely," he teased, when actually he'd been keeping a low profile to keep any and all suspicion off himself. "Have you anything of interest?" he asked, looking in the direction they were coming from.
Their shared response was that of scorn. "If Melkor counts."
"I do not much like him around the Eldar," another said. "Makes me nervous…"
"Merciful is Manwë, but methinks he grants Melkor too much leisure."
"That's expected when he sees less of his own realm and more of the airs."
"I'll bet he sees you now, speaking against his verdict," Mairon said to them.
"Don't tell!" they laughed. "He sees it often, surely. And ye of all people, I should think."
He was uncertain if there was a subtle meaning in that, but chose to blame his paranoia. They walked over the court of gold and into a hall that depicted an early scene of Arda made from the viewpoint of Almaren, lit by the great lamps. The Maia beside him took out numerous gifts from the pockets of his tunic. "Feast your eyes. They have outlearned most of their teachings, as shown here."
Mairon examined the pieces closely. They were much stronger than how delicate they appeared, but he still placed them carefully back into the other's hand.
"There is to be a gathering of sorts this evening," his brethren were saying. "And Fëanor, with the Silmarils, I might add, is among the guests." They eagerly set down everything they carried and hurried off to attend. He was only faintly aware of more people going in and out, until moments later the forge's heavy iron doors clanged shut behind Tulkas. The Vala called out to him, and Mairon dipped his head in respect.
Tulkas looked over the assortment of gems and precious metals. "Did Melkor come in here?"
Despite being given a negative answer, the Vala decided he needed to undergo an entire search of the grounds. In doing so a number of valuables fell onto the floor, which he tried to set back in place. Mairon stood out of his way and watched in half-interest, finally speaking up to prevent an impending disaster, like the ceiling coming down. "It does not appear he did."
"It's not the first time he's tried hiding," the Vala said, passing him again on his way out. "Tell me if he shows up."
"Of course."
They had little control over Melkor if this was commonplace, he thought, and went to watch from a distance. Pale stars were beginning to appear in the sky, illuminating the courtyard and the Maia's white hair. On the opposite end, Tulkas was surveying the grove of trees Yavanna often tended to before moving on, knowing it was doubtful to find him there.
Mairons stepped into the shadows and hesitated, suddenly aware of a presence close by.
"This is rather inconvenient, Melkor."
"Shh!" a voice hissed, and then sarcastically added, "Oh, yes, you're right. Obviously I should have gone someplace where I'm allowed."
"Tulkas seems to know where to look."
The Vala muttered under his breath. In his eyes was a bright gleam, subtle and yet overbearing. "Have you come to offer your skills to me?"
"Unfortunately a smith of my standard does not take requests," he answered, assuming his motive.
"Isn't that all you do now?"
He narrowed his eyes, but the Vala was focused on keeping watch and took no notice.
"There is only me," Mairon assured him. "Everyone else is in the Great Hall, celebrating something I don't remember... Although most of the time there is no real reason."
"It is in honor of the Noldor," Melkor revealed. "For an advancement in metallurgy."
He raised an eyebrow in questioning, and the Vala immediately elaborated. "Yes, I am quite accepted in their circles. Fëanor himself pretends to abhor me, even though I am the one who instructed him in secret."
Mairon felt a stirring of foreign emotion- envy perhaps- but it dissipated long before he had the chance to analyze it better. "What did you instruct him in?"
Melkor smiled shiftily, and the Maia cast a wary glance around before taking a step closer to listen.
The Vala frowned. "It is not a secret, Mairon. I assumed you've known the Silmarils were made in my image. Why do you suppose he lets no one else know how they are crafted?"
He moved away again, not expecting that answer. "I never asked."
"Well he created them with me in mind, even if he chooses not to admit it. So it's only right he offers them up to me."
The Silmarils were certainly exquisite, for they were flawless and possessed a pure radiance that had no equal. It was almost such exceptional craftsmanship that the oddity in wearing light from the Trees upon his head was overlooked. But of this Mairon said nothing out loud, deeming it another peculiarity of Elves.
"There are claims he worships them," he admitted.
Melkor gave a distracted nod. "That's expected."
"So it is not likely he could be persuaded to give them up," the Maia reasoned.
"I did not ask for your advice," Melkor snapped, turning to glare. "Neither do I need it."
"Maybe not," Mairon said. "But you mentioned my name to Manwë, and involved me either way."
At first the Vala was confused by his words, but then his face darkened and became intimidating. "Is that a threat?"
Music and laughter drifted out the entrance of the hall, and Mairon used it as an excuse to glance away from the Vala's stare. "I don't see how I have much choice, given that I was threatened in turn."
Melkor went quiet for a moment, thinking. This Maia was certainly made from a different mold - less keen was he on keeping his distance and more on this prodding Melkor as if with a furnace poker, like one playing with fire and wholly aware of the danger.
"I do not even recall that conversation-a fragment at best," he claimed. "And most threats I do, I assure you, recall."
The Maia stared hard at him. "Is it a part of your plan to tell me what you're doing?"
And then possibly be deceived, a risk the Vala was not going to take when Mairon would ultimately do what benefitted him in the end. He clearly did not care for the Silmarils- unless of course he was lying because he wanted them for himself. Panic seized Melkor as he imagined the gems taken from his vulnerable hands after being led into a trap, and his mind shouted "NO!", but he couldn't show fear so outright.
He pretended to consider. "Mmm...no."
"Then how shall I know enough to rightly aid you?"
"That's not my-" Melkor began, stopping when he realized it might actually be his concern. The Maia was too prestigious to risk losing, so he quickly thought up something. "I would like to tell you, but as long as you know, the information is obtainable in some way and I obviously can't have that. I shall find you, when I need you."
Displeasure from that response was visible in the Maia's countenance, but Melkor did not linger. "See you around," the Vala said before vanishing off into the night, concealing the stars under shadow in his wake.
Mairon decided he would need to take over this matter himself if Melkor refused to inform him, since he was not about to make the mistake of blindly trusting his word. Entering the Great Hall, he found many of the Ainu and Elf craftsmen sitting together and conversing at a long table in the center of the room.
He stumbled upon Aulë as he was stepping out from the smithy, wearing a black-stained apron and flecks of metal staining his beard. He acknowledged the Maia with a nod. "Your whereabouts were recently inquired of. Are you displeased in the making of these things?" he asked.
The abruptness of the question surprised him. His lips curled into a grimace, for he was not overly fond of his dissenting views- or rather theirs. "I'm not disagreeing completely."
Aulë rubbed his forehead, already wearied. "I cannot help but wonder if Melkor's influence has a play in that, and in much else."
He tried to keep his voice from becoming defensive, seeking to portray confidence. "You speak as though I have not labored always for Arda, and thus could be easily influenced. Not to mention Melkor himself desires all they make, as you know well."
Flames brighter than those lighting the hall reflected in Aulë's bronze shoulder-plates, but the Vala studied him only briefly. "Aye, he hides it quite poorly. But then not all is so clearly seen in his purposes." He looked like he was about to say more, had a call for aid not then come from the doorway. His footsteps retreated back into the smithy, where he was enthusiastically welcomed in.
Aulë concerned himself more than necessary with each of their projects, and did not appear to mind that he let himself come running at their every need.
It's all right; I'll stand here and hold your dignity, Mairon thought to say. At least he wasn't being questioned.
Elven scribes were busy recording their lore onto scrolls, and he noticed his marking amidst their tomes. Spells woven in threads of light streamed throughout the mansions and were being collected for use in crafts. Taking some in a vat, he was able to read the lettering over the pages. The words shone brightly at his fingers: As according to Mairon the Admirable.
He perused the passages, searching therein for any hint of what to do, but his self-assured words offered no help. They cared not for the clash of opposing emotions in his head, only for achieving order and perfecting every previous design. He wished those were still his only concerns.
He sat down away from the noise, hoping to think undisturbed but instead sinking into a series of random dreams. The most prominent was a memory of much earlier days, staring into glowing embers in the forges and fixed intensely on a task. One by one he brought his works to the furnace and fussed over details, melting the metal and beginning again. Next to him Aulë watched, pleased and slightly amused by his progress.
"It is better to understand yourself before all else, Mairon," he counselled. Aulë pat him firmly on the shoulder before going off to observe his other pupils, and the Maia watched him leave from out of the corner of his eye. He wondered what that was supposed to mean, when he worked always in accordance with and maintaining structure, and that could never be wrong. But he was hardly concerned. Aulë hadn't disapproved too strongly of his rigorous methods after all, far more interested in how accurate they were. So Mairon had nearly forgotten the instance when the head smith had initially seemed to criticize him for using them.
Once the visions faded he awoke, raising his head and remembering where he was next to the dying fires. Outside an open window it had become the early hours of morning, and the green landscape shimmered in silver dew. Maiar collecting the unused bars of gold and silver spoke of how the Noldor had acquired "strange amounts of knowledge", but he did not make much of that, for it was well-known how eagerly they consumed all knowledge available.
Several smiths had already departed for Tirion, and as he was intended to go, he set off soon after. When he approached the city a gathering of stern-faced Maiar stood not far from the white walls, their voices gradually becoming more distinct.
"I knew he was false!" one announced. "Did I not say so before?"
Mairon slowed down before reaching the stairs. He wondered why they were discussing this with him nearby, and pretended like he wasn't paying attention while secretly peering over his shoulder. Yet once he figured it must have something to do with Melkor, and therefore his agenda, he openly joined them to listen.
"It was about as inevitable as all other things he's done," another claimed, receiving a bitter glance. "You weren't the only one. Nobody truly changes." He looked into the crowd for support and Mairon quickly nodded, anxious for this conversation to continue.
"Yea? Wasn't he of more or less better nature, in the beginning?"
"Supposedly," someone murmured, probably a Maia of Tulkas.
A bell tolled in the distance, growing nearer and louder as the others joined in. As if on cue, messengers rode across the plain on gleaming white horses, carrying news that apparently guards had been set in Tirion, for the Noldor were at odds with the Valar and each other.
"I'm not surprised," it was said after the riders had gone on to Valmar. "The entire house of Finwë is unstable."
Straightaway an argument began that Mairon did not take part in, seeing he wasn't going to learn much here and subsequently walking away. He'd guessed at the source of the discord easily enough, and now experienced slight misgivings. Not that Melkor's plan would fail- he was fairly confident it would not- but for the effects he could not predict.
Soon it came to Melkor's attention that an effort was being made to reverse his deeds, and he had a pretty good idea who was responsible.
"Eönwë," he muttered darkly, and cautiously looked around him, knowing that Maia could be hiding anywhere. If his hope had been to leave the Vala guessing, he'd failed. Yet his conclusion proved wrong, when Melkor happened to pass outside a house in Tirion and come within earshot of a plan to inform Manwë of his purported interference in Fëanor's estranged family. Which was misinformed nonsense. He'd barely even had to try.
Red was beginning to blur his vision, where the sky and ground desperately tried to change position. He reached for the nearest object to steady himself, and the Elf responded loudly to the Vala's icy grip. But he noticed not at all, only the hot anger burning in his core. How dare they even think of telling on him! Here he was, merely trying to improve his reputation, and that insolent Noldo was dragging him down with him.
He made with all haste towards Taniquetil, climbing the stairs in record time and out of breath once he reached the top. For a brief interval he rested outside the doors, collecting himself before throwing them open. Manwë turned away from the view of his windowed chamber and Melkor was pleased to find the Most Hated One not currently with him. She would only interfere.
"Melkor. What brings you here?" he asked, surprised to see him.
He bowed low at his feet. "I have overheard the Eldar speaking against your lordship, for their pride consumes them, and they now boast to being more beautiful and more skilled than even the Valar. And why then, they are saying, should we be serving these 'gods'?"
Manwë listened and became worried, forgetting Melkor was still present, so the latter took the opportunity to wander near the display of diadems.
"I suppose I knew this amity could not last," Manwë sighed, speaking aloud to himself.
Melkor had been admiring a crown embedded with diamonds, but now he straightened and came to his side. "Not without good reason, it won't. Perhaps some method of punishment is in order," he suggested.
"Ye aren't yet granted your full status, Melkor. I cannot heed your advice. Nor am I about to compromise this relationship further."
The Vala kept smiling, even though inside he was frustrated and at a loss. How many stories was it going to take for Manwë to believe he was healed? The tasks given to him were not even befitting a Maia, and he was taken about as seriously as one of the Elves that sang on the beach.
He leaned against the armrest, placing the other hand at his waist. "But what else subdues pride more than punishment? Ye did so with me, and as is plainly seen I am cured."
Manwë smiled grimly. "That was for the good of Arda."
The doors were thrown open in a similar fashion as the Elves paraded in, dressed as if this were some grand occasion and arriving much faster than he'd anticipated. "My lord Manwë—"
They stopped short. Feeling eyes on him, Melkor turned to meet their gaze, casually moving closer to Manwë. The Vala sat up taller in his chair when he saw it was an urgent matter. "What's happened?
But the emissary stared into the face of Melkor, and a nervousness overcame him. He forced himself to look away, although the desire not to was a heavy burden, and pointed a ring-covered finger in accusation.
"He… has spread lies amongst us, and our people have become restless. No longer are they content in their places of dwelling in even this fair land, and begin to long for the realms intended for them. The Valar keep us here, it is being said, in servitude."
"Why only this kindred?" Manwë inquired. "Who amongst you wouldst promote rebellion?"
A silence passed before the answer came in a low, barely audible murmur. "Lord Fëanor."
The Vala took obvious note of that. Hopefully they barricaded him somewhere he could never get out, or better yet, just tossed him into the sea and let him try to return to Arda himself. But knowing Manwë, it would merely be a long talk one could easily lie their way through.
He spoke heartening words to the Elves to calm their doubts. Melkor attempted to slip away at this point, but Manwë then directed his attention on both parties.
"Go now, and speak no more of your quarreling. And Melkor-" He looked at him hard, trying to see through his facade. "Return to Mandos for the time being. At least until the upcoming festival is over."
If Manwë was not trying to insult him with that sentencing, he was not sure what he was hoping to achieve. To sit and waste time in Mandos for the sake of a party! That was a new one. Nonetheless he bowed again, taking his leave a different way to avoid meeting up with the Noldor. His fury must have been evident for them to stumble over their words… Good. They should be afraid.
He took for himself the guise of a dark cloud and in that manner passed northward over the golden land. Below him the plains turned into rolling hills and waves crashed against steep cliffs. On the shore the children of the Teleri were building towers made of pearls and shells, and afterwards they chose someone to be Melkor. As part of their play he destroyed all of their work while they cried out in despair, and they buried him in the sand, saying "Get thee gone to Mandos!"
"Fools! Ye shall pay for this!" he yelled indignantly, just as a great darkness shot through the clouds overhead.
The air became heavy and gray due to fog rolling over from the sea, and Melkor was drenched from the rain by the time he arrived before the bleak mountains. He pounded several times on the door to the Halls, but the Doomsman was pretending not to be at home. Only when the Vala gave no sign of leaving did a voice call down to him from a ledge, inquiring what he wanted. Its tone was cold, and came across as not possibly caring less.
Beneath his tangled black hair he scowled, but he walked confidently towards the shadowy figure that had managed to sneak past him. "I know you foresee we will not need to have this conversation, if you go tell Námo I am here."
The attendant stayed put, saying nothing in response. What he knew of Mandos and his servants was how cleverly they got away with their malevolent natures, and now took that into consideration. "Very well then. I'll pretend I never witnessed the children of Mandos out wandering freely during the hours of night, knowing all too well what the Valar would think. And why should they even be prying into affairs that don't concern them?"
He watched it disappear from his view, presumably back inside, leaving him alone in the silence. That had been merely a rouse to ensure his location was accounted for, but lest Mandos himself come out the Vala hurried into the dark caverns underneath, to seek out certain spirits he remembered from the time of his imprisonment.
