Loyalty Unyielding by Zlu and Luff

| | |

Dagor Dagorath

A/N There is not much information on Dagor Dagorath in the lore, so we took some minor liberties with interpreting it, while trying to stay true to what is actually said about it. Enjoy!

Chapter 10

Dagor Dagorath

* * *

Ages passed. Wars were waged. Generations replaced generations. Legends were made. Others were forgotten. But none of it echoed in the vast emptiness beyond the world.

Melkor had long since lost count of the days, weeks and even ages. A lesser mind would have been destroyed by such an expanse of utter solitude. But the dark Vala only brooded.

Chained with Angainor once more, Melkor sat on his knees, unable to move. The collar that had been made for him out of his own crown was fashioned so that he could never lift his head in pride, and thus it remained forever bowed. The physical discomfort of it was easy to bear. The humiliation - less so. The Valar intended the position to teach him humility but instead it only fed the slowly burning flame of his hatred.

Age after age, Melkor spent planning his vengeance on the Ainur, the Eldar and most of all the despicable Edain, who had dared injure him. For although his hewn feet had been restored, when he had been brought to Valinor and Manwë first learnt of the cruel act and was bewildered and dismayed by it - Melkor found little comfort in that act of mercy. For even though his feet were once more where they should be, there was no feeling in them. Indeed the Valar knew not of vengeance and hate, but of justice and compassion. And yet it appeared that even their compassion was not great enough for one fallen as low as him.

The present moment was no different from the eternity that had passed since his imprisonment or the eternity that awaited him. Melkor seethed. He was a creature of here and now, he thrived in action. Idleness was the worst torture to him. Trapped in nothingness, unable to move, at least Melkor had kept his mind busy. Over the ages he had dwelt on all the most excruciating tortures he would apply to his enemies, once he was free, he invented schemes, machines of war, lies and intrigues that he could possibly use when he broke free.

For Melkor intended to break free.

But after centuries of brooding and hatred, after the countless decades of plotting and dreaming of vengeance vile and gruesome, even Morgoth, the Black Foe of the World, at last grew weary. And on that day he bowed his head in submission, letting the image of the Door slip from his dark eyes for the first time in millennia.

Morgoth heaved a sigh, as his shoulders slowly sagged under an invisible burden. By now even he could not go on with his hate and rage any longer. The thought that the world beyond the Door had likely forgotten that he ever existed, no longer infuriated the Dark Vala. The image of prospering lands of Eldar and Edain caused no burning desire to level towns and villages to the ground. It all seemed distant, far away, like fading memories of a dream, a dream that had been left in the past forever. A dream he was not meant to have again.

Melkor let his eyes fall shut and brooded no more. For the first time in millennia his mind grew as still, as his body had been forced to remain... and in that moment he heard the clanking of Angainor, as the chain loosened ever so slightly around him.

At once the Vala's vigor was restored and flames lit up in his wide open eyes, as Melkor struggled against his bonds with a violence of a firestorm. But the chain tightened again around him, like it had never shifted in the first place. Despite that, this small rattling sound, this flash of fiery hope was enough to awaken Melkor from his forlorn trance. He could break free. Not all was lost! The Ainu struggled against his bonds for a while longer, hoping that the chain would finally give in. But it did not.

Forgetting all of his anger or his weariness, the Vala pondered on the sequence of events that had led to Angainor loosening. He had bowed his head, looked away from the outline of the Door and he let his shoulders sag...

Melkor tried that again, quivering with anticipation.

Nothing happened.

The Vala pondered on the matter again. In his mind he tried to retrace the path his thoughts had wandered. And then suddenly he thought he knew it. It was his resignation and calm that had loosened the chain. And it was his own vivacity and his anger that had kept him prisoner! The more he struggled and tensed, as with dark satisfaction he plotted revenge or hatefully swore it against his enemies, recollecting past hurts, the tighter Angainor held him. Ha! Had he just discovered a hidden defect in the intricate craft of Aulë? Or had this loophole been left to him on purpose, for some reason? It did not matter. Yet how foolish was Manwë, if he had known of it, and yet had chosen to leave it there! And oh, how will the Valar regret it. Because now that Melkor saw through the treacherous device and found a flaw in the otherwise perfect trap, he was intending to use it. It seemed to him now that to break free, he needed to purge all thoughts from his mind. It appeared so simple!

And yet, it proved much harder to actually achieve.

The possibility of escape and hope of returning onto Arda left Melkor agitated and livelier than ever. No matter how hard he tried to banish all thoughts, one or two would slip by and have him giddy with excitement and anticipation. So the chain held him firmly. And that angered him! ...in turn causing the chain to hold ever steadier. What a wicked device Aulë had made after all, and what a cruel torment it was to be so close to freedom and yet unable to reach out and take it! And yet he was determined to succeed, yes, he was going to break free of those chains and out of his prison.

After several century-long attempts to calm down, Melkor realized he must have been doing something wrong. He reached back with his memory and tried to find some method to achieving calmness. Someone he had known or seen must have implemented that at some point. He thought intently for a while, and then he knew. Back when the world was young and the Edain were not yet awoken, Mairon, the Maia of Aulë, his long-term spy, had come to join him on his Middle-Earth.

He brought with him his craft, and in Melkor's smithies he taught the Vala's other subjects many secrets of the craft. And Melkor, restless as he had always been, had seen him work on a number of occasions. There was much work for the smiths in those days, and many machines Sauron had crafted almost alone, for none other had the skill or mind to build what he had designed, before he showed them how.

Some of those tasks were tedious and exceptionally boring in the Dark Vala's eyes. And thus Melkor had found himself quite fascinated by the focus and tenacity of the Maia, who spent countless days on a piece of metal, until it was in Mairon's eyes perfect. During those most tiresome and monotonous jobs, the smith used to chant rhythmical songs of forging that entranced him and helped him work for days on end.

Now Melkor tried to recall one of those. He succeeded in the end, and muttering the song under his breath he tried to focus on it and it alone.

* * *

On one side of the Door Númenor had drowned, the Ring had been lost and found and finally destroyed in the fires of the mountain that had made it. The Eldar and a few chosen ones of the other races had departed west by the Straight Road to Valinor. Left as the hosts and masters of Middle-earth, mankind flourished.

While on the other side Melkor remained, chanting quietly a song from ages long past.

Angainor had long ago slipped off of his shoulders and his neck and lay curled around him like the skin of a serpent, discarded and forgotten. But Melkor's eyes were closed and he chanted still. His mind was not clear of thought or memory, nay. Even as he had attempted to purge all thought from his mind, that he could not do. Uninvited, the memories had still come, and unbidden as they were, they took root inside his spirit and engulfed his mind, like moss and weed devour an abandoned fastness.

Those were not memories of triumph, or hate, or war, or blood he spilled.
Not those of Silmarils in iron. Not those of Eldar he had killed.
Instead his mind was filled with moments, to which he never had paid heed
With little things of no importance, with acts for which there was no need.

The feasts he held, the ale and beer, the toasts his Balrogs raised in cheer,
The crude ork jokes, and Gothmog's leer, and how at Húrin he would jeer.
His mighty dragons made from naught, awing in clouds of vapors foul.
Draugluin's soft, yet heavy trot, Carcharoth's mighty growl and howl.

The songs he sung, beasts he sent forth. The pleasant darkness he had spread
Around his fastness in the north, that filled Beleriand with dread.
Utumno's murk and Angband's fire, Anfauglith, land forever dire.
His allies, all the fallen Maiar, whose doings he did then inspire.

Such were Melkor's thoughts.

And bittersweet they were, for the Vala realized that they were but memories and never would repeat again. For Gothmog was no more, Utumno and Angband had been destroyed and leveled to the ground, his servants, his wolves and other beasts had likely perished as well.

In truth, he doubted even echoes of those memories lingered still in the world. Melkor raised his head, as much as the collar would allow, and for the first time in many ages he looked longingly at the Door.

A moment passed before he realized he was no longer bound. Then, without any mirth or triumph he rose unsteadily, on his unfeeling feet and he stepped out of the iron coils of the chain. His black hands called forth flames, that he used to heat the collar until he could bend it and take it off. Yet he did not discard it.

Proudly Melkor approached the Door of Night and in his hands he held the crown that had been and that he now intended to make a crown once more. For Arda was to witness the return of its true king and master and he would not come crownless.

 * * *

Burning did Morgoth break through the Door of Night and as a spirit of flame, raging and terrible to behold he flew over the world. A world that he could no longer recognize. He searched the land below for the Iron Mountains, where he once had dwelt, but he could not find them.

In fact the world was not at all like he had remembered it. It was strange and twisted and it angered Melkor even to look at it. It appeared to him that his precious flat Arda had been crumpled into the awkward shape of an orb. For what reason or purpose, the Vala could not fathom. But it felt almost as if Eru had crumpled it in his mighty hand, as if Arda was but a flawed piece of parchment, waiting to be discarded. Why? Melkor tried to understand as he burnt across the skies. Was it because it bore his marks? Was it because he had once wished for nothing else than to make it his and now even in the eyes of his father it was tainted, marred, good for nothing?

No matter where he looked he saw the presence of the Edain and Edain only. Seemingly no dwellings of Eldar or Naugrim were left on the face of Arda. It was a strange new world, where no mighty force of darkness ruled the north, no mountains spat ashes into the air, no terrible shadows lurked in the forests at night. It was a land of peace and prosperity, where men lived without fear and strife, having forgotten all about dragons and orcs, werewolves and vile spirits, and all the other creatures that once did Melkor's bidding.

In truth, Melkor had not expected a welcome, but neither had he imagined his allies to be wiped out so completely by the time he would break free. No matter where he looked, he could not see a place for himself on this new Arda… his Arda, stolen from him and stripped of all its somber wild beauty, warped into a world boring and mundane. A realm too idyllic and stagnant to bear. Was this why Eru had not made up his mind about its utter destruction yet? Was it because him and his Ainur liked it better this way?

Enraged, the dark Vala flew as a comet through the heavens, making the children of Eru stop their labors and look up in awe.

And thus with their faces raised to the sky, the descendants of the first Men, saw the Sun and Moon torn asunder by the raging living flame. And fire and molten stone rained on the lands of Men, killing dozens of thousands, destroying cities, burning centuries old forests, drying lakes and rivers and making oceans boil, like they did in the beginning of times.

But it was not the end of their misery, for in that moment Eärendil caught up with the fugitive Ainu and he cast Morgoth from the sky and the dark Vala fell onto the white, prosperous city of Minas Tirith, turning it into charred, smoldering ruin.

There, amidst boundless darkness that swallowed Arda, Melkor arose again as a great firestorm. And those who survived to behold his rise either fled in terror or fell to their knees and worshipped him. For he rose high above them in his might and he lit the dark sky with his fire and apart from the cold dim light of the far away stars only Melkor was now there to light their world.

And Men, who did not flee, recognized him as their lord, their God from the Void, who had long ages ago promised to them the immortality that they deserved.

And so Melkor knew that although none of his closest servants lived now to come to his call, he was not left without allies. For the corruption and evil he had sown in the hearts of Men endured through the centuries, and only awaited the moment to bloom.

And yet despite the unexpected discovery of new allies, Morgoth still saw clearly that there was no permanent place for him in this new world. He could not rule over beings as lowly as Men without his Maiar to manage them for him. Mortal demands and needs were too petty, men's lives too short for him to pay attention.

This was not at all the return he had dreamt of in the Void. There was no kingdom to rule and little hope of building one. It seemed that now there was indeed only destruction left for him. And thus, resigned Melkor grew content with the cards he had been dealt, and he spoke to his human worshippers. He ordered them to gather their kin, gather arms and march with him on Valinor, the Undying Lands. And they did his bidding, for never had they beheld a being such as he and the shreds of old legends that still echoed in their hearts, whispered to them that once they seized the lands he spoke of, their lives would be never-ending.

* * *

In fact Melkor did not know how to get to Valinor anymore. Neither did he know that there was one way only leading there now and that this way was closed to him. But he spoke with great confidence and his followers harkened, for in the darkness that had fallen on the world, his was the brightest light and so it was him they decided to follow.

Men, who now inhabited Arda the sphere, proved to be no smarter, than those who first set foot on its flat form. And thus Melkor was delighted as he led them with war and massacre over the lands of those who had days ago seen them as brothers. And in their march all beings foul - orcs, wolves, trolls, spiders and dragons, that had remained hidden deep in the roots of Arda, now crawled out of their secret dens and lairs to join them.

And Melkor brooded no more, instead he anticipated the moment, when he would soak the Holy Lands with the blood of the children of Eru, who were going with war to Valinor of their own free will.

* * *

The bloody, dreadful march of Melkor's forces however was not unnoticed by the Valar. After he had cast Morgoth from the sky, Eärendil returned to the Ainur and warned them of Melkor's coming. And as they learned of Morgoth's promise to the vile men he led, they were distraught. For they knew that many mortal kingdoms would fall to ruin and much blood of the innocent would be spilled, if the Dark Foe of the World kept leading his followers to a land they could not reach. The Valar did not know if Melkor had lied to the mortals, or if he was himself deluded, but they decided they could not let the carnage continue.

If Melkor could not come to Valinor, then Valinor would have to come to Melkor. For such was the second prophecy of Mandos and thus such too was the will of Eru.

* * *

After a long march in primeval darkness lit only by their divine leader, invigorated with the spoils of war, the host of men, orcs, fell beasts, dragons and other creatures of darkness reached a great valley. It was a strange and ancient place, unlike any they had passed through on their way. And Morgoth, to his silent surprise recognized it as a place on Aman. His army celebrated, for they reached the land they intended to conquer sooner than they had possibly hoped. As they stood there, cheering, Melkor from his titanic height saw a small troop approaching them from the darkness of the valley. Yet those were not Eldar, like he had expected. And they came not to banish him from the land.

They were Númenóreans, those who had sailed with Ar-Pharazôn the Golden against Valinor, after Sauron had deceived them. And they came now from the Caves of the Forgotten where they had been trapped, led through the darkness by the far-off flicker of Melkor's fire, which had guided them now like a lighthouse amid the storm. Yet they were not as timid and humble as the men of Middle-earth, for they had not been conquered by descendants of the Elendili, and despite their long imprisonment by the Valar, they did not consider themselves defeated by the Powers either.

Now they came before Melkor proud and unafraid. And Ar-Pharazôn knew the mighty being of fire, who stood at the head of the host. And in his vainglory he deemed himself worthy to speak to the God he had worshipped. And not only did he speak, but he accused Melkor for failing him and his men, after they had been loyal and worshipped him many a year under the guidance of his treacherous herald, Tar-Mairon. Long did Ar-Pharazôn speak and discourteous were his words. For a man, who had dared to sail with war against those he had once deemed gods, fretted not over blasphemy.

Melkor looked down at the arrogant mortal, towering over Ar-Pharazôn like a giant sacrificial flame from the temple once built for his worship in Númenor. He did not interrupt the man, for the more Ar-Pharazôn questioned and accused him, the more Melkor learned of what had come to pass, while he had been in the Void. And he planned to use that information to his advantage.

So, when the mortal at last fell silent, Melkor responded. "Life eternal thou hast sought. And hast thou not by far outlived thy ancestors? Long hast thou lived, yet thou art mortal still. If thou art come here to question me, I shall slaughter thee. Flee now to the Valar, who have wronged thou, humble thyself and beg for a swifter end, if thou dream'st no more of immortality… Or… if thou wishest for it still, then join me in my march, King of Men, and lead thy people to fulfill your destiny, and I shall guide ye myself to the conquest of the blessed land."

Ar-Pharazôn was livid from such treatment - for he had long outlived his ancestors indeed but what life had it been in the darkness? - yet even in his army there were too few men to try to take on the God of the Void and his host. If a god could at all be destroyed by mortal men. Melkor's inhuman voice, his body of flame and the sheer power of his presence secretly terrified the King of Men, for much he had heard from Sauron about the god from the Void, but none of it could compare to the vision that stood before him now, single-handedly lighting the long moonless night that had fallen on the world. Slowly the king's anger subsided, then awe and troubled thought took its place.

Despite his hurt pride, the Númenórean king did not fail to see the futility of his other options, that Melkor had pointed out. Even if the Valar pardoned him, he would be doomed to slow decay and finally death, the end he had dreaded so horribly. The only chance to get what he had come to Valinor for in the first place, was to accept Melkor's offer. And so he did, and grudgingly he bowed before his god. Likewise did his men.

And when they arose, they were given the place at the head of the host of Men, and Ar-Pharazôn led the troops after Melkor, beside the trail of fire the Vala left in his wake, in which the dragons treaded, growing in it mightier. Much like their master had grown, since he had returned to Arda that was filled with his power and essence.

When the army of Melkor entered the valley in full, trumpets blew and the Hosts of Valinor marched in from the other end and among them were the Maiar, the Eldar who dwelt in Eldamar and even those who had returned from the Halls of Mandos. There were dwarves, who had come from the deeps, good men, and numerous other benevolent beings, who had all arrived at the call of the Valar to fight in the final battle. A large and diverse force it was.

Only the Powers themselves were not part of it. For the Valar were only to watch the conflict that was about to unfold.

And behold it they did.

Evil men, orcs and foul beasts all clashed with elves and dwarves, and those of mankind, who had not allied themselves with the Dark Foe of the World. Man fought against man, brother against brother. Vicious was the battle, and many fell on both sides, and in the fire of Melkor and his dragons blood boiled and turned into a crust on the earth around the battlefield. The earth itself was soaked with the gore and grime of war. And forever were the blessed lands marred and corrupted beyond redemption.

And Melkor triumphed. Even as his host was being destroyed and slowly overpowered, even as dragon fell, and man fled. Melkor fought ever on. And countless mortals and elves perished under Grond, the mace that he had once more crafted for himself ere the battle had begun. Many who came too close in desperate assault burned alive in the flames of Morgoth. No spear of arrow could penetrate the vile flames and hurt the Dark Vala, for he was on his Arda. And after being away from it for so long, after the hollowness of the Void, now Melkor was gorging on the power he had once poured into it, power that it now lent again back to him.

Then seeing that the battle could not be won as long as Morgoth stood, and he could not be defeated by the Children of Eru, the Vala Tulkas left the circle of his brethren and he descended onto the battlefield. And Morgoth was afraid. For as in days long past he knew that Tulkas would wrestle him, and that he would lose to the terrible laughing giant. But this time there was no running away and cornered as he was, knowing inside his very spirit that it was his last stand, Morgoth fought with all his might.

But Tulkas won. Tulkas had always won.

Restrained and forced to extinguish his flames, Melkor, now a horrid vision of himself, charred and enraged, smeared with blood of countless others, both friend and foe, was forced on his knees. Seething, he beheld his brethren, who encircled him, as he awaited their judgment. And then Námo spoke. Melkor was judged guilty and corrupted beyond all hope, and the world he had marred could not exist anymore. Thus both Melkor and Arda Marred were to be destroyed.

At those words the Vala's rage changed into sudden horror, and fire froze in is veins, for he had never expected an end so final for both him and his world. As long as Arda still stood, Melkor could not be killed. It was only the destruction of the world, in which his might was contained that could truly quench his spirit... and such precisely was now the verdict of the Valar.

Not even in his worst nightmares had Melkor imagined that his brethren would go as far as murdering him and destroying his precious Arda. It was insane, it was unjust! Melkor shouted. They might have bound him and put him away beyond the confines of the world but he could not fathom how they could intend to execute on one of their own. After all, he had never done the fourteen Powers any actual harm – despite the fact he had wished to on many an occasion – and his greatest crimes have always been against the children of Eru and occasionally those of Aulë, not against the Valar!

Thus Melkor screamed at them of injustice and treachery, and Manwë beheld him with solemn sadness. But he did not mourn his brother's passing, only what Melkor had been reduced to by his own malice.

In that moment, summoned by the Valar, a mortal stood forth. He had climbed the tall rock before which Melkor was forced to bow and stood before the Dark Vala with his black sword in his hand. It was Túrin Turambar, son of Húrin, the one of all the sons of men, whose kin Melkor had done the greatest harm. So great had been his grief, that his spirit had not departed from the world, like that of his forefathers, but had remained in Valinor, among the Ainur, awaiting the last battle, Dagor Dagorath. And now the battle was ended and it was to Túrin that the last blow belonged.

Melkor did not notice him at once. And when he did, he beheld the human with surprise. Then, as Melkor's gaze shifted to the sword, and he understood, why the mortal had arrived and what he was going to do, the surprise turned into sheer disbelief and Morgoth almost laughed, for the very concept itself was laughable – a mortal, killing a god…

But Melkor did not laugh. For even as the smile started forming on his bloodstained face, even as he breathed in the air needed for the laughter to resound in the darkness, the black sword sunk into his chest up to the hilt and it pierced his cold cruel heart.

In that moment the sight of the little man before him suddenly stopped being amusing, and Melkor gaped at the hateful look on the mortal's face, as it swam in and out of focus before the dying Vala's eyes. This was to be his last vision before his complete annihilation. The mortal was saying something, but Melkor couldn't hear it through the pounding of blood and noise in his ears. Nothing of what Túrin said entered his mind.

And through the shock and the horrid pain that overwhelmed him, not letting him draw breath or form a single word, Morgoth wondered only, who the fool before him was and what his quarrel with him had been.

Those petty mortals had always looked the same to him.

* * *

It was all over.

Death, terrifying and mysterious to the Vala, was enveloping him. Much of it he had dealt to others, but never had he imagined that he would face it himself. Now when it arrived to take him, Melkor was terrified.

The image of the foolish mortal, who had slain him was gone. Sound, vision, smell and feeling were all gone as well. He was falling into nothingness and the world was but a speck, floating swiftly out of sight. It was happening too fast, the Flame Imperishable that had always burnt inside him now became just a common flame and it was waning, dimming. Life was leaving him, and there was no way to hold onto it, no way to reverse its flow.

Melkor did not think on what he had done, seen or heard, on what others had done by his will or against it. He did not recollect his triumphs or try to learn from his defeats. Even in death Melkor did not look back, focused as always only on the present. And all he could presently do was struggle for one last breath of Arda's air – air that was rightfully his.

But in that too, he failed.

Death overpowered him at last. And Melkor finally stopped fighting and gave in to its embrace. The solemn calm it offered was not like the solitude of the Halls of Mandos or his most recent imprisonment in the dull stillness of the void. This silent darkness foreboded no further brooding and scheming, no more aches, defeats or falls. It was final, a rest he had not previously even considered. As it engulfed him, the terror, anger and overwhelming despair faded from the Vala's mind and calm took their place.

And not even being aware of it, Melkor let go of what life still flickered inside him with the same peaceful resignation, weariness and calm, with which he had once allowed himself to fall asleep guarded by a friend of old.

Chapter End Notes

Grand finale coming in next chapter <3!

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment