Chapter I. At The Beginning Of The Glorious Days
T/N: As a quick note, 'speech' is written in quotation marks and "thoughts" are written in double quotation marks
The spacious forge that belonged to the student of Vala Aulë was well lit. The flame burned brightly in a giant furnace as it was being fanned by bellows and fuelled by charcoal. Its sparks, prickly and predatory like a swarm of angry wasps, kept trying to bite and dig into the skin, causing the burns. But such a trifle could hardly scare the Eldar who were currently working in the forge. The reason being not only the thick leather aprons and protective gloves – the Ñoldor were so devoted to their work that they would hardly have noticed the fleeting touch of fire.
One of them, the eldest, with fiery red hair gathered in a ponytail, was pumping the bellows after giving up his place behind the anvil to the second Elda. The mighty muscles of the blacksmith didn't know fatigue as if they were fired up. Grey slightly slanted eyes, almost without blinking, closely followed the actions of his apprentice, who was confidently banging his hammer.
'It is time,' Aulendur spoke briefly.
A teenager with bluish black hair tied into a tight knot didn't answer, only nodding curtly. Instead, the young man lowered his head, peering at the red-hot billet with eyes the colour of molten gold, as if they were a reflection of the inner flame of his soul. The glow of the forge played on the young tanned skin of the Prince of the Ñoldor, on his slightly elongated face with high cheekbones, giving him a severe resemblance to the underground spirit of fire.
He began to sing setting aside the hammer for a while and passing his hand over the future dagger, feeling the heat of the red-hot metal. The words of the song of enchantment, which was designed to give the metal better properties, enhance its strength, flexibility and sharpness, poured out of the young prince's throat in a powerful, endless stream. The confident baritone was filled with inner strength – and soon the metal began to glow, starting from the tip of the blade, and slowly ending with the shank. But this glow wasn't reminiscent of the red-hot heat that had been there before. It was a cold, pale blue shade, the way the stars shone when the light of both Trees faded.
Mahtan watched with a smile as one of his two best students worked. The second being his beloved daughter. But Nerdanel was much more drawn to stone rather than metal.
He didn't notice that Fëanáro's golden eyes shone not only with youthful excitement, but also with a calm, gloomy satisfaction inherent not to a young elf, but to a master who has lived a lot and seen a lot.
For the first decades of his new life, the Witch King didn't think about lofty matters. He didn't make plans that would poison the 'blessed' air of Aman with their cunning and thirst for power. And he didn't even try, as it was expected of the one who was dubbed the Scourge of Ulthuan, to beat someone to death with a rattle. Frankly speaking, at first, from the moment when the newborn breathed in the air of Valinor until the time when his childhood began to end gradually passing into his incipient youth, Malekith simply enjoyed the gift of that mysterious entity that brought him here. He lived, sincerely rejoicing in all the pleasures that his childish receptacle could bring the Witch King.
Was it naïve? Undoubtedly. Stupid? Many would say so. Maybe earlier he would have thought the same. But the opportunity to live without the need to maintain his existence only by hatred and thirst for revenge was worth a little stupidity and delay.
Sure, over the long six thousand years, he was able to get used to the constant pain, even ceased to notice it. But, despite all the tricks, unpleasant sensations never left the master of Naggarond. They were always there like an obsessive, tiresome lover who was constantly looking for attention. But now, no longer feeling those damned burns left by the Sacred Flame of Asuryan… At first, every moment of this new life brought him pleasure. Malekith was surprised to note how the simplest things which he had been deprived of for so long could bring joy even to someone like him. The opportunity to breathe in fresh, clean air, to swim, to run, to practice with weapons, all of this without wincing every time his skin cracks again and again from the slightest movement under his enchanted armour. The ability to feel the taste of fine wine and food, forgetting that previously every sip caused extremely unpleasant sensations. The ability to smell again – something the Witch King has been completely deprived of since he was crippled. Damn it! – the fact that the former Prince of Ulthuan could fully feel the warmth of a woman's body again without the cursed pain or the help of sorcery – even if this particular pleasure was yet to be experienced – was already worth a little delay.
His renewed immortal life was too good to start rushing through it headlong, even for the sake of fulfilling his own plans, no matter how great they were.
After growing at least a little stronger and fully experiencing and getting used to the charm of a new healthy body, Malekith turned his golden eyes to the world that was now his home. Having previously taken learning about it for granted – from children's fairy tales and stories told by his father and nannies, from the conversations of adults and the tales of the surrounding children – the dark elf immersed himself in all the books and scrolls he could get his hands on, reading them and then asking adults in detail about what he had read.
This quaint new land was at the same time painfully similar and unlike the old world which was native to the former Lord of Naggaroth and absorbed by the cursed Chaos. And it wasn't just that the Sun and Moon didn't travel across the firmament, giving way to the two World Trees. Even though the creations of one of the local goddesses were a real miracle, which the best masters of the Wind of Life in Ulthuan and Athel Loren would marvel at, not to mention primitive human 'mages', Yavanna's masterpieces were only part of the canvas of the world that the Sorcerer saw. In addition, initially being quite inconvenient, the years measured by the light of the Trees were much longer than the years of the Sun and the Moon. He had to adjust accordingly.
Again picking up the hammer in his hand, Malekith banged on the billet, which was shining with the light of the stars, continuing to shape the future dagger. The weapon was supposed to come out very similar in shape to the daggers used in Naggarond – long, thin, slightly curved like a dragon's claw with a small spike on the back of the blade. The song of enchantment mixed with the ringing sound of metal hitting metal.
Yes, magic was one of the differences and at the same time the similarities between the two worlds. The Eight Winds have never penetrated the land here as they did in his homeland and it left its mark. There were no distortions of Chaos, at least in Valinor. No mutations of animals. Nothing. No one, except maybe the Valar, sent fire tornadoes, didn't make the mountains move, and certainly didn't summon daemons or undead. Any Elda who decided to become a mage could only rely on his own strength. At least so far no one has figured out how to draw magic from the very essence of the universe as it was done in Ulthuan or Naggaroth.
But at the same time any Elda possessed the ability to Create and Change. Not the rare lucky ones as it was with humans, and not many like the elves of his world. Every one, as if in any of them was a spark of the Flame Imperishable from which Arda was created. All manifested these abilities in different ways. Some were the most skilled stone carvers using their power to create palaces like the White Tower of Hoeth or the Witch King's Tower of Cold. Without magic such a feat could not be achieved. Others like the sailors Teleri built ships that had no equal even among Ulthuan's fleet. Still others had no equal among trees and animals, allowing them to grow rich crops without rough ploughs and hoes. But there was practically no combat magic, the one that the Witch King was accustomed to. Except for the enchantment of weapons, but even then it was mostly done for hunting purposes.
And all this was done with the help of songs, which were actually a local form of spells… and runic writings applied to wood, stone, or metal. After hearing about this for the first time, the Witch King almost burst out laughing. If only the proud elves of his home world – who completely relied on the power of the Winds of Magic – and the dwarves – who jealously guarded their art of imprinting magic into runes – who considered each other nothing more than a mistake of nature knew that the local masters managed to combine the two types of sorcery together!
Although the songs were a rather uncomfortable type of spells. They were too long. In his home world, a local song magician would have been killed at least three times before he could finish his incantation. Maybe that was why there weren't any combat mages here.
Having finished the song and waited until the glow on the blade gradually faded, again giving way to the usual colour of the red-hot metal, Fëanáro lowered the blade, which had almost acquired its actual shape, into a specially prepared potion that was used by the Ñoldor blacksmiths. The liquid hissed, exuding steam which smelled of marsh grasses, metal, and cinder. The dark-haired elf, after inhaling this aroma with pleasure, which unexpectedly for Malekith himself became close to his heart, meticulously examined his creation. After that, smiling with satisfaction, with his mentor grumbling approvingly, he smeared the blade with a compound from another jar standing not far from the anvil and sent the billet into the furnace. It was time to apply runes to the blade. And the closer he got to the final result of his work, the stronger the fire of joy and satisfaction burned in the chest of the former lord of Naggaroth.
Malekith chuckled softly to himself.
He had noticed on more than a dozen occasions a certain duality that permeated his current personality – as if his soul now consisted of two parts. There was him. The one he considered himself to be, the one who left the dying world thanks to an unknown ally – the Witch King, the ruler of the Druchii. The last Phoenix King of Ulthuan, who had thousands of years of victories and mistakes, cunning and cruelty behind his shoulders. Who always treated knowledge and the blacksmithing skill exclusively from a pragmatic point of view… But there was also a second part. Young, fierce, fiery. Devoid of its own consciousness but strong enough for the dark elf to feel the emotions coming from it. This passionate thirst for knowledge that burned bright and sometimes forced Malekith to immerse himself in reading, not only for the purpose of learning something really useful. The desire to create, to make something new, to cut and shape, that is what ultimately helped him to become an apprentice to the best craftsman of the Ñoldor and Aulë's favourite. The immense joy which came from the very process of creation and the pride and satisfaction from the result when his work turned out exactly the way he envisioned it. All of this, even if it was inherent in the Druchii king before, has now been strengthened hundredfold. And sometimes these impulses were rather difficult to control.
And Malekith had an idea why this was happening.
At that very moment, when he was torn out of his own body like a kitten out of water and placed in the newborn's one, there was already a soul in it. It hasn't yet become aware of itself or had a full-fledged mind, but it has already been endowed with certain emotions, attachments, and talents.
Any other elven soul the former lord of Naggaroth would have devoured effortlessly. Dissolved it in himself without a trace. A powerful and dark mind wouldn't allow itself to be influenced in any way. But this spirit… Yes, it clearly deserved the name given to this body at birth. It was stubborn, powerful, fiery, with a willpower that clearly surpassed the ever-memorable Tyrion. Instead of disappearing without a trace, the newborn's fëa harmoniously intertwined with the foreign soul, gradually merging with it – and simultaneously changing it. Adapting and adjusting in turn, bringing new emotions and, in part, aspirations. It was from this change, it seemed, that such a strong enthusiasm for blacksmithing, excessive fervour, which Malekith had forsaken in his distant youth and which had to be suppressed, and much more originated.
Having heated the 'claw' again, Ñoldo clamped it in a vice and began to slowly carve runes belonging to the writing of Rúmil on the flat side of the blade with a special sharp point soaked in his own blood. After being engraved on metal and filled with the power of their creator, they shone softly against the malevolent fire of the dagger. Largely fragmented, imperfect, unnecessarily cumbersome and difficult to remember – the current writing of the elves clearly lacked perfection and standardisation. However, he will correct this mistake later.
At first, the necessity to share his own soul with someone else annoyed the sorcerer. Even infuriated him. He was the owner of this body! He was a Prince and the future King of the Ñoldor! And he wasn't going to share power over his body and over himself with anybody. And it took him quite a long time to realise that the suppression of these impulses did the Druchii no good either. That these were also his own desires. That there was no 'another' claiming the body – there was only him. He was changed and gradually becoming whole. He was certainly more emotional than before, yes. But was it that bad? Malekith no longer had to endure pain every day, fight for his life, wage war, torture, and kill. At least… for now. And if his soul was bursting out at the sight of his handiwork – it wanted to create and craft, – why should the Sorcerer stop himself?
Except, he will direct this impulse in the right direction, one that will be more pragmatic than, perhaps, the real Curufinwë would have done without merging with the Witch King. For example, he will create a dagger or a bow instead of a bracelet or a ring. He won't suppress but restrain the passion of youth and a big mouth with many years of experience and guile that were forged in the web of intrigues in Naggaroth…
Finally, after completing his work with the 'claw' and tempering the metal in the melted bear fat, the Prince of Ñoldor handed the almost finished weapon to Mahtan. After that, taking a deep breath of hot air, he began to pull off his gloves and apron leaving, to all intents and purposes, only his shirt and trousers on.
'All that remains is to sharpen it and make a handle,' the mighty copper-haired sorcerer's mentor meticulously examined the weapon and clicked his tongue in satisfaction. 'Good, even very good! You're making great progress, Náro. Although, of course, you overdid it with the form. It is much more convenient to cut meat with a straight blade…'
Fëanáro just shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest, never saying that with a curved blade like an animal's claw, it was much more convenient to kill that very meat. Something told him that Aulë's favourite wouldn't appreciate those words.
Urundil didn't have time to finish talking. Cracking from the heat, a piece of red-hot coal shot out of the forge rushing towards the dark-haired elf's face and risking hitting his eye. But before that could happen, the Elda's hand had already darted towards it, knocking the dangerous projectile aside.
The reaction didn't fail the one who used to be one of the best warriors of Ulthuan and Naggaroth, but the pain from the burn pierced his forearm. It was sharp, searing… and all too familiar and dear for Malekith to react to it with at least a cry or even a hiss. After all, despite the new body, he still carried the memories of those burns in him. In the end, what was one small trace of coal for someone who once burned in the flame of the supreme god?
'Be careful!' Mahtan took a quick step forward grabbing his ward's hand and carefully examining his forearm, on which several blisters have already begun to swell. Clicking his tongue, the copper-head reached out with his hand to the shelf with blacksmithing potions taking out a flask with ointment against burns.
'It happens to every blacksmith sooner or later. And more often than many would like,' the Prince's mentor shook his head as he applied a bandage soaked in the healing potion. 'So get used to it. But well done, you,' the grey eyes met the golden ones with a gleam of approval. 'Didn't even make a noise despite the burn. That's some good endurance.'
The heir of Finwë only chuckled, nodding slightly – as if accepting the praise. Together, the apprentice and the master came out of the forge into the spacious courtyard of the Aulendur's estate, which was covered with herbs in some places and paved with stone in others.
'Soon I will have nothing left to teach you, my prince,' the blacksmith looked thoughtfully at the black-haired young elf who, with visible pleasure, threw off his shirt soaked in soot and sweat, revealing his lean and sinewy body to the light of the Trees. After that, he approached one of the barrels of water standing against the wall, dipped a ladle lying on the lid in it, and poured the cool liquid on his back, which was hot from work. Then he repeated the process several times. It was enough to freshen up and wash off the smell of the forge, while a proper bath would have to wait until he was at home. 'Have you considered, after we are finished, asking to become an apprentice to Master Aulë? With your hands, I am sure he won't refuse. I will also speak for you, do not doubt it.'
Malekith pushed back his wet bluish black hair chuckling and smiling cheerfully, without a shadow of arrogance, at his mentor. Oh, he was waiting for those words. Waiting – despite the fact that both his own pride and the ardour of the younger half of his soul told him to refuse. He didn't need the gods! He could achieve everything by himself just with his mind – as he always did.
And yet, to refuse such a thing would not be in the best interests for the heir to the country that this god patronises.
'I will become Vala's apprentice if he accepts me and if you consider me ready, Master.'
Mahtan smiled with satisfaction and, wishing good luck on the way home, went to the interior of his house to change clothes and wash off sweat and soot, leaving the Prince to ponder alone.
The gods, or Valar, as they stubbornly preferred to call themselves, were another aspect of the subtle similarity – as well as the difference – between the two lands Malekith called home.
To tell the truth, Malekith still hasn't fully understood – is this really a new world he sees, or is it a renewed loop of the Divine Cycle? A world recreated anew after the End Times – housing a new Ulthuan concealed from the outside world? And the same old essences of the gods that still lived among their people – albeit under different names and identities. And with different married couples.
Manwë, the ruler of the whole world and the supreme judge, so similar in nature to Asuryan. Birds serve him in the same manner, even if they are not fiery as before. Aulë is Vaul, who works tirelessly in the forge and has crafted all that is on earth. Yavanna, who painfully resembles Isha. Kurnous, the Great Hunter who is known here as Oromë. A wiser and calmer version of Mathlann, the Lord of the Seas, is called Ulmo here. Lileath, the mistress of the night sky, luck, and purity, became the wife of Asuryan and the Mistress of Arda in this world. At the same time, in Malekith's opinion, her arrogance has increased significantly, judging by the few scraps of information that he managed to find. The former Lileath, who had given even her own life to save the old world, Malekith liked much more.
Even the seat of Ereth Khial, the grim mistress of the underworld, is not empty – even if now it is occupied by an equally grim male Vala by the name of Námo, the master of the Halls of Mandos.
There were other differences that sometimes made him hesitate in thinking about what Arda really was. Among the Valar and the Maiar, there was no mention of anyone who even slightly resembled Hoeth, the god of Magic and Wisdom. Or Loec, the Trickster and the Shadow Dancer. Or Hekarti, the patroness of Dark Magic. As well as many others. But there were new ones that had nothing to do with the old Pantheon. For example, there were as many as two contenders for the role of Khaela Mensha Khaine, the Destroyer and the Murderer. His more noble self, Tulkas the Valiant – as well as the now imprisoned by his brothers Melkor, similar to the former patron of the Aenarion family in his darkest days.
And the fate of the latter god, as well as the history of the first wars against Melkor, caused the master of Naggarond only to smile contemptuously, with his sneer addressed not only and not so much to the Fallen Vala himself, but to the entire Pantheon as a whole.
Perhaps this world was not a renewal of the one that was lost, but the gods here made exactly the same mistakes as they did there. For instead of standing shoulder to shoulder, they once again fought for power, trying to wrestle each other for dominion over the world. Instead of trying to create Balance, the forces of Light and Darkness converged in an eternal battle, trying to overthrow each other.
The same old song, just in a new way.
But the Witch King has already seen the outcome of such struggle. He has seen it in the fate of his own world – after all, such divine strife was one of the two main reasons for its destruction.
Because when the true enemy of the world came, they were met not by a cohesive formation of spears but by a land divided by infighting. By the land awaiting the planting of poisonous seeds from which the death of everything has sprung. Because when the time of Chaos came, the gods, both human and elven, didn't even think to unite under one banner, preferring to play their own games of high thrones. Mainly through the hands of mortals and other beings.
And worst of all, it is very likely that the same thing can happen with Arda. Had it been otherwise, the son of Aenarion couldn't have been brought here. Since he was able to pass through an invisible path, albeit with the help of an unknown force, why can't the Great Enemy do the same sooner or later?
Perhaps this time it won't take the form of the Four but of other gods – the ones equally disgusting. Perhaps Chaos has enough faces and names not to repeat itself. Perhaps it will never come, and this was only the paranoia of someone who had been at war for too long in a previous, already finished life…
But who will vouch with their lives – and the fate of the whole world – that the arrival of the Enemy will never take place? Certainly not Malekith, who once felt the foul breath of the All-Changer on his own skin… But if everything continues as it is now, Chaos won't find a force capable of resisting it.
Aman? The gods cannot split power among themselves, having imprisoned the strongest of them in Mandos.
Eldamar? Now they are scattered, idle… absolutely not fit for war.
Men that sooner or later according to the prophecies will awaken far beyond the sea?
Malekith grimaced disdainfully, which was fortunately left unnoticed by Mahtan.
Unfortunately, for one person like Sigmar, Karl Franz, or Balthasar Gelt, who fought the disease as long as their hands held a sword or hammer, there were a thousand of those who joyfully rushed to lick Chaos's boots. Without an iron fist that holds them by the throat (such as, in general, the Empire was), Men will become easy prey, just regular recruits for countless black armies – the armies that will then, sooner or later, invade the unprepared Valinor. The cycle will end, the Ancient Enemy will take over another world. And it is by no means a fact that Malekith will be given a new, third chance.
That's why the former Lord of Naggaroth was not going to rest on his laurels for too long. That's why he was ready, succumbing to the impulses of his 'second soul', to absorb knowledge about Arda like a sponge. That's why, despite his pride, he will become an apprentice to Aulë. And if necessary, he will gain his and his wife's trust.
He will take from Valinor all he can take. He will introduce the Ñoldor, and perhaps other Elven peoples, to the dark steel and light crossbows of the Druchii. He will tell them, albeit indirectly, about the Black Arks of Naggaroth and the Dragonships of Ulthuan. He will recreate from the ashes the Black Guard, the White Lions… and perhaps, if fate is kind, the Dragonriders of Caledor. He will turn the Eldar who are now, for the most part, living an idle life, so fragile for the crucible of war, into a well-coordinated and perfectly deadly military machine that neither an Orc nor a Balrog can overcome. He will lead it across the sea and throw many lands at the feet of Eldamar as he once threw half of the world at the feet of Ulthuan!
Malekith took a deep breath, putting on his shirt again and mentally smiling – and feeling that the second part of his soul also quite liked such prospects. Yes… he will create an empire like Ulthuan, his homeland, once was. United and indestructible. His empire, whose foundation neither awakened Men nor the Orcs will be able to shake. Or even Chaos, if it does eventually come to Arda.
The gaze of the golden eyes lingered on the slender like a blade of grass female figure who was actively working on a piece of marble and using a chisel to shape it. Malekith knew this young girl. Nerdanel, the daughter of his mentor, resembled her father with grey eyes and fiery copper hair. She was proud, strong-willed, stubborn, albeit in a different manner than the Druchii or Fëanáro themselves. Possessing a sharp, insightful mind, according to the assurances of many who talked to the girl personally. And ready without hesitation to drive a small, strong fist into the eye of anyone who insults her father or takes too many liberties while speaking with her.
And despite the fact that the Prince of the Ñoldor suddenly came out of the forge during a sunny day, the elf very clearly felt a very different kind of heat – there, where it shouldn't have normally been at all.
Malekith chuckled, continuing to admire the craftswoman who was making the head of Manwë's eagle out of stone.
Well… it looks like his second half of the soul, which has not yet fully merged with the consciousness of the Witch King, has grown up enough to experience quite adult desires.
"Well, your taste, Curufinwë, wouldn't be bad, you can't argue with that. She has everything. A certain attractiveness, even if it is difficult to call her the first beauty of Aman. A mind, an inner strength. An ability to stand beside you, covering your back – if only you win her loyalty… And at the end of the day, if it won't interfere with our plans in any way and will also bring pleasure, why not?"
Yes… he will take from Valinor everything he can reach. As well as this.
'My son,' the king of the Ñoldor with a sincere smile waved his hand, calling his son to come closer. Fëanáro, who had already cleaned himself up after studying with Mahtan, stepped forward slightly and with dignity, bowing to his father and, for the time being, his Lord. After that, he raised his head peering into a truly regal face full of greatness. But not as sharp and predatory as Curufinwë's. The piercing greyish blue eyes of the king shone with warmth and love towards his firstborn.
How ironic fate was… In his previous life, Ulthuan's rightful heir spent his whole life striving to become worthy of his father's name, being supported in this endeavour by his mother. Now the hourglass seemed to have turned over – and it was now the mother of this body who had long since passed away, while the father was here and always near.
Finwë. Oh yes. Another stumbling block regarding which the two facets of the Ñoldorin Prince's soul strongly disagreed, almost completely contradicting each other. Curufinwë, or rather that part of him that merged with the soul of the Druchii, truly loved his father – so much so that he wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone who dared to take him away. Above this love, so far, there was only the pain of losing his mother. The one to whose imperishable body he sometimes went and near which he felt pain – an intense pain. It was almost equal to the burns from the Flame of Asuryan.
Malekith, on the other hand… for the most part, didn't perceive either Míriel or Finwë as his parents. Not because the he viewed the king of the Ñoldor poorly (although, in Malekith's opinion, he ruled his people too gently, allowing them to plunge into idle bliss. When this happened in Ulthuan, the damned Pleasure Cults began to flourish there).
Like any other creature, even if he was a cruel, by the standards of the Asur, dark elf, the Witch King knew how to feel gratitude and affection to someone who took care of him almost from childhood.
But to call him his father? Never. Malekith had only one father – the greatest of the Elven heroes of his world. The one who was once called Aenarion the Defender. And only one mother, who called herself Morathi, the most skilled of the witches who walked upon that land. Finwë, for all his kindness and care, couldn't compete with either the latter or, even more so, the former.
'I heard from Urundil that you are a surprisingly fast learner,' Finwë waved his hand, inviting his heir to sit in a heavy oak chair across him. Fëanor obeyed without question. 'He even mentioned that, perhaps, soon enough Aulë himself, who favours our people, will turn his attention to you. It's something to be proud of, Náro.'
'I thank you,' the black-haired man smiled a bit proudly, but the golden eyes of the Ñoldo remained serious. 'However, I suspect that this is not all. Today you were in Valmar again.'
'You've already found out,' Finwë chuckled wearily, asking rather than stating. Then he took a deep breath and became noticeably grim. Malekith tensed internally, it seemed that the conversation was going to be serious. 'That is correct, son.'
The ruler stretched out his tired palms and put them on his son's hands.
'Before I start, I want to say that you are my eldest son. My firstborn and heir, who will always hold a special place in my heart. And if you truly oppose this, say a firm 'no', I will not do what I would like to. And now to the point. I met a woman, Curufinwë. A woman who loves me… and whom I have fallen in love with. She could be a good wife to me and a worthy stepmother to you. She could give me children and give you brothers or sisters.'
"Ten thousand daemons of Slaanesh!"
Malekith kept a calm and polite expression on his face despite the fact that now his divided soul was torn into much smaller parts. And each of them for their own reasons.
The Witch King who had gone through six thousand years of war with Ulthuan was, to put it mildly, dissatisfied with the decision of his 'father'. A new wife… means new children. A new branch of the family which also will have a claim to the crown in the future. How familiar, damn it! It was the very reason it all began – back on Ulthuan, at the hour when Yvraine, daughter of Astarielle and Aenarion, called for her future husband to be made king but not Malekith, born to Morathi.
It was that meeting that marked the beginning of a long journey that led to the Sundering, when the greatest empire that the Old World knew began to tear itself apart, leaving only ruins of its former power. The High Elves – those who followed Yvraine, Bel-Shanaar, Caledor, and their heirs – never recovered from the blow, slowly agonizing for six thousand years. The Druchii, the dark elves who chose Malekith, were stronger having managed to survive, recover, and build a new, powerful kingdom in the cold lands of Naggaroth. But they could not withstand the waves of Chaos and filthy ratmen alone. They spent most of their strength fighting with their relatives – after all, for six thousand years the supporters of the two branches of the Aenarion family tore each other apart like wild animals.
It was the second main reason for the fall of the world to Chaos. After all, if Ulthuan had remained at the zenith of its power, the Elves would have had every chance to drive the Herald of the End Times (if he had been born at all) into the deepest hole in the farthest north.
The elf's fingers subtly dug into the wood of the armrests, squeezing them until his knuckles turned white. It would have been great to just poison this 'woman' before she could spread her legs and start giving birth, but what would be the point? How long will it take her to get back from Mandos?
Yes… he was unhappy. To put it mildly. However, this anger paled in comparison with the storm that the other one was experiencing now.
The part of him that was Fëanáro screamed in pain like a wounded, bleeding beast. It was breathing heavily, crying, writhing as if its heart was being torn out of it alive. It was hurting in such a way that the Witch King himself felt a sharp pain in his heart which made it difficult to breathe.
'What about Míriel?' Malekith asked the question trying to somehow calm the second half of his soul. Finwë lowered his eyes.
'The Valar have given me permission for a second marriage – only if your mother renounces life forever, going to the Halls of Mandos for eternity. And although I asked her repeatedly to return to me and to my son, she refused. After that, I was given permission to get engaged to Indis.'
The sorcerer clenched his teeth, trying to calm the growing pain in his heart. Fëanáro was eager to shout, trying to reach his father. To convince him not to do it. To not betray the memory of his mother – the sole thing that Curufinwë had left of her.
It was an extremely suspicious story, in the opinion of the son of Aenarion. Even at a first, most superficial glance – what kind of mother would refuse to return to her child? Morathi, for all her guile, cruelty, and willingness to kill, would never do such a thing of her own free will. Until she was enchanted by the power of the cursed Sword. After all, wasn't she the one who nursed her son when he was nothing more than a burnt-out half-corpse?
However, this was not the main problem. The main problem was the permission of the Valar. Approval of the second marriage. And also the identity of the alleged bride, who was – lo and behold – a close relative to the leader of the Vanyar elves, who were the favourites of the Powers. No wonder the marriage was approved so quickly.
In other words, it was very, very unlikely that his son's refusal to accept his stepmother would change anything here. Except turning the future stepmother, her patrons from among the Valar, and perhaps even his 'father' against himself.
It would be great to explain all of this to the second part of him. The one who, if it were in his place, would have done and said a lot of things right now. But, fortunately, it didn't have a fully fledged mind.
'Well, Father,' Malekith tried to exhale as calmly as possible looking at Finwë with his eyes the colour of molten metal and feeling everything inside him tearing apart again. 'It is your will. I respect your choice and your decision… and I will try to accept the one you will call your wife. But I need time to get used to it. I hope you understand.'
'I understand,' his 'father' bowed his head. On the one hand, he was worried about his firstborn but on the other, he was obviously relieved that he didn't protest. 'Go. We will talk more about it when you can.'
As soon as the doors of his chambers slammed shut, the Sorcerer collapsed on his bed, clenched his teeth, and grimaced painfully holding his chest. The fiery spirit was not going to calm down, spilling out everything: the pain that had been accumulating for so long since the death of his mother, the rage at the Valar for allowing such sacrilege. The hatred that so instantly flared up towards the 'golden-haired filth', the one who was deemed guilty of what was happening, not his beloved father.
For the first time, Curufinwë fully felt this wonderful feeling which helped Malekith survive for six thousand years. Hatred Sweet as poison and fiery as a forge. And also the desire to kill. The one who dared to claim the rightful place of his mother. The unborn children who dared to occupy a part of Finwë's heart.
Oh, the lord of Druchii was well aware of each of these aspirations – how many times did he experience such a thing himself!
However, Naggaroth which fell to the onslaught of Chaos, the destroyed and devastated Ulthuan which sank into the water in the final chord in the fratricidal war, and, to top it all off, the destroyed world were not in vain for the son of Aenarion. There was some things to think about… and some things to try to change in his methods.
'Try to kill them now and we will solve nothing,' Malekith hissed into the void so quietly that if someone had tried to eavesdrop, nothing would have come of it, addressing the pain that was now devouring his soul. 'Nothing! Do you understand? We will only turn against ourselves a part of the people that will get attached to this… father's concubine and her bastards. As well as the Valar, who hold the blessed Vanyar as their favourites. Or we'll turn our father against us. Do we need this?'
The burning pain was still biting at his heart.
'I've been through this,' the Witch King continued to hiss, in the back of his mind noticing that such a thing already reeks of a slight madness. Or obsession, depending on the perspective. 'Two branches of my family started a quarrel in which everything that the Elves managed to achieve burned down. We've been cutting each other's throats for six thousand years. And what came of it? Everything we fought for was completely destroyed. Do you want this?'
Curufinwë slightly lessened the grip of his fiery claws on his heart. The fiery hatred was gone, leaving only pain. The other half of the soul, which should have belonged to a very young boy, was crying from loss and resentment, curled up in a small ball. Malekith sighed a little more gently, calming Fëanáro, as if an old and wise dragon was calming a cub.
'We can do it in a different manner. But no less painful for this golden-haired filth. We are Finwë's firstborn. Aren't we? The golden-haired bastards will grow up with us. Look at us. See us as an older brother. And maybe even a mentor. Teacher. Friend…' the Druchii's golden eyes narrowed maliciously. 'Step by step, we will take possession of their thoughts and ideas – we'll just have to try hard enough. And the golden-haired bitch herself will not notice how her children will become our servants, ready to do anything at the request of their older brother. With proper upbringing, they won't even dare to think about claiming our rightful place on the throne and in our father's heart. Do you understand now? Instead of a quick death, which, moreover, will be short-lived given Mandos, she will see how her children have turned into our obedient slaves, ready to die on the orders of their master. That's what will be the true punishment for her and the true revenge for us. Won't it?'
Malekith was finally able to take a deep breath noting with a harsh smile that the pain and anger that burned his soul moments ago were gradually fading, replaced by grim satisfaction and anticipation. Yes… they reached a consensus. The only thing that remains is to patiently await their time.
In the meantime, he can think about more pleasant things.