What Brings Us Together by Aipilosse

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The Greatest Woe

This chapter was beta-d by the exemplary Visitor! (Maedron on AO3)

 

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Miaulë stayed in his room, although he itched to explore more in his new bipedal form. He supposed he would eventually leave his room, but he suspected the rest of the denizens of Ondomar would rather he stayed in one place for today. Nerdanel had been very clear that, while not a prisoner, he also should not leave Ondomar. He could sense something on the doors and crowding around the walls; he suspected they were wards of some kind but knew too little about magic to know for certain. Despite the lack of knowledge, he could detect more of the threads of power that wove through the house than he could as a cat, and he distracted himself for a time guessing at the purpose of each. 

The rest of the day and night passed without incident. Miaulë kept his ears pricked for any strange noises or conversations about him, but the murmur of life outside his room sounded different; his hearing had changed. He also didn’t hear any talk about him, either directly or indirectly.

The only interesting occurrence happened in the late evening when a crisp knock sounded on his door. Miaulë jumped up quickly and opened it. Much to his disappointment, it was not Celebrimbor standing there but his mother, Ornéliel. Her soft face pulled into a ferocious glare as she looked him up and down. 

“Hello, Ornéliel. Did you need me for something?” Miaulë said, not quite able to suppress the hope that Celebrimbor had asked for him.

Ornéliel sighed deeply. “Honestly, I can hardly blame him,” she muttered, and with that she turned and left as abruptly as she had arrived. There were no other visitors throughout the long night.

The next day, Miaulë rose bright and early, ready to face the household as he left to find some breakfast. He absently trailed his fingers along the stone walls as he walked towards the kitchen, pondering the mystery of his past. He hoped whatever he and Finrod did today worked, he’d remember everything, and then he could get back to what he really wanted to be doing: helping Celebrimbor with the star model. Just being able to tell him about the scale factor had obviously sparked something for him; if only they could get past whatever had happened previously, they could start truly working together. And with the discovery that Celebrimbor could somehow slip into his mind, fitting perfectly into a place that seemed made for him, it seemed to him inevitable that they would start working together soon.

As he stepped into the kitchen, the cheerful chatter abruptly stopped. A few of the elves outright stared at him, and many looked at him out of the corner of their eyes. The prospect of getting food suddenly became daunting. As a cat, he had mostly hunted for his own food, although he had also been given scraps regularly. He could still hunt for breakfast he supposed, but it would take more than a single mouse to sate his hunger, and that also sounded much less appealing now. A kernel of resentment rose in him; I’m sure I didn’t personally hurt everyone here, he thought. I will not let them keep me from enjoying my meal.

So resolved, he cut several slices of bread from a loaf at one of the tables and slathered a generous amount of butter and jam on the slices. His anxiety eased as he began eating; the simple breakfast tasted delicious and the difference in flavor he experienced between his old and new body fascinated him. He studiously ignored the elves who had risen from the table when he sat down, focusing so intently on his meal that he was startled when someone sat down next to him.

“I suppose you wouldn’t like some tea would you?” 

Mouth full, Miaulë examined the small being next to him. Of the two hobbits, he preferred Frodo, who had always seemed to have a snack for him and with whom he had spent many quiet afternoons napping as the hobbit studied. He had always had the impression that Samwise didn’t really like cats, so they had avoided each other.

“I would like some tea, thank you,” Miaulë replied. With a raised eyebrow, Sam went to put on the kettle. He remained silent as he brewed the tea and poured them each a cup. Miaulë took a sip and almost immediately spit it back out. 

“You willinging drink this?” he asked.

Sam frowned and took a sip. “This is perfectly brewed, but if you don’t like it, don’t drink it, although it’s rather rude to refuse something after you asked for it.”

Miaulë wrinkled his nose, the bitter flavor of the tea still stuck in his mouth. “I’ll stick to water.”

“So, what are you doing today?” Sam asked, apparently willing to ignore the snub to his tea.

“I’m meeting with Finrod soon; he is going to try to help me remember my past.”

“Hmm.” Sam took a sip of his tea. “And why do you want to remember your past?”

Miaulë looked at him with surprise. “The past is rather important, is it not? And it seems like everyone here has knowledge that I don’t, which is —.” He paused, trying to describe the feeling of looming dread that had settled over him once he’d realized the millennia of time unaccounted for in his memories. “—Is uncomfortable,” he settled on.

“No other reason?” Sam asked lightly. Despite his tone, Miaulë could tell the hobbit would weigh his answer carefully.

“I would like to learn many things,” Miaulë said slowly. “The past is just one of them. It just seems to be a prerequisite of learning anything further from the folk here.”

“Hmm.” Sam stared at him steadily. “I suppose I should level with you. I don’t trust you, and even more so for this fair-seeming face you have. I thought Frodo had ended you for good, or as near as could be done, and I don’t much like the thought that all our pain was for naught. All this is to say, I’ll be watching you very carefully, and if an old hobbit can’t do much if you end up being bad news again, well, I’ll do my part again regardless.” 

Miaulë frowned, mulling over Sam’s threat and the crumbs of information he had just revealed. He had had no idea that even the hobbits figured into his past. “Frodo ended me? What do you mean?”

Sam squinted at him, and then shook his head. “It’s a long story, and one I’m sure someone will tell you soon enough. It’s too bright a morning to start off with such a long, harrowing tale.”

Miaulë sighed. “I feel so blind. If you will not tell me about when you knew me before, will you tell me something else? Something interesting?”

After another sip of tea, Sam said, “I suppose we can talk of other things. Would you care to hear about the chair I’m making?”

“Yes,” Miaulë said, sitting up straighter. “Tell me everything.”

~

After a pleasant breakfast, all things considered, Miaulë set off to meet Finrod.

He descended the stairs to the cellar level and cautiously entered the meeting room. The familiar cellar felt different; for one thing, he no longer had half an ear perked for rats and other pests that might get into the food stored there. As with the rest of the house, there were rooms for interests of all kinds. Experiments with chemicals and mixtures were conducted here in cool dark to keep the ingredients stable and undiminished. 

This room was empty of any equipment. Dark curtains hung down the wall to make it seem less like a cell, and candles were set throughout the room. Finrod sat at the center of the room in a comfortable looking chair, in front of a table with a silver basin on top of it.

“Come in, Gorthaur,” he said. In the dim room, he seemed to give off a soft golden light of his own. 

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” Miaulë closed the door behind him and moved to stand in front of Finrod. ‘Terrible dread,’ what an awful name, only slightly better than Sauron, the name he heard whispered before him more often. It even sounded heavy and dreadful in his ears. 

“And why should I not call you by your name?” Finrod challenged with a tilt of his head.

“Surely I was not always called Gorthaur,” Miaulë said. “It doesn’t sound like what I’d call myself.”

“I am not sure about that. When I met you, you seemed to take great pride in your dreadfulness.”

Again, the reminder that everyone here seemed to know more about him than he did himself. Well, that will soon be solved, he thought. “Call me Miaulë, please.”

“For reasons that may become apparent today, I find it very difficult to call you something so silly.” Miaulë opened his mouth in protest — he liked his name. Finrod held up a hand. “But I shall try! If we are to commence this experiment, we should give you a chance to use the name of your choice. Now, please have a seat.” Finrod gestured to a less cushy seat in front of him.

“Let me explain what will happen in these sessions. Galadriel, Olórin, and I have created a window to the past, a Mirror, if you will. It was created with some haste, so it’s not our finest work, but I believe it will do the job for now at least. You will gaze into this basin once it is filled with water, and it shall show you parts of your past. We will try to steer it to certain points, but that is an imprecise art, so there is no guarantee of what it will show. Are you amenable to this so far?” 

Miaulë nodded.

“Now, the next part is important, but perhaps more disagreeable to you. We decided that the best way to help you is if we also know what you are seeing.”

“Shall I describe it then?” Miaulë asked.

“A bit more than that. You will initiate a mind to mind connection with me, and share your thoughts, and thus what you are viewing,” Finrod explained.

Miaulë frowned. The thought of a direct mental connection with Finrod made the hair on the back of his arms stand on end. “Will it be like when Celebrimbor spoke in my mind yesterday?” he asked.

“Ah, not quite.” Finrod rubbed at the back of his neck. “We don’t have the same connection as the one I believe you have with my kinsman.”

Miaulë thought for a minute. Speaking to another through a mental connection felt intimate in a way he couldn’t put into words. On the other hand, he had no room to bargain. Besides, it might be good in some ways; if he saw something he didn’t understand, Finrod may be able to explain. 

“Very well, I accept your requirements.”

“Good.” Finrod smiled kindly, but Miaulë thought he detected some apprehension in his eyes. “Now try to open your mind to me. I find it’s helpful to think of the other person and then picture opening a book, but that book is yourself. Or—” Finrod’s eyes widened. Miaulë sensed Finrod’s approval through their connection, which did pale in comparison with his link to Celebrimbor. Before, there had been an awareness of emotions and an extension of the senses that the connection with Finrod lacked. He still found it strange, especially after he realized his thoughts about Celebrimbor flowed freely to Finrod who in turn tried to give his own perspective into mental connections. 

Finrod stood and began to pour water into the basin from a ceramic pitcher. There was no chanting or singing, but his motions were smooth and meditative. 

Gaze into the Mirror.

Miaulë took a deep breath and followed Finrod’s instructions.

The surface of the Mirror stayed dark for a long while. Miaulë almost looked up and asked Finrod to explain how it worked, but a flickering glow in the depths caught his eye. The light grew closer, until suddenly the surface of the water trembled and a large room came into view, some of the walls of rough stone, some smooth as glass. The light did not reach every corner, but the way it glinted off of distant metal or polished stone suggested a cavernous size.

There were two figures in the center of the room, one larger than the other. It was hard to tell without references, but the larger of the two seemed immense, his bulk not merely a function of size but also a mental and spiritual vastness that came through even over the watery surface of the Mirror.

“Ithīr.”

The word echoed painfully through Miaulë’s head. No sound came through the mirror, and yet when the dark figure had opened his mouth, he heard what he said. 

Troughs of fire flared to light illuminating the room more fully, although some dark corners remained. A series of cages lined one wall, the bars obscuring furtive scuttling movements. 

“Mairon, long thou hast searched far afield; the quarry gathered for me is more than satisfactory.” The words ceased to hurt, and now he understood them, although the sounds still felt too close, the strange experience of hearing without ears confusing his mind. The impression of immensity still emanated from the speaker, but the light now illuminated his face. Grey skin of stone, or crafted to appear like stone, wrapped a strong face, and the grey gleaming surface shifted like plates of earth rather than skin. The blue fire of his eyes blazed too bright to look at for long, even through the Mirror.

“I live to serve, Lord Melkor.” The other being, presumably Mairon, tilted his horned head at whatever huddled in the cage, the bright golden eyes unblinking. With a mental nudge from Finrod, Miaulë realized he looked at a previous incarnation of himself.

“Thou hast hunted enough for my work to begin; now it is for thee to continue.” Melkor unlatched the cage with a touch. “Come out, pet.”

The thing in the cage could walk, but barely. His legs were misshapen and twisted, bones broken and set in strange shapes. His back hunched, and he lurched with every step. He came to a halt in front of them, swaying precariously. Drool dripped from the half open mouth, teeth protruding in such a way it couldn’t close all the way, and the yellowed and bloodshot eyes stared ahead. Despite the horrific injuries, Miaulë recognized an elven form; one pointed ear remained, and there were some clumps of silvery hair left. 

“On the table,” Melkor ordered. The broken elf shuffled to a stained table with built in restraints and awkwardly hoisted himself on. 

Mairon slowly circled the prone elf, curiosity in his face. The firelight reflected off the black scales that clung to Mairon’s body as he moved; Miaulë could not tell if they were armor or his own skin. He examined the teeth, flexed the joints, and poked at various contusions. The elf cried out in pain, but made no effort to escape. 

“My lord, I am not certain I understand your work. Surely he was more useful before? There is no assurance this creature could survive a week in the mines.”

“Use? Use?” Melkor’s voice took on a painful dimension again, and Miaulë began to rub at his jaw to alleviate the tension even as his eyes remained fixed on the Mirror. “The use is the furtherance of my ultimate purpose — I have shown that there is nothing that I cannot bend to my will; no part of creation is outside my purview. My siblings in their Blessed Land have not yet found the first Children, and already I have begun to fit them into my own purpose. Perhaps these creatures are the thought of Ilúvatar, but now they are also the thought of Melkor.”

His hand darted forward and grabbed Mairon by the arm, guiding his hand to the elf’s chest. “Use more than thine eyes, Mairon.”

A chill ran through Miaulë even in the safety of the cellar room, but the self in the mirror looked like he could barely restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Mairon’s pupils narrowed to vertical slits as he focused, then a look of wonder crossed his face. 

“You have attached — I cannot, ah! Is that your own being?”

Melkor released Mairon’s arm, a smile shifting over his face. “You begin to understand.”

“And that is why it followed your command. Not because it was frightened, but because it must.”

“Thus I have made the Children into my own. Their souls are now bound to me and changed, just as their bodies have changed.”

Mairon tilted his head up at Melkor, his eyes shining with excitement. “Marvellous. But surely even you cannot pour yourself out into these creatures without end? The form appears frail, and there are other creatures that could benefit from your mighty will.”

“Such doubt! But thou art my right hand, so I will answer thee. Still, the extent of my power is beyond thy comprehension. Long could I impart my essence into the world without any cost to myself. But thou hast noted well; there are more worthy vessels even now and more yet I could create.” Melkor bent over the elf, stroking his face with an almost fond gesture. “But I need impart nothing further into these creatures; why else would I give this task to thee? This one is the offspring of two of my original creations — I have hardly touched it.”

Mairon’s head snapped up. “It is inheritable? This, this, change to the soul? That is news indeed.” He grabbed one of the prisoner’s hands and snapped the bone of the index finger; the elf screamed. “The bones are far too brittle. May I try to command it?”

“Do as thou wilt.” Something like an indulgent smile spread over Melkor’s face.

“Who is thy master? Speak!” Mairon commanded the elf. The elf opened his mouth, but only an undulating wail came out. “Does he know any language?”

“That has not been my focus.”

“Well, their intelligence need not be great, but much would be open to you if they could speak. They will need to be raised with kin; some kind of community is necessary. And of course the most important part is fertility. What of your original experiments remain, my lord?”

“They all still live. I first began these changes by happenstance; I found the Children in their original state could command their souls to leave their body, and would do so after only a little distress. I could hardly extract anything of value. I could then call those souls to me, but an unhoused soul has limited use. But now, their souls remain until their life is ended.”

“Most excellent. What will be the primary purpose of these creatures? Mining? Building?”

“No, for we have found the Children in their original state can serve in those pursuits. No, I will need an army made up of more than thy kindred who are allied to me. Create for me soldiers who can march for days, can eat even the meanest of food, and lust for battle with unquenchable hunger.” 

“It will be done,” Mairon said with a distracted bow, before striding over to the other cages.

“Very good. I expect I will be most pleased with the results.”

“Are you ever not?” A flame appeared in Mairon’s hand as he thrust it through the bars of a cage, trying to get a better look at the inhabitants.

“No, thou hast ever been a boon to me. I leave this task to thee, and I will tell Aþǭwenūz to resume gathering of the Children in thy stead.” With that, Melkor left.

Mairon started on his task immediately, opening the cages one by one and examining, poking, and prodding each prisoner. He took no notes but occasionally burned a mark onto one of the victims.

I think we have seen enough. Distaste colored Finrod’s thought.

But what did I do next? Miaulë felt like he had hardly begun to understand what he was watching.

I imagine you continued torturing these poor elves for quite some time.

Miaulë blinked a few times and slowly straightened. He tried to close the connection with Finrod as gently as possible, despite his uncertainty with the mechanics. Only when all traces of Finrod’s presence left his mind did he allow himself to think on what he just witnessed. Melkor’s name was familiar as part of a curse that a few of the household regularly used. Otherwise, he knew Melkor was some kind of enemy that some of the elves here fought in the distant past. Then there was also Mairon. He knew the meaning of both names — Melkor, he who arises in might, and Mairon, the admirable. Both sounded like names of power and prestige, but the thought of his past self’s ease with hurting the twisted things in cages made him uneasy. Reading Finrod’s face, he suspected he should feel more than unease.

“That was interesting,” Miaulë said carefully.

“Interesting? I suppose it was in a way. Long had I suspected you were the chief architect of one of the greatest woes that was done to us and against us, but now I have confirmation.” Finrod’s lips pressed into a flat line, and a guarded expression slipped over his typically open face.

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand. Greatest woe? Whatever was done to those elves was bad, but I didn’t see too many of them.” Miaulë had a feeling that the last statement would not be received well by Finrod, but he only sighed.

“So I take it this has not woken any part of your memory?”

Miaulë shook his head. “Nothing.”

Finrod looked down at the basin for a moment before meeting Miaulë’s eyes. “I believe we were given a glimpse into the creation of orcs. You asked what happened next — what happened was you were successful in all your goals, creating a hardy race that multiplied faster than either Edain or Edhel, that made war upon my kindred until this day.”

“Oh.” Miaulë wondered how he had done it; the creatures he had seen were so hurt and pathetic. He did not ask Finrod that, though.

“But even worse than the lives the orcs took was what was done to them!” Finrod pushed back his hair as his voice rose. “Their souls bound to Morgoth’s, not for their lifetime, but until souls cease to be! And the corruption passed down generation after generation. I had suspected, but if I had known — never mind.” Finrod sighed. “That was very long ago, before the awakening of the first elves. I have wondered if it might be more potent to view scenes where we were both present, but I am still reluctant to open that door.” He sat back in his chair. “We will do what we must next time we meet. I think Galadriel will meet with you tomorrow.”

Miaulë left the room, at a loss for  what to do with himself for the rest of the day. Back in his room, he cautiously set his hand against the wick of a lamp. He tried to summon flame like he had seen Mairon do in the Mirror. Nothing happened though — the wick didn’t even get warm. Miaulë fell back onto the narrow bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what he had seen.

 

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Chapter End Notes

Ithīr - (Valarin) Light