The God in the Mountain by MisbehavingMaiar

The God in the Mountain

Snapping in the trees, and a sound like thunder; the fire-mountain groaning in the distance. 

It is a deep-dark this hour. The stars are hiding behind dirty brown clouds again. 

Red on the horizon. Sparks. Then nothing. Then a flashing plume of light. 

His breath is short. Like a rabbit in a thicket. Blood pounding. Long since, he stopped hearing the comfort-noise of kin. 

It is so very, very dark! And no blind-sounds to follow… Only the earth-bones grinding and the wind high in the leaves. He must be very far from camp. He should never have left. He should never have sought out the fire-mountain! He had seen it spit boulders and breathe avalanches of poison, a wall of death that could not be outrun spilling down its sides. But they needed spears… 

Nothing else breathes in the darkness; he tells himself that is good, at least. No Others stalk his trail for now.

The ground is crisp and black as the sky. Old cinders shatter under his naked feet. He treads more carefully. Blood will attract Others with its scent, and he cannot afford to be caught alone. 

The fire-mountain spat its innards here long before. Cold rock ropes and sharp crumbled hills are piled here. If he is lucky and if he has even one star to see by, he will find what he is looking for; stone-glass, shining like water. 

The wind winding through the teeth of the rocks sounds alive. He tells himself that because the rocks have so many hollow stomachs, they sing in pain. It is just the wind breathing down his neck, panting hot like an animal. Panic bubbles. The wind is scenting him in the undergrowth. Every hair of him bristles, fine and soft and yellow. Why were his kin not covered in tough hide and horn like the Others? He begins to shake, ears flexing, alert to any sound in the darkness, ready to sprint over broken ground. 

Then he knows: he is not alone-- there is nothing in the darkness, but he is not alone. It is behind him. He cannot run. 

"How far from home you are." Says the wind, curious. Cruel. "What are you searching for?" 

"The Stone-Glass." He answers, quivering. Do not lie to the God in the Mountain. You cannot trick the Shadow-Thief, the Dark Rider.  If he dies now at least he will not have brought this doom to his kin. He will disappear and be another story, another white stone on the Empty Cairn. 

The wind laughs. 

The earth will swallow him now; the Shadows will pull him down, and down and the God in the Mountain will eat him up and he will come back to hunt his kin as one of the Others. His eyes squeeze shut, shoulders up and fists hard.  He hopes  he dies quickly, before he kills someone he loves. 
 

Across his white knuckles, something brushes. His fingers are uncurled by a huge, dry heat, slowly and irresistibly, one by one. Into his palm slides a stone. Its black edges cut him. 

"Here." Says the Dark Rider, "That is what you are looking for. The gods made you so helpless against my children… I pity you. Now, run home." 
 

He runs.

When he finds camp again, relief spills from his eyes and mouth; he throws his arms around the first elf he reaches. 

The Stone-Glass he hurls with all his might into the unrippled lake under the stars.
It is a long time before he can sleep again, and the story he tells of Belekôroz, the God in the Mountain, will haunt a generation of the Quendi.  

Chapter End Notes

"Belekôroz" is speculative fanon for what Melkor's name might have been in the Valarin tongue. I cannot claim credit for its construction. :)