The Supreme Artist by belegur

                                  PART ONE

THE CROOKED VISION

. . .

“I have always been certain in my father's love.”
“And I in the love of my father,” he says “yet he does things to grieve me.”
“My father does those things too.” I say and smile “I know that all these things here are toys he left to make me happy, but I am not happy. He asks me all the time why am I not happy, and I ask him: Why can't I make my own toys, father?
“And what does he say?”
“He says that he loves me and that he wants me back. He says that if I were to glace back, he would run towards me, hug me and kiss me. And then he would make a feast and the halls of Eä would be halls of merriment.”
“So why don't you?”
“Because I am certain in his love. Whatever I do he will not stop loving me, because I am his son, and even after a thousand years he would hug me and kiss me if I were to glace back.”
“Do you have to squander everything before that?”
“In the end, when I glance back, and I am naked and beaten and hurt he will throw upon me a beautiful raiment of stars, and everyone looking for me will overlook me mistaking me for the night sky.”
“That's a nice fancy.”
“Shut up. It's not a fancy. It will happen. He promised me that.”
“He didn't. You're lying.”
“My friend, I am not lying.” I lean to kiss his forehead and get my lips wet from the water. My friend blurs, then stills. “You will see, in the end, I will be...”
“In the middle of a purely vain enterprise, are we?” a voice behind me says.

My friend smiles at me, and then I send him away with my hand, and wash my face with water which held him like sunshine. With my eyes closed I smile and say: “And your reasons to be here are selfless?”

“Just don't blow your nose in the water.”

“Too late for that. I also took a piss in it.”

My brother laughs and sprinkles me with water that held my friend and that held sunshine, and which in his hand doesn't hold anything. He then kneels on the grass in his blue robe and behind him, in the same shade of blue, are his blue skys, cold and wreathed with laughter as a head of a victor.

“So, what did you think of the festival yesterday?”

“It was nice.” I say.

“And what did you think of the artist?”

“He is vain, but likeable.”

“And of his work?”

“Very clever.”

“Did you get a chance to talk to him?”

“I didn't.”

“Would you like to? I told him to stop by today. Shame we don't have a real night here. It would be something to see them in the dark.”

“Yes, they would be beautiful.”

Light as that in the dead black space where cold stars dwell - it would be like something living was put among the stars and it wouldn't fall behind them in majesty.

“I didn't want to say anything yesterday, but you seemed like you wanted to talk to him.”

“I'll talk to him today.”

“Try to make friends with him.” he says “I think that would be sweet.”

“I don't think he likes me very much.”

“Take a chance.”

. . .

Their light left the man who wore them in such a dark that at first I didn't notice him.

“He must have plucked them out of the sky” I thought and turned my eyes to the Star-Kindler expecting to see her wrathful because this one impoverished her sky. But she too was in awe and joy, in her sky-patch gown, a moment ago brilliant and pleasing to my eyes, but now blackend as charcoal. She said: “I bid you, bring them here so I can bless them.” And they came to her, carried on the head of this man as lights on a ship that was all darkness and that sailed on seas that were all darkness under the sky that was the same darkness.

“All-father” she called on the one that is all mercy, the protector of thieves and murderers and liars “don't let any foul hand touch them. Don't let them suffer the touch of the wicked. Anything that is foul and reaches for them in desire, burn.”

He wore them on his forehead at first but in time it seemed he grew jealous of our privilege and so he held them in his hands even though his hands then vanished in their brilliance.

I see now his face and it is proud and grim. He doesn't notice me so I too must be in darkness. No, he keeps his head down in adoration of his work. Now he raises his head and smiles as the King of Arda says praise.

The Judge raises from his seat and says: “The fate of Arda – earth, sea and sky – is locked within them.”

The artist is then asked: “From what are they made of?” Aulë, the Smith, names many substances. But the artist shakes his head.

“The best blacksmiths don't keep their art secret.” scolds Aulë, but smiling “It's not only the greatness of the work that makes light, but even more so that it is recognized as a thing of the world and not of oneself. The greater the work, the more it belongs to the world.”

The artist bows before the Smith, but reveals nothing all the same.

...

His love for me is such that by now it says more of his goodness than mine.

He hugs me and kisses me as if he had listened to my talks with my Father and now tries to make a mockery of His forgiveness. But he is limited where our Father is limitless and he will fail with me. Out Father overflows, He is the cup that is never empty no matter how thirsty are those who drink. My brother is a cup from which I have already taken many mouthfuls and now it is half empty. If I spill it now, it will not refill. And I will soon spill it without drinking. I will turn his glass and I will show him the emptiness of it. Then I will say: "Your love is not a spring everlasting. Behold the emptiness."
On this earth there is no chalice of love that I will not overturn. To every one of my Father's creatures, I will empty their glass and I will show them the emptiness of it. Because there is no love on this earth that can rival His, and to think otherwise is arrogance.

How wrong is my brother when he thinks he can love me without any uneasiness and wholeheartedly. And yet, will he be as happy as my Father when, in the end, I return and my Father holds a feast? Will he not, in that moment, say to my Father: "All these ages I have been by your side in good and bad. I have never left you or transgressed against your word, but have you ever gave me and my friends leave for merriment? But to this one, who has already taken his share and lost it all for nothing, to him you give such welcome?"

How little does my brother understand that I have made myself unhappy to get the greater portion of our Father's love. What reward do they expect, those who made themselves more glorious in His service? But greatly rewarded they shall be nonetheless, according to their measure. To my brother He will surely say: "It is true, you have always been by My side. Everything that is Mine is yours. Aren't you the overseer of My land? You served Me honorably, and you never transgressed against My word. With My glory your glory has been enhanced. But this son of Mine served Me and was diminished. He served Me even in his transgression as you did in your obedience."

My brother gives me now my golden cape but it slips from my back because he can't put it on me wholeheartedly. He says to me as I am kneeling before him: "You are forgiven. Rise." But can that be said by someone whose love for me can be spent? He says: "You will be treated with no grudge." But can he stop the thoughts that blossom in them, high-stemmed and full of vigor?
They have adorned the hall where I have abased myself. The flowers of their hate and suspicion are decked on me so that they cover me almost completely and nothing of myself is left underneath.

...

“What if you are not forgiven?” he asks “No, just listen for a second. What if your Father never forgives you? What if you stay unforgiven forever and ever and ever? Does not that make your actions – meaningless?”

I don't answer and he seems oddly pleased.

“Now, you must admitt that's a possibility.”

“Then I would know that his love is false” I say, not lifting my eyes, attaching a simple pin to my robe “and that everything he did with that love is false and that therefore my hatred of this world is right. But his love is not false.”

My friend laughs. “What a liar you are! Professing love and hatred, when you are so empty that you echo when I talk to you... I am tempted to throw something in you just to hear you rattle like a snake you are. But I don't think you could stand the pain... Even though, when one is so empty, one is tempted to fill oneself with pain.”

“Everyone is empty.” I say “You walk with me everyday. You have seen them. You know they are empty. That hurts me sometimes.”

“Who do you think you're fooling?” says my friend, with a grin of a fool on his face “Sometimes I think that even when we are alone, you're entertaining.”

“You're wrong.” I say “But I shall not lie. For this world, hatred is the feeling one should feel. If we did not hate this world, how could we ever hope to seek out our Father?”

“How twisted you are.” says my friend with no mirth “Do you even know anymore when you are lying and when you are telling the truth?”

“I never lie.” I say “Our father once said 'Thou shall not lie'. Who am I to disobey? And I don't want to see you anymore, my friend. You are just a remnant of what I once was. Today I remembered, I have tried to strangle you eons ago when you have raised your voice against my Father in the Great Song, and yet, you dare come again to me and claim friendship? Your lying tongue slipped out when you were choking and I should have plucked it out then and there.”

“Oh, the pain will rattle within you.” says my Enemy “And they will all know you for the snake you are.”

I took out the pin from my robe and stuck it into my Enemy's heart.

...

“You seem so serene these days.”

“I have no more doubts.” I say “I just want to serve our Father with every fiber of my being. I want him to command me.”

“I don't think our Father will ask anything of us anymore.” says my brother with a lighthearted laugh “Since we came here, he has been silent. I think that he trusts himself that this world is good.”

“But the world can never be good, my brother. It is just a bridge, a transient state.”

“I disagree.” said my brother “It is the Destination. It is the place where Action exists. And it seems to me that Father loves Action more than anything else. Have you talked to the Artist, yet?”

“No.” I say.

“You know, when I first saw him, he reminded me of you, back in the old days. You also crafted wonderful things. Some of them had a violent streak in them, true, but I loved them and I admired you. Our Father is the Creator, but you are The Supreme Artist. Have you thought of crafting something again? I may have been somewhat calculating, but I thought that seeing such wonders as Feanor made would maybe inspire you.”

“That is nice of you.” I say “But you must understand...”

“All these things you have imposed on yourself, the self-denial, the contrition, I don't say they are neccesarily bad, I am just saying that they are maybe the second-best thing. The right thing would be to go back to creating wonders and, in this way, help us heal the world.”

“The world is not a bad place, but it needs healing, does it?” I say “And my creations, which could never be compared to Father's, are going to help?” I too smile a lighthearted smile “You don't understand our Father.”

My brother's face is stern as he's studying mine. “I would like you to do this out of free will, but the truth is, we are in dire need of your strenghts. The world overseas is still writhing in pain. I can't think why would you think Father would not be pleased if you created something? How could he ever be threatened by it? Do you remember? He asked us to sing to him and then he smiled to our song. Creating is the reason we are in existence.”

“Was it a lighthearted smile?” I ask, but then, after a moment, I add “I think it was. A smile of a parent to his silly children. Loving, but...”

“You are silly.” says my brother and smiles.

...

“What are you doing?”

“The villest of smells is going to discipline my spirit.” I say.

“You are laughable.” says The Brave One. He smirks one more time and almost goes away, but I swiftly get up to stop him. I put an imploring hand upon his shoulder.

“I know that you do not trust me.” I say “And I forgive you.”

“Well, I don't forgive you.”

“You must have a gentle heart.” I say “When you are capable of such haughty suffering.”

“No, just a stubborn heart.” he says, but I see under his face a trace of fear.

“You do have a gentle heart.” I say, smiling.

“Maybe.” he says and his voice is cold “But to us with gentle hearts, Eru gave the most strength.”

“Then I would have the gentlest of them all.” I say.

“You're a bastard.” he says and breaks away “Go back to smelling piss.”

...

While I'm laying in my bed I sometimes think of the things that will soon take place.

“You have to truly give us your help!” my brother will soon plead with me “Nothing can amend the world more.”

“I told you already that I don't love this world.” I will say “I love only our Father.”

“I think that this world is maybe the best of our Father.” he will say, without shame.

Lastly, I will say: “And you call yourself His Regent on Earth?”

While I'm laying in my bed I sometimes imagine I see the shadow of The Artist on my wall. As I think of it, I purposefully entangle that shadow in my dreams and a whole story unravels.

There are no sounds when he walks from one side of my wall to the other, carrying Them on his hands. He looks at Them like someone who is deeply in love, and, therefore, dreaming. His figure is still black, pushed back into shadow from Their light, but the rest of the wall is blood red. Slowly, I start to hear something.

Clashes of swords, clanking of armor, screams and crying.

But still, nothing can be seen of the origin of those sounds on my wall. And The Artist is still slowly, solemnly walking, his head bent to the stars in his hands, seemingly hearing nothing.

...

Today I think of my old fortress.

It had been delved into living rock and the cealings were so high they could not be seen. What arrogance was this. I wanted to have a semblance of our Father's abode, where His word was deed. Yet, I failed. Because my cealing was black and therefore held no promise of other worlds that glisten in my Father's Eye.

My throne was, therefore, very high. It almost could not be seen by those who lay prostrate before it.

But my eyes were a poor substitute to those sparkling heavens. My eyes glisten in the reprecussion of this world, so no one dared to look at them, and they remained ignorant.

But the Works of the Artist are like Three Eyes of my Father. They hold promise of other worlds. If I had them on my brow, they would all lift their gaze and look. The circlet in which the Jewels would be set, would appear to their eyes as a gentle constellation, a line of silver, so thin it would tremble. And then, truly humbled, they would look beneath the heavenly circlet, and they would meet my Eyes.

No one would dare again to hold the light of The Jewels above my Father.

Chapter End Notes

The Brave One - Tulkas

...

“I am so happy you have changed your mind.” my brother says, leaning behind my shoulder to see what I'm writing. “What is that? I know that it is mathematics, but...”

“Fractal geometry.” I say.

“That is lovely.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I will then leave you alone to work.”

 ...

The Halls of Mandos are of the shape of a cube, and are immense. Their walls are one hundred fifty meters thick and two kilometers high. This makes the free space of one thousand seven hundred meters of length and width, that is two million eight hundred ninety thousand square meters of free space.

In my captivity I had been amusing myself with the numbers that surrounded me and their relations.

As they were dragging me to my prison, through my blindfold I had an immediate impression of the numbers that marked the grim outline of the edifice. And they have remained my obsession throughout the whole time of my incarceration.

I wanted to have something I despised constantly before my eyes so not to falter in my conviction.

What do numbers tell us? They are an empty shell, a husk that our words cannot make alive. Cannot set aflame. What did numbers tell you about the horror of Mandos that is yet just a pale shadow of the austerity of our Father's face?

The Artist had managed to position numbers in such a way that they not only reflect but encapture light, so that it seems that it's their own light, and not a light stolen – a fitting deception for a being who usurps the name of The Flame.

...

“So, teaching?” says my brother.

“Yes.” I say.

“You will have the time? I know how busy you already are with all your creative work.”

I smile. “The only thing to which I would give even more time is teaching them. You said once that when I saw them I would see the crowning glory of our Father's Creation and that I would change my mind about some things. That even I would be mellowed by them. And you were right. They are beautiful. You did right to stop me and bring me here as soon as Orome came back to sing to you their songs. I didn't have time to harm them, and I am grateful for that. I would have regretted it.”

My brother looks at me with true gentleness.

“They are our Father's greatest work.” I say “If I had harmed them, I know that you wouldn't have forgiven me. You did your best to beat me fast so you could still forgive me when you finally faced me.”

My brother now seems saddened but the gentleness towards me remains. Yes, he is now thinking of his own shortcomings.

“They wouldn't let me, but I would still forgive you. A law without mercy is unfair. And I understood it, in a way. But one cannot disagree so violently, as you disagreed, when he is surrounded with fragile things.”

“Yes, this is a Room of Glass.” but then a joke comes to me “A Room of Crystal.” I say and smile.

...

It is easy for me to talk about the things I have built myself because all those things are now destroyed.

To talk about the things that exist around me becomes painful soon, because in them I see unpunished arrogance. My arrogance was punished, so I can talk with ease about the things I made and are now no more.

The Siege lasted 200 hundred years. Even when defeat was certain, I kept ordering my creatures to attack so that my kin could destroy as many of them as possible. The creatures I made hideous on purpose not to offend my Father – I could not leave them if I was now keen on humbling others of my kind in their glorious abode.

My brother was the first to come in – a young king pale as lightning. He usurps the white of light and the blue of the sky. He is an arrogant one.

At that time I already abandoned all vain pursuits. As the master of Udun, I was a dark king – humble and contrite.

...

As I make my way to the cathedra, there is still a commotion in the hall. Listeners from the previous lecture are still in the room. Some of them are sitting – they will stay here. Some of them are leaving. Among those who are leaving I spot the Artist – raising from his seat, taking with him his coat.

He doesn't spare me even a glance. Is it just a trick of light that his face still remains in shadow? Yes, without Them, he seems insignificant.

He is a dreamer and will soon be insane.

This would be my first lecture. As many other vile things that I have done this too will discipline my spirit.

...

If it ever happens to be that I meet a creature whose blasphemy is so great that it resembles supreme beauty, I would say to that person never to write a word, a number, or draw a line again – this is what I promised myself.

It isn't hard for me to encourage mediocrity, as I happen to encourage so often as the mentor of my students, but not so long ago, a brilliant person came to see me and had shown me some staggering mathematical ideas – an application of the laws of crystals on written texts. Such blasphemous beauty in the concept as well as in the mechanics! It touched me so it made me uncomfortable.

I wish I could have said to him, with all compassion, not to write a word again – but an even greater blasphemer was free and working. I was stern in my commendation, but I couldn't do much more. I could not have warned him of the perilous path that he took. Hopefully this one will sort himself out in the ranks of mediocrity on his own.

...

“In the Great Journey we had such weapons. But they were crude.”

“What did you have in mind, exactly?”

“Not only iron, but steel. You know such secrets.”

“I do.”

...

Sixty years have passed since mercy was shown to me, as they now say and write. Ten since the crafting of the Jewels. Ten since I began to teach the ignorant how to be blasphemous. It is the 1460^th year of The Trees.

The Trees. It might be fitting for me to describe them now, but I won't. For their beauty is too great - their description would bother me afterwards. I will describe them in detail and will give justice to their beauty with my words only when I am about to destroy them.

...

“His presence is overwhelming. I would be vary of such a man. His eyes and his voice are burning with conviction of his own righteousness. His zeal is that of a fanatic.”

This is what they now say of The Artist. I never fail in my predictions about a creative mind.

...

My brother must now be wo-ho-ho-ing. The Artist has drawn his sword against his half-brother. The Conclave has decided I am to blame – the beauty of The Artist's sword must have said so.

Has he not learned many things from me, even though his face always remained in shadow as I taught him? That shadow must be attached to his being, as his eyes lack the luster he gives to his works.

Why not to play to his arrogance, even though he sipped knowledge from my hand? Let's pay him a visit.

...

His Eyes! His Eyes!

...

 The Trees are most lovely.

They are perhaps the sweetest creation of my kin. They hold something of the novelty we all encountered while looking at the colour green for the first time. But even though they are living things (and that's where from the thought of green came to me) they themselves are not green at all – even their bark is translucent and, almost imperceptibly, pulsates light.

Their highest branches cannot be seen when one stands directly beneath them. They cast their cold white light in the cold regions of the Earth's atmosphere. I know very well that those parts of The Trees cannot be distinguished one from another. Shapes merge in that kind of light.

What I am trying to say is that The Trees are not trees at all. They have the shape of living trees, but the function of very mild stars. However, they are beautiful to look at, if one's eyes can stand that kind of brightness.

My eyes can stand it, because they themselves are very bright. In the days of my service to The Children, I have made myself easy on their eyes – I have purposefully dulled my brightness. But if one was to peel of my irises and sclera they would be met with blinding light. In that brightness that merges shapes my sclera and irises become indistinguishable. I was the template for The Trees.

And now I raise my spear. It is made of black metal – not steel, not iron – it's a metal unknown to this world, that came here in the majesty of an meteor, long ago. I had analyzed the substances that came with it – it was a fragment of another living world. And I thought to myself: “That world is now destroyed – blown away into space in a thousand little pieces. This what is left is a cautionary tale for the prideful.” And I have forged myself from this unknown substance a weapon for myself to be a penance to the prideful world.

I pierce the bark of the first Tree with ease and the glowing matrix spills. No water from a living tree would spill like that or be as thick. My feet are soaked in the substance – glowing - but then the pool of light starts to pale and finally, the light is extinguished. My companion is unsatisfied because this light fades so quickly – she is a child and loves light in a childlike manner. Once it is out, she loses interest and turns to me her many-eyed face and produces a hissing sound – a parody of mournful scolding.

I pierce the other Tree. She again drinks her fill. She drinks it to the bitter dregs. The light is slowly fading – not only on the ground, but in the sky as well. The sight is beautiful to behold and humbling.

...

 I have peeled of my eye mask when I had finally found her in the ravine.

For two years I had been searching for her. I brought with me a few jewels, the craft of lesser masters than The Artist. They needed light from the outside, these imperfect works, to light their spirit. They were passive, as were their creators - the only beauty in them was that beauty which one brings with himself while looking at them. How they have blazed in my hands! They captured the brightness of my eyes perfectly – and by this she was scared. But then she sucumbed to temptation and ate them all from my hand.

In silence I have fed her portions of jewels all the way to Valinor.

From my hand she ate them, half-crazed and with an odd appearance of sentience – when I waved my hand in the direction of the great light she seemed to understand for a moment, but then all appearance of artistic appreciation faded in her many eyes and she rushed towards her food.

 ...

.They all have fled. The residents. Only he stood defiant in the doorstep.

The sword curled and he dropped it, burned. Now he was frozen in place, looking up at me. I held up my mace and it landed on his head. He fell on his knees – his eyes didn't appear to see anymore, and he didn't let out a cry or a scream. I hit him one more time on the side of the head. That the head could be so distorted by a few hits, no one in this land knew.

He was in the other room when I came to talk with The Artist. Listening. Later, as I hurried across the lawn, I heard him yelling at his son. He was afraid of me.

Her hairy body brushes past me, and I hurry to the house. I tear the iron chamber open with my hands – in a crystal box they were, crystal within crystal – yet only for the box one could tell that it was crystal – the light that melts the boundaries of things!

 ...

Even my kin admitts that there is no difference between us and The Children except in the order of power, that is, our ability to make our imaginations real.

Our way of thinking is not very different from theirs, it is perhaps not different at all – but all our thoughts can transform into Action – that is the difference. The Children don't have that ability, therefore, they are liable to be lost in dreams.

The greater the power, the greater the temptation, I would say. Salvation for The Children is in this way secure – their inability to act is sanctly. I have purposefully lost myself to dreams so I could do no wrong in my actions - I Who Am Most Powerful.

 ...

 He is dead, The Artist.

So strong was his conviction that he was the spark of The Flame Imperishable that the flesh took over this mantra and repeated it in the moment of his death. I am told his body self-incinerated. Or have his sons burned his body and spread the fanciful tale? Either way, I am told that nothing remains of him but dust.

If he was brought to me alive, I would have hewn off both his hands so he could never do anything again with them. But I would let him live.

In pain he would turn back to look at the Light, and that's where, a long way from home and stripped of his talent, he would learn what Light is and what It wants.

PART TWO

A DIFFERENT VISION

TURGON

"His life ended tonight." said The Flame "I have seen him, and I have heard the rumors. Based on that alone, I can tell you – this short period of freedom and creation he enjoyed here is the last of life he will have."

I had heard the voice of The Calumniator. Because of this I was uncertain. "Why do you think so?" I asked my uncle with reverence.

"Because my life too ended tonight."

My understanding then was not very great, and I just remembered the words. But he looked sad as he said this – his eyes were clear and determined, firmly anchored in reality - but still he looked sad. Often I have thought sadness to be the product of stupidity and it frightened me then that someone whom I have known to be great could be so unhappy.

But I am getting ahead of my story. This would be the end of my story. I understand his words a little better now, but I am still immensely troubled. By what, you ask? If he, the greatest of us all in matters of the arts, if he could abandon willingly his work, if he could admit that something irreparable happened, something that no future work of his could redeem – he, I am tempted to say, while being the greatest of us, was very small indeed.

But I am not telling you these words of wisdom lightly – they are the result of realizing my error. Now, sitting in The Halls of Mandos I will tell you the great and sorrowful tale of how I listened. Just about how I listened and what peril lies in listening. Because I have listened to my uncle with all fervor, and because I listened to The Calumniator with all fervor I was rewarded with a life of pain. But enough talking! You too must listen to them.

...

The Calumniator was seen rarely among our kind in those early years.

Just before he began teaching, he came more often to our gatherings out in the open on the square of Valmar. On these occasions he would wear a black tunic and black stockings. He wore no ornament, not even a watch. But then again, once I had seen him guess the exact time by looking at a shadow of a tall building on the square. That time he had to come to a hearing on which The Authorities would give him even more privileges, and we worried if he should be late. Oh, they have released him among us like a wolf!

His face was fair looking, but I would not call it beautiful. One gained more liking for his face as time went and as some of the beauty of his voice translated itself to his face. His voice was beautiful. Once we had heard him singing a little melody under his breath. We accidentally found ourselves behind him in the early morning rush in the narrow, stone street and we heard his singing voice which - even so restrained – shook our hearts. Unfathomable strength we sensed in his singing voice, as if the small volume he let us hear (because now I am certain that everything we saw of him or heard of him was prepared for our eyes by him with the utmost care) just scratched and made known the great depths below.

He was more austere, than cheerful, but never sullen. At first he seemed to us (and how clever that was!), as someone who still battles himself but is steadfast in his resolutions. This caused us to sympathize with him. He was not repellent, but he was strict with himself. He was disciplined. So disciplined he was that we didn't even notice how much on him was still his talent – that his talent was the real reason of our liking him, of our later adoration of him.

We let ourselves be fooled by his black stockings and that black tunic when, actually, he was decked with the jewels of his talent! But then again, he genuinely had the knowledge we, at first, leisurely enjoyed, then craved.

His talking voice, as opposed to his singing voice, was somewhat deeper – his singing voice (or at least that of it which we heard) was high, but strong (lovely, it was lovely, possessing such strength while keeping your gentleness!). His talking voice was not a possessor of such vulnerable beauty – it was logical, steady – not a voice that would cause people to rebel after hearing it just one time. But after hearing it three, four, seven, twenty times – one would be inclined to listen to it almost unconditionally.

As a people we were virgin-like and didn't at first recognize the seductor.

The things he talked about were at first impractical things, things of general interest (in picking his topics he gave the utmost care to what our other famous orators talked about).

His first speech was about architecture and how it reminded him of frozen music. It was visible music in space, he said, and I was quite happy because this was a new thought, something I hadn't realized myself, and now the subject he talked about became even more interesting. Of course, only later I have come to understand that he picked these impractical themes because it was probably still not permitted to him to teach as in the capacity that he could.

And what a capacity that was! I always thought my uncle to be a workaholic, but Morgoth surpassed all my notions of this. And no weakness of resolve was present in him – what he had begun, he would finish, and, probably, he would finish it quickly. And he was masterful in all branches of knowledge. From time to time, even Aulë would come to seek his advice. This was well known. And the time came when he taught us how to make better, more durable and brighter light bulbs, a better constructed sewer underground, machines for more complex computation.

Some of us even became his students. As I hear, he was a demanding teacher, but from him those who sought it got genuine knowledge and developed an exceptional insight for some problems. His deception needed some of his actions to be truly good.

Looking at it from my current perspective I must say that I now think him to be a hater of knowledge and skill. So, it is very ironic that he actually got to be the second most skilled artisan that I have ever had a chance to meet – I always thought that skill came not only from persistence, but from the heart and that the heart is quite stubborn and doesn't want to quit on the subject of its fancy. That there is no true understanding of a subject without love for that subject and that supreme skill was locked away in the hearts of those who truly loved the subject to which they had applied themselves. Was this just sentimentality?

These waters become murky fast.

With time, I came to realize that they both, The Calumniator and my uncle, betrayed the talent that loved them. It must be that talent doesn't find it easy to fall in love with someone, but when it happens it is hard for it to un-love those bastards.

Or is this just another sentimentality?

After ten years of his public teaching on the square, he acquired a place among those who taught at the university. Nothing was much different between the quality of the teaching between those who taught at the university and those who taught at the square, except that it was more convenient for those at the university to teach practical things – the workings of machines, the application of chemicals and those things for which even the smartest of us had the need for graphic presentation. And that is when he worked for the betterment of our existent inventions.

When he taught, the silence in the rows of benches was deafening. He had that kind of aura from which it was clear that he wouldn't suffer even the slightest interruption or commotion. In it there was something of the behavior of a commander at arms, a master of his tropes – but we didn't see this, in that time, as something which was abhorrent. Because his lectures were always very interesting, and he knew how to command our attention – he knew how to smile, and how to crack a joke, how to effortlessly and without any notes lecture for six hour a day.

Yes, never have I seen him write anything down or read something from a paper.

...

My Uncle called his work place a forge, but it wasn't a forge - it was a factory, a laboratory in which he was the only worker. A very long time ago, the place had been a forge, but then my Uncle evolved – he didn't need just a forge anymore, he needed the laboratory, the factory.

My Uncle's interests were spectacularly varied, so much that they would leave a lesser mind with nothing to show. He had a love for languages and mathematics, for astronomy and botany, poetry and painting, as if he perceived in everything a whole. I did not perceive such a whole, and the only time these things came together in my eye was in my Uncle. He was the development of world thought and invention jammed up in one person – a quick preview of a much more painful and slow development carried out by lesser minds in future millennia.

“I suffer from imaginary pains.” he would say “I know very well that the tides of happiness and sadness that follow me are imaginary. Nothing particularly good happens to me, but I am suddenly extremely happy. Then, nothing in my external situation changes, but I am suddenly extremely sad. These are imaginary. However, it was not always so. There was a time when purely scientific work would leave me clear-minded and balanced, and the arts would leave me emotionally raw. Or was it that I've done the sciences when I was balanced, and the arts when I was raw? I don't know. And now these, these swings without incentive, are not these just remembered reactions? Can these reactions then be forgotten?”

“Why don't you try, Uncle?” I would say “If it is causing you so much pain.”

“I have many things to do.” he would say and smile, and then I knew what happiness was work to him. But there were also darker days, when his demeanor would truly frighten me.

“Boredom, boredom.” he would then say and his eyes seemed utterly black because he would darken the forge on purpose in order not to do any more work “Do you even know how things seem to me? Everything is laid out for me as on a sparkling, limitless carpet but I don't feel the strength in me to take those things which I have already understood. And why should I? For others? So that they too would understand it? Why should I?”

I would stay silent, in order not to rouse him further, and with no vain delusions that I knew the answer to his problems. His problems were detached from the reality I knew, which was carefree and creative but with no deep shadow as the one which hung on his face. However, I had pangs of jealousy now and then, because my Uncle's existence seemed to me to be happening on another plain altogether and I, as all, longed for other worlds.

Most startling of all was his initiative – he needed no one's approval or encouragement to begin and finish a work, even tough he always wanted an audience. This I think also explains why he often wanted my company, as I was not his match in the matters of craft, but had enough understanding of it to admire him openly.

But his hard work was a trait of his that humbled others the most – we all felt lazy in comparison to him but the discrepancy was so great that we just remained in joyful awe of him and held no grudge against him. Jealousy was pointless in the face of such great ability. We only feel truly jealous when we think: 'Yes, I could have done that too'.