Into This Wild Abyss by pandemonium_213

Chapter 1: The Measure of Dreams

Mairon paces across a high plateau in a stark land, knowing that all great structures begin with a dream and precise measurements. (Rated: General)

One...two…three…

Pumice crunched beneath his boots when he stepped on the leavings of ancient eruptions.

Four…five…six…

He knew the precise length of his stride. From heel strike to heel strike, it did not vary, at least not when he paced a measurement as he did now.

Seven…eight…nine…

The sun beat down on his shoulders. He paused, raised his head and squinted against the glare toward the fire-mountain in the distance. Behind rippling heat waves, it lay dormant with only a whisper of vapor trailing from its summit, but he knew from the subtle shifts of the earth beneath his feet when he had first entered this empty land that some day, it would rise with might, and he along with it. He resumed his count.

Ten…eleven…twelve…

It occurred to him that he ought to create a name for the measurement of his stride. He grinned with amusement at the thought of a new word in his invented language that served as a diverting game, a way to exercise his mind when he had traveled alone across the vast expanses of the East.

Thirteen…fourteen…fifteen…

The pocked rocks scattered in the dust caused him to consider the rich sources of stone nearby: granite and basalt, and further away, limestone, all perfect building materials. But who would build his dream? Orcs and trolls? He resisted the urge to spit with contempt and concentrated on his paces.

Sixteen…seventeen…eighteen…

He knew he must make use of orcs and trolls for brute labor when the night fell. Melkor’s consuming rage against all light, save for the savage brilliance of the three stolen jewels that shone from his crown, had led to the breeding of creatures with a strong aversion to the sun. Useless then for work in the day and also for more exacting tasks, the tasks that required keen intelligence.

Nineteen…twenty…twenty-one…

He swatted at a fly that had the effrontery to try to bite his neck, but he missed, and the insect darted away.  He continued the count.

Twenty-two…twenty-three…twenty-four…

He stopped, placed his hands on his hips and looked straight up into the crystal blue sky, soaking in the heat of the sun on his face. He imagined that he peered up at the ramparts and battlements of the tallest tower of a fortified city, a tower that would rise from the plateau high above the plain. While he gazed upward, his thoughts delved deep into the calculations for the design of the subterranean pylons that would be needed to support the structure. Yes, it could be done. Then he lowered his eyes, casting his sight at the panorama around him.

It was a strange, forbidding landscape, but possessed of a stark beauty with the jagged mountain ranges marching across the northern and western boundaries of his realm and to the south, the inland sea with its rich soil, made fertile from the ash of the fire-mountain. Here in this land of his stronghold he would gather those who gave their allegiance to him: Men, Dwarves and also, he dared to hope, Elves: all those who shared his vision of a new order for the marred world. But his vision would not be realized without hard labor, including his own.

He resumed his count. Yes, it was time to call in those debts, the oaths of fealty sworn in return for the knowledge he had shared, the skills he had taught, the power he had given.

Men, he thought. Men shall build this for me.

He slapped his neck. Without a pause in his purpose or stumble in his count, he examined the crushed insect. It was a black fly with a crimson mark on its abdomen. He wiped his palm against his robes that billowed in the wind, leaving a red stain of his own blood on the white fabric, and continued to pace the measure of his dream.