Chapter III. Greetings, Little One!
'Greetings, little one.'
The golden eyes of the Witch-King gazed tenderly, as was fitting for the look of a loving elder brother, at the newborn Ñolofinwë, who was now smiling and boldly drooling on the finger of the dark elf holding him in his arms.
Not for a moment did he allow his true emotions, felt by both halves of his soul, to surface. The son of Aenarion knew all too well that he was being watched. By many pairs of eyes – and all different. Hounds, watching intently what they perceived as a cornered bear. Or deer, tensely observing the dragon that had set out to hunt, depending on one's point of view.
Frightened eyes, like those of a trembling doe. Ah, these belonged to his father's concubine, whose use for her intended purpose had finally borne fruit. The golden-haired doll had hesitated at first to place her firstborn in his arms. She gave herself away – with her gaze, with her tense posture, with the slight tremor of her fingers when the Sorcerer's hands, clad in black velvet gloves, accepted the burden so precious to her. And since the druchii strongly doubted that Indis could have figured out his true intentions regarding her bastards by herself – given that until now, Malekith had presented himself to his stepmother in the most appealing light – this meant something. Someone had clearly tried to help the girl be wiser than she truly was. And that someone was now in the birthing chamber, which was nearly covered with clean sheets, some of which were stained with blood.
A gaze cool as morning dew, keen and studying – Ingwë. The ruler of the Vanyar watched intently, with determination. As if he were scrutinising an opponent who had dared to challenge him to a duel.
And there was the one who, standing behind his daughter, had already begun looking after his own interests. The former Lord of Naggaroth was acutely aware. This one had understood the hint with the wedding statue all too well, though he had shown no sign of it. And having realised that Míriel's son did not intend to sit humbly in the farthest corner of the new royal family of the Ñoldor, he had clearly taken steps to counteract this, starting to undermine the relatively stable relations between his daughter and her stepson.
A clever, calculating, and dangerous enemy, clearly hoping to win in that soft, silent confrontation which, at this very moment, was finally taking shape. He was surely just waiting for an opportunity. Seeking a crack in that almost flawless mask the dark elf wore. A chance to turn him into the family bogeyman, to shake the Ñoldor king's confidence in his firstborn.
But who said the Sorcerer intended to give the Vanya such an opportunity?
A warm, approving look from grey eyes. Finwë. It seemed 'Father' had been worried until the last moment about how his firstborn would take the news of his half-brother's birth. The golden eyes allowed themselves a fleeting gleam of triumph.
After that ambiguous and eloquent gift – Indis' statue, that is – there had been a rather cautious conversation between the king and the prince, which could be summed up in a few succinct theses from Malekith.
"I respect your choice, Father. I will not, by word or deed, harm your chosen one as long as she does not force me to sing in the Vanyar choir and shows respect. And I will be – and sincerely so! – a brother to her children with you. But you must understand me as well – I do not intend to betray the memory of Míriel Þerindë. Starting with the fact that, Melkor be damned, she was my mother, and ending with the fact that the Ñoldor will never follow an elf who has betrayed the memory of the one who gave him life."
Finwë accepted this unspoken agreement, though not without apprehension. Still, feeling guilty towards his firstborn (as he should, for it played into the Sorcerer's future plans), he understood that pressing the issue would be pointless. And yet, despite the fact that until the bastard's birth Curufinwë Fëanáro had not broken the agreement by word or deed, the ruler of the Ñoldor had clearly awaited the moment the brothers would meet with some unease. And now, seeing proof of his son's sincerity, he smiled openly. The bridge of goodwill between the king and prince, not frayed by the younger half of the latter's soul's impetuous actions, had now become even stronger, and any doubts possibly sown by Ingwë and his daughter had evaporated like dew on a hot summer morning.
And this had to be seized upon. One must forge the dark steel of Naggaroth while it is hot. Who better than a dark elf to know that?
Malekith regarded the infant, still grasping his finger with a toothless mouth, with scepticism, as if observing an odd insect under a magnifying glass. He dismissed the fleeting, yet sincere desire to resolve the problem in his own radical fashion. Firstly, it wouldn't work – the brat would just crawl out of Mandos anyway. Secondly, it would cause more harm than good. And thirdly, the 'younger' half of his soul wasn't entirely on board with the idea.
What irony. The half of the soul that should have belonged to that original Fëanáro purely and sincerely wished this child had never been born. It truly despised both his concubine mother and the schemer behind the golden-haired woman. So much so that, when they first learned the 'fantastic' news, it had been ready to strangle the whore with its own hands. Yet, in a rational state of mind, Curufinwë would never consider harming his already born brother. The child, curse him, was still a child. And family, however rotten! He would rather never see him, but to kill? Never. Yes, young Fëanáro would have been an interesting personality, without a doubt. Contradictory. But in some ways, far more naive and noble than the Witch-King, who would have gladly sent his suddenly resurrected half-siblings back to the gods. Alas, he wasn't able to back then. And now … If he wanted to outplay the ambitious golden-haired family and their plans for the Ñoldor's future, if he truly wanted to make the little wretch absolutely loyal to him and his future throne … he would have to treat him as a brother. Make him part of the clan. Raise him. And, of course, give presents.
Speaking of which …
With a white-toothed grin at the little pest, the former Witch-King settled into a deep, leather-trimmed chair, drawing from the pouch at his belt, with a magician's flourish, a prepared gift. A small wooden horse, frozen with one front leg bent – as if about to prance. Expertly carved, painted so skilfully that it seemed almost alive. And with a little surprise inside.
'This is for you, Nolo. Look. Rocco!' [1]
The runes inscribed on the toy glowed softly. The grey eyes of little Ñolofinwë widened as the horse shook its mane, lowered its leg – and began to prance in its creator's palm.
The little one even let go of Malekith's finger, at first staring at the marvel and then clearly smiling, reaching out with tiny hands. Repeating the word that awakened the toy and making it freeze again, the Elda gave the present to the infant, evidently enjoying the effect it had. Good. Let the little one grow accustomed to rewards. Later, when the alternation of carrot and stick will begin, this tiny thing would swiftly learn to distinguish what was good and what was bad – in his understanding. And how 'bad' ought not to be done.
'And when you grow older, I shall teach you to craft such toys yourself. And not only them,' Fëanáro murmured with a quiet chuckle, lifting his eyes to his father. 'What say you, Atar? Will you permit me to be his mentor when my brother grows up? Who knows – perhaps we shall raise another Aulendur in our house.'
"And I shall see to it that this Aulendur is loyal to whom he should be."
A warm, deeply satisfied smile blossomed on the ruler of the Ñoldor's lips. It seemed the Firstborn's idea pleased him, as if he himself had wished for something similar, which his son had merely given voice to.
'Of course, Kurvo. I permit it and approve. I wished to suggest it myself, yet I knew not how you would take to such a thing,' Finwë affirmed his son's thoughts. 'Naturally, when Nolo grows older, you may take up his instruction.'
'Is it wise to entrust such a grave duty to one so young, my friend?' the eyes of the High King of the Vanyar turned towards the King of the Ñoldor. Giving due credit to his mastery of self-control, the seasoned schemer betrayed nothing. Neither in voice nor gaze, though he clearly hoped to take the potential heir under his own wing. 'Perhaps it would be better if I …'
'Is it wise to entrust such a task to Aulë's pupil and one of the greatest craftsmen of the Ñoldor?' Malekith allowed himself the faintest touch of hauteur in his voice as he gently put Ingwë in his place. No fiery wrath, no insults. Merely a reasonable reminder of who he was. 'And besides, who better to teach Ñolofinwë, to raise him as a true Ñoldo,' the prince placed particular emphasis on the last word, 'than his own half-brother?'
'I do not doubt your craftsmanship, Fëanáro,' Ingwë parried just as politely, without so much as lifting a brow. 'Only your youth and lack of experience …'
'Come now, my friend,' Finwë raised a hand, putting an end to the dispute, clearly somewhat irked by the Vanya's words. 'My Firstborn is right. Fëanáro, despite his youth, has already become a pupil of one of the Valar. Who, if not he, can pass on all knowledge and understanding of the world to my second son? It is settled – Ñolofinwë shall learn from his brother.'
The Druchii closed his eyes in satisfaction, reclining against the back of his chair, cradling his prize. This match was his. The little one would be raised as he ought. Still, the former Witch-King was well aware: if the concubine bore more children – and experience coupled with instinct suggested she would – then out of respect for his friend, the King of the Ñoldor would likely allow Ingwë to have a hand in their upbringing. Alas, the looming possibility of the Sundering still hung over the Ñoldor like Khaine's gleaming sword.
Thus, despite small victories, stopping was not an option. Under no circumstances. His line of succession must secure advantages beyond the loyalty of his younger brother's line and the gradual acquisition of public support. Very weighty advantages indeed …
More than anything, Aulë's halls and forges had, ever since the Ñoldorin prince first stepped beneath their arches, reminded the son of Aenarion of the smithies by Vaul's Anvil, which had once loomed like a fiery tower over Caledor. Young Malekith had visited them more than once, back when his father was still alive. He had seen with his own eyes the mightiest volcano of Ulthuan and the dragons soaring in the sky, for whom it was home. And also the colossal forges and blast furnaces, which drew their heat from the very depths of the earth and wrought the finest weapons and armour of the Elvenkind.
Aulë's domain was similar – very similar – to those childhood memories, despite not being built near a giant volcano. The scale and monumentality of the underground halls, their somewhat angular severity, reminiscent yet distinct from the finely wrought towers of the Eldar's cities. And, of course, the forges, fed by the heat of the earth rising from the depths through cunning devices, which transferred warmth yet let no poisonous fumes escape. Truly, Aulë could justly be called both the mentor of the Ñoldor and the Father of the Dwarves.
Working with stone and metal here was always a pleasure. Beginning with the finest tools to be found in Aman – and ending with Aulë's wise instruction. Unlike his incarnation in the previous world – here, Vaul was glad to share knowledge with an understanding and meticulous pupil. And to be fair, Malekith had learned much from his study under the Smith Vala, greatly supplementing the knowledge gained from Mahtan and the skills carried over from his old, perished world. Aulë taught not merely smithcraft, but true interaction with the earth's substance.
Of course, the former King of the Druchii could not shape the world at will, raising and breaking mountains as the Vala did. But to summon metal from the earth's depths with but a song, to cleanse it of impurities, to harness the Fire of the Deep without fear of the fumes poisoning him, to transmute one metal into another with entirely different properties? Who would refuse such power?
Yes, it was but a fraction of what the Sorcerer had once been capable of, weaving spells of Fire and Metal. And surely it paled in comparison to the sheer mastery over Shadow and Darkness he had wielded when he became the embodiment of Ulgu, one of the Winds of Magic. Yet, in this new world, these skills were no small thing. And thus, during his studies with Aulë, the son of Aenarion drank in knowledge as a man dying of thirst drank water. Lingering in the forge nearly until the third crowing of the cock – unless the master of the Halls himself sent him to rest. And in this, Fëanáro wholeheartedly supported him, himself hungering for new knowledge like a ravenous dragon for prey.
However, Malekith was not currently grasping something new that this world and his new teacher could offer him. On the contrary … he sought to bring to Arda a part of his old home. And now, perhaps, he had taken the first step toward that. Perhaps not in form – but in essence.
'Cui, rámalócë,' [2] the dark elf whispered barely audibly, his fingers brushing against the small head of his creation. The Rúmilian runes, gradually supplemented by his own signs drawn from the scrolls of snowy Naggaroth, inscribed with a magical song upon his lips and richly imbued with blood, began to glow one by one. From the head, along the slender neck and spine to the tip of the coiled tail, across the outstretched membranous wings upon tiny hinges, outlining small paws with metallic claws. The gemstone eyes flared crimson, faint sparks ran along the black scales, wings and limbs twitched, clanking with a metallic scrape. The tiny lizard of stone and steel stirred, but no more, as if awaiting a clearer command from its creator.
'Stand on your feet,' commanded the son of Aenarion, watching as the small draconic golem obeyed the order. It looked somewhat awkward, as if it had not yet fully awakened from slumber. 'Good. Rise onto your hind legs. Flap your wings. Sit …'
The automaton dutifully carried out every command, even managing to hover briefly above the workbench (albeit quite clumsily), before freezing in place as soon as the action was completed, showing no initiative whatsoever. Having finished playing with his creation, the Elda once more sent it into dormancy, thoughtfully brushing his fingers against his chin.
Overall, he was satisfied with his work. Previous creations – both those of other Ñoldor and his own – could only follow the simplest commands embedded in them from the start. Like that little horse he had given his half-brother. This dragonling, however, was a step forward, executing its master's orders precisely as he dictated. Yes, it did not learn by repeating the same actions over and over. It showed no initiative. But it was the first step up a long ladder.
A ladder whose summit held the greatest weapon possessed by the Asur, and later by the Druchii and the Asrai. The power that had made Caledor a force to be reckoned with throughout Ulthuan. A power that would allow the Witch King to solidify his position among the Ñoldor and be fully wielded in the wars to come.
'A fusion of stone and metal. The union of earth and fire – your elements, Master,' Malekith lifted his gaze to his mentor, who had silently observed the golem all this time. Golden eyes gleamed triumphantly, reflecting the forge's flames. 'And what will come next!'
The son of Aenarion let his younger half take over, pacing from the forge to the workbench and back, raising his hands as if emphasising his vision with gestures.
'Imagine it – not tiny, palm-sized, but a true child of metal and flame, larger even than the Eagles of Manwë. How proudly it would spread its wings. How it would breathe fire. How it would challenge the skies, allowing the Ñoldor who will become its riders to go wherever they wished. To the world's edge, across the Sea!'
The Power's response to Fëanáro's impassioned speech was a gaze filled with contemplation and doubt – understanding on one side, yet concern and disapproval, clearly born of old wounds.
'Pupil, you aim high. The fire within you burns brightly, and much mastery lies ahead of you. But do not reach beyond your grasp. Have I not told you where my own pride and thirst for creation nearly led? And now – you tread the same path. Look at your creation. Is it truly alive? Or can it only do what you command, like a child's toy? And in the end, was it part of the Great Music, whose full design is known only to the Father?'
'Not yet. But by following your path, I have only taken the first step of a long journey. Teach me how to move forward. To create life! Help me turn a toy into a friend and ally!'
Malekith crossed his arms over his chest, meeting the Vala's gaze unflinchingly.
Of course, he knew his teacher's tale of the creation of the Dwarves. But the former ruler of Naggaroth also knew the outcome of that story. To put it mildly, it was ambiguous and subject to interpretation – especially given later events. Aulë had been thoroughly chastised then … but had he not, in the end, gained what he desired? In effect – permission to let his creation live?
'Did Eru not accept your gift when He saw that your children were not mindless dolls but wished to live? Was it not upon seeing their understanding and hearing their pleas that He took pity and allowed you, Master, to leave them in the world? And did your wife, Yavanna Kementári, not then awaken the Shepherds of the Trees, and Manwë Súlimo make the Eagles his messengers?'
'That is true, but both Yavanna and Manwë created with the Father's permission and consent. Are you, like me, ready to risk interfering with the One's design? Will you bear the disappointment if you learn that your creations have no place in His Plan?'
'Have they truly no place?' Malekith – or rather, now more Fëanáro – narrowed his eyes playfully, clearly unwilling to yield in the argument. Fortunately, his wiser, elder half had a compelling argument. One that strongly suggested their shared ambition was not impossible. 'In the end, did the One make mindless puppets of us, His children? No, He granted us the ability to think, to feel – and to change His world. He gave us free will – and the right to use it as we see fit. I do not defy His laws, nor do I, like Melkor, seek to place myself on a level with my Creator, nor rise in rebellion against Him. I merely wish to create and shape this world as I see fit, in harmony with the Great Music. If Eru had not intended Arda's inhabitants to make changes, He would not have given His children free will, nor me – hands full of talent.'
The son of Aenarion took a deep breath of the forge's scorching air, the heat slightly burning his lungs.
'And if that is not so, if in truth we have no freedom and all is dictated solely by His Design – who among us can swear that my creation is not already part of the Music, whose every note is known only to Eru? Who can claim that it was not He who placed these thoughts in my mind and the knowledge of how to realise them in my hands? So help me, Master! Teach me how to do it right! Or at least, let me aid you. Consider what they could be – children of fire and steel. Proud. Passionate. Masters of your elements. Do you, my teacher and the friend of all Ñoldor, truly think yourself lesser than those who have already brought their visions to life in Arda? But you are not.'
Aulë did not answer, his gaze fixed on the Elda in deep contemplation and no small astonishment. His mighty, forge-worn fingers stroked his black beard once, twice, thrice, combing through fire-scorched strands.
The Elda remained where he stood, arms crossed over his chest, watching the god's every motion, awaiting his verdict. Once, Vaul had already refused him, declining to bless the Witch King's blade – the pinnacle of his weaponcraft. What would happen this time? By Chaos, the emergence of true dragons, living and sentient, raised by his own, the Witch King's, hand, would be an incomparable boon to his designs. Under his guidance, they would become loyal allies to the Ñoldor, ones who would render his future armies invincible – just as they once had for the forces of Nagarythe, Naggaroth, and Caledor.
But if the Smith God denied him once more … Well. The son of Aenarion would remember it and forge his own path. After all, steel and stone dragon golems, possessing at least a semblance of intellect – such as the stone colossi that guarded Cathay in his native world – under the command of his vassals were not a bad alternative. No one would have any complaints about those. And achieving something similar on his own, by his own intellect, was well within his reach – of that, Malekith had no doubt.
'I … shall consider it, pupil. I shall consider your words and your request.'
'And here is a large staircase leading to the second floor. Symmetrically above it is the one that leads to the third,' the druchii gestured with his fingers at the blueprint spread out on the workbench, taking care not to touch it. Then, momentarily distracted, the Elda turned towards the sound of someone entering. More precisely, two young Ñoldor in aprons and with their shirts unlaced to stay cool were carrying a new batch of planks through the empty doorway.
'There, place them here, friends. We shall get to work on them right away.'
Then he turned back to his main listener and, with the imperturbability of a just awakened dragon, resumed the conversation.
'Now, where was I? The staircase. As I said, we shall use redwood planks for it. Ebony for the room decor. Door frames and other small details – again, redwood. Mahtan has already supplied silver for the metalwork, and I shall handle the forging in the evening.'
'To my taste, it seems rather grim,' Laurefindë sceptically crossed his arms over his chest, scrutinising the blueprint critically before shifting his gaze back to his prince. His delicate, fair eyebrows arched elegantly. 'Ebony, redwood, silver adornments. Fëanáro, are you trying to turn your home into Utumno?'
The former ruler of Naggaroth responded with a questioning look, letting his gaze slide over the Ñoldo's attire and appearance. Golden hair, dark green garments … and the many-rayed sun embroidered on his chest. A black brow arched slightly, clearly hinting at such a vivid combination of colours – a combination his interlocutor, as he had already learned, could not stand. The latter blinked briefly, then, heaving a heavy sigh, rolled his eyes.
'Fine, I admit it. This is still better than gold on green. But even so.'
'When we carve the wall decorations, I shall inlay silver thread into the ebony. It will provide good contrast – and will not be too sombre. Besides, most of the furniture will be either of light wood or marble from the coast. The table, for example.'
'Do you realise how much silver that will take? And how much time?'
'Art is beyond time, Laure.'
'Oh, indeed, perhaps we shall celebrate the house-warming just in time for Melkor's release from Mandos …'
Jesting without malice, the Eldar set to work sawing the planks with alacrity. The staircase would not build itself. Meanwhile, through the empty gap where the door would be, the scents of a campfire and soup began to drift in from the yard – clearly, the red-haired master who had become Malekith's first teacher in this world had begun preparing a meal for the entire company. That promised a fine supper – Mahtan knew how to cook, unlike certain others.
The Ñoldor prince could not help but smirk wryly, sinking an enchanted saw into the unyielding wood.
"Well, here we are. I, the Black Dread, the Witch King, the rightful heir of Ulthuan and ruler of Naggaroth, who in the end united the Elven peoples into a single whole and rightfully earned the title of the Eternal King … am building my own house. And not surrounded by obedient slaves, as one might think – but with those Eldar who were simply the first to answer when I called for aid. How far we have fallen. And where, pray tell, are my slaves? My dutiful slaves …"
For all their outward resemblance, the peoples of Ulthuan, Naggaroth, and Eldamar differed greatly from one another.
Ulthuan was like a Nehekharan pyramid with a broad base. A clear hierarchy of classes, from the largest and lowest to the single one at the top. And each class fiercely fought for power and privileges. A hierarchy that, in the end, ossified within its own traditions and withered. Common Elves, knights, nobility, princes, and the Phoenix King at the summit.
And yet, at the dawn of its path, in the days of Aenarion's reign and Malekith's conquest of the colonies, this system had a certain flexibility. Many commoners who distinguished themselves in battle might hope to rise to knighthood, and then – who knew? But the further from the Sundering, the more closed the upper echelons became, until, at last, they turned into a withering society clinging to customs as old as the world, many of whom had long forgotten the reasons for these customs, yet were ever eager to proclaim their necessity and grandeur. And they squabbled amongst themselves endlessly – one need only recall how Imrik of Caledor ultimately first declared independence from the rest of Ulthuan and then, at last, swore fealty to the Witch King. Decay in its purest form.
Naggaroth, his Naggaroth, was different. A steel framework, firmly, forcefully driven into an unyielding foundation of stone and flesh. Thousands upon thousands of slaves – Orcs, Beastmen, Skaven, and other lesser races – laboured beneath the lash of their masters. But it was precisely this slavery that allowed them to survive in that harsh land, to rise, and, most ironically, to unite.
In truth, it mattered little in Naggaroth which city or princedom one hailed from. What mattered far more was that one, unlike the lesser races or the hated Asur, was a Druchii, for his people, his kin, being the greatest warriors of the fallen world, stood above all others. Tradition was less important than ability – one's worth was judged by whether they could fulfil their appointed task, for failure carried a price higher than anywhere else. Nobility or common birth mattered little; what mattered was one's clan. Black Guards cared not for lineage, Executioners ignored one's city of origin, and Corsairs laughed at ancient lineages if their bearers could not steer a Black Ark through a storm or lead a successful raid.
The other side of these advantages was the extreme cruelty towards slaves, upon whose backs fell all the hardships of life in snowy Naggaroth, as well as the constant and fierce political strife between clans (and, though far less acute and frequent, the internecine bites within them. One need only recall Kouran, who beheaded his predecessor as Captain of the Black Guard right in the throne hall. To be fair – he did so with cause, for treason). However, the ruler of the druchii did not consider the former much of a drawback, and the latter he could well restrain with his own iron hand, serving as the guarantor of order and stability in the state.
The Ñoldor, however, were molten metal, uniform and pliant, yet to be cast into any particular shape. A young, vibrant, fervent people, only just beginning to form what might become their nobility. Or might not – who could say? For now, there was no real distinction of wealth or birth among the dwellers of Tirion. The King was merely the first among equals. And even that only because the others recognised him as such. The royal family, like any other Ñoldor, engaged in crafts and husbandry, sowed grain and gathered fruit, hunted game … In short, they did all that their subjects did. Only, in addition to that, they also governed an entire people. Fortunately, the enchantments and powers possessed by every Elda greatly aided in daily affairs.
Malekith cast a glance at Laurefindë, who was deftly hammering nails into the planks of the future staircase, securing them firmly. And one would never guess that the golden-haired one's father was a Vanya, curse him. He lived between two peoples, but his Ñoldorin skill was unquestionable.
To understand the difference in the peoples' approaches, one needed only to observe the present situation: a dark Elf, having gathered strength and resources, was building his own home, apart from Finwë. It was time to decisively step out of his father's shadow, to forge his own sky rather than trying to shine in another's. To begin, in a way, his own small court, seeking those willing to follow him. And for that, a statement was needed – one akin to the one the Sorcerer had already made at his father's wedding. Establishing his own separate house, a House that, nevertheless, would not sever its ties to Finwë's House, was a perfect step.
Yet even with magical tools and the knowledge of Aulë's disciple, such a task could not be undertaken alone.
How would this matter have been resolved in the proud land of the Druchii? Malekith would have summoned the finest craftsmen to create a design, after which he would have driven the slaves to realise his will with their lives, sweat, and blood.
And what of the Ulthuanites? They would likely have had to negotiate with one of the many architect guilds, paying a hefty sum in gold and gemstones, only to bargain once more to ensure that their builders were not outbid – since their neighbour had also embarked upon a construction project and sought to surpass them in all things.
And among the Ñoldor? Fëanáro himself, from start to finish, had drawn up the plans and arranged for the materials. Then, he had called upon the people of Tirion. Not a day had passed before two dozen, mostly young Eldar, had volunteered to help. Some requested something in return – a forged item or, in the future, assistance in building their own homes. Others, like Urundil and his daughter, or Laurefindë, golden-haired and sly yet highly skilled in woodworking, had done so freely. Out of friendship, or for reasons unspoken.
And so it had been for the second week in a row. Both the Prince of the Ñoldor and common craftsmen, farmers, and hunters who had stepped forward to aid him laboured side by side on the same construction. And afterwards, they dined together in the same circle, conversing, discussing news, and sometimes even singing songs.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile, full of wonder and irony, crossed his thin lips.
"If only my mother could see what I'm doing now! She'd laugh for a long time, I wager. And she'd tease me about it for another hundred years."
Malekith – he who had once ruled a land of an entirely different kind – was truly astounded. And that was despite having lived among the Ñoldor for many years, despite belonging to them with half his soul. On the other hand, it warmed his heart, bringing the Witch King memories of those glorious days when he too had sat by the fire with his warriors almost as an equal – during the Colonial Wars, in joint battles with the Dwarves, and during his Northern campaign. And yet, on a third level, it promised intriguing possibilities.
Unity. Clannishness. Pride. Naïveté. Judgement based on merit rather than lineage. Some of these qualities appealed to the Witch King. Others, on the contrary, were a hindrance, foreshadowing considerable trouble in the future. For instance, the absence of such a useful thing in governance as … gold, or any other form of currency.
Yet, there were ample advantages. Such cohesion could solve many problems if properly directed. For instance, it could prevent the emergence of various clans within the people as had happened in Naggaroth. On the contrary – it might be possible to forge the Ñoldor into one great clan, a single societal corporation, setting them against all other peoples. This would significantly reduce internal strife between clans. It might also prevent the rise of a rigid nobility that would ossify and seize all power for itself. One people, one clan. And only one authority – the rule of the Witch King.
Even so, the Eldar would need to be tempered. And hardened. For Malekith seriously doubted that in their current state they would readily accept certain ideas. For instance, the enslavement of other peoples. But now – now was the time to achieve this. In the coming confrontation with the Vanyar and their lackeys, in the Flight to the east, the molten metal would take the shape he, the Sorcerer, desired and harden, becoming an extension of his will.
"Still, some sacrifices must be made," the dark elf mused, measuring the necessary distance on a plank. "I will have to forgo concubines … My future queen would clearly not approve. And it would not do to give Urundil an additional reason to distance himself from me. What one does for familial happiness …"
'Fëanáro, where are the marble blocks? I have ideas about a grand table!' rang out a clear girl's voice unmistakably full of intrigue.
The former ruler of Naggaroth stifled a sigh, rising from his well-worn workstation.
'I'll show you.'
"Oh gods. No, truly. Being King of the Ñoldor is less about leading armies into battle, weaving intrigues, or properly structuring the governance of the realm, and more about always knowing exactly where everything is and how much remains in reserve!"
'No, not this. It doesn't fit – neither in sound, nor in meaning, nor in magic. If it must be changed, Eldoir [3] would be a better choice …'
The Sorcerer, mildly irritated, crossed out his last entry several times with his quill before once more scrutinising the parchment sheets comparing the runes of Eltharin and Rúmil. Then his own calculations. And then, once more, the alphabets.
For a week now, he had been engrossed, in the hours freed from arranging his home – a home that was rapidly taking shape both inside and out – with finally tackling something that had long awaited his attention. Bringing orderly structure to Rúmil's script. Yet, while the initial steps, which had previously allowed the Sorcerer to take a leap forward in creating a controllable iron drake, had come relatively easily, progress thereafter had slowed considerably, proceeding at an excruciatingly sluggish pace.
The dark elf, shivering, tossed fresh logs into the cheerfully crackling hearth – which, thank Darkness, was already functional – then, returning to his place, wrapped himself more snugly in the blanket spread across the floor. Both he and Fëanáro had little desire to go back to Finwë's house. And in his own dwelling, only a table of white coastal marble, skilfully hewn by Nerdanel's hands, and workbenches had so far been set in place.
From his days in Naggaroth, he had come to loathe snow and cold with all the depths of his soul. And in his still unfinished house, where the Prince of the Ñoldor had now nearly settled for good, spending there most of his time, it was rather chilly. Even despite there being no winters at all. The walls had yet to be inlaid with runes to retain warmth.
No, Aenarion's son had never been soft. Malekith could, without hesitation, sleep by a campfire wrapped in a cloak, drink fresh blood to survive or fish for sustenance in the dead of winter. He had done all these things in his time. But that did not mean he liked it, let alone found any pleasure in it. He. Hated. Snow.
Once he was warm, the Sorcerer returned to his runes.
The primary flaw of Rúmil's runic alphabet was, first and foremost, its poverty of meaning. And from this arose a host of difficulties, from its poor adaptability for inscribing complex magical figures on enchanted objects to the limited vocabulary such writing could convey. The latter might not be as significant in a society where ósanwë and the art of magical song were nearly universal skills. Speech clearly surpassed writing. Yet, this did not negate the second issue.
Alas, the first and simplest solution – replacing Rúmil's script with Eltharin, or the Druhir he had long since grown accustomed to – proved unviable. If the runes were too poor in meaning, then many of the signs of his native world were, in contrast, too rich. Concepts such as the Winds of Magic or Chaos (at least for now) did not exist in Arda at all. And not all symbols were suited to local sorcerous songs and magic.
Thus, of late, the Druchii had been engaged in comparing and refining symbols, striving to unite two writing systems into a coherent whole. In some places, he used Rúmil's runes as a foundation enhancing them. In others, he employed a modified Eltharin. And sometimes, he had to devise something entirely new. Never before in his past life had Malekith studied linguistics as a science, and he acutely felt his lack of theoretical knowledge. Perhaps that was why the work progressed so slowly.
Yet, on the other hand, his deep understanding of magic greatly aided in grasping the task's practical side. And though it shaped the final creation in many ways, the son of Aenarion could already see its direction. The new script would be, above all, a language of sorcery and magic. And only then everything else.
"Saroir? Perhaps, but it still needs refinement."
The sound of an opening door and the cool breath of early morning – when Telperion was fading and Laurelin had not yet bloomed, only the stars shone briefly – made the dark elf raise his head. Eyes of molten gold softened slightly upon seeing the one who entered. The younger half of his soul stirred with evident delight at the early guest. The elder, more seasoned, merely chuckled indulgently.
The relationship between the Sorcerer and Mahtan's daughter was developing well – it was currently more akin to the friendship of two devoted craftsmen who held each other in esteem. And yet, not once had they crossed the unseen boundary, though Malekith noticed the glances Nerdanel occasionally cast his way. And he himself, at times, had to restrain both Fëanáro's impulses – who was clearly drawn to his future queen – and his own flesh's call. He was in no hurry, did not rush events – he simply remained near her, constantly. He did not entice her with odes in her honour, those would come later, but with new endeavours, drawing her into them. With thoughts he shared. With parts of his plans – harmless ones, for now, tenderly nurtured in the depths of his soul. He did not offer her passion, but something he, the former ruler of Naggaroth, valued far more. And which, unlike passion, he did not bestow upon many.
Trust.
Nerdanel did not rush events either. Still, she was clearly becoming ever more attached to the Prince of the Ñoldor. Giving due credit to her sharp mind – she still wasted no time on silly flirtation, showing care instead. Although it was at times apparent that she wanted, yes, sometimes wanted more!
And that was a good thing. For her own sake, as well as for his plans which were slowly coming to life. All the more so, as today he intended to take another step forward.
'Good morning,' the dark elf greeted his guest, yawning slightly as he emerged from the cosy cocoon of his blanket.
The redhead flinched almost imperceptibly, turning at the sound of his voice.
'Good … wait,' in her grey eyes, upon seeing the lit fireplace, the almost-empty pile of firewood beside it, the blanket, and the master of the house himself, there flickered a spark of understanding. Which immediately shifted to reproach. 'Did you sleep here again?'
'You know how it is. Lately, I don't find my father's house all that comfortable,' Malekith stretched sweetly, like a cat, before picking up pages of a manuscript from the floor. 'Especially when my little brother starts crying in the night. At least here the walls are on my side.'
'You could've come to us,' the girl clearly didn't want to give up her ground. She all but put her hands on her hips. 'Father didn't clear out the room you used when preparing the wedding gift for the king. Everything's still there …'
And still, she was sweet in her concern. Warm as a fur blanket. But at that moment, the son of Aenarion had other matters in mind than sparring with his future wife. Far more important ones.
'Ner, I don't want to argue right now. Better look at this. Since you've come so early, we have time to discuss it before the others arrive.'
Fëanáro, stretching once more, stepped gently forward to stand beside the copper-haired maiden then offered her his notes. She, instantly grasping what he meant, snatched the manuscript with deft fingers, her eyes darting across the lines. Meanwhile, the dark elf, quite openly, admired her slender neck and the sharp ears piercing through the auburn hair like two daggers through autumn leaves.
'Intriguing! Truly intriguing. But I think there are places that could be improved. Here, look,' Nerdanel pointed to several runes. 'I tried using these symbols as you suggested while working with stone. In different ways. If you rearrange the runes in this order …'
'Hold on. Go over that part in more detail,' the golden eyes of the Witch King lit with interest.
As the discussion went on, somehow the Eldar ended up sitting on the marble table in the centre of the spacious dining room. And the table deserved a mention of its own. Carved by the redhead from a single block of marble, its shape mimicked the continental outline of Aman. On every inch of the tabletop – except a narrow strip around the edges – was a masterfully done engraving depicting the map of the continent. Every detail, from Pelóri to tiny etched images of each of the Valar's halls. Fine, painted, and carefully protected by polished glass set into the table's surface. Fit for both a banquet and a war council. There were just no chairs yet.
As though naturally, the manuscript was set aside giving way to an early breakfast of yesterday's cabbage pie and hot herbal brew. And where had the heated argument gone? Replaced now by leisurely speech, dreams of the future, and quiet discussion of what still needed to be done around the house.
'I think we'll finish in about ten days. I expect to see you and your father at the house-warming. No refusals,' the golden eyes of the Lord of Naggaroth squinted contentedly like a well-fed cat.
'You know full well neither I nor Mahtan Urundil Aulendur would ever refuse to visit you on such an occasion,' Nerdanel's copper hair spilled over her shoulders. Her grey gaze wandered around the room as she took another sip of tea. 'And truly … It's an interesting house. Proud, stately. But cosy. And it suits you.'
'I agree.'
The Witch King truly did agree with the copper-haired maiden. The house, like a small shard of his old world, promised to be well-matched to its master. Spacious, built of dark granite, high-ceilinged, rising to three storeys like the spires of Naggaroth, with many metal inlays. The interior was no less fine – black and white marble, redwood and ebony, gleams of silver. A fine house indeed.
Only Malekith's thoughts were now elsewhere. Rising softly from his seat, he turned to face Nerdanel, who was still sitting, and fixed his golden eyes on her grey ones.
'Only one important detail is missing.'
'And what would that be?'
The Sorcerer gave a quiet chuckle, quite unexpectedly burying his fingers in her copper hair.
'A mistress. A partner. My future queen. And I hope, dear Ner, that you won't deny me this request either.'
Before the spark of understanding of what exactly he said could light in Nerdanel's eyes, the son of Aenarion had already drawn her to him, kissing her lips and setting her cup aside. Firmly, hotly, with insistence – but without force, without demand. Offering. It was still too early to demand, even though the younger part of his soul clearly longed to go further. But Malekith had not spent so long drawing the girl close just to frighten her off now.
Frighten? How mistaken he had been. But this time – a delightful mistake. Only after a few moments, once the copper-haired one had fully recovered from her astonishment, did she begin to respond. Clumsily, awkwardly at first but making up in passion for what she lacked in experience. And soon, slim but strong arms wrapped around the craftsman's neck and Nerdanel pressed herself to him with her whole body.
"Well now," had he not been so caught up in the moment, the Sorcerer might've laughed inwardly. And Fëanáro would've echoed him. "The girl's not one to scare easily!"
That was a good sign. It meant that at least in this realm, he and his future wife would have no quarrels. Still, it was time to rein in the horses a little. Nerdanel was clearly beginning to lose her head, and judging by her actions, was ready to go further than was wise for the moment. That simply wouldn't do, especially since the others were due to arrive quite soon.
Savouring the moment and regaining control of himself, the Sorcerer gently broke the kiss, stepped back half a pace, and looked playfully at his soon-to-be wife. Of that, he no longer had any doubt.
'What? But …' before disappointment, frustration, or worse – fear – could flicker in her grey eyes, the dark elf gently pressed two fingers to her lips, silencing the unspoken question.
'Shh. No, Nerdanel, I'm not taking back my words. Nor did I ever intend to. But believe me – I respect you far too much for it to happen like this. In an unfinished house, on a table, with the risk of being seen. You deserve far more,' Malekith's half-whisper grew languid. Full not only of reasoned words but of a hidden promise. 'I'll do everything properly. Right after the house-warming. I'll speak to your father. You'll receive a gift from me, made with my own hands – as our people's custom dictates. A gift from the finest craftsman of the Ñoldor. You'll enter this house not as a guest, kissing the master in the corners when no one is looking, but as its rightful mistress and princess. And then …'
The lips of the Witch King drew near to her pointed ear kissing behind it, gently catching the sensitive spot – then travelling down her neck.
'Then, we'll return to this moment, Ner. If you agree to stand beside me. Not only here, but at the helm of our people, if it comes to it.'
'You …' the maiden sighed deeply, now in control of herself, though still clinging tightly to the Elda. 'You know my answer, Fëanáro. Yes.'
In the halls of Aulë, the Maker of Earth's Firmament, there raged a whirlwind of righteous fury, resentment, and green life, crashing down upon metal and stone like the ninth wave striking the coastal cliffs. Fleshly forms were cast off like unneeded garments – what now opposed each other were not the majestic figures familiar to the eyes of the Eldar. No, should one of the great master's pupils have entered at that moment, they would have witnessed a battle of two fëar. Two mighty elements, rising in wrath against one another.
Roots of rapidly sprouting plants tore up the stone floor with a speed barely perceptible even to the eyes of the Ñoldor. Vines entwined iron spikes, cutting through their surface with leaves as a knife cuts through butter. The unseen hand of Nature brought down the walls as if purposefully declaring that no hand-made creation could withstand its power.
Yet the cracks in stone and metal healed in an instant as though they had never been, burying the roots beneath them. The holes in the walls were concealed by new layers of rock, revealing eternity and immovability. And steel tips, spinning and clashing, severed the green shoots. Then the Fire of the Depths, splashing forth from colossal forges, scorched the Element that had intruded upon its home.
And in a moment, struggling fiercely against the stone but unable to endure the battle with the heat of the earth's heart, the greenery retreated with a soft sigh, still swirling in wounded pride near the entrance to the Halls.
'So, is this the fate your children shall bring upon mine?' the leaves rustled bitterly, demanding. 'An axe for the trees and winged flame for their Shepherds? Again you have contrived without counsel, without thought!'
'The design is not mine, but I wish to bring it to life – with the aid of a pupil. Are we, my pupils and I, outcasts upon the lands of Aman?' the flame replied sternly to the greenery, roaring and fanning its heat. Tongues of fire rose to the very ceiling of the halls. 'Have we broken the Father's decrees, as Melkor did? No! We serve His purpose faithfully, asking no reward. But why then do I hear for the second time reproaches cast against our work, when even Eru Himself accepted my gifts and granted me leave to fashion children of my own? Did not each of you do likewise? Did Manwë seek my counsel when he made his Messengers and Þorontar spread his wings in the sky? Was Ulmo condemned when he formed the Serpents of the Sea, or Oromë when he summoned his hounds? Did you not, yourself, when the Father granted you this right, bring forth the forest's guardians, who, as you yourself foretold, shall bring death to my children, my pupils and smiths? I am no less than any of you, save perhaps Súlimo alone!'
'I made my Shepherds only to protect those who cannot protect themselves!' the whirlwind of green leaves rustled angrily once more. 'Will not your children leave behind them only scorched wastelands? First these,' a vine lashed out towards the anvil, forged especially to be gifted to the Dwarves. 'And now these!' the leaves gestured to a toy winged serpent made by Fëanáro. 'Do you so despise me that you would utterly destroy my children?'
A tongue of fire, like a whip, lashed the vine that sought to reach the anvil. The flame's roar deepened, wounded by the injustice of the accusation.
'Never have I wished death upon all your children. Did I not stand against Melkor in the last war, as did all? Did we not fight for a world free of him? Never shall my children destroy all about them on a whim. I saw them as friends and allies to the Ñoldor, my beloved pupils, and as messengers for myself.'
The greenery stilled as if locked in heavy, painful reflection.
'You will not turn away from your designs nor your pupil's,' the leaves at last sighed sadly. 'Very well. But then I beg of you one thing. Alongside fervour, give your children wisdom. Your first creations have no love for that which grows and blossoms, relying only on what their hands have made. Let your second creations love the green world more, like the Eldar and the Ñoldor, being a part of it. Let them when they hunt do so with understanding, for sustenance, not for sport. And if they wield fire – let it be to protect their friends and allies, not to rend the land. I beg you, instil in them awareness and responsibility for their power and for the world that shall be their home!'
Saying nothing more, the whirlwind of leaves swept away, leaving the fire and the firmament to mend the destruction alone.
Crimson, black, and silver. Just like many years ago, far from here. But for the first time in this world. A symbol – and for everyone its meaning varied, Chaos damn it. For each group, it signified something different. For him – the return of something long lost. Not yet a revenge for disgraceful defeat and death but its beginning. The foundation for future victories might very well be laid today.
For others, like this entire house-warming in general – another sign that the young son of the king had begun to act. No loud quarrels with father or stepmother, no scandals, but a stepping out from under Finwë's shadow. Retaining the legacy of the family's single colour – true silver, the colour of the king – but also gaining his own. So different from the calm silver-blue garments of the king, and even more so from the gold and snow-white fabrics of the queen.
A silent confrontation, without a trace of rebellion or disrespect.
Malekith raised a goblet of wine to his lips with pleasure, the hospitable smile of a welcoming host on his face, and in his thoughts – the condescension of observing from above as he watched the feasting guests. Most of them had gathered in the spacious courtyard of the house.
His lips smiled saying the right words. His hands gave gifts to many of the guests. From finely-forged weapons crafted by Fëanáro (what better gift for a future people of warriors?) to stones that glowed beneath the stars, lighting the path for travellers. And his eyes searched keenly through the crowd for those who had not come merely to honour the celebration of a promising craftsman, nor out of friendship, nor simply for revelry. Those who had come with intent – or, at least, interest.
Finwë was obviously here. Of course, the ruler of the Ñoldor would never miss a small celebration of his firstborn. But he could not fail to notice that his son had chosen his own colours. A declaration from the king's son always carried a purpose, and Malekith had no doubt that there would be a conversation later.
The Vala Aulë was expected and welcome. After closely inspecting his student's house he seemed pleased and invited him to visit his Halls in the coming days. The Witch King's golden eyes gleamed with anticipation as he recalled the feeling that emanated from the god. Fully absorbed in his work, eyes alight, mind consumed with new creation, nearly everything else pushed aside. Could fortune truly have smiled on Aenarion's son? Could it be?
The cold, piercing but already familiar gaze of a future enemy bored into the prince from across the crowd. Malekith sipped his wine, quietly scoffing. Of course, the ruler of the Vanyar, just like his daughter, could not fail to appear – if only due to kinship ties with the ruling family of the Ñoldor. Their presence was neither here nor there– far more telling was the fact that they were the only Vanyar who had come to the celebration, considering that Finwë's wedding had been so overcrowded with golden heads one could hardly move. A polite, yet very clear outlining of unseen boundaries being built, even as the factions themselves only began to take shape.
Galwë of Alqualondë, one of the finest seafarers of the Teleri, was a surprise to be sure, but a welcome one. Aenarion's son narrowed his eyes thoughtfully gazing at Olwë's envoy. Clearly, he had come now on his king's orders. But what was to stop this acquaintance from developing further? Might it be possible to draw in the Teleri along with their king? Or at least part of them if Olwë proved stubborn? Clearly worth consideration. The coming journey eastward would require a fleet. Preferably their own.
Flashes of red flame among the dark-haired crowd. Mahtan and Nerdanel. Malekith smiled faintly meeting the red-haired girl's gaze and nodding almost imperceptibly. The gifts to Urundil and his daughter had been made personally, crafted to fit their hands alone. And other gifts, far more symbolic, already awaited their time. Since the girl clearly was ready and had given her consent, the Witch King saw no more reason to delay the betrothal and wedding. He had restrained himself long enough.
Faces passed, one after another. Some the prince had seen more than once – those who had answered the call for help when this very house had to be built. Most of them already held a certain warmth toward Fëanáro, and after this celebration that warmth would only grow. The laying of the foundation for future loyalty. Others he saw for the first time or knew only in passing. He would have to find a correct approach to them.
Yet under the gaze of golden eyes, someone kept catching his attention – someone who stood out starkly from the crowd. And did so quite naturally. Inevitably drew the eye by contrast – the third golden-haired head at the entire celebration. Young, clever, crafty, and skilful, and at this very moment joking with another, wearing green and gold. There – their eyes met again, this time with a sly smirk and a toast raised in salute.
Malekith returned the smirk to Laurefindë, nodding with comprehension. They had understood one another. There would be a conversation.
Duality was an interesting trait. On one side, there were the Ñoldor. On the other – the Vanyar. Only here, unlike Finwë and Indis, it was the other way around. A father from among the close companions of Ingwë and Manwë, a mother from the people beloved by Aulë. And the son – Chaos knew what he was. Until recently he managing to live as part of both peoples. Famous as a peerless spearman and woodcarver among the Ñoldor and truly beloved among them, but welcome also among the Vanyar. There were rumours that this handsome youth did not care much for his family's colours. All the more surprising to have seen him first at the construction. And even more here. Clearly not without reason. Especially given the fact that golden heads at this feast numbered only three, and two of them were here by kinship to Finwë.
Later still, when the fireworks had ceased, and Telperion had flared into brilliance, when most of the guests having thoroughly celebrated had gone to their homes or been laid to rest in the house, the Witch King chuckled contentedly upon hearing soft footsteps. A moment later, light-footed, nearly silent Laurefindë stepped out onto the third-floor balcony of the house.
'I was glad to see you here. Though it was unexpected,' the dark elf said, filling a goblet with wine and sliding it towards his companion, who had just taken the seat beside him. 'I thought my invitation would be burned, ground to dust, and the ashes scattered over Melkor's imprisoned head.'
'How poorly I'm thought of,' the half-Ñoldo grinned openly, accepting the jest and taking a generous sip of the wine. 'Have I truly earned such suspicion? To betray a friend with whom I built this very house and not attend his house-warming, not support him in such a momentous time?'
'I am truly grateful to you, my friend. Alas, I doubted you. But how not to doubt when you were nearly the only golden-haired Elda at this celebration, while others gave no reply to my invitation, neither word nor deed?'
The golden eyes of the Witch King gleamed with open amusement as he looked out over the city bathed in silver light, though he kept a close eye on his companion's expression from the corner of his gaze. Would he react or pretend not to notice?
'Alas, alas … it's all the setting's fault. And I warned you, it would turn out too gloomy. Especially for the people of my father,' Laurefindë chuckled quietly. 'Still, I must admit, these colours have a certain charm. I'm starting to like it here. As I do your gift, by the way,' he added with a careless nod toward the long halberd, taller than he by a couple of heads, with a blackwood shaft, a long spear-tip and crescent blade, all covered in patterns and runes. 'I'm good with a spear. I think I'll quickly learn to handle this beauty.'
Malekith leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, sipping his wine slowly. The answer, which for now bore no hint of falsehood, was telling indeed. Beginning with the phrase 'people of my father'. Not his own.
Good. The lad positioned himself as a Ñoldo – not ashamed to visit the house of Finwë's firstborn. And he'd shown it before all, when his father's people entirely ignored the feast – making a statement of their own. Meanwhile, he hadn't hesitated to imply the gift was appreciated and understood. And, of course, it was done in the typically elvish manner, to say nothing outright.
Naturally, a healthy paranoia would remain for some time. The boy would be tested. Yet for now, it would be foolish not to take note of such a promising ally – clever, cunning, skilled with weapons and more. And, importantly, respected among the people, like Mahtan.
'I'm glad that, in the end, you liked my colours, my home, and my gift. And how sad it is that at this rate, I may have to give up all of it. As may you,' the Sorcerer sighed, shaking his head. 'For, judging by what's going on at the court of the Valar and with my dear father, it won't be long before not only Tirion, but all of Valinor turns into a single virtuous choir. And the Ñoldor will sing there in the third or fourth row. Falsetto.'
The first probing jab, heralding thoughts Malekith had long harboured. With Ñolofinwë's birth, the number of Vanyar in Indis' retinue – and in Tirion generally – had begun to grow. Slowly, imperceptibly. But the path events were taking was becoming visible.
'What a pity,' Laurefindë grimaced at the words 'sing falsetto', pouring himself more wine. It seemed the comment had struck a chord. Deeply. 'So I'm to walk the world to its End in green and gold, singing in a choir. And just when I'd cautiously begun to consider changing to black and red.'
Fingers in a black glove drummed with satisfaction on the chair's armrest. No, Malekith had not misjudged this candidate for the future captain of the Black Guard. The word was spoken. Next came the mutual testing of ground, potential bargaining, and perhaps the first hints of future plans.
'Is that so? Who knows – if you've grown so weary of green and gold, perhaps it's not such a bad idea to change colours,' the son of Aenarion drew a deep breath of fresh night air. 'Especially if, along with those colours, came the role of tutor to future princes, commander of the personal guard – and, who knows, perhaps even the right hand of the king.'
Laurefindë raised his brows with mockery, listening.
'The words "right hand of the king" are sweet indeed, my friend. But they carry a curious taste. Is notyour father our king, Fëanáro? Is he not the ruler here, and will he not rule long, for there is no death in Aman? Or did I mishear, and you meant to say "prince" instead of "king"?'
'I said only what I meant to say, Laure. As for how … somehow. Some day. Somewhere …' the golden eyes of the Sorcerer, clearly enjoying the verbal duel, turned eastward, towards the direction the balcony faced.
Laurefindë's blue eyes first narrowed in surprise. Then widened, as understanding of what exactly was implied struck him like lightning.
'Even so …'
'Correct. Eternity is long. And how better to pass it? Singing falsetto in a choir? Or not?'
'Certainly not falsetto,' Laurefindë laughed softly. But he sobered quickly, casting aside metaphors and jest. 'Very well … my prince. I will gladly become commander of your guards and mentor to your heirs. If any are born.'
'I am already working on it,' the dark elf replied gently, recalling the warmth of skin, the cascade of copper hair, and kind grey eyes.
The fire was scarlet, and the brazier of chips blazed. The tongues of flame in the forge brazier hungrily licked at the large eggs – each half the size of an elf's head – hard as stone. Master and pupil, their eyes stinging with focus, sang a magical song of creation, an echo of the Great Music.
Only a faint but distinct crackle made them fall silent. Malekith stepped sharply to the table, ignoring such trivialities as fresh burns, and snatched one of the eggs from the brazier – its surface now traced with hairline fractures, one after another. Something within was chirping faintly, carving its way out. Slowly but surely.
A moment later, the shell seemed to burst from within, showering the Elda in fragments. Large pieces fell away, leaving in his scorched hands a tiny, burning-hot creature. The Sorcerer hissed softly as minute claws clung to his skin, the hatchling shifting to make itself comfortable in his grasp.
Malekith's eyes shone with triumph. His breath caught as he gazed upon the marvel in his hands. A tiny head on a delicate neck, four limbs, miniature wings … A scaly wyrmling, the first of the Rámalóci, the great winged dragons of Middle-earth, sneezed sparks. The mind of the dark elf felt the soft brush of ósanwë.
'Warm. Good!'
Intelligent. Intelligent! Yes, that would require caution and adaptation. Yes, in some way they would belong to Aulë and might heed his teachings. But the price was not so high, all considered. Especially for the power they would bring the Ñoldor. And Malekith, who would raise them.
'Greetings, little one,' the golden eyes smiled tenderly at the tiny dragon.
[1] – 'Horse.' Quenya.
[2] – 'Awaken, dragon.' Quenya.
[3] – A rune from the Eltharin script, the ancient elvish tongue of the Asur, and its derivative, Druhir, created by the Druchii.