Of Mandos and Chocolates by MisbehavingMaiar

"Raise your hands." Námo commanded before the Ring of Doom, though from where his voice emanated, none could say. 

Bound at the feet and bruised from Tulkas's fists, Melkor fought against the command, but ignore it he could not-- even as his wrists strained and he bit his lips with the effort to keep them down, they shuddered at his sides under the compulsion. With a squawk of dismay he lost control, and his hands flew up before the Doomsman, palms up and trembling with outrage. 

"You cannot do this! Are you all deaf? Did my arguments mean nothing? If sympathy will not move your hearts, at least logic must still have some hold on your brains! Will you not listen to reason? Hear me! Do I, your brother, mean less to you than a Plan? Did we not all Sing together?"  Melkor laughed. "This is absurd!"

But his indignant cries echoed alone. 

"Three ages. And other four in servitude." Manwë spoke without wavering, "--That is your sentence. It is final, and written. It reflects the will of the Circle."  His countenance was calm, but his eyes were full of hurt, and his voice was bitter cold.

"Mânawenûz, twin-of-my-spirit! You cannot do this!” Melkor seemed weak with disbelief. “Not to me…” 

The muddied Vala cast his eyes wildly around the Circle, looking for pity and finding none but Nienna who would meet his gaze. “…Will no one else speak on my behalf?” 

At last he forced himself to look upward to the face of his gaoler. “Námo, you are the Voice of Fate, you know of justice! Tell them, tell them to stop! Tell them it is not my future to be chained down…” He choked, understanding at last what lay before him. 

But Námo said nothing. The smooth mask that either concealed or was his face did not move; not a breath issued from its slit of a mouth. There was no pity there. 

"If you fear punishment now, brother, you should not have disobeyed the Theme before! You should not have raised your hand in violence against your kin, nor gone alone into the Dark with only your own council!" Manwë's voice raised from its icy monotone in anger. 

"Disobeyed?” Melkor hissed through his teeth. “Before I Sang on my own, there was no commandment not to do so! Did Father himself tell you to chain me? NO! YOU invented the crime and the punishment! I was only acting as I saw most natural! Please brother, help me, don’t let them do this!” 

Manwë turned his face away, and Aulë’s shackles wound around the Vala's wrists and neck and fused without a seam. Suddenly Melkor found himself bowing under the weight of the links, and his retorts came fast and panicked then.

"Fools! Small-minded, obedient, vicious fools! Think what you are doing! Traitors! Cowards! Slaves! How dare you do this?! I will not be chained! I am a Vala! I am hurricanes of fire and boiling rock, I am ice, I am mutability and freedom! Chains are anathema to one such as I!" Then, feeling the shackles tighten he screamed "No! No, I am sorry!  I will die if you do this! Have mercy!” 

His threats weakened as the chains constricted, not only his flesh but his very essence, binding him, forbidding change, stifling his breath. 

 For Angainor had been cleverly wrought; it knew his moods and his arguments, and it cared nothing for them. 

And Námo's figure bent without wrinkle and took up the end of the great chain, pulling it and the prisoner with him through the dark gates of his realm. 

____

Melkor 's cheek scraped against stone for the hundredth time. He had been resolute to let himself be dragged every inch of the way if only to make the task more difficult for his gaoler. But now… 

 “Brother, wait. Let me at least stand… I would go to my fate with some dignity.” He lied. 

Dignity had never been one of his topmost priorities... But perhaps being on his feet would help him think, let him survey his surroundings and make a plan for escape. 

"Where are you taking me? Surely I’m not to wait here for three ages with the souls of the dead Children?" 

As he hobbled through the unlit halls, not even the sound of his own voice came back to him. The Doomsman remained silent. 

Deep under the earth they went; the farther down the halls they traveled, the less chance he had of escaping, and the more keenly he felt the sepulchral depths, the silence folding him in with the dead. 

"Oh ANSWER ME you stony imbecile, or is your tongue as barren as your halls?" Melkor spat, losing his temper and his will to be facetious all at once. "Tell me where you are taking me! When will the Circle hear me again? Why prison, why chains? DAMN YOU, why chains? I am the Mighty Arising, how long do you think your halls can hold me? I will not change my tune for being bound here!"

Seeing no other escape he filled his lungs and prepared to Sing forth all his desperation, to turn the walls to melting glass— but the chain constricted, knowing in advance what he would do, and he coughed pitifully as the air was squeezed out of him. 

"Auk! This is… not… justice!" He gasped. "Please…  you must know it is not right to keep me here! If you ever loved me, speak for me!" 

"This is your punishment. It is the first of many." Námo's voice was chill and echoless here. It seemed to come from within the listener's mind; a dull, flat intonement. 

"For what?" Melkor whined.  "Adding to the diversity of Arda? For lashing out when you built those awful, useless Lamps? For wanting recognition for my own works?"  

Even as he spoke, the Vala looked up, and saw that the tapestries lining each wall depicted the very moments he spoke of. That unstrung his nerves; it was as if Mandos itself was reflecting his perceived crimes for judgement. 

 The threads shifted, showing him looming above the Lamps, then crushing them in his claws; they aligned to show his battle against his brother, the great fires he’d kindled, the mountains he’d pushed into the sea… He saw the delving of Utumno, and the terror of the newly-awakened First Born, and finally, Tulkas hurling him to the ground amidst the wreck of his palace, defeated. 

Bewitched by the hangings, Melkor ceased to struggle, and the crushing chain around him slackened. 

So that was its mechanism… As with everything the Valar did, resistance was punished while meek resignation was rewarded. How typical. How hateful! 

 The fallen Vala writhed and bit into his chains, crying out and flinging himself against the pull with all his might-- but it was like trying to move the earth itself by a thread, and he had not the strength he'd had during the First Music. 

“Heartless! The Outer Darkness has a warmer disposition than my kin!” Melkor wailed, feeling quite sorry for himself. His teeth had had no effect on the chain and they bled from trying to rend it.

 "I beg you not to do this, Námo! I beseech you!" He scrambled, claws scraping the floor, feeling himself dragged inexorably closer to the high-looming doors of an empty cell— his cell; one carved into Mandos with the express purpose of housing a Vala. It yawned open, waiting for him to fill it. 

"Please brother, what is it you want? I’ll give you whatever you desire! I’ll be your slave! Anything you want of me I’ll grant only don’t lock me away! Anything--!" 

 His screams echoed in the halls as he was thrust forward; and the golden Vala plummeted, howling into the darkness, Angainor snaking into the dark pit behind him. 

The prison was a well; a grand well, like a cathedral or a mausoleum. Its walls lofted almost out of sight, up to the small halo of the sky which could be seen as the far end of a telescope.

The ceiling was held aloft by fluted columns like titan trees, and far above were windows of stained glass which let in the passage of gold and silver lights. 

 At the very, very bottom of this elegant pit Melkor lay chained, while time was marked only by shifts in color, the occasional spot of light that drifted over him for a few hours a day. Dust lay heavy on his back and buried his knees in drifts, extinguishing his glow and painting him as grey as the slate. 

For the first age of his sentence he clawed and strove against the hateful red-green chain of Aulë’s. The floor was furrowed from all his thrashing, scorched from his flaming breath. He'd roared with heat till he shone white as a star, threatening to melt the very floor of Arda.

He had screamed and Sang to bring down the walls, but that too was useless-- for the chain squeezed, and Námo had come down, leaning over his brother with that eyeless, boneless cloak and sucked the breath from Melkor's furnace-lungs. 

 He had felt his flame go out, and with it his Song, his voice. 

That was when the Mighty Arising truly began to fear the Doomsman, more than any of his kindred. More even than Tulkas. 

Námo visited once at the beginning of each age to announce the remainder of Melkor's penance, and all Aman heard the toll. 

Manwë came also, once or twice an age. This was a blessing; even his brother’s cyclical sermons were a welcome relief from the suffocating boredom, and the slow meandering circle of light with its monotonous rhythms.
Melkor had thought of a thousand points to counter his sibling's preaching, but he had no voice to air his thoughts or stir even a grain of dust. 

By the third age, his mind turned in on itself, devouring and senseless.

He fell dark and motionless, in a sleep that was not sleep, his body curled like a fist around his hungry thoughts, silent and hard as a stone. 

The once-gold Vala clung to memories of all he had been in the beginning. He clutched them closer than his life, but memory twisted like an eel out from his grasp. Everything was dull and grey... and had it not always been that way? Arda, that had been a dream, had it not?

Reality now was a narrow spot of light that traveled across the floor. 

Reality was slate stone, and the heavy links of a chain. 

Reality was dust. There had been no Music, he had never Sung. 

Oh but he had! He had! And he would do anything now to get it back!
He would crack open his chest and eat his raw heart if it meant that he could leave! He would beg, or lie, or repent, or kill; whatever it took. A reprieve from the silence was all that mattered now.

His mind whiplashed; fear tore through reason and salted the earth with self-pity and hatred. He could give up anything, Melkor thought, anything just to move again— and yet the rebounding crack of that thought was that he would never give away anything ever again.  He would ruin those who had done this to him… 

In soundless turmoil the third age of his sentence passed, announced at last by a solemn knell. 

A breath of wind spiraled down to the bottom of the prison-well, stirring the mote-laden air with a sigh.
Melkor raised his head from the feathery snow of time and cracked open his grayed lips, filling lungs like dry bellows, and exhaled a plume of smoke.

 He had circled around his arguments again and again in preparation for this moment, but now, he pushed them all away.
He buried his convictions deep in his breast and very carefully, very artfully, prepared himself to lie. 

It was over. His second trial was at hand. He vowed it would not end as the first had. 

_________

 It was decided in the wake of the trial that he would wear the manacles still-- and would keep them until he was released from his fourth age of servitude to the Champion of the Valar.
The bonds rattled on his hands and around his pale, scaled throat, letting no one forget his disgrace. 

Long after, his spirit would recall the scars and burn-smooth skin no matter how many times he remade his body. His neck and wrists would bear the buckling, wrinkled skin forever, or until he remembered how to be whole…

But vanity was a small enough price to pay for freedom, Melkor thought, rubbing the tender flesh. Disgraced he might be, but disgraced and alive in the world again.

He knew the eyes of his twin were on him wherever he walked, as well as the burning glare of Tulkas, his new "master". 

He could feel the hollow hood of Námo follow him too, and he shivered. 

Beyond the Máhanaxar lay Aman in all its splendor… Melkor yelped and flinched, throwing a clawed hand over his face to shield it from the awful, piercing glare. 

…So, two Trees had replaced the old Lamps during his time in prison; it was their light he’d grown to despise circling his cell and crossing his back in burning ellipses. 

The brightness was withering. Melkor's heart constricted with longing for the world he had first lit with magma; the comfort of endless night lit by his native glow, a gloom that only his eyes could pierce with ease…

 But soon enough, he forced his eyes to adjust. His pupils contracted into slits, growing new structures to accommodate the light.
 
Now he could see that Eru's Children were everywhere… they walked about the feet of the Valar without any dread! As tame as goats! And when they saw The Dark Rider himself walk down from the Ring of Doom they did not flee, but rather stopped to stare.

...Were these the same elves that he his creatures had hunted in the primal darkness? They could not possibly be. The ones who remembered him would never dare to enter his presence.

Indeed, as he watched, several of the Quendi caught sight of him and turned death pale, turning on their heels and scattering for shelter.
Melkor allowed himself a tight, secret smile. 

 But one little elda, wide of eye, with a head of finespun flax hair, seemed not to notice this commotion.
She looked at him from a ways down the bell-strung road with more interest than trepidation, and began to approach.

(Soon, Melkor would learn that there were different houses and tribes of elves-- distinctions that had not been relevant when they had been scrambling naked in the dark with sticks and stones— and that this girl was one of the Vanyar.)

 
Melkor pretended not to notice the girl's staring, looking away as she drew near with tentative kitten-steps.

 "My Lord Vala," she squeaked, "are you the one called The Mighty Arising? King Manwë’s brother?"  She made a low curtsy.  In one hand she had tucked a parcel, bound cleverly in petals and twine. 

It was the first time he could recall one of the Children having spoken to him. Melkor squinted down at the package, then back up to the audacious little creature. 
 

"…I am."

 He was meant to be the ‘least’ of the dwellers here; the form he had chosen to wear was not intimidating, but still… it felt most peculiar to be addressed so openly by one so small! Was it not shameful to be seen by the Children in this state? And yet, he would have to bear it while he remained under the close scrutiny of his kin. 

The girl beamed at him prettily, absolutely without guile. “Oh! We were told about you! You are the eighth Vala, the missing one!" She clapped. "It is a proud day that we regain all the Lords of Aman! We,  or rather, I…” her cheeks pinkened, “--made you a gift! It is very humble… I do not doubt you will find it quite laughable, but I hope you will accept it. Welcome!”

 
She lifted up the parcel eagerly in slender hands, and Melkor took it, pinching it between two claws. 

How did one respond to this strange foolhardiness? He had never been given a gift before… 

A hulking shadow fell across them both before either could say another word. The footsteps accompanying the shade boomed against the earth. Taking a breath, Melkor closed his eyes and summoned all his patience for the exchange that would follow.  

In one massive stride, Tulkas was between them; he clapped a massive bronze hand on Melkor's thorny shoulder with enough force to rattle bones. 

"Run along, good little one! My servant has much to do, while he is unchained. And you needn’t call him 'lord'!” 

The elda made a bow and a hand gesture of respect, but grinned cheerily at them both. “All Valar deserve respect, do they not? We are grateful for all you do, my lords. May your mingling hours be a happy this day!”  And with that she spun and skipped away to a group of waiting friends, who watched from a twinkling grove of aspens. 
 

Melkor watched her depart, confused and leery. Could his Father's Children really be so simple? Had they all forgotten the dark, the orcs, the cracks in the earth? 

Tulkas scoffed, answering the unaired questions with a scowl. "That little one was born on Aman's safe shores. She does not know better than to trust you. No doubt her mother and father spared her tales of the old continent. And you! If you so much--"  Tulkas bent and crushed the smaller Vala's arms, "—as breathe a word of ill against her, or any of the folk here, I will use you for a rug in my dwelling, do you understand?” 

Melkor clenched his shark-teeth around a whimper.  ”Oh, I understand…” The grasp hurt dreadfully, but he sneered up at his aggressor all the same. “Right out the gate, you think I’m going to start setting fires and trampling the innocent First Born under my heel. But look!”  
He held up the parcel in his hand to display it for the Champion. “They already respect me! They love me, and offer me gifts, and I've been here but an hour!”  

Lips curled smugly, he began daintily to unfold the wrappings. "It seems you are the only one jumping at shadows here, Valiant One." 

Within the parcel sat a collection of round things, smooth as a chestnuts, wafting a smell that was dark and rich as wood but honey-sweet. They glittered with oddly crystallized petals. 

"You do not deserve that." Growled Tulkas, making as if to swipe the gift from Melkor’s claws. But the flickering Vala slithered out of reach. defiantly popping one of the inviting objects into his mouth. 

"They were given freely!" He taunted messily.  "Who are you to say if— " As the Vala chewed, his eyes went wide, and his speech slowed, "…to say if…” 

Tulkas raised a brow. “What's this? Were the sweets poisoned? Filled with hemlock and squirrel spore? HAH! Maybe that little one deserves a place of honor on Taniquetil!” 

For once, Melkor made no retort. He stared unfocused into middle distance, eventually turning his back, pointed, tawny shoulders drawn up and shaking. “Go away.”

 
"Why? So you can spit out your lovely reward? I won’t hear of it! Finish them all!" Tulkas roared in amusement. "Tell me, tell me-- Were there stones inside? Have you cracked a tooth? What’s the matter, brother!"  

 "Go… away!” The diminished Vala began to hunch more and more towards the ground, both shackled hands rising before his face, in an attempt to hide-- 
 

"…Tears? I had not thought you could shed those unless Manwë were watching." Tulkas’s nose wrinkled. "Surely you’re not putting on that revolting display for me!" 

"I… have tasted… nothing… but dust, and my own tongue for three…" Melkor swallowed, "—ages. And you are mocking me… for tears?”  His voice broke in pitch. Sniffling, he raised another of the confections to his lips and bit through it, blushing copper and moaning furiously as if the little treat had been love’s first kiss. 

Mercifully, Tulkas withdrew.

 “If the candies mean that much to you, you should thank that girl for her gift, however much you do not merit such kindness.” The Champion huffed. “But I doubt  that you will… You are too proud to know gratitude. What a shame. What a waste." He snorted like a bull, hot air shimmering from his nostrils. "Enjoy your chocolate. It will be the last luxury you get for a long while." Tulkas made his thundering way down the path towards his abode. "Find me before the light changes! I have tasks for you!” 

 The least of the dwellers in Aman shut his eyes tightly and licked his claws, savoring the last clinging crumbs; sugar mingling with salt. He hardly noticed the manacles as he wiped his burning eyes. 

 
"Chocolate." 
 

 How did such a splendid thing come to exist? He could tell it was comprised in part of Yavanna’s work, but how was this combination of elements accomplished so artfully, and by a child? Did it really have no purpose aside from bringing such… searing pleasure to the tongue? The notion was unexpectedly gratifying, that something so beautiful and so useless should exist in paradise. 

Arda was full of new works since he’d last been in it. It would not kill him to play the fool and learn of everything that had sprouted from the Valar’s garden in his absence.

He could breathe again, move again, taste again! 

The judgement of his kin made him sick with bitterness and hate, but in that moment Melkor did not hate everything: there were delicate, sweet, baffling gifts in the world, given to him in earnest welcome. 

 Perhaps he could learn to live with his Father's Children after all…  They, at least, did not mock him, or jail him, or deny him treasures.  And they made such enticing things! 

Chapter End Notes

-- This story was spliced together from a drabble and some paragraph-RP selections I was fond of.
I must apologize to my RP Námo for replacing him in this story with my much less friendly, much, much less sympathetic Doomsman.