Chapter Text
He might have ignored the creature tumbling through the Void had he not felt the presence of his Father.
But perhaps not.
It had, after all, been years without count since anything had disturbed the emptiness of his existence. And although he wasn’t entirely certain he moved to grasp the flailing body before he felt Eru’s nearness, awareness of the latter didn’t stop him. If nothing else, it was something to do.
There had been nothing for so long, something was almost incomprehensible.
He wrapped himself around the creature as it plummeted towards the Door of Night. And he regarded the Door with silent interest. When he struck it, would it shatter the body that held him prisoner? Was that Eru’s intent, to grant him freedom from his carnate shackles? Another chance? The fourth, or maybe the fifth chance?
Surely not …
But then the Door opened, to his incredulous horror, and Eru’s breath bore him down to the bones of Arda. He let go of the creature, and it floated earthwards, cradled in Eru’s care. Straight to the assembled guards - booted and helmeted Ainu who, no doubt, never moved from their vigil - that stared upwards in a horror to match his.
He would have welcomed oblivion. He did not welcome a return to the judgement and censure of his kin.
The guards overbore him.
They fell upon him like mindless machines, silent and relentless, their mailed hands burning his skin, which hadn't felt another's touch for aeons. He wanted to scream, with fear and rage and confusion as much as pain, but he no longer remembered how. And he didn’t struggle; it was pointless. If he struggled, they might fling him back beyond the Door without any discussion. And if he welcomed oblivion and dreaded life, he dreaded the Great Empty even more. He would not return there.
He. Would. Not.
He let them shackle him and drag him away. And he heard them muttering.
Dark Enemy. Moringotto. Morgoth is returned …
It made him straighten his shoulders, stand taller, try to remember how gravity and muscles worked. And when someone stepped in front of him, and he focused his eyes on the face of Eonwë - his brother's snivelling minion - he felt steady enough to muster a snarl. Foolish, perhaps, but it was worth it when Eonwë flinched and stepped backwards. He was their prisoner, trammelled and constrained, but he was still to be feared. And he would accept their fear in lieu of anything else.
That thought was enough to keep him upright and sensible when they dragged him into Mandos, back to a prison he remembered too well, although he hadn't recalled it for millenia. Eonwë fixed a chain to the iron collar and fastened it to the wall so that he could range but a few feet in any direction. And he bore that without struggle or protest also. He would growl and bare his teeth at them for the sake of pride, but truly it availed him nothing.
Time passed.
He wasn't sure how much time; he'd grown out of the habit of measuring it. But it allowed him to accustom himself to breathing again, to hands and feet and skin. And when a key turned in the lock, and the door opened, he was able to lean against the wall and say coolly, “Can no one guarantee a little peace and quiet around here?”
They ignored him, setting a body down on the lower bed in the far corner. It was the creature from the Void. His deliverer, he supposed. Still breathing, more or less, and they laid it down with more gentleness than they showed him. But they had taken the armour it wore and the sword it bore before they locked it away.
He considered it with interest when they had gone.
Interest? How strange it felt. A great many years since anything interested him. It felt good. Almost bewitching. For he had feared losing his mind in the infinity of the Great Empty. And he was inclined to feel grateful to the creature for reminding him that curiosity existed.
Despite the dim light of the small cell room, he could see quite well, now that he'd grown accustomed to sight again. The creature breathed, he was sure of that. And it was female if its size and shape didn't deceive him. It had long hair in an array of braids and tails, like one of the Secondborn from the east, and patches of dark scales on its arms and face. The scales reminded him of the Valaraukar, although the creature looked far less bestial than one of his servants. The face was pale. Almost elvish in its beauty. Which made him snort and turn away. Had the Allfather sent one of the Eldalie to torment him?
When the creature stirred and groaned, he kept still and didn't say anything. When it sat up, he waited for it to notice him. In the dim light, the silver rings around its eyes were very striking.
After a little while it spoke, but he didn't recognise the words. At least it was definitely words; some of the Secondborn were little better than beasts.
“Curious,” he said. “I thought I knew every voice in Arda, but yours I do not know.”
“Arda?” the creature repeated, its voice low and sweet. “Is that where we are? And do I have you to thank for plucking me out of the Void and opening that ridiculous door?"
If she was there to trick him or ensorcell him, she was very good. He couldn't help but smile. "If I could open the Door of Night with so much ease, I would have done so long ago."
“The Door of Night, huh? Kind of clichéd as a name, don’t you think?”
That made him laugh. Which was a surprise. He’d forgotten what laughter was. “Oh, they will love you.”
“And they are?”
He stroked the collar around his throat. “My captors.”
“My captors, too, it seems.”
“For now,” he replied. “ Since they claim to be wise, I imagine they will realise quite soon that locking us up together is foolish. They will wish to learn what you know without my corrupting influence …” Another smile, although this time he wasn't amused; their judgement enraged him. “... And so they’ll send someone to separate us.”
She settled herself cross-legged on the bed. “That will be a short conversation.”
“You speak our tongue well, yet you are not one of the Eldar …”
“Nope.”
“What are you then?”
“You first,” she said.
He studied her carefully. It wasn’t vanity - or at least he didn’t think so - that made him wonder how she didn’t know him. All of Arda knew him, if only as a distant nightmare of chaos. "I am Melkor."
“That’s not a name, it’s a description.”
“You are very literal. Does your name not have meaning?”
She shrugged. “Not as far as I know. I kind of picked it out of a hat, it sounds vaguely Xaelan. No idea what my real name is, don’t know that I ever had one. And most people call me the Warrior anyway. Like them calling you Melkor, I suppose. One who walks in might, yes?”
That grated. It was painfully ironic, he supposed. “Not so much as I would prefer.”
“Well, nice to meet you, I guess.”
“I doubt you will think so for long.”
She shrugged again. “Maybe not. I’m just being polite. Until I get my sword back, I don't plan on upsetting anyone.” It was her turn to consider him carefully, and he wondered what she saw. “So the lack of might is how they managed to get that chain on you?”
“I allowed them to chain me,” he replied. “If I hadn’t, they would have tried to cast me back out beyond the Door. And perhaps they would have been strong enough. Better to wear their chains than return to the Deep Empty.”
As he spoke, there was a rush of memory so intense it felt as though he re-lived it. And it hurt, physically and mentally. For he had been so far removed then from the glory of knowing himself Eru’s best beloved, he couldn’t bear it. All he could see was the lurid fire of the forge. All he could feel was the agony of his hands, as if skin and muscle had shrivelled away and left only bone. But he could still wield a hammer, and he would see it done. Even trapped in a broken body, marred by the jewels that were his by rights, he would see it done. Yet his fingers convulsed, and the hammer faltered. He threw it away, and it smashed into the floor, and the crown tumbled away with a jarring clangour that made him want to scream.
“Master …” Mairon soothed, his voice unctuous. “Master, let me help.”
He turned and struck Mairon in the face, and the Maia crouched away from him. Melkor felt the bones shatter as he struck him.
He felt strong, filled with powerful rage, and he felt ashamed and weak also. Which one was real? Which one was true? He had to make a conscious effort to struggle up out of the memory and back into the now. And the creature called Elai sat upon the low bed, gasping, her face in her hands, and he thought for a moment he had struck her, not the memory of Mairon, long ago in the past.
“Are you unwell?” he demanded.
“Think I hit my head,” she mumbled back. “I’m okay. It’s passing.”
“You are weak,” he said, grateful that her weakness wasn’t to be laid at his door. “Are you one of the Second Children?”
“And you’re rude. Who are the Second Children?”
“You are truly not from Arda then?”
"I don't know," she replied. "I don't know where Arda is. I don’t know where ‘here’ is. I don’t even know how I got here, to be honest. I was falling, and then you caught hold of me - at least I think it was you - and then we tumbled through the door."
He had thought it was the Allfather who opened the Door, but perhaps all that had been wishful thinking. "How did you open the Door?"
"I didn't. I thought you opened it. If you didn't, who did?"
He narrowed his eyes, staring at her and thinking hard. Did she lie? Or had he truly felt his Father’s presence in those rushed seconds before he fell? If he had, what did it portend? And who was this creature - this Elai - who had become his Father’s agent? He hummed a low, base note from the Music, trying to find his way through the flood of possibilities that now confronted him.
“My head aches,” Elai moaned, quite pitifully. If she was of his Father’s sending, she was a sorry example of what Eru had descended to. "All of me aches actually. I'm going to lie back down again.”
Melkor didn't answer her.
Thought was all he had possessed for millenia. He sank back into it without question, pondering all the ways and means that this could play out, all the ways it could bring him to further disaster. He held little hope of any positive outcome. Although he supposed he might regard his current situation as a positive outcome. It was better than the Great Empty, even if it required him to interact once more with his brethren. And it might even provide some measure of entertainment, as they pondered what it meant.
Time slipped away from him again as he thought. The Elai creature didn’t stir. So when he heard the key turn in the lock once more, he had no idea how long it had been since last they disturbed him. He was expecting Eonwë’s sanctimonious presence, so the sight of Olórin - one of Irmo’s Maia and therefore less judgemental - the sight of Olórin almost pleased him.
He didn’t let that seep into his voice, however. "Olórin.”
"Melkor," replied Olórin. His voice sounded … interested, perhaps? But he turned straight away to Elai. "Come along then. I've been sent to retrieve you. Do you have a name? I'm not inclined to keep addressing you as Stranger, or Gate Crasher - although a gate crasher is literally what you are, of course - so a name would be useful."
Melkor stepped across the stone-slabbed floor, closer to the bed where Elai sat. He reached out a hand to trace the outline of her face in the air, trying to catch a taste of her fëa; she was just too far away for him to touch her properly. He heard her catch her breath as he sketched her shape in the air, and he had the sense of hidden fires smouldering, ready to burst into flame if needed.
"I'm surprised you took so long to retrieve her," he said silkily to Olórin, although he kept his gaze on Elai.
"That's enough," Olórin replied.
It wouldn’t hurt to let them think Elai might be his. Or at least to make them wonder. "Her name is Elai. Elai Khataiyin. Although she answers more often to ‘Warrior’."
"Come along, Elai," Olórin said.
He frowned at Melkor, and Melkor smiled a genuinely mirthful smile, and stepped back to lean against the wall again. Elai slowly untangled herself from the bed and hobbled towards Olórin. But then she stopped moving.
“Will you leave him chained up?” she asked, not looking at Melkor.
Olórin frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“Because he can’t sit or lie down if you leave him there. I mean, I get you’re not a fan; I even get that he’s probably world-breakingly dangerous. But there’s taking sensible precautions, and then there’s torture.”
Melkor laughed outright at that. Another surprise.
Olórin inclined his head. “The chain was for your safety. The collar is for us. As soon as we depart, Námo will remove the chain.”
Melkor stared at the door as it closed behind them.
He wanted to bang his head against the wall. Preferably until he lost consciousness, although that was unlikely; even after aeons in the void of Ea, his body was too resilient. Typical that he should have to deal with Námo. Of all his brethren, Námo was the most relentless. The most implacable. In truth, it would surprise him greatly if Námo bothered to come at all, nevermind to release him from a petty chain that was more a symbol than a shackle. Námo had doomed the Eldalie to everlasting sorrow if they defied him, and Námo had kept his word in that respect.
Melkor wondered what had happened in the world since he was flung out into the void. He wondered if Olórin might return and, if the Maia did so, whether he might deign to tell him some at least of all that had occurred.
Time passed.
He couldn’t sit down. Elai was correct, the chain was too short. Which seemed a petty punishment, but Melkor suspected it would become excruciating in time. His sojourn in the Great Empty had been torture for many reasons, but none of them were physical. It was an interesting conundrum. Which fate was worse? His brethren hadn’t scrupled to leave him bound and prisoned in Mandos for three thousand years, in this very room; the chain that tied him to the wall now was minor in comparison. But he might not remain so sanguine for very long …
The key turned in the lock a third time.
“Narāmuh …” Melkor said.
His brother, the Lord of Mandos, inclined his head. “Mēlēkhorūz.”
“You have come to gloat, I presume.”
“You always presumed too much.”
He would not indulge in bickering. “As you say.”
Námo drew near, reaching across to unfasten the chain that bound Melkor to the wall. Melkor didn’t thank him but drew himself up to his full height - which was a whisker taller than silver-haired, yellow-eyed Námo - and looked away. He heard, rather than saw, his brother sit down upon the bed where Elai had sat earlier.
“This woman,” Námo said without further preamble. “Who is she?”
“You know as much as I do,” Melkor replied. “She fell, I caught her, the Door opened.”
“How did the Door open?”
“She says it was not her. Clearly it was not me. I leave the solution of that conundrum to you.”
“And from whence did she come?”
Melkor widened his eyes. “How would I answer that, brother? Either I know what is afoot, in which case it is some scheme of mine, and I will only obfuscate and evade. Or I have no knowledge, which means I cannot tell you anything. I leave it to you to decide which is true.”
Námo regarded him steadily. “We are not unaware of your ability to change that which cannot be changed, Mēlēkhorūz.”
Melkor bowed. “How gratifying.”
“You will not answer?”
“I have answered. It is not my problem if you cannot discern it.”
*