T/N: This is a translation from Russian of the work "Тень и Пламя" by Anordreik.
If you want to read the original, you can do so by following the link below. Type a full stop instead of a whitespace.
https /ficbook net/readfic/7542207
The darkness clung to him like a cloak as the flame burned in his heart. Even death itself retreated, unable to extinguish it.
– 'The Legend of the Rise of the Ñoldor'
Fingers clad in a gauntlet made of enchanted black metal scraped the floor of the crypt. The metal claws left deep furrows clinging to the stone as if the one to whom they belonged was trying to pull his crippled body out from under the rubble. He didn't want to admit defeat, couldn't accept the inevitable despite the fact that he already understood in his mind that this time they had lost.
Malekith saw it in the slowly but surely expanding Chaotic Abyss which gradually approached the place where the last of the Phoenix Kings of Ulthuan laid, practically crushed by the boulders. He was barely breathing, practically not moving, like a beetle under the heel of an aristocrat, but still alive, forced to look into the face of slowly approaching death. Death not only for himself but for the whole world.
They have lost! Despite all the efforts, despite the fact that the sworn enemies stood shoulder to shoulder – all of this was not enough to contain the onslaught from the north. The accursed Archaon achieved his goal, even at the cost of his own life. The world, which turned out to be so fragile, was living out its last moments.
And it infuriated the Witch King. The claws made from enchanted metal scraped louder, digging into the stone as if into the flesh of a victim. The Druchii's still intact muscles tensed as he tried freeing himself from the wreckage, but to no avail.
For six thousand years he fought to claim what belonged to his family and the elves loyal to them by right! Six long millennia of pain from the burns left by the Sacred Flame. Sixty centuries of longing for life in the cold wastelands of Naggaroth. Six sweet thousand years of war with his relatives who betrayed him. And will it all be in vain? Will the world be swallowed by the insatiable maw of Chaos, along with him and the other surviving elves?
Malekith has been fighting for his place in this world for too long to accept such a fate so easily, even if his mind has already accepted defeat. The rage that had fuelled him all these centuries flared up and blazed like a forest fire.
The Witch King desperately reached out to the Winds of Magic with all his soul. To the ones that once had provided him with a high title. The ones that had helped and supported his body, covered in burns, during the moments of weakness. He reached out with his hand trying to feel them… There was no answer. The damned Abyss, growing as if by leaps and bounds, seemed to have drained the Winds dry. There was nothing left.
'It's futile,' a woman's voice cut as if it were a knife through the rhythmic hum of the impending Chaos. 'It… cannot be stopped, Malekith. If only we had known about everything earlier…'
Son of Aenarion turned his head towards the sound with great difficulty. The Witch King's lips curled into a hard, ironic smile. Fate truly had a nasty sense of humour if it left him to die next to those whom he had tried to kill for thousands of years, and with whom he stood shoulder to shoulder in the last days of this world.
They were still standing near the exit of the crypt, seemingly deciding to retreat. To prolong their existence for a brief time the Abyss will let them have. Alarielle and Tyrion. The former Everqueen of Ulthuan who became his wife for a short time and the sworn enemy with whom they had met so many times on the battlefield.
For a moment, he even thought that they would try to pull him out from under the rubble. After all, it was by pushing Alarielle out from under the falling boulders that he was practically crushed.
The stupid thought quickly evaporated away as soon as Malekith met the former defender of Ulthuan's eyes. They clearly showed that what Tyrion didn't even try to hide. A grim satisfaction about the situation in which his eternal enemy found himself.
'I can grant you a quick death if you so wish.'
The former Lord of Naggaroth would have loved to laugh in the face of this whelp. To close the metal-clad fingers on his throat. To hear his death rattle as the Abyss swallows them both. But it was a bit problematic to do so with a crushed rib cage… He had to settle for the words that came out of his throat along with a bloody cough.
'I've lived for six thousand years – Cough! – enduring the pain of the burns that your god left on my body, boy,' the Witch King's bloody lips parted showing a predatory grin. 'And after – Cough! – all that you think I'm going to ask for death? And from whom? Someone like you? I'm afraid – Cough! – you won't get the satisfaction. Run while you still can. You might live for a few moments longer.'
Tyrion glared at Malekith with a look full of hatred. After that, he turned to leave the crypt together with the woman before saying his last words to the dying elf, 'I hope you get what you deserve in Slaanesh's embrace, you bastard.'
The former ruler of the Druchii clenched his teeth, not paying attention to his words, and tried to distract himself from everything that was happening. From his crippled body, every breath of which resulted in pain. From the heat of Chaos, which was approaching with increasing speed and could already be literally felt on his skin. From the dying world that had recently been his home.
There were only two things left. Malekith himself and the emotions that surrounded him. The rage that fueled him all these years. The hatred that had been accumulating for six thousand years – towards Chaos, towards his own fate, towards the Asur who betrayed him – which allowed the Witch King to withstand the god's trial when he re-entered the Flame of Asuryan. The fierce, passionate desire to live – and, if possible, to take revenge on his enemies – that now burned in his still unbroken soul.
All this burning tangle of emotions was now aimed at one single goal – to feel the Winds of Magic again, to gain power over them. After all, it was possible to survive falling into the Domain of Chaos – Malekith knew this from his own experience. Which meant there were still some chances to survive. At least for a while.
To survive, no matter what. This desperate desire, this last and only plea has sunk into the Abyss. The Winds were still unreachable.
No! It couldn't have ended like this! No!
The wizard growled – loudly, frantically, spilling out his despair. Was this truly his end? Despite everything he had to endure? Despite all the victories and defeats?
And yet… it seemed that the call had been heard. For a brief moment, the former Lord of Naggaroth felt someone's eyes on him. Cold and calm… interested. And immeasurably more powerful than the dark elf himself. Than the Greater Daemons. Than anything Malekith had ever encountered before.
And furthermore, there wasn't even a single drop of Chaos in it. The thing (or the one?) that was now watching the trapped Druchii… There was no trace of the fiery fury of Khorne, nor the ever-changing taunt of Tzeentch, nor any of the other emanations of the Four that were present in their daemons. Just a calm, confident force, cold like the night sky. Black as the earth. Powerful, like ten thousand Chaos daemons but at the same time hostile to them.
Malekith rather felt – in his gut, in his soul, if he still had one – that he was being weighed and measured, having his entire life looked through in a split second, wondering if the sorcerer was worth helping. Was he worth satisfying the desperate request that an unknown force had heard? With a frozen heart, the Lord of Naggaroth waited suppressing the insane hope that had awakened in him.
Then, he heard a single question, which echoed in his exhausted ears with the hum of a thick male bass, 'Are you willing to help me if I help you, mortal?'
'YES!' the sorcerer reached out to the unknown entity with every fibre of his already unbelieving being.
A thousand times yes. Even if it was a joke of the Chaos Gods aimed at the one who dared to defy their will, it could hardly make things worse. But if it was someone else – in any case, the possibility of salvation, even a ghostly one, was worth it.
'Then do what you couldn't do here. Become what you were once born to be. Don't let what happened in your world happen again… If you manage, maybe we will see each other again,' the unknown voice chuckled. 'And we will discuss our future work.'
And then came the pain which the Druchii hadn't felt since that damned first time he stepped into the Sacred Flame. The body of the Witch King was hurting, as if someone's gigantic hand was tearing the soul out of him, shredding the flesh. Pure, impenetrable Darkness boiled around the pinned sorcerer, cutting off the path for Chaos for a short moment, and a moment later covered Malekith completely. The dying world has disappeared forever from the eyes of the Lord of Naggaroth.
The darkness gently embraced the spirit of the Witch King. Healing and calming the mind, whispering lullabies, just as his mother once used to do. Entire worlds appeared before the eyes of the dark elf, previously unseen – only to disappear again in an endless cycle. The battle of the warriors with chainswords against the greenskins was replaced by a vision of a quiet and gracious elven land. Then it also faded, giving way to a golden dragon soaring in the sky.
Last of all, he saw the face of a man with jet-black hair. The face of a warrior and a king, used to fighting and commanding equally, was the last thing Malekith remembered before the darkness that enveloped his soul dissipated.
The sorcerer took his first convulsive breath, still unable to believe what was happening. He was lying on his back, unable to move. His entire body was filled with a treacherous, painful weakness. And yet… he was alive. Alive!
An unbearably bright light hit his new eyes.
'My son,' Míriel whispered weakly, watching with a slight smile as the baby with golden eyes screamed loudly. 'Your name will be Fëanáro, Spirit of Fire!'
And from the top of Taniquetil Ainur smiled at the newborn prince.
And the chained Melkor turned his head anxiously, not fully realizing why his black soul was disturbed by something other than his long imprisonment.
And the gaze of the entity that will be known to the peoples of Arda as Orlangur turned to Aman. The thread of life began to stir, changing and forming a new, hitherto unseen pattern.
And the infant was still screaming, unsuccessfully trying to deal with the disobedient child's body.
T/N: If you wish to support Anordreik, the author of the original wok in Russian, you can do it by joining his Boosty account here: https /boosty to/anordreik