Of Mandos and Chocolates by MisbehavingMaiar

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Of Mandos

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"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.