Undome

[Saeren]

'' Play for me, Makalaure, Saeren said, sitting back, relaxedly, ''Play .'' In the darkness, the creeping sense of horror and evil, both of them seemed to be peculiarly displaced, they looked like two Noldor princes who had somehow stumbled into this darkness.
''You know music is the only escape for your spirit, '' he added with a wild, challenging smile.

[Maglor]

Maglors face, in the strange light of this place was pale and set like carven marble, but his hands reached instinctively for the gleaming strings, something out of the past, something that went back to a time untouched by any stain, when laurelin and telperion cast their light over Aman, when there was no strife, no kinslaying, no hatred, no sorrow. His eyes lifted a moment, then his mouth set firmly, as his fingers plucked out the notes, his voice joined it, resonant, beautiful trained to precision, a spell in itself, but holding something defiant in each note and tone.

In that vast shadow once of yore
Fingolfin stood: his shield he bore
with field of heaven's blue and star
of crystal shining pale afar.
In overmastering wrath and hate
desperate he smote upon that gate,
the Gnomish king, there standing lone,
while endless fortresses of stone
engulfed the thin clear ringing keen
of silver horn on baldric green.
His hopeless challenge dauntless cried
Fingolfin there: 'Come, open wide,
dark king, you ghatsly brazen doors!
Come forth, whom earth and heaven abhors!
Come forth, O monstruous craven lord,
and fight with thine own hand and sword,
thou wielder of hosts of banded thralls,
thou tyrant leaguered with strong walls,
thou foe of Gods and elvish race!
I wait thee here. Come! Show thy face!'

Then Morgoth came. For the last time
in those great wars he dared to climb
from subterranean throne profound,
the rumour of his feet a sound
of rumbling earthquake underground.
Black-armoured, towering, iron-crowned
he issued forth; his mighty shield
a vast unblazoned sable field
with shadow like a thundercloud;
and o'er the gleaming king it bowed,
as huge aloft like mace he hurled
that hammer of the underworld,
Grond. Clanging to ground it tumbled
down like a thunder-bolt, and crumbled
the rocks beneath it; smoke up-started,
a pit yawned, and a fire darted.

Fingolfin like a shooting light
beneath a cloud, a stab of white,
sprang then aside, and Ringil drew
like ice that gleameth cold and blue,
his sword devised of elvish skill
to pierce the flesh with deadly chill.
With seven wounds it rent his foe,
and seven mighty cries of woe
rang in the mountains, and the earth quook,
and Angband's trembling armies shook.

Yet Orcs would after laughing tell
of the duel at the gates of hell;
though elvish song thereof was made
ere this but one - when sad was laid
the mighty king in barrow high
and Thorondor, Eagle of the sky,
the dreadful tidings brought and told
to mourning Elfinesse of old.
Thrice was Fingolfin with great blows
to his knees beaten, thrice he rose
still leaping up beneath the cloud
aloft to hold star-shining, proud,
his stricken shield, his sundered helm,
that dark nor might could overwhelm
till all the earth was burst and rent
in pits about him. He was spent.
His feet stumbled. He fell to wreck
upon the ground, and on his neck
a foot like rooted hills was set,
and he was crushed - not conquered yet;
one last despairing stroke he gave:
the mighty foot pale Ringil clave
about the heel, and black the blood
gushed as from smoking fount in flood.

Halt goes for ever from that stroke
great Morgoth; but the king he broke,
and would have hewn and mangled thrown
to wolves devouring. Lo! from throne
that Manwë bade him build on high,
on peak unscaled beneath the sky,
Morgoth to watch, now down there swooped
Thorndor the King of Eagles, stooped,
and rending beak of gold he smote
in Bauglir's face, then up did float
on pinions thirty fathoms wide
bearing away, though loud they cried,
the mighty corse, the elven-king;
and where the mountains make a ring
far to the south about that plain
where after Gondolin did reign,
embattled city, at great height
upon a dizzy snowcap white
in mounded cairn the mighty dead
he laid upon the mountain's head.
Never Orc nor demon after dared
that pass to climb, o'er which they stared
Fingolfin's high and holy tomb,
till Gondolin's appointed doom.

[Saeren]

Saeren gave a slow , appreciative nod, at the words, as much as the music.
'' Ah yes, Morgoths nightmare... '' he murmured, for Morgoths trauma at that time had been strong enough to spill into Saerens mind . After that... unprecedented incident, he had wanted some-one to unleash his fury on, and who better than the young Saeren, - if he could not have what he truly desired, that woman with light in her face, beautiful as a star, who had danced before him , before his throne, tipping him into enchanted sleep for long enough for Beren to cut a Silmaril from the Iron Crown.
Certainly he would never have told his fear, his dream, to any, but Saeren, his mind wrenched open by agony, and torment, had been the recipient of the dream the Dark Lord had had before waking from Luthiens spell. And had he not been in extremis he would have laughed. But all through the years he had dwelled on it, with amusement - and a desire that it might actually have happened.
'' he did fear your father, and the House of Finwe, Makalaure, '' He said, his eyes like blue lamps in the clinging darkness.

The sound of battle above echoed down through the myriad levels of tunnels and mines of Angband. Reports came to him frequently, but Morgoth did not need the messengers to tell him of what transpired in his own realm. He was losing, and he knew it. The force he sent against those who pursued him was utterly defeated on the fields of Mithrim, with almost no loss to his enemy.

A lone messenger came through the door leading into Morgoth’s throne room. “My lord,” he coughed, “the Noldor have won the … gates.” After relaying his message, the orc fell to the floor, an arrow in his back. The sound of fighting became less muffled. His enemy was inside the fortress. Releasing every creature concocted by his dark imagination had availed nothing.

Leaving Sauron and the Balrogs to hold the throne room, Morgoth fled deeper and deeper into the caves he delved. He was beyond now where even his greatest servants were permitted, or even knew of, for these tunnels Morgoth alone carved. Deeper he went, over chasm and fire-pit, until he came at last to a private chamber. Therein he locked himself, putting forth his power to mask his trail.

“I only flee because I am still weak from my encounter with Ungoliant,” he told himself. The darkness absorbed his words, returning no reply. The sounds of battle and the clashing of swords echoed down to him. Then there came great thuds, shaking the walls of his mighty fortress to its foundations, and all became silent. The silence became overwhelming, the darkness overpowering, as Morgoth sat cowering in his chamber. It felt as if the darkness would choke Morgoth himself, and that is when he realized he didn’t have them. The Silmarilli! Somehow, he had left his crown in the throne room.

For a while still Morgoth sat in the dark, brooding. The silence above, and his overwhelming desire for the Silmarilli, however, eventually caused him to venture forth from his chamber. Slowly and cautiously he climbed the paths back to his throne room, ever watchful, ever wary. The silence continued, an emptiness beyond reasoning.

As Morgoth drew closer to his throne room, the faint sound of a lyre came to his ears. Then it was joined by soft singing. He knew that he should be wary, that he should return now to his hidden chamber and forsake the Silmarilli, but he was compelled to go on, unable to make any movement but towards the door at the end of the hall. The only sound, only life, in the entire fortress came in the sound beyond that door. He reached out his hand toward the doors, and the sound stopped altogether as they began to open of their own accord.

Fear filled him as he took in the appearance of the room. The tapestries celebrating his wickedness were torn down. Statues showing his victories were now in pieces. Pillars lay across the walkway, scarred from the clash of blade against stone. Weaponry and other instruments of torture and death lay strewn across the floor. A soft radiant light came from the throne, and Morgoth was compelled to enter.

As he passed the rubble of destruction, he came upon another disturbing sight: the corpses of his Balrogs. Against one of the pillars still standing rested another unmoving form. It was that of Morgoth’s chief lieutenant, Sauron. From his broken form came shallow breathing, but it was too faint for him to be anything but dying. It was as if Sauron had been left there as the least significant foe in the entire fortress.

As Morgoth gazed upon this, a voice came from the throne. “Looking for something, jail-crow of Mandos?” Merely by the voice was Morgoth able to determine its owner, and that its owner was of a fell manner. Morgoth’s attention turned toward his throne, where a form sat in an arrogant, brooding manner. The soft light shining from the throne offered little visibility in the shadows of Morgoth’s throne room. Hatred and contempt shone in the form’s eyes, and upon his brow rested an Iron Crown, once belonging to Morgoth, but now there were three empty settings upon it.

“Do you desire this?” the voice demanded, as the form’s hand opened to reveal the brilliance of a Silmaril. No longer encased by the form’s hand, the light of the Silmaril began to drive the shadows of the throne room into retreat, revealing the full majesty of the form of Fëanor, son of Finwë, and Morgoth’s chief foe. Light grew as two more forms appeared to either side of the throne. Opening their hands, Morgoth saw Fingolfin to Fëanor’s right and Finarfin to his left, equally as fey as their brother.

In awe, Morgoth could not speak or move. He could feel the heat that had scorched his hand through the casket, even from several feet away. He had no hope, unless…, if Morgoth could play to their pride… but even as he began to formulate his plan, his hopes were dashed as something sharp struck his cheek. Flinching in pain, Morgoth touched his face. Something felt strange. Looking at his hand, he saw blood on his fingers. He was bleeding! As he looked back toward the throne, he now saw all three standing before him. By the fell light in their eyes, Morgoth now perceived their anger had driven them beyond reason or guile by words. Light from the Silmarilli began to pour into Morgoth’s wound, burning him as it ran ever deeper. Fëanor raised his sword and swung down….

Morgoth awoke with a start, looking around for Fëanor. Slowly, memory came back to him. The Noldor were divided before they even left Aman. Fëanor was slain in his first battle. The Silmarilli were safely in his crown. Morgoth checked his cheek. A scratch, but no blood. Looking for his crown, Morgoth saw it upon the ground, with the skin of a werewolf next to it. Lifting up his crown, he noticed an empty socket where a Silmaril had been only moments before.



This , he told Maglor, who, he thought, deserved to hear that Morgoth, despite all his mighty armies, all his twisted evil, had feared that one thing. And , - but which need not be said - but for Feanors oath, his impatience, his madness - might even have come to pass.

[Maglor]

Just for a moment, Maglors eyes flashed into intensity, their radiance wild, and cold. Ai, how he would have desired that to be so, if... but always so many ifs...
His eyes dropped.
'' Morgoth was a craven and a coward. '' His long fingers plucked the strings, a coldness brushed past him, as if a cold, terrible will cast its gaze upon him, but there was a greater and more chilling will in the blue eyes on him. It was a gaze that penetrated to the very soul. It held, at the moment, only some icy amusement.

[Saeren]

'' Morgoth might have be many things, but a warrior he was not, '' and no more was his father, he thought, with an inner spasm of disgust. It might have been that which had instilled in him a fierce determination to be not some offshoot of Saurons, with twisted powers, but to become a warrior.
It was also more viable for him, he could not challenge his sire in powers, but a son who could train armies, fight with the gifts his blood gave him, would not become some shadow skulking around Barad Dur or Dol Guldur like those bloody Nazgul. '' Unlike you, hmmm, Makalaure? '' He sat back. '' Tell me of your battles, tell me of Doriath. Tell me of Elwing defying you at the last. Of almost killing her sons. ''

[Maglor]

Excoriating acid seemed to burn through Maglors body, and he closed his eyes, he had no need to speak, not to this one, who knew his thoughts, read his memories.

Elwing clutched the Silmaril in her hand and the light flashed radiantly between her fingers as her dark hair whipped about her on the wind blowing up the cliff. The pounding surf filled her ears as the two elves advanced towards her.
Maedhros and Maglor were the last surviving sons of Fëanor, bound by their rashly spoken and terrible oath to recover the Silmarils at any cost... and that cost had already included many countless gallons of innocent elf blood.
“Give it to me Elwing,” Maedhros stretched out his right hand. In his left he held his sword threateningly. “Give it to me and you’re all free to go.”
Elwing’s eyes blazed. “You killed my father and my mother! You and your kin left my brothers to die alone in the woods when they were just BABIES! You murdered my family! *Nothing* will I give to you but my utter contempt, Maedhros, son of Fëanor, for I call you cursed! And if ever you lay hands on them, these jewels will be your undoing!”
Maedhros flinched only slightly. “I tried to find your brothers, Elwing, it was too late. That was not my doing. But give me the Silmaril or I will not be so concerned about what happens to your sons!”
Elwing was torn. The Silmaril must be saved, it was what her mother, her father and brothers had died for but... they had her children... for an instant her eyes met first Maedhros’ and then Maglor’s.
“Are not the hundreds of innocent lives already on your heads enough? You were elves once, not monsters,” she whispered. “If you have any shred of decency left in you, you will not harm my children! Or this oath *I* swear by Manwë and all the Valar, that I shall return even from beyond the grave if necessary to avenge them, and never shall your spirit make its way to the blessed lands, even in death!”
Then her eyes met Elrond’s and in that moment Elrond somehow knew, whether by the foresight that was already in him, or just from the look on her face, that this was goodbye.
“ReCitizen what I told you, my son!” she called out, backing up to the very edge of the cliff and clutching the Silmaril to her breast. “My love shall always be with you, always!”
Elrond nodded once, understanding that he was releasing her to do that which she must. “Go mother...” he whispered. His gaze fell upon his unconscious brother before rising back to meet Elwing’s and unspoken in his eyes was the promise that he would watch over Elros... they would watch over one another. For they were all that each other now had.
With one last look, Elwing clutched the gem tightly and brilliant white light flashed out between her fingers, nearly blinding the other elves on the cliff edge, making them shield their eyes and fall back a pace. Then she simply stepped backwards off the brink and let herself free-fall towards the pounding waves below, fully intending to take the Silmaril with her to her grave. But she never hit the water.
For Ulmo, the Lord of the Sea, intervened and lifted her up, giving the elf woman the shape of a great white bird with the Silmaril a flashing white light against her breast. Elrond saw her rise into the air on glistening wings, mirroring the meaning of her name ‘star spray’. The young elf watched her fly away in search of his father... until Elwing at last disappeared against the horizon.
All the elves on the cliff stared after her in shock, until she was gone and whatever spell was upon them seemed to lift. Maedhros and his servant swore loudly as they realized that both Elwing and the Silmaril were gone from their grasp forever.
Elros stirred and moaned, his eyes beginning to flutter open. “El...?” he murmured his brother’s name blearily.
Elrond pulled against Maglor’s hold on his arms, trying to get to his brother’s side. Blood was clotting on the wound across Elros’ brow and the young elf was worried. “Let me go!” he insisted.
Maedhros stalked over and slapped the young one sharply, snapping Elrond’s head first one way and then the other in the viciousness of his rage and causing the boy’s lower lip to bleed. “Shut up! You worthless half-breed brat!”
The older elf wasn’t really angry with the twins, but he was enraged that they had lost the prize that they sought, leaving their fateful oath unfulfilled yet again.
Elros struggled to his feet, catching Maedhros’ arm before he could strike his brother again and grappling with the bigger elf. “Stop it! Leave El alone!”
Maedhros threw Elros off his arm, sending the boy sprawling again. The younger twin fell and did not rise.
Maglor released Elrond, allowing him to go to his brother’s side. With their servants and compatriots all around, there was nowhere for the twins to run if they tried.
“What do we do with them?” Maedhros’ servant, Fandril, wanted to know, favoring the two young half-elves with a disdainful look. “Kill them?”
“No!” Maglor shook his head, seeking his brother’s eyes.
'' Maedros…" The sad sound of the hesitating voice cut through his brothers rage, it removed the red haze in front of his eyes, and it turned the world back into its colorless grey.
"Makalaure." The answer sounded short, cold and heartless, and he did not recognize his own voice.
"They are twins, Maedhros..."
"I know." He knew why his hand had hesitated. The faces looking up to him were painfully alike. Like two other faces that were lost to them forever, that would never look up again…
" Amrod...Amras…" His brother spoke the words that were on his mind also. The faces of the two children changed, their hair turned red-brown like his.
"I know." How could a voice so heartless now sound so soft?
"Oh Maedhros, what are we to do?" His brother's voice was a mere whisper.
"I do not know." his voice sounded raw, broken. His world had changed; it had lost its color, its beauty… Fire had consumed it all.
He dropped his blade and stared at Eärendil's sons once more.
How was he to know what to do?
Was it not proven he made mistakes?
Was it NOT proven?
"I do not know, Makalaure… You decide."
“No, not again,” Maglor shook his head wearily. “We take them back with us. Lock them up.”

[Saeren]

Of all the people Saeren had ever heard tell of, even before he ever set eyes on Maglor, Feanor and his sons had always fascinated him the most.
Gifted and imbued with brilliance and with beauty and yet capable of deeds of violence, and cruelty.
He believed in Oaths, knew the power of that one Feanor and the seven sons had sworn, but he also believed that a strain of madness ran in that incandescent bloodline. Hubris, perhaps, he pondered.
Those whom the Gods wish to destroy, they first make proud It was said. And Maglor was still proud, after all that had been done to him, pride still radiated through him like heat. Good... very good. Saeren had nothing but contempt for weaklings. he had not broken, he did not see why any-one else should, often it was not a matter of the strength of the body, but of the mind. He had almost expected, after her life in Doriath that his sister might break, but she did not, she changed, for women were often more adaptable than men, willows that bent to the wind, not great oaks which could crack, split and fall. No, he did not want Maglor broken, nor Cerridwen, for that matter.
'' Soft , '' he taunted , lazily, '' letting them live for they were twins,the first King of Numenor, and Elrond Half-Elven. ''

[Maglor]

'' So then I am soft, '' Maglor retorted, a blaze in that dark place, of defiance. '' No doubt you would have. '' he lifted his head, it was well nigh impossible to hear anythign in this place, the darkness pressed so close, it was windowless, almost lightless. His natural aura was dimmed here, but he still glowed faintly with the power of his fea, even here, even after everything.
'' There had been too much death. ''

[Saeren]

Saeren had risen, stretching his tall body.
'' There will be more yet, armies gather in the outside world. '' his eyes glinted blue through the dimness. '' But do not worry for me, '' he teased. '' we will see one another again Makalaure, I swear it, '' And with those words, he left him alone.

[Maglor]

.... Maglor did not see Saeren again, for a long time. For that was the War of the Last Alliance, when many things should have come to an end, yet did not . And he was taken back to Imladris to be healed, as far as he could be , by one of the twins he had pleaded for, Elrond Half-Elven the greatest healer in Middle Earth in those times.
When he was in any state to think of it, he was profoundly grateful for this mercy. He had come to love the brothers like sons, especially Elrond, for Elros followed more his mortal blood, whilst Elrond the Firstborn, whose life he chose.

'' Holy Iluvatar... Maglor...come back '' he had heard Elronds voice through the darkness where his soul had retreated to, shutting out light and life, cocooned in fiery self loathing and hatred and pain. He wanted to stay there, not face the world again, but eventually the elf-lords mind and gentle hands and words had drawn him out and he found himself in a room sweet with the scent of flowers, a wide, open balcony showing a view of tree-cloaked cliffs, plunging waterfalls.
His mouth tasted of some herbal infusion, as he spoke, through stiff lips.
'' I was right to wish you to live, Elrond Earendilion, '' His musical voice was cracked and hoarse, he had been crying out in his dreams, although he did not know it, the cries he would not utter in Barad Dur. But from them, and because Elrond could read many things in others minds, the elf-lord had discerned what had happened to the Noldo.

Elronds grey eyes were shocked, and sombre as he smoothed back Maglors black hair.

'' You would never have killed me, Maglor, '' he said gently. '' Rest now. You have to eat and drink. You are safe. You are in Imladris. ''