Emotions-- A series of vignettes by MisbehavingMaiar

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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.