To many he appeared fair, to others terrible; but to some evil by Lingwiloke

Chapter 1

Late crosspost for B2MeM2019. Prompts: Poetic Language I25: Symbolism, Person vs. Self B9: I won't let you define me

I originally started this for B2MeM 2016, for the prompt "Menegroth: Write a story or poem or create artwork that will illustrate the consequences of isolation." ...It has been a while ^-^''

Read Chapter 1

Mairon isn't lonely. He is in good company - all around him, his fellow maiar mill about, as keen as he is to make their visions reality under the guidance of the valar. Mairon is curious, excited, fascinated, by this world that is more than mere sound in the darkness, more than pretty images bleeding away into the void, by this world that IS. It is full of chaos and disorder still, but they will bring order; they will bring greatness to this place and help it bloom into wonder and beauty. The Children, once they come, shall praise them and rejoice.

He finds his place in the forges of the great smith, his joy in the leap of flames, the dance of the hammer on metal, the thrill of creation and the deep satisfaction of work well done. And if sometimes, when he has laboured for hours at a time to align this one piece of metal just right, to cut that one just so, to polish the last gem to the perfect shine, he looks up and there is no-one left to share his joy in the work of his hands with him, what does it matter?

Thû isn't lonely. He finally has found someone who understands; someone who has the power to change the world and embraces it wholeheartedly, someone who sees spirit and skill and devotion and is pleased to see it brought to good use. Who will not let himself be weighed down by needless caution, by children's rules, by fear - who has a vision and will stop at nothing to make it reality. Of course, greatness requires sacrifice - there is not much time or room for gentle handling and leniency in such an endeavour, and there are paths that must be trod that the small minds of the lesser ones cannot always understand. There is not much room for friendship or for love, either. But Thû has always been a child of the mind, and who is he to wish for more when offered the privilege to be a part of such magnificence? (They call him Gorthaur, the Abhorred, and he scoffs at their naiveté; what do they know of the agonies of a ruler, the burden of responsibility, crawling in the mud as they are? They are children, children who wish to meddle in the affairs of their elders, and cry when they inevitably burn their hands on the forge-fires.)

Annatar isn't lonely. The grandson of Fëanáro has a brilliant mind to match his own, a set of skilled hands suited to creating greatness, and a thirst for knowledge that makes him eagerly drink in all that Annatar has to offer. They spend long hours in the study and the forges, making grand plans and crafting grander works of art and power. It is almost like the old times, except now it is Annatar who gives the gift of knowledge, in the place of one who has forsaken this Middle-Earth beyond the seas a long time ago. More the fool, he. (But in the end, Celebrimbor is a fool, too, who cannot truly understand the ingenuity of Annatar's plans, and will not accept what he does not understand. And Annatar is no more.)

Tar-Mairon isn't lonely. Come to Númenor a prisoner, he has long discarded his shackles; it is the King of Men who wears them now, bound on a leash of his own making, a leash of honeyed words and poisoned promises by his hostage turned advisor. Mindless sheeple that they are, they follow him further and further into despair, and sing the praises of the one who once they scorned and hated. Tar-Mairon listens, and yearns, and fears, and wonders...

Yet, when the wave comes, no voice from the Void is there to honour his loyalty and determination, and no-one to catch him when he falls.

Zigûr isn't lonely. He is the Deceiver, the Dark Lord, the Nameless Enemy - what need has he for company, for friends? There is no-one in this world or beyond his equal - so who could ever be worthy of his regard? Who could understand what wonders and what horrors he has seen, what new marvels he conceives of in his brilliant mind, what moves his deepest, most secret thoughts? Zigûr has no use for the mindless masses, no use for companions that would but be a constant hindrance and a deadweight in all his endeavours. He has long relieved himself of such sentiment; he is free. It is not that he does not enjoy company occasionally - it is amusing to see them scurry about falling over each other in their haste to please him. The knowledge that they still call him Gorthaur - Sauron now, in this new age - behind his back, the knowledge that each and every one of them would end him in a heartbeat if they could fathom how, if only to succeed him on the throne - what is it to him, but a confirmation of his magnificence?

At last -

The Fall from which there is no getting up again. A single moment of utter surprise - astonishment - outrage - that this creature has outwitted him- a flash of immeasurable pain, and then-

Then-
For the first time, he - Zigûr, Tar-Mairon, Annatar, Thû, Mairon... is truly and utterly

Alone.