Emotions-- A series of vignettes by MisbehavingMaiar

Joy, Delight

Fires of chaos and creation; and two simple emotions. 

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JOY:

"Oh, my brothers! My sisters! My siblings! Look at it; is it not the most beautiful, the most exquisite thing? It is perfect just as it is! Ah, I would have it this way forever…"  

Melkor laughed, spreading wings of magma over bubbling plains. The earth glowed cherry red under torn ribbons of sky— and he kindled great fires. 

  

 

DELIGHT:

 The hammer of his will fell against the anvil of resolve, and between them was caught mutable Substance.

Blow after blow, he drew forth and ordered the infinite particles into finite shape:

"Be Carbon" he urged.

"Be Sulfur",

"Be Lithium",

"Be Mercury",

"Be Lead." 

And he stood back from his work in Eä, and was pleased. He looked to his Maker for approval, and the Great Smith smiled. 

"Well done, Mairon."

The maia's heart swelled with happiness. "What now, Father?"

 

"Now? Make more." 

Envy, Sheepishness

Bitter bile and a small betrayal; two small things that will grow. 

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ENVY:

Oh to be praised by all for work I have done; to pour my soul into a vessel so perfect, so crystalline, that its beauty could be seen and worshiped... What that my light, my fire, was as revered as the light you borrowed and caught forever. 

The greatest smith the world has ever known, whose fire will never come again into Arda.... Fah.    

How I loathe you.

If only I could convince myself that you are not unique, that you are praised only because they have not the scope of vision to appreciate other works, that I have built towers reaching to heaven of diamond and they were torn down and scattered because they seemed out of place on Eru’s earth— that I am worth the same… no, MORE than you! Worth a thousand of you flimsy, second-comer, spoilt whelp of Aulë! I spit on your works! I hate them! You are perfect and I hate you!

Please. Someone.

Look upon what I have wrought and say it is beautiful, I beg… I beg you.

 

SHEEPISHNESS: 

"Mairon… what have you done?"

Father held my work in his hands as though it were a dead thing. 

"Something new! ...I thought you would be pleased?" 

"It is a weapon."

"Yes." I replied, for I’d designed it to be so.
"It will be easy to wield and reproduce! I can teach them the conditions of the steel and quenching time, and how to shape the blades to optimize different effects."  

So long I’d labored to perfect its geometry, tapering and beveling precisely, cooling and refireing the steel to the finest increment of time, to insure it was flexible yet strong. The metal had been refolded such that it rippled with a hundred shades of silver, its edge so sharp a falling hair would split upon the blade without slowing in its descent. 

Yet Aulë looked at me with worry. “Why would the Children need such a thing?” 

"Will they not meet with strife?" I asked. "In the Music, I saw battles… I thought, they should have tools for them…"  I had been proud, but now I could not stop my shoulders drooping. 

Father sighed. “Mairon. What you say is true, though I wish it were not so. But this is not the work I tasked you with. Who put this thought into your mind?”

I flinched.
“The work you gave me was not neglected, Master… I swear to you.” 

"Who, Mairon?" He loomed over me, the newly-wrought blade like a twig in his great red hands. "Was it he who I forbade you to speak with?"

"…Yes." My heart trembled with shame. "But the idea was my own! The sword was all my doing, Master, I was not told to forge it by Melkor nor any other!"

I thought this would alleviate Aulë’s displeasure, but the sorrow in his craggy eyes only deepened. “I understand your eagerness to aid the coming Children, but Mairon… does the hallowed task I gave thee, of bringing forth the designs of the One, not satisfy? Must you also build instruments of death on a whim?” 

Head hung, I knelt by my hammer. “I did not mean to anger you Father, I thought you would be pleased that I had created something new and useful… I am sorry!” 

He placed a hand upon my hair and shook his horned head, mane and beard swinging. “I put too much of myself in you. I should have foreseen this. It is I who should be ashamed, not you my child.” 

The words were meant to comfort, but instead they stung. Why should either of us feel ashamed? I thought, and though I was in a habit of sharing all my thoughts with Aulë, I did not share this one. 

It was the first of many. 

Giddiness, Bemusement

A sickening love, and a pragmatic sacrifice; two emotions, less easily comprehended. 

(Warnings for gore, violence, and character death)

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GIDDINESS:

The prodigal Vala attends the feasts and ceremonies of the Eldar gladly— it brings Melkor pleasure to be approached and waited on, to be asked with great reverence the meaning of certain natural signs, or the mechanisms behind matter.
He is not always trusted, but he is always listened to. The attention is flattering, even from the blander stock of elves. 

At this gathering under the Mingling Light, the Eldar have been promised something entirely knew and unseen, something forged in secret by the hot-blooded Noldor Prince. They press the Vala with questions; he is happy to speculate what the surprise might be, basking in their confidence. 

But when Laurelin fades to reveal the stars and the doors of Fëanor’s hall open, and the Prince emerges dressed in red and black and gold, all chatter ceases. The Vala is no longer the center of anyone’s gaze-- All eyes, including his own, are fixed on the lights on Fëanor’s brow.
Their setting is simple; the gems need no elaboration on their beauty. 

The prism light is caught and reflected in the widening eyes of Melkor, his eye's native feline glow eclipsed entirely.
He knows in that instant that he will never see anything more perfect. It matters not that the prince hates and distrusts him, or that the attention of the crowd has left him. He feels such incredible joy well up in his breast, like lava unrestrained pouring into the sea. 

Three ages he had nothing to look upon that was lovely, nothing to taste but his own dry mouth and nothing to brood upon but his own bitter poison. If his soul had been polished metal before it felt tarnished and pock-marked now; but in the light of the Silmarils! He is vast and towering and glorious again. He remembers the joy of his earliest being, the power of song, of dancing in unadulterated elements. 

It is clear that all who gaze upon those lights feel the same wonder, the same love. The attendants are drawn back to memories of beauty at its pinnacle, remembering dreams that felt more like paradise than Paradise itself.

The elves are but Born creatures of limited feeling, but for a Vala! That love boiled. For a Vala, the moments of perfection remembered were infinite and divine. The pull of nostalgia on the heart of Melkor is so great he feels his spirit yanked free of his body.
He drifts, unclad; flying close to the burning gems on the elf’s brow he laughs like a child, joyful, heedless, eager... 
His spirit reaches out to brush against their warmth— and is repelled as lodestone is repelled by its opposite.

With a cry he flies back to his body, startling those around who had not noticed his disappearance. 

 He can not approach the jewels without a physical raiment. He dares not think why— but it hardly matters. Melkor follows as Fëanor walks (the elf moves as proudly as any god through the crowd), his gaze filled with infinite need.

 ”If only I might touch them.” He stands gasping with bare-faced longing. “Oh— oh come back! Bring them back!” 

His feet carry him part ways through the thronging elves, enough to catch the light in his eyes again. He wanders after them helplessly, sighing at every glimpse, his hands caressing his throat and wringing together, bright laughter tumbling from him whenever the lights draw near.

Frost and fire dance on his finger tips and curling hair, and his great, seething love roils.  

 

 

BEMUSEMENT: 

"Is there a storm?" 
Wide-eyed and downy-haired, the child tugged at Finwë’s robe, whispering. "...Why is it so dark?"

"There is no storm." Said the king, raising he clear eyes to the heavens gravely; the Mingling time was not yet for hours, yet the sky was grey as slate.

The light was leaking out of the world.

 Of the elves still in Formenos, none could stifle their worried chattering.
Then it seemed as if the windows had been shuttered competely, and the noontime-night was as impenetrable as ink.
Many of the young elves seemed on the verge of witless terror-- for they had never before seen darkness so deep, so devoid of all comforting glow. 

But Finwë remembered.

His eyes adjusted to the dim and he ordered all present to flee, to shield their crystal lanterns, and move quickly to the cellars of their homes. He bid them leave the armored stronghold of his keep, knowing that its walls could not shelter his people from what must be coming.

He waited for it alone, his strong hands resting on the hilt of a whale-horn scepter. 

The wait was not long— soon the Horror crested the hill's horizon, with spindle-legs and glistening carapace. 

A foul cloud around its mandibles and the atrocity of its form kept his eyes from dwelling on the creature; instead they locked on a figure walking ahead, leading the mountainous arachnid down towards the city.
The Vala was limned with volcanic glow, the only color against the dark. In his hand he swung a black spear dripping with gold and silver gore— the sight was nauseating, as grievous as the blood of a child on the teeth of a rat. 

"Stand aside, Tatyar. It is your son I want."  Thrice the size of any elf loomed the Vala lord above the king’s head, but Finwë did not shy from him. 

"I hazard to say that anyone with eyes and ears knows what you want, Melkor." Replied Finwë. "Your schemes may be well concealed, but your envy and lust? Those you wear on your face as plainly as your nose— which I would advise you give back to whatever bat you stole it from, for it is exceedingly unlovely."

Melkor snorted flame. “ASIDE. Or do you think I will not send you battered and broken to Mandos to await his judgment?”

"I think you are afraid to do so, certainly." And Finwë smiled pleasantly. "You are not yet immune to the fear of repercussions, with the welts from your chains still plain upon your neck..." He nodded to the Vala's scarred throat, which the god instinctively reached to cover; a strangely chaste gesture.

"Your brethren will not be kind to you a second time, not after tonight. And less kind still if you slay me in their own Paradise... Yes, I think you are afraid to kill me."  

"Afraid? AFRAID to strike down a pathetic old man? What do you take me for?" Melkor shrieked with laughter and thrust his spear forward— but he did not strike. 

"Oh, but you will have to slay me, Vala..." Finwë returned without flinching, his smile set in challenge. "If you wish to enter and steal the lights of my son’s crafting. And know that I will not yield to you easily:  that I fought you before, in the age of darkness, with only flint knives and stones in my arsenal, and I will fight you now until my last breath fails.” 

The dark spear dipped and quivered in the air.  Gone was the mocking sneer from Melkor’s face. Only confusion remained. “Why are you so eager for death, First-Born? Is immortality so painful to you already?”

"Hardly. My life is precious to me, as is it is to all my people. And that is all the more reason why my death will be necessary." 

The Vala nearly drew back, for the king's eyes showed not even the slightest fear.  

"Fight me, Vala. Raise your spear against this single foe." The Noldo king drew his weapon and made his salute with calm elegance. "We cannot fight a transgressor if we cannot ourselves transgress. It will take this much at least for the illusion of Paradise to be broken, for the complacent tide of the world to turn against tyranny! Fight, lord of miseries, king of greed and ashes! Or can you only stab at phantoms and tree trunks?" 

And with this the king sprang forward, his salt-and-raven hair streaming, the sharpened helix of his weapon driving towards Melkor’s side, the lance he had won in friendship with sea-loving folk, the slayer of many foul creatures of the starlit continent. 

The Vala turned aside the blow and in a hasty, panicked riposte, slid his spear through the Noldor king, pinning him to the stones of Formenos.

The ivory lance slipped from the king's hand, and Finwë died with a woman’s name upon his lips, under a sky darker than the one he'd woken to. 

Melkor spat, cursing. Finding he could not draw forth his spear from the pierced body, and feeling cheated in his victory, he left the corpse to hang from the fortress walls. Some nameless fear whose weight he could begin to feel drawing near made the Vala shiver. 

"Are you finissshed? I am hhhhungry…”  The monstrosity behind him clicked, and slicked her dripping mandibles in greed. 

"Y-yes. The old fool was alone. Pity, I would have liked to have killed him with his son watching." Melkor straightened, adjusting his raiment haughtily to disguise the chill he felt.

The Noldor King’s words worried and perplexed him-- but only as a passing dream. He had won: In his mind’s eye burned a prize so glorious that all wisdom and forethought were lost in shadow, and his wariness was soon forgotten.

Regret, Longing, Love

A pyrric victory is won, and a moment of tenderness rebuked; three emotions in one scene.
(Shades of shipping: Sauron/Melkor)

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REGRET, LONGING, LOVE: 

 

Screams echo from the black glass walls; Angband’s heavy iron gates shiver open to admit the wailing Vala. 

"Damn you, hateful, darting thing! Gnawing rodent! May you rot, gibbeted from an eagle’s nest! Curse you! Curse your children and your kin! May your entrails spill and be feast to flies! I will grind you to dust! I will crack your bones in my teeth and drink you blood, reeking vermin!  Damn you and damn you again!—"  

The spindly tower of thorns that is Melkor falls and shrinks. He limps, dragging his foot and clutching his face; his one good eye blazing with vengeful hate, the other dripping glittering red-gold ichor that smokes as it hits the floor. 

Mishapen minions draw back in terror, yet are drawn to watch in horror as their master falters, supporting his weight upon Grond like an aged crone. His breath is wet and rough over gore-stained teeth. When he stumbles and falls, betrayed by the ruined tendons that have hobbled him, a hushed murmur seeps through the halls. None dare approach, but all gather to stare. 

"STAND CLEAR OR I WILL FLAY THE LOT OF YOU." Roars a voice from within the keep, and the minor spirits and orcs flee from the crack of steel-threaded whips. 
There is great uproar as the hall empties, and the eavesdroppers flee from the wrath of Sauron, whose armored feet throw sparks against the floor. Alone, he rushes to support the fallen lord. 

"Look what they have done to me! My face, my heel!" The Vala cries, his once-lovely voice hoarse and painful to hear. "That absurd wretch of an elf! That damned spying harpy of Manwë’s!" He chokes. "I cannot sing, I cannot hold, I cannot walk, and now I cannot see! This body no longer heals! It is fixed and blighted and I am dying in it!"  

The crowned head is heavy against the lieutenant’s shoulder.
For a moment, there is bitter longing in the maia’s eyes as he looks upon the radiant gems fitted there. His broad fingers lift as if he would knock them from his master’s head in a rage— for they cannot be worth this... Nothing could be worth this agony, this debasement of a being so great! But he dares not. 

"My lord, you were victorious. The Noldor have lost three kings, and you still wear their prize. All is well... But if you would only allow me to ease your pain, to remove the burden from your brow—"

This is a mistake. 

"DO NOT TOUCH ME. Get thee from me!" Melkor spits, lurching to his feet. "They are mine and no other shall lay hand on them! Do not forget thy place!"  

As the Vala stumbles towards the throne room, hissing with pain and leaning heavily upon the black mace, Sauron feels his heart constrict.

“I have not forgotten." He says, uheard. "It is by your side even if you would not have me.” 

Generosity

 Maeglin attempts to make himself useful; an unlikely bond is forged. 

(( This one was a puzzler! Also, it turned into a mini-fic. My knowledge of Sindarin construction is exactly three hours old so I make no claims as to accuracy. ))

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Maeglin had been given leave to wander anywhere his feet could take him in the fortress, provided he did not make himself a nuisance. There was no real harm he could do on his own; the deeper pits of Angband were not readily accessible except by wings or by a stride much longer than that of a elfin boy’s. 

 Nevertheless, after much searching and several near-falls, he discovered a stair that would take him down into the forges. The way was winding and perilous, made for things with gripping toes and claws, not soft-shod boots.
The heat in the belly of the fortress was incredible. He picked his way downwards, sweating, holding a carefully bound book to his chest and trying not to imagine if he slipped just how long he would fall before he found the bottom of the Iron Hells. 

Hours later it seemed he found the solid floor again, panting.
In his mind this whole venture had been much easier; he had not made allowance for the shaking ground, the constant volcanic rumble, the grinding of titan machinery, nor the grunts and screeches of creatures in the depths.
He had not realized that all steps and furnishings in a maia’s smithy would be so enormous in scale... and he had not considered how he would get back up, once he had done what he came to do. 

Throat dry and hands clenched, he shut his eyes, whispering to calm his nerves before approaching the glowing archway-- the massive stone entrance to Angband’s primary forge. 

"--Do not creep about, Maeglin, I know you’re there." 

The elf froze like a starteld deer. The voice that spoke growled like thunder from beyond the threshold. His sweat chilled on his skin. He swallowed and willed himself to move forward, to enter the dread maia's realm. 

 Thus far, Maeglin reflected, the Vala Dark Lord had favored him greatly. Morgoth... or rather, Melkor, and made many promises to him. The attention of the Dark Lord was always overwhelming, and sickly sweet. It was like drowning in honey. Though his words and claws had so far been gentle, the Vala frightened Maeglin more than anything he had ever before encountered. 
The maia lieutenant, however, had remained aloof towards him. He had been ordered to let no harm come to Melkor’s “guest”, and he obeyed his master’s word to the letter, his proud, dark face stern and terrible. Sauron was fearsome, but at least he did not purr and coo over Maeglin in a way that made his stomach turn…

That thought had been his sole comfort up until he stepped inside and saw the maia towering over his anvil with eyes like glowing coals. 

"Why do you disturb my work, boy?"

"I—" 

"OUT, if you have no meaningful business here!" 

Maeglin yelped, but even as he shrunk back he thrust forward his leather-bound book, as if it were a shield.
"I drew plans!" He stammered. "Designs I wanted to show you! F-fancies I had, contrivances I could craft in my mind but... I... I have not the skill nor the resources to build them on my own, but having seen the machines here-- the great furnaces, the molds and presses and dies… and I thought--" 

Sauron’s eyes narrowed and Maeglin nearly swallowed his tongue. He half expected to be struck or blasted with flame. 

"Show me." 

"Y-yes— " he did not know what honorific to use. How did one address hostile Ainur smiths? He settled for "Aran Curunír" —"Master Craftsman", in a panic, and immediately felt ill. His father had been called a similar title. 

Maeglin opened his drafting book with a thin white finger and turned it helpfully for the forgemaster to see. There was silence as the red eyes flicked from sketch to sketch. 
 

"This will not work."  Said the maia stonily. "The pressure will build in the belly here. The metal will expand and warp, and the hull will crumple."

"Oh." Maeglin tried to ignore the sinking disappointment in his chest.  "Yes. So I see…now." He had been an abysmal fool to come here with his half-dreamt diagrams to show to a maia smith--

"...Still. With proper venting…" 

The elf startled as the book was plucked from his hands.

Sauron paced, holding the little book open and tapping his lips with one finger. "Yes. In at least three places, here, here, and here… vents for steam. And further buttressing. This is not a poor design."
During his speech, the lieutenant shrank to more elf-like proportions.
“Do you often invent such machines fit to besiege your own home? Or is there more than one secret walled city to make war upon?” The maia smirked. 

Maeglin’s eyes grew dark. “I had thought to use them as defense, before Men came to court and stole the king’s ear.” …and his daughter’s heart… "Now I think I must use them to subdue what is corrupted." 

"And you think I will help you with this?"  Sauron’s grin grew more cruel. 

"Your master says he will deliver the city to me once it is conquered." Maeglin replied levely. "Should I doubt his word?"

The book snapped shut in Sauron’s hand.
“Doubt whatever you wish. If you are sufficiently clever and strong, you need only ever trust yourself.” He pushed the designs back into Maeglin’s hands. “You seem clever. So make clever choices.” 

A dainty furrow appeared on the boy's brow.
Clever choices.

"Help me make my war-dragons, Aran Curunír. I wish to be less... dispensable to your Master and if you help me, I will ensure that the mines of Gondolin are not collapsed or burned in the sacking. They’ll be yours— I’ll not insist on keeping them when I rule the city.”  

Sauron tipped his head to one side as a carrion bird might, when assessing whether a body were alive or dead. "…Interesting." Was all his answer.
"Come back with your plans when I am less busy— a few days, perhaps. Watch for when the mountain-smoke ceases. I will be more amendable to bargaining then." 

Maeglin felt himself smiling, and tried to conceal his excitement with a dour, respectful expression. “Yes, Forgelord!” 

Sauron laughed. “I’m curious to know how you plan to reach the surface again. You took the Goblin Road down, yes?” 

"Ah... um, Yes. Indeed." Maeglin grimaced. "It took me quite a while to reach here." 

 The maia shook his head with a snort. “Clever, bold, and impetuous... Liable to get yourself killed in short order. Come—” and Maeglin drew back with a jolt as Sauron’s body grew and shifted, cracking and bristling hideously till he was huge and furred.

 ”Put your arms round my neck and hold on, little smith. I will carry you to the top again.”  Said the great Wolf. “You are far too amusing for me let you fall.” 

Empathy

The fall of a city and a boy; harsh truths and sympathy between monsters.  

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"I’m alive." 

The young elf moves brittlely, feeling the crunch of bones displaced in his left leg and hand. His voice is dull; there is no pleasure in this revelation. 

"Yes, you’re alive." Echos a booming voice above.

Maeglin turns on the flagstones and lifts his head, dark hair stuck damply to his brow. There is a great shadow, an umbra in the vague shape of a man, or perhaps a bull with wings, glowing through with bright orange fissures beneath shifting smoke— a balrog, standing with its foot pinning him gently to the earth. And beyond, there stands the Lieutenant of Angband in full armor; towering in the paved city square like a monument to a warrior of legend. 

The sky is red. The once beautiful fountain smokes; its white stones are blasted with soot, smeared with blood. All is woefully quiet. The only elves he sees are not standing, not moving. Somewhere high in the smudged mountain peaks the muffled shriek of a long-throated monster rings. 

Maeglin looks up to the high outer wall, to the uppermost tower of the city with its golden-white stones. He sees no one on the promenade, no one in the court. That was where he’d last seen her.

He remembers the things he said, the way she’d backed away from him while shielding her child, her face stoic and hard as steel. He had tried (he winces now to think of it)... he had tried to grab her by the arm, to force her to come with him, to flee the city until it was safe to return. He’d made her promises of security and love… she’d looked at him and called him ‘traitor’.  

He’d been ready to all but strike her down and drag her with him when Tuor came; they’d fought, and the tower shook beneath them as the dragons attacked below. He’d lost his sword, rushed to retrieve it before it skittered off the unguarded stone plank atop the wall... Then the whole fundament had shuddered beneath his feet. He’d careened sideways and backwards, towards the ledge.

The black sword spun out into the abyss, glinting. His white fingers clutched the rock spout, scrambling, gasping, seeing horror in Idril and Tuor’s eyes. She’d called to him then, and even rushed to grab his hand. But the tower shivered under him, as if it was bucking him off.  His hands suddenly clutched at air. He fell-- 

He fell where his father fell. And that would have been the end of him, but dark talons had yanked him from the air, flaming wings brushing the mountain face and pulling away into the smoke, Maeglin caught dangling like falcon's prey between great claws. He'd struck the rock thrice on the way down before his capture. 

"Idril...?" he swallows, dreading the reply. 

"Gone. With her half-human child in tow. We have not yet found her or her body. But we will." Says Sauron with calm certainty, wiping clean a long blade and replacing it in its sheath. "...Is that not what you wanted?" 

The boy curls around his twisted arm with a shrill quiver in his throat. “Not like this!” He gasps. “Not any of it like this!” 

Sauron's voice is tinged with bland irony. “Your city. Your cousin. Your rivals disinherited. You were eager enough when my Master promised you these things.” 

"You would have tortured me! Killed me! You tricked me… Everything you told me was lies and…and deceptions…" Maeglin's voice trailed off, shaking, his face a grimace slimy with tears. 

"Oh, indeed? Because the prize we delivered was not everything you wanted it to be?" The lieutenant closed the distance between them, standing over the miserable elf lying weeping on the flagstones. 
"This is war. Did you expect them to welcome you with honors after you burned their homes and sacked their city? You cannot be both a conqueror and a hero. Accept that one door closes when the other opens. Then, do what you will.”

"I did NOT. WILL. THIS!” Maeglin wailed. “This massacre, I did not want— I did not think—!”

"No, you did not." Observed the armored maia. 

"Why did you not let me die?" The boy rolls his face into the dust, tears muddying the yellow stone. "That would have been just. That would have been fair. That’s what I deserve.”

There is a silence filled only with whimpering breaths and the far off roar of dragon-fire.
It is broken by the bellowed command “ABOUT FACE”--  and the balrogs and the few orcs making report turn away from the Voice of Angband, standing patiently at the ready. 

With no eyes on him, Sauron kneels carefully, greaves glinting. Unobserved, he pulls the boy off the ground, drawing up the filthy face between gauntleted hands.

“Nothing is fair.” He says, and plants a kiss atop Maeglin’s raven crown. 

---

Chapter End Notes

*I feel like the tense changes in this chapter are distracting and in need of further editing. Expect an update on this bit later. --Wes

Vicarious Joy, Paranoia

Simple, animal joys versus compounding, spiraling mania; two emotions in two different fortresses. 

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VICARIOUS JOY:

He bares his teeth so they may lick his fangs and bearded chin. They show their respect, but they also wag their tails. 

The pack hunts and plays and fights and marks the forest. There is fur and scat and bones; there are pups to feed and rivals to kill. They are more clever than wolves, less convoluted than humans. Their paws are long and finger-like, their legs bend like a man’s when squatting. They have few words in their language, but it is nuanced in scent and sign. Love runs deep in their blood, familial, hierarchal. 

There are nights when throne and tower feel like prison, when he must fly and run and raise his hackles under the moon. He is honored when they carefully bite his jaw, when they move aside for him at a kill. They know he is not a true wolf even when he wears their shape, but he is still one of the pack.

And when they howl together, the whole of Beleriand shivers, and Thû’s heart races.

PARANOIA:

Trust no one who does not fear or love you. Trust them only as far as you can verify their actions when they do not think you are looking. 

All kindness is a veil behind which lies a knifepoint. All pity is condescending. All gifts are gifts to the giver first. All generosity is suspect.

Second-chances serve the judge not the criminal.
Redemption is a poisonous dream.
All hearts are selfish.
Anything worth having must be taken by force. No one gives anything good away freely. 

Given the chance, everyone would steal from you. Given the chance, anyone would stab you in the back. Stab first. Save yourself. Win at all costs. Give nothing back. Don’t let them in. Don’t swallow their honeyed venom. They’ll kill you. They’ll take everything from you. They’re coming. They will never understand and they will never forgive and you will always, always be different. 

Trust nothing. Trust no one. Without power you have nothing. They will hollow you out and leave you to dry in the sun. They will break you and chain you and hide you away and all the love in the world won’t save you.

Run. Run. Keep running. Hide, fight, flee, keep fighting. Kill them first. Take what you need. Give nothing back.

Keep running.   

Disgust, Anticipation, Saudade

The mighty are fallen, and those who were loyal mourn; three shades of inevitability and sorrow. 

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DISGUST:

He feels the earth quaking above him, rattling the ceiling of his court, shaking the stones free, making the gold floors tremble. He finds himself shivering on his throne. 

The mirrors that surround him endlessly reflect the light of the jewels in his crown, filling his eyes with their constant, throbbing brilliance. As a stalactite crashes down from the cavern roof he jumps and whimpers, catching a glimpse of his frailty in the reflections.

A coward, from all angles; a thorny insect with a crown too heavy for him. He can barely swallow his contempt. 

His lieutenants are fighting his war up above. His armies are scattering. The end is coming, and he knows that this time he will lose everything, everything… 

He is alone but for his reflections. And he takes the crown from his head— holds it aloft and screams, ready to throw its hateful presence from him, to dash the mocking lights that pain him down into the molten depths of his keep. 

“Ruin! You have brought me nothing but ruin!” He howls and grinds his teeth. He raises the iron circle high with palsied claws—

—and slowly, tenderly, places it back upon his brow again, weeping. 

 

 

ANTICIPATION: 

"Do you see this, brother Melkor? Do you remember Angainor? It remembers you." 

The fallen one cannot speak; only mouth a syllable, terrified: “no”.

He looks to the monolith of his twin, who looms like a thunderhead and whose eyes pin him down with the fury of suns. “Please. No.”  

But Manwë turns away his head in shame, and Tulkas's smile widens.  

 

 

SAUDADE:

 Gone. 
There are two holes in the earth and one in the sea and one where my heart had been. 

He is gone and I can find him in no other. I have searched in the skins of elves and men. I have plundered their love and their bodies to find that pain, that magnitude of heat that could temper me. 

Their love is cool and tame and fragile and worthless. I am seared and captivated by no one.

 All the world-fire is extinguished. It is full of his spirit, and empty of him. 
Smoke and ashes fill my hands and in my heart I clutch at the memory of bright, bright gold. 

He is gone and he will not come again.

---

Chapter End Notes

SAUDADE: Melancholic longing for something or someone that is absent and beyond retrieval  

Second-hand Embarrassment, Exhaustion

Celebrimbor learns a lesson in discretion, and elsewhere a terrible alchemy is wrought; caution in both cases comes too little too late. 

(Shades of shipping: Annatar/Celebrimbor) (Mild sexual content. The mildest.)

Read Second-hand Embarrassment, Exhaustion

SECOND-HAND EMBARRASSMENT:

"There is an outdated belief amongst some elves (perhaps the Sindar; I know not where such backward notions originated— for it cannot be from Aman) that any sort of expenditure of passion leads to a net loss in creative genius, or even in mental clarity. I cannot tell you how far removed from the truth this silliness is.” Annatar laughed brightly. “You should never be afraid, or ashamed to feel your work. Here—” He touched a fingertip to his pupil’s forehead gently, “or here,” he put a hand over his heart, “…or even here.” he smirked, and clutched himself briefly through the fabric of his silver robes. 

Celebrimbor’s throat moved, and he nodded stiffly, pressing his hips against the anvil in a way that suggested he was trying not to draw any attention to his desperation. The fey maia’s mismatched agate eyes slid over him once, knowingly, with cat-like smugness. His student’s longing was as obvious as the attempt to conceal it. 

"I see you have no difficulty summoning ardor for your work.” Annatar smiled with a touch of pity at the jewel smith’s violent blushing. “Shall we proceed with the lesson?” 

 

 

EXHAUSTION:

Sauron wades into the volcano’s furnace, a great mountain of gold in his hands. 

Gold from the throne of Utumno. Gold from his Master’s seat.
The mountain’s fire is for him, and not the Work.

He sheds whatever mannish skin he has worn for the benefit of others. He gathers every thread of power to himself; glorious and infernal, born of fires that know no light. With all the force the earth crushing coal into diamond, he squeezes the ingot in his hands— it drips from his fingers and groans as it’s compressed. His back and arms strain, he sweats fire as he forces his will into the precious wheel, and all the while the air shakes and the earth rumbles with the Words.  

As the gold reduces, so does he. 

He feels a tug from his center— a thread spinning out into the wheel, faster and faster— he unravels, and the weight of the ring grows. 

Too much! Too quickly! Turn back! He panics, but holds tight to the Work with every ounce control he can muster. His muscles burn.  The flow is stopped, words of binding limn the metal, and he feels triumph!-- Triumph, and then vertigo; weightlessness followed by nauseating gravity.

 As he falls he sees his life flash through a pinhole of gold. 

They strike the earth together, the ring and the dark lord. 

From molten glory to a slab of pitch in the shape of a man, he picks himself up, dripping, smoking.

His body raises from the ground by inches. It is heavy. He quivers. He breathes like one drowning— choking on the slag of his metamorphosis. 

Blindly he gropes until his blackened hand meets a hard, hollow weight.

He can barely lift it, though it is a small thing. Between his thumb and finger he feels the thrumming promise of its power, and he bears his teeth— metallic, cold, and empty. 

 

Hiraeth (Forge Songs)

The Zigur rises in power, but disguises are wearying; songs have power to heal or reopen wounds, reminders of all that is lost forever. 

(This is still one of my favorite drabbles) 

Read Hiraeth (Forge Songs)

The amount of time Men spent eating, drinking, sleeping, defecating, and fornicating was incredible. Their lives were pieced together by a thousand rituals, broken up by shifts of the sun and moon, constantly interrupted by bodily necessities and desires. That they managed to get anything done in their short lives was a miracle.  

Everywhere was the reek of impermanence; they feared change and they also feared stagnation. They built to be remembered, because they themselves would not last. Even the long, slow lives of the Dunedain were suffused with subtle panic. Every vase of flowers painted contained a wilting leaf, on every bowl of fruit, a fly. 

The rhythms of mortal life he could not adjust to, even when he willed himself to inhabit his human body fully, up to the last fiber. He tried to make his experiences as authentic as possible, so as not to shock his followers into remembering what he truly was (except when it suited his purposes).

There were certain aspects he greatly enjoyed: the strange tactility of pain and pleasure; the uncontrollable dictates of mood and fleshy function; the allure of mystery caused by incomplete senses; and the novelty of sleeping (though sometimes inconvenient) was acutely satisfying.
But the pace—! The pace was exhausting. 

 

When he found the frantic skittering of humanity too much to bear, he would lock himself in his forge and let his body remember itself for what it was. He would focus on his work in his usual mode, and emerge to find concerned faces surrounding him.
“You were gone for weeks, Zigur! The smoke from the chimney never ceased, and yet you never called down for food. We did not know what to think.” 

This he would wave off and explain away as a priest’s ascetic practices, or with private stores of rations.  But he would be careful afterwards, to reinforce his mannishness to his following. And this charade tired him anew. 

At times he would be called upon to sing for the pleasure of Ar-Pharazon and his court— for the king still enjoyed the thought of making his captive sorcerer perform at his bidding (though his power as Zigur grew, this practice fell away). 

He would sing songs in ancient Mannish tongues, some of his own invention, and these were greatly admired by the court. However, the queen, claiming dissatisfaction with a hint of mischief on her lips, demanded a different song— one in Quenya, she said, or if he dared, in the speech of the Valar. 

He would have refused this self-proclaimed blasphemy, except for the challenge in her eyes, and for the strange burning tug in his breast (his breast that felt things so differently now that it contained a beating heart). 

So he sang the oldest song he knew; and all around him, hairs stood on end and eyes grew wide. It was his forge-song, that he had first been taught to sing over Aulë’s anvil; the song that kept the hammer pace steady and even, and imbued the work of the smith with his will. This song had never been sung before by human mouth, and he found the syllables difficult to maintain. 
He felt the buzz and hum of the primordial sounds shake his frame and suddenly every inch of him longed to be free of flesh. He felt a pull on his heart so strong and so sharp that tears came to his eyes and spilled over hotly upon his dark cheek— for the pull came from his very center, and it led to nowhere he could return to. 

Nothing was uttered after his performance. Slowly, he put a long sleeve to his eyes, once, twice, and raised his head with dignity.  “Does that satisfy you, my queen?” 

"It does." She lowered her lashes, content with his humiliation. 

That night he locked his body away and flew, disembodied, to the highest spire of the city (for the rooftop of the Temple of Freedom had not yet been completed). There he orbited, staring upwards into the night sky, and sang with the voice of an Ainu, sending his music into the darkness beyond the stars. 

---

Chapter End Notes

Hiraeth: Homesickness for a home you cannot return to.

Schadenfreude, Pity, Angst

After the flood there is nothing; even sorrow is washed away.
The Shadow in the East muses on a use for his long-estranged brother;
And after an age of clinging bitterly to the earth, the new Dark Lord watches his last foothold dissolve beneath him.

(Warnings for gore, violence, and character death)

Read Schadenfreude, Pity, Angst

SCHADENFREUDE: 

"At last your face matches the grotesque parody of your soul, Zigur." 

The gaze of Elendil boils with hate, as does the elf-king’s eyes beside him. Here stood the two beings in all of Middle Earth who had most cause to despise him, and their loathing was not unreciprocated. 

"I should have thrown you on the pyre along with your precious tree.” The maia snarls in reply, though he slips and slurs and buzzes across the words as through a serpent’s mouth. His body is monstrous and powerful, but it is no longer precise. It is no longer beautiful.

 His tongue catches upon ragged wolf teeth, and the approximation of his old face is too wide, too long, too hard to be natural flesh. He is armored from head to toe and so are the enormous, mad-eyed wargs whose chains he holds. 

The men draw back in disgust and terror as he speaks.

This pleases him.
He no longer has any desire to negotiate with his enemies, to seduce or convert them. He is empty of feeling besides wrath. What he wants is to split their skulls, to feel their blood run into his belly and grind the bones of their children into dust and mortar. 

It was not he who sunk Númenor, but that distinction is trivial now. Looking upon the faces of the puny, impudent, crawling things before him, he would gladly reduce that island to a smoking crater himself, if given the chance again. 

Gil-Galad is the first to charge him, spear point glittering. Reflected in the king’s shield, Sauron sees the hanging, arrow-torn body of the lord of Eregion, the smoldering city and blackened holly trees.

The elf is quick and his spear is as deft as a surgeon’s blade. One warg falls to him, and there is bloody vengeance in his grey eyes. 

Sauron retreats from the assault, showing no fear in his patient withdrawal, pulling the elf away from the close guard of his companions. He parries and blocks with his war hammer, taking his time— and when it is too late and a step too far for the swordsmen to come to Gil-Galad’s aid, he demonstrates to his foes that his new body is neither slow, nor weak. 

With his ring bearing hand he grabs the spear, and in one motion pulls it away and snaps it. In the same space of breath he slams the spear-point into the elf’s eye.
His great hand smolders where it touches elf-flesh. And when Gil-Galad falls, burnt and smoking to the alarmed cry of men and elves, Sauron steps with careful deliberation upon the king’s neck, and severs the head from its shoulders. 

Orodruin churns behind him; the battlefield reeks of horror and there is such pain in the eyes of the elven host… he sighs with pleasure, and beckons his enemies to dance. 

 

PITY:

Ah, little brother. 

Even this simple thing you could not do. Fortified, and surrounded by fuel you were, and well-versed in our craft. You could not fail, you swore, begging to serve me.
You asked for armies; I supplied bodies, and steel.
You asked for my protection, and I gave it; for I do pity you, my thin white shadow. 

I remember— oh yes! With great clarity I recall how you, with your lesser craft, would take and gloat over whatever scraps you could gather. I remember how you spoke behind me in our Father’s ear, that his eldest, greatest maia could not be trusted, how proud Mairon’s works had been tainted by rebellion, and could no longer serve his purpose. Eager for praise, for superiority of any hue, craving a chance to boast and preen away from the shade of your greatest rival, your brother.

I know how you watched me, sick with envy, even as I fell from grace.
I know how you sought to fill my shoes after I was gone.

Oh, how that must have seared you— to be so close to a chance to eclipse me at last! But the Ring escaped you, as it did me. And so you came groveling at my feet and kissing my heel instead.

Sad, scrambling, smoke-wisp in your flooded tower... You cannot go Westward again for help, and you cannot go down to the enemy at your gate.
It is East you must turn, little brother. Your failures are grievous and humiliating, but I will give you this last chance to serve. 

Has it not always been your desire to be part of my power and out of my shadow? Come back to me, my dear little Curunír, my kin. While there is still red meat on your bones, and succulent light in your spirit, I can think of at least one use for you. 

 

ANGST:

There is a moment, between the perception and the fall, where time crawls. The Ring turns in the air above the magma, glinting, and he thinks:

"Might I die?"  

He has always known himself to be immortal; he was born knowing that creation and he would grow old together no matter what fate befell them. 

But he has seen a god diminished, thrust forth from the world in chains.

He has seen an island birthed and sunk again into the ruthless sea. 

He has poured the greatest part of himself into a trinket of gold, and now, he has the space of a fall to think that perhaps, perhaps there is a doorway he might fit through into death— and he has wrought it.

---

Chapter End Notes

Schadenfreude: Taking pleasure in the pain of others. 

Angst: Deep existential terror. 

Remembrance

Memory makes the past sweet and the present bitter; and as time wears on the memories of an immortal become all the more beautiful, and unbearable.

Read Remembrance

Aulë spoke slowly, voice like an echo in a fathomless cave: 

"All things crumble. All that once I wrought in early might has eroded. Even the changing sea outlasts stone in permanence.  High mountains lie as sand on  Ulmo's beaches. The kings of the folk I fathered perished in dragon-fire. The last of my pupils turned to the greed and darkness in his heart…" 

His craggy face is worn and smoothed as old limestone. 

"Within my works lay a seed of entropy that I could not perceive. Time ruins my heart with love for things past. But nothing, not even the trespasses of the Noldor, wounded me as you did, my maia... My Mairon." 

He said this with infinite sadness, but still he raised his hammer.

 Before Aulë stood a weak shadow, like ash held together in windless air. It rasped in a deep sandpaper voice, "You chained him. You broke him and bound him and left him to rot beyond the Door. If you love even the memory of what I was, you will let me see him. What harm could I do now, in this state?" 

Unmoving, the old Vala stood between his old pupil and the looming crack in the sky; a fissure that drew all light into itself and gave nothing back. 

"When I first crafted you I would not believe you capable of any harm… But you always find a way to hurt, even diminished as you are. Like him your poisons work mischief long after your sting." He held forth his weapon, weary but unshakable. "You will go no further, Sauron. You will see your master never again, unless it is at the end of Time when all things are unmade and we return to the thoughts of our Father." 

 

The Shadow, thus denied, hissed and lunged, spinning out fire like a wheel and notes of clear, sharp music that tore through the air-- but like his precarious flesh, the fire and music wavered, reaching Aulë as a curling sea-wave reaches the shore: a thin and harmless film. 

The mountainous god swung his great red hammer and drove the Shadow back, away from the crack in the sky and deep into the murk of a sulfurous mine, where he was lost to sight. 

 

Gradually, as time eroded the crater of Mordor and all the fields of battle grew over with new springs, the name of the Shadow was lost also to memory (though Aulë never forgot, and never shall). 

---

Chapter End Notes

This drabble was not technically from the same group as the others, but I thought it made a nice capstone to end this series with. 

This is not the permanent ending I choose to give Sauron in the Wesley!Verse, but for the sake of this arc, I've decided to go out with a distinctly Tolkienish note of bittersweet fatalism. ;) 

I hope this format wasn't too jarring, and that you got as much satisfaction from this series as I did from writing it.  

~Wes