Ulmo and The Balrog. by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

   He had eaten his way into the cave, following the seam of Salts of Life. It was quiet, there were other creatures, but nothing that could trouble him. The Master's last command echoed in his spirit "Guard the TrueSilver!" as The Master had been cast adrift from the world. Now they must all heed Gorthaur in his ridiculous little golden body, puny of voice and puny of spirit, but the apple of the evil eye... Still, Gorthaur was clever, and had mingled freely with the cold little elves. He had never been interested in them himself, but was happy to crush them as part of The Master's Plan. 
   The cave had softened around him, it was warm and comfortable, the natural heat of his body slowly melting the rock, until at times he forgot where he ended and the mountains began. He had daydreamed at first, looking back on his life and remembering all the good times, and singing of the glory of the great release, when they and the great lizard had been unleashed, and the grass, and the elves, had fed the flame of their glory in a great firestorm of music and fierce rapture.
   
   He stirred in his sleep, and awoke. There was nothing near him, the creatures of the deep caverns were far away, or perished, but there was sound, faint sound, a tiny tapping, a candle brushed against his skin... It was above him. Were the wretched elves looking for him? Did they dare to seek him out? Did they presume to hunt him? He shifted his wings disdainfully, then recalled the fate of Gothmog and his brother. Who would have considered that elves had the fortitude? But the elves had been lucky, twice; it had not been the spike that had finished old Gothmog, but the deep cold waters of the fountain, as he bled his spirit steaming into the water. And that cliff! They had found the broken remains at the foot of the cliff, and shaken their heads; nothing would have survived such a fall, save perchance The Master's Gems...

  The noise was growing louder. He frowned and shifted his wings again; there was something above him, and it was getting nearer. A flash of joy flared through him, the time of waiting might be over, Gorthaur might be ready for the next assault, perchance they had come for him, the busy hands of orcs knocking on doors, gathering the army for battle. He roused himself fully and stretched out, pressing himself against the rock, feeling and listening.
   But there was no pattern to the sounds, no message or code, just the tedium of hammers. He sighed, and settled back into the softness, untroubled by the scratching of the elves, or by the thought of any weapon they might wield. He was too deep for their cold little hammers and picks, they would never find him, nor reach the TrueSilver, he would guard it until the others came, and then!!!

   But as he began to croon an old song to himself, half asleep already, there was a great echoing crash, the largest fall of rock in these mountains in an Age. He was wide awake in an instant, almost banging his wings against the rock as he sprang alert, and in the silence of the stopped hammers, he heard another sound, like wind in hair, a hissing, familiar sound that he knew of old, and with a shock of stabbing cold and a blast of blinding steam, his snug warm cave filled with rushing waters and in a long forgotten voice, echoing like great horns through his bones and the bones of the mountains, Ulmo spoke.
   "I have found you."

   In a flash, roaring with all his being, he moved. He was halfway up the endless stair before he could even begin to think; but there was no escape. What vast underground lake had been disturbed he could not say, but there was water and steam everywhere, and the earth-shaking voice with it.
   "Why do you flee? I am Ulmo, not one of these little elves. Will you not heed my song?"
   He roared again, craving The Master’s mocking laugh and dismissive scorn. Ulmo would not be speaking thus to The Master! But this far up, there was water everywhere, it hung in fine droplets in the very air, and every step he took he felt them, the voices of The Master’s foes, in the wind and the water, singing of love.
   Love! The great Music, the Ages of Toil, the Ages of Completion, the Ages of Waiting, and for what? Cold little creatures with piping voices, made of water, and dust... He roared again, feeling himself to be entirely fury, an embodiment of wrath and rage. It was for these that The Work had been undertaken? Ah, The Master had seen it first, of course, what it was all for, and scorned the song, and sung His own manic maelstrom, that had erupted with a blast through their spirits, and set them stamping and roaring in wild exultation! 
   
   But The Master was gone, not an echo remained but in their songs and remembrance, and now they must heed Gorthaur, petty little Gorthaur, who secretly wanted to be an elf, everyone suspected; too fond of the puny little body he had fashioned for himself, and too fond of the puny little bodies of the elves...
   He roared again, turning wildly. How had it come to this?
   But he was old, and cunning, he calmed himself, and listened for the hammers; at least he could be avenged on these elves, disturbing his sleep, and revealing him to the wretched Ulmo... His spirit reached deep into the cold stone, feeling for echoes, but there were no hammers, though faint and far he heard the sounds of rocks being moved.
   "Why do you rage so? Come, heed my song, and I shall show you the resting place, not only of one of your kin, but of one of the great Gems, deep beneath the waters wherein I dwell."

   His fury burst within him, the rock could not contain him, and cracked, and the mountain heaved and clove, a great fissure opened and he sprang roaring up the side, his claws gouging holds from the living rock, his wings booming open, his spirit soaring as he surged over the cliff into the carven halls above.
   But the song and light of the elves was nowhere to be found, only a moaning, half wail, half song, and he understood; these were not elves, these were Aulë's children, the dwarves, intent on stealing the Truesilver. His time had come!
   Trailing smoke and flame, filling the air around him with an incendiary glow and striking sparks from the rocks with his claws, he raced through the halls, the echoes turned his roaring into a great tremor, bellowing through the core of the mountain.

   "Why do you flee? I have found you, there is no escape, my thought is in every breath of the air, and I will sing."
   In a moment out of time, the Song came to him, the Song and thought of Ulmo, and he perceived what Ulmo would show him.

   The Gem glowed in the deep, spreading Light around it, rays of fading colour fanned flickering out and up, shining like a fallen star. And the Gem had brought life to a dark place, green and flourishing, great waving forests of water trees, and grasses, and flowers of delicate cut and gaudy hue. There amidst the slow explosion of life, the quick moved, swirling like leaves of silver and gold, and colours with no name, of all shapes and sizes, a bewildering whirl of life; there were things with legs, or tentacles, or shells, things that glowed of their own light, pale candles beside the sun of the Gem.
   But nearer the shallows and the shore, yet still far removed from either, another, smaller light shone, with a tiny, childlike copy of the deep forest, and a little dust swirl of fish and other creatures. And there, deep beneath the great sea, half buried in the vein of Salts of Life where he had rested to feed, shone another of his kin, the water a flickering haze around him as the terrible heat of his body boiled the sea. But close to the thickening crust of his flesh, so close it seemed they might touch the flame, the creatures of Ulmo sported, dancing, feeding and coming together. 
   He knew then what had befallen at least one more of his kin. The fool had set off to find the Gem, perhaps even ordered to do so. He paused and trembled for a moment, trying to blot the thought from his mind, the cold, the quenching cold and the weight... To walk into the sea! He wondered if he would have had the courage, and thought of Gothmog, drowned in a fountain... For a moment he wondered again at the might of the elves, had Gothmog truly been slain by one? Surely not...
   But there at the bottom of the sea, still glowing, warming his very thought, lay his kin, alive.

   "There is a place for you." said Ulmo "Follow the river, out to sea until the current turns, I shall show you. The vein is far richer, and there you may rest in peace, far from the turmoil of Gorthaur and his little schemes. There you would be welcomed, there the creatures I have in my care would flourish, and there you would win your true place, beloved and respected, and know yourself to be in harmony at last!"

   But the moaning was nearer now, and he burst forth into a broken hall, with tumbled pillars, cracked and canted floor, and an abyss through which a mighty new river gushed furiously, for Ulmo was moving. There were dwarves everywhere, many dead, crushed and broken by the cataclysm, or crawling wounded through the debris, while others struggled to free those trapped, and all, injured and hale, moaned in an endless cry of grief that seemed to blend into a song.

   They scattered like birds as he opened his wings and roared, the moaning turned to a shrill scream, that hurt his ears. Eager to end the pain, he charged, spreading fiery death with limb and claw, breath and wing, and with the lashing of his mighty tail. There was a dwarf in gold, he picked it up and breathed on it until the gold ran and flowed, the pathetic little body flamed for a moment, with a gout of oily steam and was incinerated. He turned swiftly, this way and that, but all those who could move were fled. He glanced around looking for others to flame, but all were still, though whether with death or fear, he could not tell. Gorthaur maybe, could have nosed them out, but he himself had never cared for the Children, and had not troubled to study their ways.
   
   But he was alone again. He shook himself and snapped open his wings to their fullest extent, and stretched out his limbs, uncurling his tail straight with a flick, and feeling a freedom he had not known in an Age. Perhaps he had been a little cramped, a little bored...
   He wondered about Gorthaur; however weird he was, he was loyal to The Master, and would be certain to have some schemes on hand. Perhaps it was time to seek him out. But the fresh crisp scent rising through the filth of burned flesh was stirring his thought, and memory. The dwarves were stealing the TrueSilver, had been stealing...
   He nodded; his duty was plain, he must guard the TrueSilver. Doubtless Gorthaur would use it for weapons; how he delighted in knives and cutting, and the greasy red ooze that came from his playthings. But it had been the last command of The Master, and he would not presume to question it, even had he the will to move against Him, even the wish...

   He was alone, the last echoes of the fleeing dwarves were gone, his mountain was his own, his task was clear, he had all of Time before him, he stretched again, more slowly, his fury sinking back to mere rage, and considered climbing to the surface to smell the air. He did not allow himself to hope for even the whiff of one of his kin, not in a time of waiting, but it might be that Gorthaur had been busy, and some sign of his labours would be there for those with wit to perceive it. 
  
   But he was not alone.

   "Your cave is filled with water. Now my creatures play where long you dreamed. Take the path to the sea, where the Music sounds clearest, follow the river, follow your kin, and there you may feed on the finest, taking your ease until the last day of Arda. Come, come to the sea, come to me, Ôlnaur."