What Brings Us Together by Aipilosse

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Poetry and Logic

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Unlike the past two times, when Miaulë arrived in the cellar room Gandalf was not there first. He gave serious thought to sitting in the larger, more comfortable chair in which Finrod and Galadriel had sat previously, but decided against it for now. He waited, the minutes crawling by. Bitterly, he thought that neither Miaulë the cat, nor Mairon the lieutenant, nor the sorcerer he had seen yesterday would have thought twice about taking the better chair, nor would they bother to wait for anyone else.

Just as the temptation to take the best seat anyway almost overcame him, Gandalf strolled into the room.

“Good morning Mairon. How are you on this fine day?” Gandalf settled himself into the chair — apparently in no hurry to set up the Mirror.

“I am well,” Miaulë replied. In truth, boredom and anxiety gnawed at him. He had done some research yesterday, but he’d read the book he found quickly and found himself with hours left in the day and with nothing else to do. He missed being able to go where he pleased, unnoticed by most, able to be alone when he wished and seek out company at other times. His favorite companion in particular had been taken from him; his mind kept poking at Celebrimbor’s sudden removal from his life like a tongue seeking a missing tooth. Celebrimbor’s absence from the grounds yesterday had been a relief in some ways, but it also made Miaulë aware of just how closely he tracked Celebrimbor’s whereabouts. He didn’t recall being as conscious of his movements before his transformation.

But if Gandalf wished to talk, Miaulë had more than enough questions for him.

“Why are you using ‘Mairon’? It seems everyone else relishes calling me Sauron,” Miaulë asked.

“Names are powerful things. I liked Mairon a good deal more than Sauron, so it seems to me an altogether better name to use.” Gandalf sat up straighter and reached for the pitcher. “So now, what would you like to see? Yesterday you viewed your famous battle with Finrod; there is more yet to that story, although it is terrible.”

“No need. I found a book with the rest of the tale,” Miaulë said with a wave of his hand. “I begin to understand why Galadriel hates me so, although I would expect more bitterness from Finrod in truth.”

“Finrod battled, and suffered, and died in rather quick succession. Galadriel fought you for ages upon ages,” Gandalf said.

“I suppose that is reason enough,” Miaulë mused. “Anyway, we need not revisit it; I read the whole story, such as it was, and I still remember nothing. It is rather strange though, that I should have been destroyed even temporarily by a dog after I withstood Finrod using his full might,” Miaulë mused.

Gandalf hummed. “I think you are not accounting for Lúthien’s spell, which allowed Huan to pounce. I also think the whole tale shows your tendency to underestimate your opponent. I found that whole bit very instructional in later years.” He glanced quickly up, his eyes going from thoughtful to piercing in an instant. “So! What would you see? There is torment after torment we may view, the wanton twisting of all things good to evil purpose, and blood and misery enough to keep us busy for an age.”

Perhaps here I should also not underestimate my enemy, Miaulë thought, and then wondered that he so quickly fell into their trap of opposition. He had no quarrel with Gandalf, and he would not be goaded into one. 

“Maybe if we again saw more of who I was working with, that would spark some memory.” Miaulë had no real designs, but curiosity about Melkor drew him to the suggestion. “Who was this Bauglir I served? He must have been great indeed to withstand the opposition of all for so long.”

“Great, yes, the greatest of the Valar at first!” Gandalf began to pour water into the basin. He snapped his fingers, and several candles that had been unlit flamed to life as other lights in the corner of the room were snuffed out. A sphere of candlelight now centered on the Maiar. “Let us see what may be seen. Open your mind and look into the Mirror.”

Gandalf’s silvery-grey presence entered his mind like a cool mist. Miaulë gazed down at the Mirror. The dark surface began to gain texture, and then the red glow of torches filled the bowl. The colors mixed in a way that was strange for a firelit cavern — occasionally a beam of clear shimmering light glanced across the surface. The scene suddenly swam into focus.

Mirror-Miaulë, Sauron, Mairon, stood tall in a form similar to what he had seen yesterday during the battle with Finrod. He didn’t smile, but the alien, golden flame of his eyes held something like joy. Gone were the black robes, and instead he wore armor of what appeared to be some black metal inlaid with gold. 

“And how could I praise our forces without lauding the designs of my most loyal lieutenant.” A roar sprang up and the Mirror shifted to show Miaulë the speaker, a familiar towering figure whose skin appeared more like stone than flesh, whose black hair held glimmers of iridescent light, and on whose brow was bound three flaming white gems.

Miaulë gasped aloud at the sight of the Silmarils; within his mind Gandalf shared his awe. 

“Without his invention, without his schemes, we would still be trapped within Angband while the usurpers flitted about the land fencing us out and stealing what should be rightfully mine!” At the thought of Noldor, Morgoth’s face contorted in rage and his eyes gleamed with a cold light. 

Quickly his features smoothed out. “But no more! We have broken their leaguer, their corpses lie charred and broken on the earth; our mines are filled again with slaves, and there is sport for all who crave it!” 

Miaulë suddenly noticed that along the sides of the room were the bodies of elves. He looked closer. Some were just heads, severed from their bodies, gore dripping from their necks. Others still moved, their broken bodies feebly twitching as their still-attached heads tossed in agony. Their mouths were filled with cruel devices; apparently screams of torment were not musical to the forces of Angband at the moment. 

“But this is only the first step. Tonight, we celebrate! Tomorrow, ride out into the lands. Go where ye wish, take what ye wish, spread the terror of my name through Beleriand. Let not the weakened elf who calls himself King forget the might of Melkor ever again!”

The captains roared again. The host was a motley crew. Maiulë saw several tall flaming figures, others with grotesque and twisted faces like those long dead, others still with animal features, and some who wore their beauty like armor, sharp and glittering in the torchlight. 

The celebration started in earnest. There was feasting and further toasts. Even in Angband, music of a kind rang through the cavernous hall in celebration, as denizens danced after their fashion. Captives were brought up for sport and forced to fight one another or race, goaded by whips, as wagers were made and Morgoth’s captains laughed uproariously. 

Mairon stayed seated at Morgoth’s right hand, with a strange, small smile on his lips and his eyes fixed on a distant point. 

Morgoth leaned towards him. “Come now, wilt thou join in the revelry? Tonight of all nights celebration is deserved.”

“My lord gives me too much credit; I helped with the plan, yes, but it could not have been done without a great outpouring of power from you.” Despite the innocuous complement, Mairon’s smile sharpened.

Morgoth drew back a little, a dangerous glint in his eye. “It was but a small effort on my part.”

Mairon shifted towards Morgoth so that he fully faced the Vala, turning his back to  the feast. “A small thing? So small that you avoided doing so for hundreds of years while we remained trapped in your lovely halls?”

“Watch thyself, lieutenant.” Morgoth’s voice turned threatening, although his face remained calm for the benefit of the room. “The appointed hour was not at hand and I would not waste my resources needlessly. Is not that what thy counsel always is, in unceasing repetition?”

Mairon appeared unperturbed by Morgoth’s displeasure. “And you always heed my counsel well! As with this display.” His eyes darted back towards the party where a one-eyed bipedal creature unravelled the guts of a screaming captive.

“They are all restless, and some enjoy sport rather than tallying numbers.” Morgoth’s arm darted out; he pulled Mairon next to him so that he stood by his chair facing outwards, forced to hide his displeasure again. “I allow much impertinence from thy lips, Mairon, for thy service has been great, but do not forget thyself. Beleriand is open to us again, and it will be good to establish a fortress amid the insolent Firstborn again. The sooner thou leavest and begin to work my will across the land again, the better.”

“But of course, my lord,” Mairon said smoothly. “I dream of nothing else.”

Morgoth shoved him away. “Now go, rejoice with the other captains.”

Mairon bowed and walked towards the viscous festivity. He did not join in the revelry and instead stood to the side, mostly talking with a red-eyed woman with large twitching ears, his hand fisted in the fur of a large wolf-thing that had slunk out of the shadows.

No conversation eclipsed the one the evening started with. Mairon occasionally spoke with other captains. Excited talk about the days ahead sprang from everyone’s lips mixed with bluster over their recent victories.  Yet Miaulë could see the disinterest in his other self’s movements — he itched for when he could leave without offense. 

When Mairon finally left and began what appeared to be a series of checks of various mechanisms around Angband, Gandalf gently prompted him to look up. Miaulë blinked several times to readjust his eyes to the dim basement room.

“Well?” said Gandalf, leaning forwards in his seat.

Miaulë turned each thought over, trying to see if new memories were there. “I remember nothing new.”

“It didn’t seem so, but I thought I would ask.” Gandalf sighed. “I can’t help but wonder if this is worth all the unpleasantness.”

“What unpleasantness?” Miaulë felt fine; during each session with the mirror his expectations lowered and his disappointment lessened as no new memories appeared.

Gandalf’s eyebrows shot up. “The torture? The disemboweling? The wanton cruelty? The rape? I was speaking of that unpleasantness.”

“Oh yes, very unpleasant.” A vague sense of unease crept over him — the right words eluded him.

“Did it not bother you?” Miaulë could sense watchfulness lurking underneath Gandalf’s mild tone.

“Not really,” Miaulë said carefully. “I don’t think decorating with corpses is a wise move, but it was good to see that I at least improved on Morgoth’s methods. For what I saw with Finrod was after what we saw today, if I am not mistaken.”

“Ah yes, of course. You did not strew bodies around for effect; everything has its place in your realm. Even the dead do not rest and are instead put to work with necromancy!”

Miaulë sensed they were entering dangerous waters. “Of course, that was certainly bad.” He cast about for a reason to give that showed he understood the evils of his past self. “Because the bodies were clearly decaying, which would be most foul,” he guessed.

Gandalf stared at him bleakly. “It is bad because you desecrated the hröar of the Children of Ilúvatar after you murdered them, forcing their unwilling limbs to do your bidding.”

“Yes, of course, that is a terrible thing,” Miaulë nodded, eager to put the conversation to rest. He did not think further comparisons of his and Morgoth’s methods would yield a fruitful discussion.

“Did you understand all that you saw?” Gandalf asked.

“I think so.” Miaulë spoke slowly as he thought over all he had seen. “Except what did I mean by saying that we had won due to a great outpouring of power? It seemed obvious, but the way I said it made it sound like I meant something more.”

Gandalf sat back, felt in his pocket for his pipe, and then seemed to decide against it. “I believe you were talking about the process by which Morgoth built up an army filled with beasts and machines powerful enough to do his will. I believe he did it by imbuing the world with his power, and therefore lessening his own innate power. A rather funny thing for you to criticize!”

“What do you mean by that?” Miaulë asked.

“I mean you went down a similar path to increase your own power — one that was  even more foolish if you ask me.” Gandalf planted his feet on the ground.. “But that is a tale for another day.” He stood. “I hope you’re paying attention, Mairon. The more we talk, the more anxious I become for an answer to all this.”

 

 

~

“Does logic ever become more interesting?”

Coroniel shot Merillë a mystified look. “Logic is incredibly interesting. It's the means by which every answer in the world is derived.”

Merillë frowned. “I don’t find that to be true. Have you ever read a really beautiful poem? There is no logic there. Sometimes the words fulfil a regular meter, but that is not always the case. They’re placed together through instinct and emotion, and somehow they become something true.”

Coroniel raised her eyebrows, skepticism evident. “If you say so.” She suddenly stiffened.

Merillë noticed Sauron following them towards the library. Her heart rate increased, not from fear, but from excitement. Her whole life she had been fascinated by stories from Middle-earth, and now one of its chief villains was here. She knew he had murdered her father and many other family members; she also knew he had destroyed everything her friend and tutor Coroniel had loved in Middle-earth, yet she found Sauron fascinating nonetheless. 

“Hello Lady Merillë, Lady Coroniel,” Sauron said with a tentative smile. 

“Hello, um, hello,” Merillë replied awkwardly, realizing that she did not know what to call the being in front of her. Her father had called him Gorthaur, as he paced back and forth going on about the ethics of dealing with evil, amnesia, and the reality of being bound to Arda. Aunt Galadriel called him Sauron, with a hissing anger that made the word sound like poison in her mouth. Coroniel avoided the topic altogether, only once starting to say another name before spitting out ‘Him’ with sudden fury. 

But Finrod, Galadriel, and Coroniel’s experiences were just stories, circling around the beautiful figure in front of her, not quite able to land. She found herself wondering why she found his perfectly symmetrical face so appealing — surely something so flawless should look unnatural? She couldn’t help notice the way he lit up when she had greeted him; surely nothing completely evil could smile with such warmth. 

Amid her musings, Merillë could practically feel Coroniel’s glare from behind her.

“You can call me Miaulë, you know; that is my name.” Sauron looked at her sidelong, guessing her plight.

“You do realize why we’re having difficulty calling you that, right?” said Merillë, falling into step beside him. Coroniel walked stiffly some paces ahead. “It’s a cat’s name, and you are very clearly not a cat. It would be like calling Tyelkormo Mister Whiskers or something similar.”

“No, you’re right, I am not a very good Miaulë, but I see no other option. It seems that all my other names are either very unpleasant or too pleasant, and I dislike the former and many seem to have great trouble with the later.”

They entered the library. Merillë turned to Sauron. “What were you looking for today?”

“I think I’d like to read about astronomy,” he replied.

Coroniel spun, fury on her face. “Absolutely not.” She jabbed a finger towards him. “I know what you’re doing.”

Sauron took a step back, his brow creased with concern. “I just want to help Celebrimbor with his project.”

His openness seemed to infuriate Coroniel further. “Exactly, and you are not doing that again! You, sit there, and I will find you what you should be reading.” Sauron obediently sat at the table she had pointed to as Coroniel seized Merillë’s elbow and dragged her into the stacks with surprising strength.

Surrounded by books and out of Sauron’s sight, Coroniel finally released Merillë. “You are young, and you have only known Valinor, and you may see my actions as unreasonable —”

“No, no, I understand. Many people would say you are acting quite reasonably,” Merillë reassured Coroniel, feeling guilty for the position she had put her in. “I just —” She tried to find the right words. “I just feel I must talk with him. He is so fascinating, and if I did the sensible thing and avoided him, I know I would regret it forever.”

Coroniel rubbed her hands over her face. “I know, and believe me I understand, but that is what makes me so worried. It feels like the same thing that happened in Eregion playing out again.”

“But this time, we are under no illusions as to what we’re dealing with,” Merillë pointed out.

“Aren’t we?” Coroniel asked sharply. “It seems we have needed to make some assumptions on the level of threat he possesses, and whether his memory loss is real or feigned.”

“My father seems to think helping him is a worthwhile endeavor.” Merillë bit her lip. She did not think Finrod was always right, but she did think he should be accounted among the experts they had on hand in dealing with dark lords.

“You should make sure your father is truly comfortable with this arrangement,” Coroniel said with a grimace. “No matter what he says, or how he acts, it would be good if you checked in on him.”

“I — I will.” Merillë knew well at this point that her father could be wrong; she had seen him be wrong about many things over the years. But the realization that her father might be hiding something from her struck her hard. In public, as the son of High King Arafinwë, Finrod was politic and discreet, serving as a go-between for his father and the many factions of Noldor, many whom had previously rebelled, some of whom had been born in Middle-earth, and all less than happy with any reasoning that could be reduced to “because the Valar said so.” But at home, Finrod’s courtly face vanished and he spoke openly of his fears and suspicions, plying his wife and daughters for advice. She had never worried for her father before — now the seed of concern was planted. 

“So, what books are you going to actually get him?”

“What?” Coroniel looked mystified.

“You said you would find what he should read instead.”

Coroniel looked over her shoulder as if Sauron might appear behind her. Merillë looked too. They were alone.

“I was just going to leave him.”

“What? But you said —”

“Fine, fine! I will find some books.” Coroniel looked around. “We are in the medical section. That would be a bad idea.”

They moved to history, finding the section for the Second Age. Coroniel tugged a hefty book out. 

“Here we are! Galasson has one of the best histories out there as far Eregion is concerned. He didn’t live there the whole time, but he truly understood how advanced and cosmopolitan we were. He really spends a lot of time describing all the different groups that we managed to make work together in Ost-in-Edhil, and he really does the description of the city justice. And the way he writes the fall is just so spare — no moralizing, no gratuitous carnage, but the tragedy really hits.”

Coroniel handed Merillë the book as she grabbed a second tome from the shelves. “Now Raithril’s, on the other hand, is entirely designed to shock sensible Valarin audiences. I find it rather exploitative personally, but it does not shy away from placing the blame for all the carnage during the war on Sauron personally. It also goes into explicit detail into all the torture Celebrimbor endured. Although Raithril couldn’t have actually known what happened, I have been assured the details are surprisingly accurate, even if the dialogue is completely false.”

Merillë frowned. “Did Celebrimbor actually read this?” Her father avoided retellings of his own death — she could not imagine her more reserved cousin was any different.

“Someone actually cornered him once and asked if it was true.  Then when he said he had not read it, instead of taking the hint and going away, he pulled out the book and had Celebrimbor read the relevant portions aloud.” 

“I would say I’m surprised, but from what my mother told me of how people behaved when Adar was first reborn, I’m actually not.”

“Some people,” Coroniel muttered as she continued to look for titles. “A First Age history would not be bad either. Here’s Pengolodh’s.” She pulled the book out and placed it on the stack Merillë clutched. “Many folk here complain about his treatment of the Fëanorian faction, but as someone who has also survived being stabbed by an invading Fëanorian, I think on the whole he is rather fair.”

“Don’t you think we should pick something other than history books?”

“Like what?”

“Well, he said he wanted to learn about astronomy —”

“That is only because he is trying to worm his way into Celebrimbor’s good graces again, and I am not helping with that!”

Merillë’s arms were beginning to tire. She ploughed on anyway. “Is it true what they say about their relationship?”

“They say a whole lot of shit,” Coroniel snapped. Merillë almost apologized, feeling like one of those awful voyeurs Coroniel had just complained about, when she continued. “But no, they were incredibly close. And I, fool that I am, thought it was a good thing that Brim finally had someone who could match him in intelligence and passion and vision. It was always a very intense friendship, and one that I suspected was something more for a long while, although I did not find out for certain until Brim was reembodied. They both seemed to want to keep their relationship a secret.”

“Mm. I was just thinking that maybe he could use something to focus on other than whatever it is he is doing with my father.”

“Are you worried that Sauron is lonely?” Coroniel’s face showed just how ridiculous that concern would be.

“Yes, and maybe bored too.” Merillë shuffled the books, trying to relieve a cramp developing in her arm. “Maybe I could lend him my copy of Analytics. You did say logic is the basis of all reasoning. It might help him find some answers.”

“If you say so. It wouldn’t do any harm.” Coroniel sighed. “I’m going to find us a table on the other side of the library. Meet me over there after you drop off the books.”

Merillë nodded and went to grab one more volume. She doubted Coroniel would actually get to the logic lessons today. Sauron’s presence seemed to agitate her too much for her to focus on teaching. With any luck, though, Merillë would hear some more stories about Ost-in-Edhil and Middle-earth in general, which in truth she looked forward to just as much as the lessons. 

She found the book she searched for and headed back over to Sauron. He sat where they had left him, writing something on one of the erasable boards the library had available. As she drew closer, she saw that he was sketching rather than writing — an intricate pattern of interlocking shapes bloomed from one corner of the board. He looked up as she approached.

“Oh, I thought you’d left.”

“No, Cori just wanted to make sure we picked out the right books.” She dropped them on the table with a thump. She fished Analytics out of her bag and set it on top of the slim volume of poetry she had grabbed after Coroniel left. They blinked at each other. 

Sauron picked up the top book and ran a finger along its spine. “Analytics?” Before Merillë had a chance to explain, he picked up the book of poems. “The Collected Works of Tindawë? It’s so short; it will only take me an hour to read.”

“An hour? That’s fast.” Merillë shook her head slightly, willing herself away from what would turn into endless inquiries about Sauron. “It’s poetry — you should not read it like you would a book of information.”

“There are different ways to read?”

“Yes, many. And with poetry, especially Noldorin poetry like this, you should read it aloud — Tindawë is always thinking about how the words sound and even how they feel in your mouth as you say them. You should also read each poem several times, preferably non consequitively. Let it live in your mind.”

“And then what happens?”

“You might begin to understand something you previously were unable to know.”

Sauron opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it. “Thank you,” he said absently; he looked deep in thought.

“Well, enjoy!” Merillë hurried off, refusing to indulge her curiosity any further.

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Chapter End Notes

Thanks again to Visitor (LonelyVisitor on SWG) for Beta-ing this chapter! His edits, encouragement, and ideas made this chapter much better than it was before!

Adar - Sindarin, Father