The Parchment of Secret Valian Tales by SonOfMandos

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Thorns for the Dormant Mind

Manwë and Melkor share a moment together before Melkor is jailed in the Void.

Manwë glanced at the glass cage with contempt. It wasn’t much of a glass cage either—it was invisible. Magic was built around its prisoner like a cage and was for the most part invisible. The thought of having a captive unsettled the Vala; he strongly believed he had failed his duty as King of the Ainur. He had witnessed one of his people fall without resolving the situation.

The hostage was nowhere remotely as sorry as the Lord of the Winds. His hands and feet had been cut off, but that was a minor inconvenience to him. He was trapped in a body, perhaps, yet his spirit was poured into his creations. He felt his pulse run through the world, and that was enough to keep him distracted from his miserable situation (miserable as perceived by others. He had not figured out how he specifically felt about it beyond annoyance. He knew he would be put to sleep in the Void. Nothing too alarming. Sleeping was fine, the Void himself was a good lad, a sleeping lad at that. Long ago, Melkor had stocked the light of the Two Lamps in the black world hoping to awaken the Void himself. That bastard had barely stirred.) His lack of hands and feet did nothing to limit his moves. Each of his scales—he wore scales—had a spike. Some were tiny and almost unnoticeable, and some were long and sharp like a spider’s legs. The longest were on his back, giving him an intriguing appearance.

Aulë had forgotten about his scales and spikes when forging the shackles and the chains. Manwë thought it was ironic. He admitted it to nobody, not even his wife, but this in particular amused him. Melkor seldom used his feet and hands in the past and favoured his long thorns. It was the only thing in the situation that did not upset the God of the Winds. Melkor’s imprisonment and punishment tore his heart to pieces, and Melkor’s apathy and indifference were the worst. Manwë sighed and left the room.

***

Melkor eventually got bored from meditating on his semi-omniscience in Arda. His newest game was to toss around for funsies. The chains were long and allowed him to move however he pleased within the magical cage. When nobody was watching (except for Manwë, whom he knew spent most of his time observing him from afar and mopping around like a wounded dog), he executed a little dance. There was no percussion around so he mimicked the sounds with his mouth. Being a Vala, even fallen, was advantageous in this respect. He was able to produce whatever music he wished without instruments.

One day, Manwë found him hanging upside down. He stood there stupidly, not knowing how to react. Melkor had enough wits to say ‘What?’, but Manwë did not have enough wits to reply, ‘You surprised me.’ or ‘I didn’t know you could move around with the thorns on your back.’ or ‘The cage is magic, doesn’t it hurt?’ or anything else, really. He made a noise that fell somewhere between ‘huh’ and ‘erm’. He then turned on his heels—if his eagle’s toes could be called heels—and left.

Manwë came back later. He always came back. Eönwë asked him where he was going. He dodged the question with a poor lie. He had ceased to look at his wife in the eyes, well, the two stars on her face. He had the conviction he was betraying everyone. To him, Melkor wasn’t simply an echo of them all, the reflection of their powers combined, the then Great now Fallen, or Eru’s right arm; Melkor was the one he loved the most.

This time, Melkor was staring at his shackles, his back turned on the Vala. Manwë brushed the cage with a tentative clawed hand. A pale blue glow floated around him. He tried to push his hand further. To his despair, he could not. His hand only met resistance.

“Please, say something,” he pleaded.

Melkor ignored him.

***

“Are you going to say it?” said Melkor.

He was lying down and had propped himself on an elbow. The long legs of his back danced around him lazily. The shorter ones supported his weight on the ground. His black and thin hair cascaded on his waist. Manwë gulped. This waist was the object of too many temptations, many that could not be named. Being adventurous with Ulmo in the past and creating weather by accident was a thing, Melkor’s body was an entirely other one.

“Say what?” replied Manwë as he brought his attention to his two hands on the walls of the cage. The glow around them was green.

Melkor raised an eyebrow. “Don’t lie to me or yourself, coward.”

Manwë nodded faintly. A coward, this he was. His crown of starlight darkened, and his four wings stopped shining. The taste of shame was too much to endure.

***

“They say we are brothers.”

Melkor blinked. “Wow. Ingenious. Absurd. Who says that?”

“Them,” Manwë gestured vaguely. “The Elves.”

“Ah,” snorted Melkor. “They have ludicrous ideas. How did you find out?”

“Ingwë told me.”

“The Elvenking?”

“Yes.”

“Tssk. Here I’d thought he would know better, with all these years spent talking with you…,” Melkor shook his head.

“We don’t exactly talk. Not always,” said Manwë. “He swears at me from time to time, and I gently slap him with a blast. I do talk to him when I’m bored, or when he can’t sleep at night. He’s an insomniac.”

“So it came to your knowledge Elves believe we are brothers,” concluded Melkor, not paying attention to Manwë’s comment on Ingwë’s insomnia. “Weeell… I cannot say I’m not surprised. After all, we have a past of, how do you call it already? Ah! Intimate proximity. What kind of sick brother would do it with his sibling?” At that, Melkor pulled a disgusted face. He was a Dark Lord, certainly, but he had morals and standards. Shagging close family members was never part of the plan. If only Ungoliant were his sister… Catastrophic decisions would had been avoided.

Manwë shifted on his feet uncomfortably. “What if we…,” he started, “did it again? One last time before you leave. Please?” Heat crept on his neck and cheeks. He considered digging a hole in Taniquetil and disappearing there forever more.

“I wish,” responded Melkor. “But use your head for two seconds and look around you: I can’t get out of this invisible chest the others locked me in to touch you.”

Manwë’s expression was sour. He had to find a way to enter the cage.

***

Manwë was very excited.

“Step back,” he intimidated Melkor.

“I can’t go further,” grumbled Melkor.

The King of the Valar jiggled his four wings. “Shield your eyes, I’m coming!” And he entered the magic prison in an explosion of light. He felt jolts all over his body and grinned widely. “Finally!” he exclaimed and squeezed Melkor with his wings and arms.

“Mānawenūz, what are you-” Melkor groaned and shifted but he did not push Manwë away. His thorns intertwined Manwë’s feathers. Part of him was content to be enveloped by a familiar warmth. Something slid on his neck. “Are you crying?”

“Shut up,” retorted Manwë, pressing his forehead in the crook of the prisoner’s neck. It was only a matter of days until Melkor would be sentenced to the Void. The Lord of the Winds was not ready to bid his farewells.

After a moment, Melkor asked, “Do the others know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Did you cast a spell so we can have a bit of privacy without anybody walking on us?”

“...No,” Manwë replied behind his gritted teeth.

“Might want to do it now.”

“Next time,” promised Manwë.

He held Melkor in his arms for a long time before he left.

***

“The spell will last a day. No one will walk nearby,” said Manwë, his hands on his hips.

From the floor where he was sitting, Melkor looked up. “I’m going to regret this, am I not?”

“Maybe.”

“How sore do you intend me to be?”

Manwë licked his lips. “Very.”

“Eru.”

“Don’t invoke His name,” scoffed Manwë as he undid the buckles of his robe.

Melkor’s spikes twirled in anticipation.

***

He was cast away the next day. Nobody knew where Manwë had been since then. It was said he had reached the bottom of the sea and dwelt in Ulmo’s domain. They all felt his sorrow when the terrible gate of Mandos closed for the last time. Even Tulkas did not laugh. Melkor had murmured that life began where a journey ended, but it was Manwë’s life that had ended.

Melkor was serene and had not looked back. The pulse of Arda did not stop drumming like his silent heartbeat.

Chapter End Notes

Mānawenūz (Valarin): Manwë

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