Category: Tolkien-Universe
Rating: M
Couples: -
Warnings: AU, blood, mentions of torture, character death
Chapter: one-shot
Copyright: Characters & places © By Tolkien Estate, Plot & OC´s © by me
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Fëanáro had always wondered, on a purely academic level, which Valar was the most integral to Eä. He had assumed it'd be someone like Manwë, for the air most living things needed to breath - barring Ulmo's fishes, he supposed - or Aulé, for literally having sung the rocks into being upon which everything rested. Among the Valier, Yavanna, for creating the plants and animals. In short, depending on his viewpoint whenever he thought of it, he expected it to be one of the Aratar of the physical.
He learned how wrong he was with those assumptions when a unworldly howl shook Mahanaxar. Or rather, a mere breath beforehand, when Irmo lunged for him from his half-existing throne. He could not be mad about it, as it moved him beyond the circle of death Námo left behind as he rushed from the gathering. The Doomsman had always been perfectly unmoved, seemingly completely unflappable... and now he had utterly lost his mind, tearing from the gathering in a path of death and decay.
Finwë's eldest, had the world not started crumbling around them all, would have slapped himself over the head for the simple obviousness of the matter. What was a song but a tapestry of words? What was a choir if not a tapestry of voices? What had been the Music of the Ainur, except a tapestry of choirs working together? Was Eä not simply the existence made manifest from those events?
What then, if you start to unweave said tapestry? If it starts fraying at the seams, because the weaver was no longer weaving? Loose threads, messing up the final image, interfering with one another. A pile of yarn, without any rhyme and reason. So too the Song unravelled, each voice on its' own, no longer in harmony, or perhaps even in direct threat to one another.
The airs grew stale and stagnant, as Manwë Súlimo had to contain them, to keep any movement from wearing down the rocks of the earth, or breaking bones as living beings inhaled. He watched the Lord of the Breath of Arda collapse from his own throne, eyes wild and - dare he phrase it that way? - fearful as he fought to maintain some semblance of balance in his domain.
In the distance, several mountains spontaneously became volcanoes as the magma-flows threatened to leave their well-established paths below the surface to melt the world itself into slag and Aulë had to give them some out or lose everything to fire. Though he could not see, he figured the ocean had to go through something similar, as there were plenty of ravines that proved how devastating the power of water could be. Ulmo's shape, watery and wann at the best of times, fell apart.
Up above, the stars shifted, brightened and darkened, several seemingly falling from the Heavens as Varda's control slipped. Her carefully curated tapestry of signs and images fell apart in seconds. The Trees went dark, extinguishing as Yavanna had been forced to choose between maintaining the quality or quantity of her works, and let them perish to hold the vast forests and the animals therein.
The Ainur connected to metaphysical, rather than physical domains, were handling whatever had happened marginally better than their peers, in that they did not need to bend all their being to maintaining the integrity of the weave just yet or with as much desperate need as those of the physical had to. Eä was not going to end any faster just because everyone abruptly woke up or - at the very least - stopped dreaming.
"My lord..." His arm hurt, trapped between himself, Irmo and the intricate mesh of stones that formed the floor of the circle. He had thousands of questions, about what had happened, was happening and would happen.
He did not need to ask them to know the answer.
Without the Weaver, the weave of the Song of the Ainur was coming apart at the seams. It did not matter how it had happened, how it could have happened... The sprawling tapestry that was Eä itself was falling apart, slowly but surely, even as they tried to not let it happen, as they fought to keep their things in a vaguely workable equilibrium with the others.
It was not workable, by a long shot, but he figured he should appreciate their attempts.
He felt a hand slip into his, and turned his head. Nolofinwë had not been bowled over by Irmo, being further from Námo's throne. His half-brother was wide-eyed, the questions he had swirling in his eyes as well. He squeezed the warm appendage in his. Considering Eä seemed to be ending, what did all other things matter at this point?