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Chapter Text

There was a time, in the timeless radiance of Valinor, when the light of the Two Trees draped the land in a brilliance that seemed destined to be eternal.

A time when perfection was not merely a dream but a living melody, unbroken and ethereal, resonating through the halls of the Valar and the voices of the Eldar. A vision of a world untouched by darkness, a harmony so exquisite that it seemed impervious to discord.

And yet, beneath the surface, in the shadows cast by Laurelin and Telperion, the first faint echoes of an inevitable storm were beginning to stir.

His silent steps reverberated across the palace corridors, a faint smile playing on his flawless lips.

The black robes he wore trailed like creeping shades in the radiant hall he was leaving.

He was reflecting on his most recent encounter with the Noldorin prince - a moment he had intentionally orchestrated, crafted to be both candid and cutting. He reveled in watching the seeds of discord he had so diligently planted finally beginning to sprout.

Fingolfin had held his composure, of course - always the stoic, ever the dutiful - but Melkor had seen it. The flicker of doubt in his eyes, a hesitation too fleeting for most to catch. Not for him, not for the once mightiest of the Valar.

It will be enough. A glass needs but a single crack to shatter.

He moved like a specter through this realm of light, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, tightening slightly around his wrists as his mind lingered on his plans.

Passing by the tall windows, their arched frames captured and refracted the golden and silver hues of the Trees into kaleidoscopic patterns that danced across the polished marble floors. He caught their glow reflected on his dark robes. It seemed as though the light were being drawn into the fabric, imprisoned in the intricate embroidery of his sleeves. It irritated him - a reminder of how the same light under which he had once shaped the Music could now only surround him, never touch him.

Perhaps it did not dare to.

Or maybe it mocked him, seeping into every corner and shadow, as if insisting he not overstay his welcome there.

He was forced to wear the guise of a guest, to lace his words with charm, and to veil his gaze with feigned humility. It served only as a reminder of the heights from which he had fallen - heights that now bound him to this infuriating web of alliances and diplomacy with the Eldar.

In his spirit, the dark fire of envy and wrath burned unquenched. But on the outside, his majestic and fair form remained a prisoner to an ever-pleasant smile, the same he bestowed upon the Noldorin guards escorting him out of Finwë's palace, leaving behind the otherworldly hum of elven song - music - that seemed to haunt its arched walls.

It had been Music that had given the Eldar the breath of life, and it seemed as if they were never tired of rejoicing in it, much to Melkor's annoyance.

Valinor was a realm built on trust and light, forces he had long since rejected.

But now, as he left, the faint smile on his lips did not falter.

In time, trust could be eroded.

Light could be dimmed.

And Melkor, the master of shadows, would see to it that these perfect halls would one day echo not with song but with silence.

He had time.

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As he moved into the lush gardens of Finwë’s palace, his robes seemed to whispered against the stone paths, a dark and heavy contrast against the vivid hues of the foliage scattered on his way.

The sound of the fountains filled the air, the only sound here, away from the grandeur of the halls and the voices of the Noldor fading, leaving only the peaceful symphony of the garden. But it was not peace he sought. He never had.

Melkor's restless and immortal mind churned with schemes, his gaze now sharp and his thoughts lingering. He had walked these paths often in recent days, clad in the guise of a penitent exile. Freed at last from his chains after three ages - though not entirely from the watchful eyes of the Valar - he had made Valinor his new stage, attempting to weave his lies with the same skill he had once used to shape the very Music of the world. His every action was calculated to appear as though he sought only… reconciliation.

And the Elves, proud in their wisdom, had been quick in welcoming him into their midst, eager to believe in his supposed repentance and learn from him.

The Noldor, so curious and ambitious, had proven the most receptive to his attempt at redemption, drawn like moths to a flame by his pitiful humility and veiled flattery. It was among them that Melkor realized he had found fertile ground to resume his true work.

While he walked beneath the flowering vines, heavy with blossoms, he reconsidered his latest conversation.

It had been a carefully woven web, each word a glinting strand designed to catch Fingolfin in its snare. Yet the snare had not closed - not yet, not entirely. The second son of Finwë had been wary, yes, but his pride and righteousness had left cracks in his armor.

Fëanor.

Always Fëanor.

Even in the shadow of the Trees’ light, that name burned hot as the fire of his spirit.

Melkor realized that his first tactic, dancing around the idea that Fëanor overshadowed Fingolfin, had landed too bluntly. Fingolfin had bristled, yes, but not bitten. The elder brother’s usurpation of affection, station, or respect had rankled, but it was not enough. Not for Fingolfin. His sense of righteousness was too strong.

No, what had struck deeper was something subtler: the suggestion that Fëanor might be dangerous.

Melkor had seen the faint tremor in Fingolfin's voice, the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly, and the stilled fists at his side turned his knuckles an almost imperceptible shade paler. Not in anger, no. In thought. Pondering. Considering whether the favored son could truly pose a danger.

The mere hint that Fëanor’s fire might burn too brightly, that his unchecked pride might harm not just Fingolfin but their father, their people - that had been the stroke that drew blood. Fingolfin would not turn against Fëanor for his own sake. No, he believed himself to good to even consider the idea. But if he believed that Fëanor’s ambition threatened those he loved, he might act. He might question. He might, in time, oppose.

Time, again. A commodity that Melkor possessed in abudance.

As his gaze swept across the vibrant expanse, he caught a glimmer of something unusual in the corner of his eye.

It was not the gleam of the light of the Trees playing on the leaves, nor the shimmer of water cascading over marble basins. It was hair - a golden cascade, brighter and purer than any light the gardens themselves could produce. The long, flowing tresses seemed to trap and reflect the brilliance of the Two Trees, catching it in a way that even the finest jewels could not. Or at least, not yet.

He stopped.

From afar, she stood beneath an arbor heavy with fruit, her head slightly bowed as if in thought. The vines framed her like a living tapestry, their blooms paling against the undeniable radiance of her presence. She was still, yet every line of her figure suggested motion, as though the world bent imperceptibly to her rhythm. This was no ordinary maiden of the Noldor.

Her features bore the unmistakable hallmarks of Finwë’s line: the proud tilt of her chin, the high, delicate cheekbones carved into her skin, the pride that seemed to radiate from her very being. Melkor pieced these observations together swiftly.

Lady Artanis.

He had heard the name in passing, spoken apparently with admiration by those who lingered too long on such trivialities. She was the youngest daughter of Finarfin, Finwë’s placid third son, and Eärwen of the Teleri. A child of two worlds, perhaps, though he had paid little heed before now.

Melkor did not concern himself with the affairs of families and lineages unless they served his schemes. Their feuds, their bonds, their intricate loyalties - such things were merely tools, threads in his design. And truly, it tired him to even remember more than what he needed of the Eldar, complicated as it was to navigate the lines of an immortal, ever-growing species gifted (or cursed) with the ability to reproduce. The best they had served him was once they were dominated and transformed under his rule - but he thought it best not to dwell on his Uruks.

Now, as he observed her from the shadows of the garden, he felt a flicker of recognition, as though some faint thread had tied her name to his awareness at this moment. He registered her existence, though, nothing more. Even now, as she stood beneath the arbor, looking radiant and serene, he felt no inclination to linger on her. The golden cascade of her hair had caught his eyes, yes, but as rare as it was, it was nothing more than an inheritance from her Vanyarin kin.

His gaze moved on, returning to the labyrinth of his schemes and the pieces he had already begun to maneuver. She was a part of the picture, perhaps, but not one that demanded more than a fleeting glance.

True power in the Noldorin court did not lie with its maidens. Nor were they necessary to ensure its destruction.

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Hours passed as Melkor finished retracing his conversation with Fingolfin.

He felt sated after studying retrospectively his every word, and he allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction for having won yet another small battle. Tactical gains were always welcome, and the strategy underneath them all was finally coming together after nearly two centuries. Two centuries he had spent whispering, humbling himself before creatures he despised. He was growing weary of having to shower the Noldor in praise, and more weary still of their pride.

The gardens were still. Midday had passed.

Melkor had decided to linger beneath the shadow of a towering cypress, its sheer height sufficient to cloak his imposing form in shadow. The backdrop to his musings was the murmur of fountains and the occasional rustling of leaves stirred by passing elves. The harmony of it all grated against him subtly but persistently, and while he was not at all immune to beauty and regarded it as wholly as any of the Valar could, he found the carefully crafted symphony of the Noldor oppressive.

Then came the sound of something breaking.

A sharp crack, like the snapping of a bough, shattered the stillness.

Melkor stilled too. His head turned sharply, his long black hair following his gaze, which was now cutting across the expanse of greenery to find the source of the disruption. 

A boy, no more than a child to the Eldar, who had been alive for not even the time of a single of his unneeded breaths, stood frozen beside the shattered remains of a fallen statue.

The figure, once a flawless rendering of Varda Elentári raising her hands to the stars, now lay in ruin upon the grass. Its marble arms, delicate and smooth as alabaster, had broken apart, scattering like bones across the verdant earth. The serene face of the Queen of the Stars lay cracked, its unseeing eyes gazing skyward even in its brokenness. Not that it really rendered any justice to her spirit, he thought bitterly. Around the wreckage, silver flowers planted in homage to the sculpture had been trampled, strewn across the ground like forgotten casualties of a long-lost battle.

Melkor's eyes narrowed as he took in the scene, and his gaze darkened.

The statue had been a tribute to the might and harmony of the Valar, an effigy of the beauty and power of Varda. Now, it seemed a mockery of the very order he despised. Yet, oddly, the sight stirred no satisfaction within him. It was not destruction on his terms, not the deliberate ruin he orchestrated to serve his designs. This was chaos without artistry, ruin without meaning - a mockery of the destruction he alone sought to command.

It was only ironical it bore the face of a spirit he had once ardently desired to claim, a desire now curdled into resentment as unyielding as the stone itself. He might have disliked the almost artificial harmony the Noldor had created in Valinor, but as a Vala, he could not accept seeing it desecrated. 

The boy’s wide eyes flickered to Melkor, and in that instant, terror bloomed across his young face.

He stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet, clutching a piece of broken marble in trembling hands as though it might somehow shield him from the shadow descending upon him. For Melkor had risen from his place.

For a moment, the garden seemed to hold its breath.

Silence fell once more, as if all living things had the good sense to still themselves in response to Melkor taking a single, long step forward.

His form was majestic, tall, and commanding.

He seemed almost carved from the same marble now shattered at the boy's feet. His face, unworldly beautiful and unblemished, bore the symmetry and radiance of a being once counted among the mightiest of the Valar. A perfection too sharp, too polished.

His hair, dark as the void beyond the stars, fell in smooth waves past his shoulders, like obsidian turned to strings. His eyes, deep and piercing, burned not with fire but with intensity, like black holes drawing in all they surveyed. Every movement, from the subtle turn of his head to the measured step forward, radiated both grace and an undeniable sense of danger. He was a vision of beauty laced with menace.

As he got closer, the boy flinched, the shard slipping from his fingers and landing with a soft thud at his feet. His trembling form seemed to shrink under the weight of Melkor’s presence, his gaze darting to the ground as if to avoid the wrath he knew was coming, although his young mind probably could not fully comprehend it.

Melkor’s lips curled into a faint sneer, his voice low and cold, like frost creeping through the warm air. “Do you think this is a place for your carelessness?”

The words carried the weight of judgment, each syllable striking like an unseen lash. “This was no idle trinket to be shattered by clumsy hands. You dare to defile this space, to shatter such craft.” It was not a question.

His dark eyes swept over the ruins again, lingering on the fractured face of Varda.

The boy began stammering excuses, words spilling incoherently from his lips, but Melkor paid them no mind. His anger was not something to be calmed by idle justifications. He did not even need to speak, as disdain radiated from his form in unescapable waves that seemed to affect even the leaves on the ground.

Another step forward, and the boy fell to his knees, his small hands scrabbling at the grass as though trying to gather the broken shards together, hoping to undo what had been done.

But before Melkor could speak again, another voice broke the tension - a soft, steady tone that carried through the garden like a breath of fresh air.

“My lord,” said Lady Artanis, stepping from the dappled shade she had been standing beneath into the golden light. “It was an accident.”

She approached the scene slowly, her gaze calm but unwavering, her hair catching the light now like a flowy mirror.

Melkor turned his eyes toward her, his fury momentarily eclipsed.

He could see but the smallest trace of wariness in her gaze, which landed upon his form with nothing more than a subtle hint of the reverence he typically inspired. It almost seemed as if the fury riverberating from his being seemed to bounce back against her, as thogh absorbed and neutralized. 

She did not flinch under his gaze, nor did she challenge him overtly. Wise, he thought. Instead, she knelt before the boy, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You’re not hurt, and you have harmed no living thing intentionally,” she said, her voice soothing. “That is what matters.”

The boy sniffled, his fear easing under her touch.

Artanis knelt further down beside him with grace, gathering a handful of the scattered flowers that lay as victims beneath the shattered marble. Rising to her feet, she cradled them delicately in her hands. Her gaze shifted to the broken statue, her expression contemplative rather than mournful.

“Beauty can be remade,” she said quietly, as though speaking to herself. Then she turned to Melkor. When her eyes met his, they carried a calm that bordered on defiance, a steadiness that stood in stark contrast with the tension crackling around them. “Even broken things serve as a reminder of what was once whole.”

It was then that Melkor realized she had not flinched once.

She had not lowered her gaze, nor had she offered the timid platitudes that others would have. Instead, she stood before him as though his presence demanded no fear. 

For a fleeting moment, the boy seemed to hold his breath. She did not seem to notice.

Melkor’s anger hung in the air between them, potent and unresolved. Her words, simple as they were, carved through the thick air between them. His fingers twitched imperceptibly at his side, the faintest betrayal of the impulse to strike, to lash out and erase the challenge she presented. But he did not move. 

Something about her poise, her calm, stilled him - not because it opposed him, but because it did not. It was not defiance, not a petty challenge or an easily broken will. No, it was something else entirely, something he could not name. 

And that was precisely why he would not feed into it further.

He smiled instead, nothing more than a thin line. “How generous of you, Lady Artanis, to speak on behalf of a careless creature such as this". His voice - while soft and seducent like silk - carried a quiet menace, a calculated edge meant to remind her of who stood before her.

She inclined her head, unshaken, as though expecting him to continue. But her silence spoke volumes, an acknowledgment that felt neither submissive nor combative.

It was a presence that demanded nothing yet offered no space for dominance. The boy, now clutching the hem of her gown, glanced between them, his fear replaced by a tentative curiosity. 

Melkor's gaze lingered once again on the light that seemed to gather around her. Not ethereal, and yet still innate, untouchable. He found himself retreating, the tension unresolved but shifting.

“Careless hands,” he said at last, his voice a low rumble, smooth yet still coiled with menace, “should think carefully before they disturb what is beyond their comprehension. Mistakes, after all, can have consequences.”

His gaze swept over the boy, just long enough to draw another shudder from the child, who shrank further behind Artanis. His dark eyes, fathomless and cold, seemed to pierce straight through his fëa, as if appraising not his worth but his insignificance.

The Vala's gaze returned to Artanis, sharper now, and his smile twisted into something cruel and predatory. “Not all broken things deserve to be remade,” he said, each word falling like a stone into a pond.

His voice carried a terrible finality, the promise that the fracture of marble might one day pale in comparison to the ruin he could bring. 

With a deliberate turn, he swept away, his robes billowing behind him like the wings of some dark creature rising to swallow the sky. The faint whisper of his steps echoed ominously, the weight of his wrath was not gone, merely withheld. 

As he reached the edge of the garden, the shadow of the towering arbor falling across him, he turned his head ever so slightly, his dark eyes cutting back toward the scene he had left behind. What he saw staying him his steps, if only for a fraction of a moment. 

The child, still trembling, stood with his small hands clenched at his sides.

Artanis knelt before him. In her hands were the flowers she had gathered, their once-pristine petals bearing the marks of the statue’s ruin. She reached out and gently tucked a few of the blossoms beneath the boy’s pointed ears, arranging them with a care that seemed almost absurd to Melkor. 

Artanis said something, her voice too soft to carry through the wind to where Melkor stood, but the boy’s wide eyes seemed to brighten slightly. A faint, almost shy smile tugged at his lips as he nodded, one hand brushing against the flowers now adorning him.

Melkor’s lip curled into a sneer, his disgust immediate and visceral.

This, he thought, was the folly of the Noldor. Their insistence on beauty, on small, foolish gestures that amounted to nothing. She was wasting her time on something so utterly inconsequential. Yet, there was something in the scene that held him fast.

A question gnawed at the edges of his mind: what was it that animated her?

What force, what foolishness, gave her the audacity to stand so unbowed, to treat ruin as though it could be mended?

His sneer deepened, and he turned away fully this time, vanishing into the shadows beyond the garden. But her image remained etched into his thoughts for a moment longer.

And for all his might, Melkor could not force it to fade.

Chapter Text

The forge seemed to roar like a beast, as it casted wild, restless shadows across the walls. The scent of hot iron and burning sparks thickened in the air as Fëanor worked, his movements catching her gaze from across the room in a mix of curiosity and caution.

Despite her reservations about her uncle, Artanis respected his mastery and had always admired the art of the forge.

She turned a newly forged blade over in her hands, feeling the smooth silver slide beneath her fingers. It sat comfortably in her grip, its weight and balance a familiar echo of lessons learned long ago in Aulë’s halls.

In her youth in Valinor, she had spent countless years as an eager apprentice to the Vala of craftsmanship. Under Aulë’s gentle and profound tutelage, she had learned to shape metals and gems, and to recognize how every crafted thing bore the spirit of its maker.

There had always been quiet joy in the work - transforming raw materials into something beautiful and everlasting.

She, unlike Fëanor, had never reached toward grandeur or dominion through creation. She did not aspire to rival the Valar by bringing beings into existence through song or will. For her, it was enough to forge a blade that gleamed in the light, or a gem that caught the eye: small acts of creation, leaving enduring marks upon the world.

'Do not cling to the work of your own hands, as though nothing lies beyond it ,' Aulë had once told her, ' To create is an act of love, and to let go at times can be an act of wisdom .' She remembered those words clearly, spoken after she had stormed out of the smithy one day in frustration, defeated by a particularly stubborn allo - much the same frustration she now felt brewing within her.

Artanis' gaze lingered on Fëanor as he moved.

She wondered what it was that drove him so relentlessly, even on a normal day like that day.

Was it the pursuit of perfection or the desperate need to prove his worth, even when none questioned it?

As she watched him, she couldn't help but feel a pang of pity for him. His brilliance was undeniable, but it was a double-edged sword, consuming him as much as it inspired him.

She wandered back to when he had first approached her with his “grand” proposition.

He had asked for her aid in some project, though he had been frustratingly vague about its nature. At first, she had felt flattered, intrigued even. For all his arrogance, Fëanor rarely sought the input of others. That he had come to her, of all people, seemed an acknowledgment of her skill, a recognition of her worth.

But as she spent more time working with him - or rather, watching him work while he jealously guarded the finer details of his plans - she began to see his true motives.

When he first asked for her hair, the truth had struck her painfully.

He had not sought her counsel for the sake of her wisdom or artistry. No, it had become increasingly clear that Fëanor valued her only for what she might give him. His fascination with her had nothing to do with her thoughts or her skill - it was the light in her hair, the essence of the Trees, that he coveted. She was a vessel for something he desired, not a person to him.

Conversations with Nerdanel had only confirmed her suspicions.

She had spoken of Fëanor’s increasing withdrawal from those around him, his erratic moods, and how even she, his wife, was often met with either a wall of silence or a torrent of fiery words, no in-between.

He had become consumed by his work, isolating himself in his smithy for days on end, chasing some ambition he refused to name. Nerdanel’s eyes had been heavy with sorrow as she recounted how the man she had once tempered with her wisdom now burned too brightly to touch, even for her.

Nonetheless, the realization had been a bitter one.

To be reduced to a material for someone else’s work felt like an insult, a diminishment of everything she was... It was not merely vanity that had led her to refuse him then, or the time after - it was defiance. It was refusal to be reduced and objectified. 

Now, as she watched him in his element, the sparks flying and his face set with singular determination, she saw that same fire burning as fiercely as ever. And she wondered, not for the first time, whether it would one day consume him entirely.

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Melkor walked slowly through the paths of Tirion.

The main hall of the building loomed ahead. It was a simpler structure compared to other Noldorin residences he had spent time with but held an elegance befitting Fëanor’s grandeur.

This was no simple workshop; even its exterior bore the craftsmanship of the Noldor, with intricate carvings adorning its stone walls. The hall stood slightly apart from the rest of the city, its distance both practical and symbolic, as if Fëanor had willed it into its own sphere.

As Melkor entered the hall, he was greeted with cool formality by one of Fëanor’s attendants, a dark-haired Noldorin maiden with sharp eyes that assessed him quickly. Upon recognizing him, she bowed stiffly, her tone carefully neutral.

“Lord Melkor,” she began politely, "We did not expect you today. Lord Fëanor is still working".

Melkor gifted the maiden with the mockery of a warm smile, inclining his head slightly, amused by the quickened beat of her heart. Though he had no true need to maintain such a beautiful form, he often found a certain pleasure in the reactions it could provoke when it served him. “Then I shall wait,” he said smoothly. “I would not wish to disrupt the work of such a master.”

The maiden hesitated, glancing toward the far end of the hall, where the forge lay beyond the courtyard. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her gaze, unsure whether to send him away or allow him to linger. 

At last, she chose the safer course and gestured toward the inner door..

“This way, my lord,” she said at length, her tone clipped and formal. “Lord Fëanor’s work is not to be interrupted, but you can wait in the antechamber.”

With unhurried steps, Melkor followed her across a small stone-paved courtyard.At its center stood a smaller, sturdier building, set apart from the grander halls - a considerably simpler structure, its heavy door reinforced by iron bands adorned with only the faintest carvings.

Once inside, he could smell in the air the mixed smells of oil, molten metal, and smoke. He had never been fond of that smell, of the way it seemed to stick to clothes and air. 

She guided him down a dimly lit corridor, its walls lined with narrow doorways, each apparently leading to smaller chambers - and in the background, he could hear the rhythmic hammering of the forge echoing faintly, sounding like a heartbeat pulsing through the structure. 

At last, they reached their destination - a small, sparsely furnished room, its stone walls bearing no ornamentation save for a single iron sconce holding a flickering lamp.

“You may wait here, my lord,” the maiden said with an utterly neutral tone. “Lord Fëanor will join you here once he is finished.” 

Without waiting for a response, she turned and left, her footsteps retreating down the corridor.

Melkor did not sit.

Instead, he moved slowly around the room.

There was little to see - no tapestries, no tools or artifacts that hinted at Fëanor’s work, only the bare stone and the faint glow of the lamp. It was a waiting room, nothing more, meant to hold those unworthy - or unwelcome - in the inner sanctum of the smithy.

Yet as he turned his head toward the corridor, Melkor’s sharp hearing caught the murmur of distant voices - muffled, but sharp enough to suggest an argument. Unable to contain his curiosity, he moved toward the doorway, his steps silent as a serpent’s, and paused. 

The sound grew clearer, and he tilted his head slightly to listen. 

Ah . Even within Fëanor’s stronghold, Melkor could sense the tension brewing, the cracks forming. 

He stepped into the corridor, his gaze fixed on the slightly opened door at the far end. Beyond it, the glow of the forge pulsed, brighter and more alive than the rest of the building. The voices grew louder as he approached, and Melkor brushed his hand lightly along the doorframe, leaning just enough to peer through the narrow gap.

Artanis stood to one side, her golden hair catching the light of the forge like a halo, though her expression was anything but angelic. Melkor had not seen her for what felt like only a fleeting moment beneath the mingling of the Trees' light, though in the reckoning of Middle-earth, that time would one day accrue to twenty seasons. 

She wore a long-sleeved tunic and thick leather leggings, a far cry from the flowing gown he had last seen her in. No silk nor velvet wrapped her body now - only practical clothes, suited for someone working in a smithy. In the corner of the room, he caught sight of a pair of leather gloves, abandoned and small enough to be hers. It did not take much to piece together: she had been working the forge before this conversation began.

Her arms were crossed, her lips pressed into a thin line as she watched her half-uncle pace the room like a caged predator, the tension in the air so heavy it seemed to thicken the very heat of the forge. Melkor saw the fury in the clench of Fëanor’s fists, the tightness in his jaw - the rage barely held in check.

“You do not see it,” Fëanor said in a low and rough voice, almost almost a growl. His pacing stopped abruptly, and he turned to face her, his eyes alight with an intensity that bordered on madness.

No, not rage, not madness. It was… hunger .

“The gift you possess is unparalleled. Unmatched in all of Arda. It is the very light of the Trees, woven into strands finer than any Aulë himself could craft. And yet you deny me.”

Artanis stood he ground, unmoved by his accusations. Her gaze did not waver, her chin remained lifted. However, watching from the shadows, Melkor noticed the tension in her body: the way her arms stayed rigid at her sides, the unease in her posture, the stubborn way she held her ground despite the Prince's looming presence. 

“You would let such beauty go unseen, unpreserved, for what ?” Fëanor demanded, his voice rising. “Pride?”

When Artanis spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

But whatever words she chose,  Melkor could not hear them. He could have strained to catch them, but he did not. His attention was entirely on Fëanor, enraptured by how far gone he seemed.

He saw a man consumed by ambition, one who would stop at nothing to achieve his goals, no matter the cost, and that pleased him. He relished the tension, the raw power of Fëanor's desperation, and the quiet defiance in Artanis's stance. It was a dance of wills, a spectacle that fueled his own dark ambitions.

However, whatever Artanis said struck Fëanor like a blow.

He froze, his breath coming in sharp shallow gasps. For a second, he seemed ready to leap at her. Then, with a sudden, fluid motion, he closed the space between them. Melkor’s smile deepened as he watched Fëanor’s hand shoot out, gripping Artanis’s arm and backing her against the cool stone wall.

The force of the movement made her gasp, and Melkor’s ears caught the sharp intake of her breath.

There it was - the crack in her composure.

The tension between them was electric, and Melkor reveled in the charged atmosphere, the precarious balance of power tilting dangerously.

“ Mastery ?” he spat, his voice dripping with something dangerous. “I do not need to seek dominion over you, only to capture in my craft what the Valar themselves have praised. And yet you deny me, out of childish spite-”

“It is not spite,” Artanis interrupted, her voice higher now. Or maybe, Melkor was simply paying attention to it this time. “It is free will. Choice. And you cannot forge that to your liking, no matter how hard you try-”

“Choice?" it was his turn to cross her words. "And why do you choose to deny me, then? What else could it be, if not spite, if not pride?” he hissed, his breath brushing against her pointy ear. “Or is it fear that keeps you from granting me this? You would hoard the light, Artanis, as surely as the Valar hoard their power. Is that what you want? To be the last keeper of it, the one who refuses to share?”

Fëanor’s other hand reached out, seizing a lock of her golden hair.

He lifted it to his face, his expression a mixture of reverence and desperation as he let the strands slide through his fingers. Artanis tried to struggle against his grip, but Fëanor’s strength held. His breath hitched, and for a moment, his entire focus seemed consumed by that single strand.

He lifted it further to his face, inhaling deeply, though his expression betrayed no joy.

“ This ,” he murmured, his voice hysterical and trembling with something too raw for Melkor to name. “This is the light I have sought my whole life".

His fingers tightened around the golden strand, as though afraid it might slip away, his knuckles whitening against its delicate brilliance. His eyes fluttered shut, and he inhaled deeply again.

The breath he drew in was shuddering, almost audible, as though he was drinking its essence. For a fleeting moment, his lips parted, brushing against the silken strands, not with tenderness but something else entirely. 

It is not reverence, no, Melkor thought. It is desire, and possession.

His face twisted, his brows knitting together as though he were in pain.
The desperation etched across his features made it clear: this was not satisfaction, not joy, but longing . A longing that could not be sated, no matter how close he held it, no matter how deeply he tried to take it into himself.

" This ," he whispered again, this time to her ear, his voice hoarse, trembling with a worshipful, broken yearning. She flinched at the sound.

Melkor’s smile grew, the edges of it razor-sharp.

He could see it clearly now - the flame that consumed Fëanor from within, a fire he had stoked so carefully over time. Every whispered word, every seed of doubt and pride he had sown, had led to this moment. Fëanor’s obsession, his inability to let go, bearing the unmistakable mark of Melkor’s own craft.

Artanis’s breath hitched, her body stiffening against the cold stone behind her.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and Melkor could see her mind churning, looking for a way of escaping her current situation and not surrender to the intensity of it all. The heat of the forge, the weight of his presence, the unsettling intimacy of his actions seemed to be pressing down on the Noldorin princess like a physical force. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms. 

“They are part of me. You do not ask merely for a strand of my hair - you ask possession over what is not yours to claim", she said unwavering, regardless of her clear discomfort. 

"Release me, Fëanor. You shame yourself - and your name." She said it with sorrow but with the heaviness of an order as well. The finality of her words, the way they carried the weight of a truth that Fëanor probably would soon recognize, seemed to still the forge itself.

For a moment, Fëanor seemed not to hear her.

Then her words sank in, and the intensity in his eyes flickered, replaced by a momentary doubt. Slowly, he released his grip, stepping back. His face twisted with frustration and humiliation, but he said nothing.

Artanis stepped out of her uncle’s grasp, rapidly putting space between them. 

For a moment, Melkor thought she would leave, fleeing the confrontation entirely.

But then, to his surprise, she turned toward the workbench where a freshly-forged blade gleamed in the forge’s light. Her fingers closed around its hilt with a steadiness that sent a flicker of intrigue through Melkor’s thoughts.

She turned, the blade catching the firelight as she moved toward Fëanor. There was no hesitation in her steps, no uncertainty in the way she raised the weapon and brought its sharp edge to rest against his throat.

“If you ever touch me like that again,” she said, her words laced with quiet venom, “it will be the last thing you ever do. No matter if the whole house of Finwë casts me out for it.”

Fëanor didn’t move, his chest now rising and falling with labored breaths.

The fire in his eyes dimmed further, replaced by something else entirely. For a man who sought mastery in all things, this moment of being held powerless seemed to cut him more than whatever blade he had at his throat.

For a moment, Melkor thought Fëanor might lash out again, his pride too great to bear such a challenge. But he did not move. Whether it was the shock of her defiance or the entire lack of hesitation in her words, he remained still, his jaw clenching and unclenching, though no sound escaped him.

Satisfied, Artanis lowered the blade, but she didn’t sheath it. Her eyes bore into Fëanor’s, cold as the steel she held. 

“Your fire may consume you, Fëanor,” she whispered “But I will not let it consume me .”

She turned sharply, the blade still in her hand, and walked away without another word, moving to a smaller door at the far end of the forge. 

Melkor watched, his dark gaze fixed on her, the sharp curve of his smile deepening.

This was not what he had expected.

Intriguing . 

Elves, in their careful demeanor, rarely displayed such intensity.

They prided themselves on balance, on control, on restraint. And Artanis, from the moment he had first laid eyes on her, had seemed the very embodiment of that radiant serenity. The first time he had seen her, her light had struck him - a reflection of the Trees themselves, still untainted and untouchable.

But this - her utter refusal to see his light compromised by Fëanor - struck him more.

She was unlike the other Eldar, it seemed.

She was not what he had assumed, not what he had shaped in his mind. He had thought her radiant, like a jewel meant only to be admired. But this moment had revealed something more: a light that could burn, fierce and untamed. 

As the door closed behind her, Melkor remained in the shadows, his gaze still fixed on where she had stood. Her radiance had been striking, but her wrath - ah, that was something altogether more compelling.

For a fleeting moment, she reminded him of another.

The same unbreakable poise, the same sharp brilliance that seemed to defy all attempts to contain it. When first he had drawn his soul to him, it had not been through brute force but through a slow, deliberate bending of that will, a seduction of the mind and spirit. It had been a game of patience, of watching the fire twist and coil until it burned for him and him alone.

Could Artanis burn the same way?

The thought coiled around his mind like a serpent, hissing softly of possibilities, igniting a craving he had not felt in more than three ages.

There was just something in the way she had just stood unflinching against even her uncle's consuming pride, that made the idea tantalizing. How sweet it would be to see that fire tempered. Not extinguished but reforged .

The way she had faced him, blade in hand, her voice cold and commanding, struck a chord deep within him - reminding him faintly of the same thrill he had felt when Mairon first knelt before him. Not entirely in submission, but also in silent acknowledgment of power shared and claimed.

Melkor lingered in the shadows for a moment longer, his thoughts wrapped around her image. 

But then, as Fëanor resumed pacing, he reminded himself of the reason he had come to his smithy in the first place.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Melkor returned silently to the waitroom he had first been accompanied to, lowering himself onto the worn wooden bench, his movements languid, as though the space were his own. 

He waited, the silence stretching unbroken now, waiting patiently for the Noldor prince to receive him. He guessed it might take some time, considering he had left him breathless, sweat-slicked, and stung in his pride.

An indefinite amount of time had passed when the door finally opened, abruptly.

The proud smith still bore the marks of his work - his hands were smudged with soot, his hair slightly disheveled, but his chest rose and fell with deceptive calm, betraying no hint of the storm that had preceded.

"Lord Melkor, to what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked. 

Melkor rose slowly, and he bowed his head ever so slightly, a gesture that carried just enough respect to keep up the pretense. “Prince Fëanor,” he began, “It has been too long since I have been blessed to witness the brilliance that you so tirelessly craft. And I find myself drawn once again to your unmatched mastery.”

Fëanor’s lips pressed into a thin line.

He was no stranger to his flattery, but Melkor knew there was something in his honey-sweet tone that made it impossible for him to brush it aside entirely. The dark Vala’s words slid into the room like smoke, curling around every corner, filling the wounded space he knew Artanis had just left in his spirit.

“I had thought my work unworthy of the Valar’s interest,” Fëanor replied, his voice tight. “It has been some time since I have seen you around here. But if it pleases you to look, who am I to deny such an honored guest?”

Melkor presented the ghost of a smile, “Unworthy?” he repeated, feigning surprise. “You know your work surpasses that of any craft in Valinor. Even Aulë himself would marvel at what you have achieved. It is true, I have been otherwise occupied, but please, do not think anything by it. Time is not as linear for us as it is for you, Children of Ilúvatar".

He took a tentative step in his direction, his gaze so intense it crackled in the charged air between them. “But it is not merely your skill that intrigues me, Prince Fëanor, you know that. It is the fire within you, that unquenchable spirit, that drive to create what no one else dares to imagine. It is rare among your people, and rarer still among the Valar. You must know how singular you are.”

Fëanor’s eyes narrowed slightly, and without realizing it he took half a step back. “Your praise is generous, my lord. Perhaps too generous.”

“Is praise really an act of generosity when it is deserved?” Melkor asked. “And you, Prince Fëanor, deserve much .”

Another step. Melkor wetted his lips upon saying the last sentence, in a seemingly natural and uncalculated gesture. If only he was capable of them.

Fëanor shivered in response, as if he had often seen him do when he made the effort of using the lowest timbre of his deep voice, its resonance curling around the words like a caress. 

“Very well,” he said eventually,  “Let us see if the Lord of Might is as discerning in craftsmanship as he claims.”

Melkor’s smile deepened as he followed, his gaze lingering on the tension still present in Fëanor’s shoulders, savoring the cracks in his composure.

Once inside the smithy, enveloped by the heat, Melkor knew exactly how the encounter would unfold.

Fëanor would move toward his workbench with determined purpose, his words sharp as he accused his people of whispering behind his back. He would fish for affirmation, seeking from Melkor the false praise that could momentarily soothe his insatiable hunger for validation. And when Melkor stepped closer, his voice dropping to a velvet murmur, he knew Fëanor’s composure would falter. The stiffness in the proud smith’s shoulders would yield under his calculated touch, and the doubts he had planted and the vanity he had encouraged would linger just beneath his ivory skin long after he had left him there. 

It was not just his words or his touch that would remain, but the unseen chains he had forged, binding Fëanor ever tighter to the storm of his own making.

Chapter Text

Melkor sat, pondering the passage of time - as he often did - with a mixture of detachment and growing resentment. For time coiled around him, both fleeting and suffocating, a ceaseless whisper that mocked his own timelessness. 

The centuries he had spent in Valinor were little more than an exile cloaked in civility, a vain delusion by his brethren - to believe there could exist for him a destiny different from the one he had embraced from the moment he chose to weave discord into the Music that brought the world into being.

He wove his days with cunning and deception, each day adding a new thread to an ever-growing tapestry of discord. Only a being like him, a God, could keep so many threads taut and balanced, intertwined yet distinct, while still envisioning the final design as clearly as his eyes saw the trees around him. For now, his power to shift forms and traverse Valinor at will remained untouched.

Mornings found him wandering the tranquil gardens of Lórien.

In the afternoons, he feigned camaraderie not only in the forges of Aulë but also among the scholars of Irmo’s libraries or the dreamers on the shores of Eldamar, savoring the quiet distortions of their minds. It was meticulous work, one that only minimally sated his hunger for dominion. It was not the open, shameless possession he had enjoyed in Middle-earth, but it bore a flavor that reminded him of what he would one day reclaim.

As the Trees’ light dimmed, as it did now, he sought the bustling courtyards of Tirion, listening.

But it was in the deep hours, when most of Valinor sank into silence, that his true vigil and labor began: whispers planted in restless ears, whispers received from lips almost sealed shut, truths unearthed only to twist them into weapons and ambitions that, once ignited, would consume the hearts of those who would one day serve him.

Time. 

A great stretch of time had passed since the day he had last seen the daughter of Finarfin in the forge. 

In that time, Melkor had begun paying attention to mentions of her, as he did with others he sought to manipulate. But with her, it was different.

He had observed her, both through his own eyes and those of others, and had grudgingly watched her root herself in her reputation as a fierce Noldorin princess. Her light was no longer merely a glow surrounding her as it did in the gardens he had first noticed her but a blaze that inspired both admiration and caution among her Eldar peers.

In the shadows of Valinor, he gathered whispers of her deeds - how she had boldly argued against the elders of Tirion to secure justice for an artisan, her voice sharp with conviction, bending neither to tradition nor seeking favor.

He had heard how she had spent time in the Pastures of Yavanna, humbling herself to perform necessary yet simple work to aid the Vala. He had learned of her solitary walks at the borders of Tirion, where she appeared contemplative, her steps weighed down by her ambitions, and how her pride, disguised probably from herself as a sense of justice, had grown alongside her renown. In public, she stood as a beacon of righteousness, but whispers claimed she had the steel to be ruthless when the cause demanded it.

She displayed defiance in the face of injustice and rectitude in the face of evil, and with every tale, his thoughts lingered on her a moment longer, like a melody he sought to rewrite, note by note.

Though Melkor had mostly observed her from the shadows, there were moments when he had allowed her to perceive his presence, his attention. 

On one occasion, in the golden halls of Tirion, he approached her during a gathering of the Noldor, speaking with the honeyed tones of one who sought only to advise and guide.

She greeted him with the courtesy expected when addressing a Vala, her voice steady and composed, but her eyes remained unchanged. They held a silent suspicion, an unspoken challenge that seemed to invite him to prove himself worthy of the respect that others among the Elves appeared so eager to give him.

She spoke words of recognition, even gratitude, for his wisdom in governance. Yet beneath her polite demeanor, there was something else - a trace of disdain, a silent assertion that she knew of his deeds before arriving in Valinor and that his act did not convince her.

It was subtle, barely perceptible, but to Melkor, it was as clear as the light of Laurelin. That encounter, though brief, had lingered in the air between them like an unspoken game, each probing the edges of the other’s intent, unspoken yes, but stil,l unmistakable. She had then excused herself politely then and rejoined her brother Finrod.

On another occasion, under the shimmering boughs of Lórien, their paths crossed by apparent chance, though in truth, each had a reason to be there.

Melkor had come to Lórien under the pretense of consulting Irmo on matters of dreams and foresight, seeking knowledge of prophecies that he sensed were beginning to take shape - prophecies concerning him. He hoped they would help him determine the proper time to begin planning his return to Middle-earth.

Artanis, on the other hand, was there likely to seek solace and inspiration, her mind consumed by thoughts of her ambitions and the growing unrest among the Noldor - unrest that Melkor proudly considered himself the architect of.

That day, Melkor had spotted her crouched in a small glade across a river, not quite in the shade of a tree but at the very edge of its shelter. The strong, morning light of the Trees illuminated her skin, casting a golden glow on her serene features, and at her feet lay lembas, from which she seemed to have recently taken a bite. Her eyes were closed in contemplation.

He revisited that memory.

From across the stream, Melkor paused, watching her for a moment longer than courtesy demanded. At last, he spoke, his deep voice crossing the water like a shadow: 

“Lady Artanis, it is rare to find you so far from Tirion. This place suits you.”

Artanis opened her eyes and turned slowly, her gaze meeting his.

Even at a distance, his keen sight caught a flicker of surprise in her expression. She seemed poised to rise but hesitated - her gaze lingering on the stream that separated them before deciding otherwise, likely reassured that the natural barrier would keep him far from her. No distance, no obstacle of the world’s making, could bar him if he chose otherwise.

“Lord Melkor,” she answered with polite acknowledgment. “I could say the same. It is curious to see you here, so far from your usual dwellings. I assume you are here to see Irmo?”

The not-quite-tension between them mingled with the sounds of nature - the birds chirping in the background, the rustling leaves overhead. He smiled, a gesture that did not reach his eyes.

“Lórien is a realm of dreams, but dreams are but one path to understanding. Yet, you presume I walk only that road. Tell me, Lady Artanis, does it surprise you to think I might seek the balm of Estë’s touch?”

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharpening with a hint of wariness.

“Dreams and visions can reveal great power, so I assumed you sought Irmo’s counsel. But these lands do not belong to him alone, that is true.” A pause. “I simply find it difficult to imagine one such as you seeking what Estë offers.”

Melkor raised an eyebrow, his face brightening with feigned surprise as he spread his arms in a theatrical gesture. 

“Ah, Lady Artanis, your estimation of me is nothing short of flattering! To think that you believe I seek only power in Irmo’s dreams… And hear, hear, to suggest that rest and healing lie so far beyond my grasp..” He paused in mock stillness, his eyes gleaming. “Pray, enlighten me: what form of weariness, if not that of the soul, could ever drive me here? Even the strongest among of the Valar need respite, do they not?".

Artanis bowed her head slightly, a gesture of respect, though her eyes, sharp as a falcon’s, betrayed her true thoughts. When she spoke again, she chose her words with care.

“Your eloquence is, as ever, Lord Melkor, a testament to your mastery of words” she began. “And indeed, it is no small thing to see you speak of weariness and the need for rest. Such admissions are rare among those who dwell in might.”

She let the words hang, the faintest hint of a thoughtful smile touching her lips. 

“Still, it leads to one question: is might alone that defines strength?”. Her voice softened. “You have known power unmatched, Lord Melkor, that much is undeniable. But if weariness weighs on you, might it be that strength - true strength - demands more than dominion alone? That it resides in the mastery of oneself?”

Her words carried a challenge without offense. 

A challenge nonetheless , he thought. A subtle accusation, too.

Melkor’s expression shifted, leaning towards a pretense of hurt.

He lowered his arms, letting them rest at his sides, and bowed his head slightly as if conceding some unspoken point.

“My lady,” he began, his voice quieter then, touched with what someone who didn't know better would mistake for sorrow. “I would have thought you, among all your kin, might see me with clearer eyes. Must you assume my every step is shadowed by my past? Is it so impossible to believe that I might seek something other than dominion? That I might come here not as a former tyrant, but as one seeking the solace denied him for so long?"

He paused, his gaze briefly dropping to the stream.

When he looked at her again, his eyes were earnest, or at least seemed to be.

“I do not fault your caution,” he continued, softly. “I understand the scars I have left, the doubts I have sown. But I would imagine a lady such as yourself would be less bound by cynicism. Is there no place to ask for redemption, no chance for renewal? If not here, in the realm of dreams and rest, then where? And if even you, wise and just, cannot grant me the benefit of a doubt, what hope do I have of finding my place among those I once called brothers and sisters?”

His words lingered, heavy with the weight of regret - or the appearance of it - leaving just enough space for her to wonder whether his wounds, both spoken and unspoken, were genuine. 

Artanis studied him in silence.

There was no immediate response, no outward sign of belief or disbelief, only the faintest tightening of her lips and a flicker of something deep in her eyes - hesitation, perhaps, or the remnants of a long-buried hope she scarcely allowed herself to feel. For a moment, the stream between them seemed to carry the weight of her thoughts, its murmuring flow the only sound in the glade.

At last, she spoke, her voice measured. "Your words paint a beautiful picture, one I might wish to admire, had other hands been holding the brush.”  She straightened slightly, as though the act of standing taller gave her more distance from the allure of his words. “I do not question the sorrow you profess, and I won't deny that a part of me would like to believe it fully. Perhaps it is that same part of me that once looked to the Valar with wonder and trust. But I am no child, and I find it hard to believe peace would suffice for someone like you". 

Artanis glanced at the stream, then back at him, and sighted. “Redemption. Renewal. These are noble things, but they are earned, not asked for. And they are not won with fine words spoken across a stream.”

At first, Melkor remained silent, his expression unreadable.

But then he slowly rose, the shift in his posture rippling with an undercurrent of power that seemed to affect the very air around him - making it feel heavier, charged. He no longer needed to speak softly, for the force of his being spoke louder than words.

As Artanis watched, he seemed to suddenly grow - not physically, but in presence, as if the very space around him bent to accommodate the weight of him. The stream between them shimmered as though in protest, its serene flow now trembling under the pressure of something vast and ancient.

And then, in a blink, he was gone from the opposite bank.

The realization came too late - in an instant, he was beside her, kneeling as though in deference, though the mockery in his gaze betrayed the gesture.

The suddenness of his presence sent a chill racing through her, but she held her ground, though her fingers twitched as if yearning for a blade.

Melkor tilted his head upward, looking at her with a strange mixture of condescension and mockery. From this lowered position, his voice did not lose its power. 

“Artanis,” he murmured, her name rolling from his lips now without even the pretense of her title, “you speak of time as though you understand it, and as though it belongs to you. You speak of redemption as though you know its cost, and as though it is yours to grant. But let me remind you-" his black eyes, dark pits, started to burn with an intensity that betrayed his nature “-you are less than a child to me. You have been alive for less than a blink of the world’s eye. Do not presume to lecture me on what is earned or what is deserved. You have not yet even scratched the edges of the eternity that I have shaped, that I have endured.”

The menace in his words was not in their volume but in their utter certainty, each syllable a reminder of the vast ocean between them.

He remained kneeling, but there was nothing humble in the gesture; it was calculated, a predator crouched before prey, forcing her to meet the weight of his gaze.

“You stand here,” he continued, his tone softening to something almost pitying, “cloaked in your borrowed wisdom, daring to question me. But you forget yourself. I am Melkor, eldest of the Valar, who saw the first star and sang the first Song. You are a flame, yes, I won't deny you that, but one flickering in a storm you cannot begin to comprehend. I have seen light greater than yours fade into nothing beneath winds far gentler than those I have commanded.”

He rose then, fluid and unhurried, towering above her with a presence that seemed to blot out the light of the Trees.

The stream, which she once believed to be a gentle divider, now felt inconsequential, as if the world itself shrunk beneath him. But as he straightened, he offered her a true, evil smile - not entirely without admiration.

“Remember that, aistanaurë ,” he said, his Quenya rolling off his perfect lips. “And take care not to burn too brightly, lest you draw the attention of those who would snuff you out.”

Artanis' lips parted, not to speak, but in the faint, involuntary gasp of someone who suddenly realized they had faced something far greater than they had anticipated, and still survived.

Her mouth fell slightly open, and though she quickly pressed it shut, the motion betrayed the lingering trace of her shock. 

The silence that followed was oppressive, broken only by the sounds the gardens of Lórien offered. He stepped back, giving her space, though his absence was no less suffocating than his proximity.

"I will see you in Tirion", he said at last. 

A threat, or a promise?

He knew she was wondering it as he heard her draw air into her lungs just as he disappeared from her sight.

The memory lingered, but his focus shifted to a greater design.

Now, he was preparing to deliver on his words.

His spies had confirmed what he had long suspected: Fëanor had finally completed the monumental effort that had consumed him for at least half a century.

Melkor did not yet know precisely what it was, but from years of subtle conversations with Fëanor and the other members of Finwë’s house, it was clear that this creation was something unprecedented. Something that had cost Fëanor dearly: the respect of his kin, the love of his family, the warmth of his marriage. Whatever this work was, it had exacted a price that even the proudest of the Noldor could not easily ignore.

Melkor’s plan was simple. 

He would plant a whisper.

A whisper that would reach Fëanor’s ears, suggesting that such an achievement, such a triumph, deserved to be celebrated. A reception in the grand halls of Finwë’s palace, a gathering so grand that every Noldo in the city would feel compelled to attend. A stage upon which Fëanor could bask in the adulation of his kin, a moment where he could display his evident superiority as the son of Míriel.

Fëanor’s pride, already wounded by years of estrangement and envy, would do the work for him. And Melkor would be there, of course, among the assembled Noldor. Watching. Waiting. Ready to lay the foundations of ruin beneath Fëanor’s fragile triumph.

And she would be there to watch it crumble beneath his touch.

Chapter Text

"I worry about you, Artanis." 

Finrod's voice carried affection but unease tinged his tone.

He had been pacing the length of her chambers for the better part of an hour, his hands clasped behind his back, deep in thought.

Artanis stood by the window, her gaze fixed on the green expanse of their gardens, Tirion rising just beyond. She abstenly caressed the back of her diary, her face betraying little. As Finrod spoke, she sighed, revealing that his words had not gone unheard.

Lowering his voice, as if worrying about being overheard, Finrod approached her. "I have been told you have once again argued with Eönwë."

She turned her head slightly at those words, just enough to glance at him over her shoulder. "Argued," she repeated, her tone still neutral but carrying the faintest edge of irritation. "Is that what they call it now?"

"Knowing you, Artanis, that is exactly what it was," Finrod replied knowingly, halting his pacing to get closer to her. "Eönwë serves Manwë directly, sister. He speaks with the wisdom of the Elder King himself. Do you not think your insubordination might-"

" Insubordination !”. Disbelief flashed across her face as she turned to face him fully, "Is it truly insubordinate to ask questions? To challenge complacency when all others choose to ignore the dark clouds gathering on the horizon?"

Her brother frowned, his concern visibly deepening. "Manwë sees all. Do you truly believe Eönwë would dismiss your concerns if they held weight?"

Her lips tightened, and for a moment, there was silence.  "I find it hard to believe that Manwë sees all, brother" she replied out, shaking her head. "He sees what he wishes to see, as we all do - what fits his vision of peace and harmony. And Eönwë parrots his optimism without question. But I know what I feel, Finrod. There is something rotten in Valinor."

"You speak as though we are equals to the Valar. We are not,” he replied, his implication clear. 

Artanis moved from where she was standing, leaving the diary on her desk, and stepped closer to him, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "You walk among our kin. Surely you have noticed it, too. The murmurs, the growing dissatisfaction. The voices of the Eldar in Tirion raising louder and louder in their demands... Even those who once scorned Fëanor’s arrogance and complaints about the Valar now look to him with a measure of admiration".

"Still, I cannot imagine that being reason enough to confront someone like Eönwë. To provoke his frustration is a feat only you could achieve. An unwise one, at that".

"I find it more unwise to remain silent", she countered. "To let this festering unease go unchallenged. I spoke with Eönwë because someone must. Someone must make them see before it is too late. At times, I feel as if the brilliance of the Trees obscures the clarity of reason in all".

Finrod stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder as if to hold back her rising fervor. "You speak as though you are alone in this.” 

"Am I not?" she challenged, meeting his gaze. "It is not like you or Father seem to be noticing".

Her brother hesitated, and in that brief pause, she saw the truth.  He had noticed it - the faint protests, the muttered defiance, the uneasy currents that stirred beneath the surface of their supposed paradise. But he was not her; he was not built to fight it, to question it. He would endure it, as he always did, with patience and quiet strength.

"You see it too," she confirmed, her voice softening, though her eyes remained intense. "But you will not act on it. Why?"

"Because action without wisdom is folly," he replied, his words measured. "And wisdom demands patience."

"Patience," her lips twisting in a bitter smile. "I am growing tired of patience . Patience as Fëanor draws others into his orbit, feeding their malcontent and indulging their fantasies. Patience as our father, for all his wisdom, chooses to hold his tongue, trusting that unity can be preserved through silence, even as it frays at its edges. Patience as our uncle Fingolfin bends over backward to appease Fëanor, even knowing it emboldens him to greater defiance.  And patience," she continued, her voice hardening,

"As the Valar themselves, in their infinite wisdom, look down on us with serene smiles, blind to the fractures widening beneath their feet. And when someone dares to question them - dares to suggest that darkness may yet find its way even here - they dismiss it as youthful folly or the echoes of one's unrest." 

An accusation was now tinging her tone. "I do not want to be patient long enough to see it turn into regret, Finrod."

He reached for her hand then, his grip warm. That small gesture usually carried reassurance - not today.  

"You are not wrong to feel this way," he admitted. "But do not let your fear drive you to a place you cannot return from. You are my sister, Artanis, and I know all of this comes from a place of goodness in your heart. But I urge you to be careful, lest you find yourself counted among those who stand with Fëanor in his deranged campaign against the Valar."

At that, she looked away, her fingers slipping from his grasp.  "I cannot sit idle," she admitted, her words losing their edge and leaning more towards sorrow. "I cannot watch as the world drifts toward ruin, knowing I could have done something."

"You are not alone in this," Finrod repeated. "You have me. You have our brothers. We will face whatever comes together."

Mh. Her expression turned skeptical. "And yet here we are, preparing to go to a festivity entirely dedicated to celebrating whatever work Fëanor deems us worthy of witnessing."

Finrod let out an exasperated breath, clearly tired of having to revisit a discussion that already passed between them.

"You are restless, Artanis, and that restlessness blinds you," and his voice was now carrying both exasperation and worry. "Fingolfin and Father seek only to preserve harmony. You must see the wisdom in that."

"There is harmony in submission," she replied sharply, her words harder than she inteded. "They appease Fëanor because they fear what he might do if left unchecked. But the appeasement they offer feeds the hunger they seek to satiate."

"What would you have them do, then? Confront him? Challenge his pride openly? Accusing him of feeding into the echoes of discord? You know our uncle as well as I do, and you know how that would end."

She did.  She had not told her brothers what had transpired the last time she visited Fëanor's workshop, and the way he had turned on her, his rage burning as brightly as the forges around them. Even the memory of her back pressed against the cold stone sent a shiver down her spine.

"Perhaps it must end that way," she said finally, her eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms. "Better to face his wrath now than to let its wound fester. And this-" she gestured with disdain to the gown laid out on her bed, ready for the upcoming celebration, "- this is the folly. A grand display in Finwë’s halls, with every Noldo present? And with the Valar too? Fëanor will see it not as an honor, but as proof of his greatness. Do you truly think he will leave it at that?"

Finrod's expression darkened. "Fingolfin and Father do not act lightly. They believe that showing unity - Valar and Eldar gathered together, united to celebrate an achievement as remarkable as his claims to be - might soften his heart. They hope to remind him of what he shares with us, not what sets him apart."

Artanis laughed bitterly.  " Soften his heart ? When was the last time you truly spoke to our uncle? He takes and he takes, and with every word, every gesture, they validate his belief that he is greater than us all. Greater than the Valar themselves. And if the Valar attend..." She trailed off, her voice lowering as her gaze turned distant. "I fear what he might do."

Finrod stepped closer again. "You worry about Fëanor. I worry about you. These doubts you harbor, this constant questioning - it separates you from the rest of us. It takes you to a place that I cannot follow. I have known you since you were a babe, Artanis. There is something you are not telling me. What is it you fear, Artanis? Truly?".

Her jaw tightened, her throat working against unspoken words. 

For a long moment she said nothing, her gaze shifting back to the window. Finrod waited for her to speak, though his own unease was palpable in the stillness of the room.

At last, she spoke with tentative words, "It is not only Fëanor who worries me. There is another, one whose shadow grows even as he walks among us in the guise of light." She hesitated,  her breath catching, as though speaking his name might have the power to summon him. " Lord Melkor ."

The name fell heavy between them, and her voice faltered slightly, but she pressed on. "Do you truly believe he walks among us with nothing but repentance in his heart?"

Finrod stiffened.   For the first time, he seemed uncertain, his usual calm shaken. "You tread dangerous ground, Artanis," he said at last.

"It is more dangerous to remain silent" she replied but the defiance in her tone was layered with something deeper, almost pleading. 

She forced herself to continue, barely above a whisper. She knew he couldn’t hear her and still, she felt as though afraid the very walls might carry the words to him. "Whenever he speaks to me, it is as though every move I make, every word I speak, are pieces in a game only he knows the rules to. The last time he saw me... The way he looked at me..."..." She pressed her fingers into her palms, drawing strength from the act. "That look has not left me, Finrod. It follows me even here, in the safety of these walls."

He exhaled slowly, his face unreadable. "He is one of the Valar, Artanis. He has been pardoned, and he walks among us under the watch of Manwë himself. Whatever you think you saw…"

"It was not imagination," she interrupted, her voice rising at the accusation "And you know it. I do not know what he seeks, but I feel it, brother. I feel his shadow."

She could see her brother’s sharp jaw tighten, his composure momentarily shaken.

His gaze left her, settling on the floor as though searching for the right words in the grain of the wood. "You do not understand the weight of what you’re suggesting," he cautioned. "To doubt Melkor’s repentance is to doubt the judgment of Manwë himself".

To that, Artanis had nothing to reply.

Her silence was neither agreement nor denial, but the tension between them made it clear there was no resolution to be found in this conversation.

Finrod seemed to sense this, and after a moment, he stepped closer, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. "Thank you for speaking to me about this," he insisted softly. "But please, do not let your vigilance turn into isolation. Do not let it consume you. For now, it would be wise not to give him reason to see you as an enemy. If you are right, and there is a shadow, we will face it together. But for now, be still, Artanis. Be still."

She did not reply.

It was her silent signal to Finrod that the conversation was over. But even as his hand left her shoulder and he took his leave, a part of her remained apart, restless and vigilant.

----------------------------------------------

As Finrod left the room, the heavy oak door closed softly behind. Artanis stood motionless for a moment, staring at the spot where her brother had been. The tension that had filled the air between them dissipated, but it left behind an ache she couldn’t quite name.

Her brother’s words echoed in her mind, tugging at threads of doubt she had long tried to ignore.

Am I truly alone in this? Or have I chosen to be?

It was easier to frame her defiance as necessary, to see herself as a sentinel against dangers others refused to acknowledge. But Finrod’s gentle admonition had planted an unwelcome thought.

Have I been seeking to protect our people? she wondered, her throat tightening . Or have I been trying to prove myself? To rise above the rest - not through unity, but through standing apart?

The thought was bitter, but she could not ignore it. Fëanor had been consumed by his belief in his singularity, in his destiny to outshine all others. She wondered whether she was walking a similar path.

Her gaze drifted to the gown still lying across her bed, its rich fabric catching the soft light from the window. The sight of it felt suffocating, a reminder of the celebration that loomed ahead. A gathering she could not avoid, regardless of how much she wished to.

She turned away from the window and moved to sit at her desk.

In the mirror above her writing table, she caught a glimpse of herself. Her shoulders were straight, her chin held high - a figure of unyielding determination. But there was something else in her reflection, something she could not ignore. A flicker of uncertainty.

No , she told herself firmly, though the thought felt fragile. I am not like him. I do not seek recognition. I only seek for the people I love to be safe.

She reached for the leather-bound diary she had set aside earlier. Its cover was worn, the edges softened by years of use. It was the one place where she could speak freely, her private witness to the doubts and fears she dared not share.

Not even with Finrod.

She hesitated before opening it, her fingers lingering on the clasp as though she feared what her past words might reveal. She had written these words in moments of restless reflection, in stolen hours when her heart and mind refused to settle.

Her eyes fell on an older entry:

" They call us the Guests of the Valar, but I hear the growing whispers in Tirion. That we are more like prisoners gilded in their light. The Eldar speak in hushed tones of the truth we are not told - of a world beyond these shores, where we might find our own paths, our own dominion. Fëanor’s voice rises among them, calling us to see the fetters we have mistaken for gifts ."

She paused, her fingers tightening on the page.

The words felt distant and yet fresh, as if the murmurs that had reached her ears all that time ago still resonated in the air around her. The Valar’s wisdom, once unquestionable, now seemed tinged with naivety. Or worse.

Her gaze drifted to another entry, written more recently:

"They say Fëanor has finally succeeded. The work that has consumed him for all this time, that has driven him to solitude and estranged him from all but his most loyal followers, is at last complete. They do not speak of what it is, only that it will change everything. I wonder what light he has harnessed and what shadow it will cast."

Artanis exhaled slowly, her breath soft against the silence of the room. The words felt heavier now, burdened by the knowledge of what was to come - again, she looked at her gown. 

She turned the page and her eyes fell on another passage, scribbled in haste and uncharacteristically raw:

" Today, I walked among Yavanna’s pastures, seeking the solace only the humble work she provides can offer me. But my eyes found their way on a tree that had fallen, its trunk split and lifeless. It seemed out of place, an imperfection in a world meant to be flawless. It was not the sight of it that lingered with me, but the feeling it gave me - the uneasy sense that something sacred had been broken, that an unknown force had brushed against the sacredness of it. I cannot explain how, but it felt like a whisper of what is to come."

She closed the diary slowly, her fingers resting on the desk. 

The memory rose unbidden, vivid as though it had happened only moments ago.

She remembered standing in the quiet expanse of Yavanna’s pastures, the scent of grass in her nostrils. The fallen tree had seemed so small, so inconsequential amid the living green, but its presence had struck her like a prophecy.

She had knelt beside it, her fingers brushing its bark, tracing the lines of its fracture. The wood was cold, almost brittle, and the break ran deep, splitting the trunk as though something inside it had given way. Artanis had felt an ache in her chest that she could not name. It was not the first time she had seen a tree felled, but this one was different. It bore no marks of decay, no sign of sickness. It had simply fallen, as if struck down by a force unseen.

Finrod did not know that Eönwë was not the first among the Ainur with whom Artanis had dared to speak so boldly.

When she had seen the tree, broken and lifeless in the heart of Yavanna’s pastures, she could not let the sight rest in her mind. Seeking answers, she had approached the gentle Vala herself.

“Lady Yavanna,” she had begun, her voice steady though her heart had not been. “I seek your wisdom.”

Yavanna had turned to her slowly, in all her tall and regal form. There was a timeless quality to her presence, as though she were as rooted in the earth as the trees she tended.

“Artanis,” Yavanna had said kindly, her voice a soft breeze, “you have been in these pastures long enough to consider addressing me by name. Tell me, what troubles you?”

Artanis hesitated for only a moment before she recounted what she had seen. “That tree… Its fall feels unnatural . The land here is perfect, untouched by corruption. And yet, it lies broken. What does it mean?”

Yavanna’s gaze grew thoughtful, and for a moment, Artanis felt as if the Vala’s mind had joined with hers, lingering on the fractured trunk. The image became more vivid, as though she were seeing it anew. At last, Yavanna spoke. “Even in perfection, Artanis, there is fragility. The world was not made unchanging. The winds of time and choice shape it, even here.”

“But what force could cause this?” Artanis pressed, unsatisfied with her answer, her words spilling forth before she could temper them. “In a land where even the wind carries no malice, how can such a thing occur?”

The Goddess’ expression softened, but there was a weight in her eyes that belied her serene tone. “Do you believe, child, that all fragility comes from without? Perhaps it is not a force from beyond that felled this tree, but the tree itself, grown too heavy for its roots to bear.”

The words struck Artanis like a lightning bolt, though they were spoken with the gentlest intent. She had looked away, unable to hold Yavanna’s gaze. 

“Then… does that mean we too can fall?” she had murmured. “The Eldar, the Noldor - can we grow so vast, so proud, that our roots fail to hold us?”

She thought she sensed surprise in Yavanna. She had been silent for a moment longer, her gaze turning distant, as though she peered through the veil of time. For all Artanis knew, she might have been doing exactly that.

“That is not for me to say. But remember this, my dear: the strength of roots lies not only in their depth but in their connection. When they grow apart, even the mightiest tree may fall.”

Those words had stayed with her.

She had left Yavanna’s pastures that day with more questions than answers, and a growing unease she could not shake. The same unease that could not allow her now, much time later, to be still .

Artanis returned to the present with a sharp exhale. Her brother’s warnings echoed in her mind, but so did Yavanna’s words. Was it truly the fault of the tree? Or was there another hand, unseen, guiding its fall?

Melkor.

She had not dared to raise the subject with Yavanna, nor had she spoken it aloud to Eönwë. What would have been the point? The gentle wisdom of the Vala had skirted the sharp edges of her questions, and Eönwë, with his blind loyalty to Manwe's judgement, would have equally dismissed her concerns as paranoia.

But the thought lingered.

The name carried weight, more than any other.

She had tried to shake the memory of his gaze, the way it seemed to pierce through the very fabric of her being.

It was not the look of a repentant soul. It was not the look of a brother among equals. It was the look of a predator, waiting, calculating. A gaze that spoke of knowing far more than anyone else dared to suspect.

And even now, she could not voice her fears aloud fully.

Not even to Finrod, whose love for her was undeniable, but whose faith in the order of things left little room for her doubts. He had said, to question his intentions openly was to challenge the judgment of Manwë himself, to cast doubt on the harmony they had been told was absolute. It would mark her as rebellious, more than she was already deemed to be.

Artanis let out another breath, slower this time, lingering over her own handwriting.

Her entries spoke of unease, of foreboding, but even here, in the privacy of her thoughts, she had not dared write his name. As if to do so would bring him closer, as if the mere acknowledgment of his shadow would invite it to grow.

She turned the diary over to a blank page. 

For a moment, she hesitated, the weight of her thoughts too heavy for words. Then, with deliberate strokes, she began to write:

" The Noldor's roots too are beginning to grow apart. A forest growing wild, untamed. What happens when the winds rise? Some have spoken of a storm. Once it comes, will we stand, or will we fall, each of us breaking beneath its weight alone?”

Her hand trembled as she set the quill down, the ink drying into stark black lines against the parchment. She leaned back on her chair, exhausted.

Her reflection was staring back at her from the window. The light bathed her face, but her thoughts were far away, drawn toward shadows she could not yet see clearly.

What will it take for them to see the danger looming in the distance ? she wondered. And when they do, will it be too late?

Chapter Text

The Ring of Doom, the Máhanaxar , stood solemn and silent - a sacred circle, once a symbol of unity, now heavy with the burden of what must be decided.  

The Valar rarely needed to convene in person, their osanwë - the gift of thought-sharing - allowing them to communicate across vast distances. However, many among them still harbored reservations about allowing Melkor into their minds. Even after his supposed repentance, the memory of his betrayal clung to them, like an open wound refusing to heal.

It was Manwë, ever hopeful, who had called for this assembly then. 

Compared to the grave councils held there in the past - decisions that shaped the fates of Arda - this gathering seemed... trivial . Still, he had insisted, and the others had promised to come. Some out of duty, others out of curiosity, but few out of belief in the meeting’s actual necessity.

Melkor materialized first, his dark figure at the edge of the Ring a stark contrast to the brilliance of the Valar’s thrones. His plain robes, a subdued shade of gray, were deliberately chosen to signal humility. 

His arrival seemed to trigger an unseen shift.

Slowly, the atmosphere changed, responding to the physical manifestations of the Valar. One by one, they arrived, their luminous forms bringing light and sound that seemed to push back against the sacred stillness of the Ring.

As the Valar took their places, the tension in the air was palpable. They settled into their thrones, although the space lacked the quiet reverence that usually marked their gatherings. Glances were exchanged - some cautious, others skeptical. 

Each massive throne stood equidistant from the others, as if carved from the very essence of the Valar who sat upon them. And Melkor stood apart, throneless in his dishonor. 

Manwë’s high seat, towering at the head of the Ring, was crafted from gleaming silver and pale sapphire, ethereal as though sculpted from cloud and sky. A faint breeze stirred the air around it, carrying the crisp scent of distant mountain peaks. 

Beside him, Varda’s throne shimmered with starlight, its surfaces cascading in quiet, shifting constellations, as if the heavens themselves danced upon its polished surface. The mingled light of the Trees refracted through it, casting soft rainbows across the Ring.

The King of the Valar’s voice cut through the silence.

“Our brothers and sisters among the Eldar have extended an invitation to us. In Tirion's great palace halls, they will gather to celebrate a work of art crafted by Fëanor, son of Finwë. It is said to be a thing of rare beauty, a testament to his creativity. We are all invited to join the celebration among the Children of Eru Ilúvatar.”

Manwë’s announcement hung in the air, its simplicity belying the undercurrents it stirred among the Valar. The mention of Fëanor’s name brought subtle shifts in posture, faint murmurs barely audible, and the glimmer of unspoken concerns in their eyes.

Aulë stirred first, resting his broad hands on the arms of his throne.

It was dark and massive, hewn from obsidian and veined with streaks of gold and crimson. Its intricate carvings bore the marks of his laborious craftsmanship, a testament to the glory of unrelenting creation. 

His voice rumbled, deep. “Fëanor’s skill cannot be denied. The craftsmanship of his hands rivals that of us Ainur. And yet to elevate him further…” 

Yavanna, seated beside him in what seemed a twisting seat of living wood, adorned with delicate blossoms and glowing leaves, inclined her head slightly, and nodded in agreement, as was often the case.

The two had always shared the strongest partnership among the Valar pairings. Her verdant eyes swept across the assembly. “Ambition, left unchecked, takes root in dangerous places,” she confirmed, her voice as gentle as the breeze that whispers through her pastures. "Fëanor’s heart is restless, a force that stirs unease among his kin. Already, his ambitions ripple outward, unsettling the delicate balance."

Nienna spoke next, her voice carrying a profound sorrow that seemed to touch every corner of the Ring. Her seat was austere yet elegant, a smooth gray stone that shimmered faintly like early morning mist. Peace emanated from it - a quiet, solemn tenderness. “The Noldor are fraying, their bonds stretched thin. To elevate one above all others risks tearing them apart entirely.”

Vána, seated on a throne that bloomed eternally with vibrant flowers, spoke with a gentle warmth that countered the somber mood. “The Children crave beauty, and to recognize it is no sin! Their hearts are moved by what is fair, and to honor Fëanor’s work is to honor their capacity for wonder. I do not believe we should deny them this joy.”

Irmo, the master of dreams, nodded in agreement from his seemingly shifting seat. “Fëanor’s creations inspire visions of a brighter future. The Eldar need such hope, especially now. To deny this recognition may stoke discontent more than to grant it.”

Even Oromë allowed a hint of approval to color his tone, and followed Irmo's reasoning. “The Children admire strength and skill, and Fëanor embodies both. A celebration may strengthen their resolve and remind them of what they strive to protect. Let us not withhold what could fortify their hearts.”

There was a moment of silence before Aulë spoke again, his voice rising with urgency. His gaze was heavy as it met Manwë’s. “Still, I am wary. Fëanor grows restless in his drive, and restlessness in one so gifted may lead to ruin.”

The conversation continued.

And the Valar stood divided, teetering between the pull of hope and the weight of caution.

Some spoke with warmth of the Eldar's need for inspiration, of unity forged through celebration. Others spoke of vigilance, their voices carrying the weight of unease over the growing and vocal discontent among some of the Noldor. The room pulsed with the unspoken, a tension that mirrored the precarious balance of the world they sought to preserve.

Melkor sat amidst it all, his expression composed and his demeanor the very picture of repentance.

Within, his thoughts moved like a dark tide. 

He dared not let his mind stray too freely in the Ring of Doom. Though Manwë’s blind faith in his redemption meant he would never attempt to search through his brother’s thoughts, the others were not so trusting. Their wariness was a palpable force, and Melkor was too practiced in the art of subtlety to give them reason for suspicion now.

Still, had he dared to let his mask slip, he would have savored this moment as one of his finest creations.

This division, this subtle rift among the Valar, was the product of years of calculated effort. For nearly twenty years of the Trees, he had labored, each word and action meticulously crafted, like a master chiseling invisible faults into the foundation of a great edifice. A period where he had poured his disdain for both the Ainur and the Children into a relentless campaign, carving out a niche where Elves would find themselves entangled in the threads of their own undoing.

Here, in the very halls where Manwë sought to uphold his vision of harmony, the cracks were beginning to show. 

To Melkor, it was nothing short of a masterpiece - crafted with his very essence as the alloy, tempered by his cunning, and polished through his hatred.

Here was proof that the trust Manwë placed in the order of the world was a flawed and fragile thing. And Melkor, for all his outward humility, reveled in the knowledge that it was he who had laid the foundation for this moment.

He observed the scene before him with sharp, discerning eyes.

He was not here to dominate the conversation - that would only tighten the grip of distrust around him. His role was to guide the currents of unrest, to let discontent flow naturally through the hearts of others, all while appearing to calm the waters. Each ripple, each subtle shift, was not of his direct making but gently encouraged, shaping the tides to his advantage while presenting himself as the one striving to still them.

Yavanna, her concern etched into the furrow of her brow, continued to speak of ambition unchecked. Nienna’s quiet sorrow weighed heavily on the air, a reflection of the fractures she already perceived among the Eldar. Even Oromë, who spoke in favor of the celebration, carried a note of hesitation beneath his words. None were wholly aligned, and that was precisely the beauty of it.

At last, Melkor spoke. He kept his gaze level, his voice measured, careful not to betray the satisfaction that simmered beneath the surface. 

“Ambition can be tempered,” he declared, his dark eyes sweeping the circle. His gaze lingered briefly on Manwë before moving on. “If guided, it can forge greatness rather than destruction. Fëanor’s work deserves acknowledgment. To do less would risk alienating him further.”

Tulkas - who had not spoken until that moment - upon hearing him speak, cut through the hesitant silence Melkor had left behind with a sharp laugh, booming like thunder. He leaned forward in his throne, forged of burnished bronze and fire-red metal. It radiated strength and vitality, its sharp lines and bold form mirroring its occupant’s resolute nature.

“Guided by whom, brother? By you ?”

Melkor turned his gaze to Tulkas, his expression serene, though a faint sharpness laced his words. “I offered no such role for myself, Tulkas. Power of any sort does not help me in my path to repentance. I merely suggest the wisdom of acknowledging skill where it exists. To dismiss it outright is shortsighted.”

“Shortsighted, you say” Tulkas repeated, his fists clenching, his ire rising. “You speak of repentance, yet you know nothing of it. Do you think we have forgotten the poison you spread, the shadows you wove into the fabric of Arda?”

“Tulkas ,” Manwë interjected, his tone calm but firm. “This is neither the time nor the place.”

But Melkor pressed on. “Your memory is long, brother, but your understanding remains shallow. Fëanor is nothing but a flame. Would you rather see it burn unchecked than guided toward harmony?”

“You twist the word ‘harmony’ to suit your ends,” Tulkas roared, rising to his full height, a golden titan towering over the circle. “You twist it as you twist others to your will, wrapping your schemes in a veil of false light-”

“Tulkas,” Manwë’s voice rose above the din, a rare edge sharpening his words. “Enough. Sit.”

The golden warrior hesitated, his glare piercing Melkor with unrelenting force, as if he could tear through his fana with its intensity.

At last, he sat, though his rage burned no sign of dimming.

Melkor, for his part, offered the hint of sorrow-tinged smile. “If my presence stirs such ire, perhaps it is proof of my sincerity. To remain here, despite such hostility, is a testament to my commitment to unity.”

Varda’s gaze turned to him then. Her eyes seemed to cut through the layers of humility he had so carefully constructed. She did not speak immediately, but her silent scrutiny was more probing than words.

“I am sure,” he said, his tone quieter now, “that we all share the same goal: the preservation of harmony. This festivity is a chance to affirm it, not just for Fëanor but for all the Eldar. They must see that we stand with them.”

Yavanna tilted her head slightly, her verdant eyes narrowing. “Harmony cannot be affirmed through indulgence alone,” she emphasized. “The Noldor’s aspirations grow unchecked". She glanced at Melkor. "To raise them higher may deepen the fractures already forming”.

“And to ignore them?” Melkor countered smoothly.

His gaze shifted to her, his tone measured but insistent. “To deny the Children the recognition they crave would fracture the unity we seek just as surely. As I've said, Fëanor is a flame, Lady Yavanna. Let it burn in the open, where its fire can be tempered, rather than smolder unseen and unchecked.”

Ulmo, silent until now, shifted in his seat.

His deep voice rippled through the circle, resonant as the tides under his command. “There is danger in extremes. To elevate Fëanor too highly, or to cast him aside entirely - both paths lead to discord. The question is not whether harm will come, but which choice will lead to less.”

Manwë inclined his head toward Ulmo, his gaze serene as it swept the assembly. “Then let us choose the path of balance. We shall attend not to exalt one above the rest, but to affirm unity as a whole.”

Varda finally spoke, her voice like the distant chime of bells. “We must tread carefully. Let this gathering be a reminder of what binds us, not what divides us. The Eldar must see themselves as part of a greater whole - neither its center nor apart from it.”

Manwë nodded, the quiet authority of his decision resonating through the hall. “It is settled then. We shall attend, as guardians of harmony.”

Tulkas shook his head, his jaw tightening. “You name this unity. I call it denial. I will stand here as you speak, Manwë, but do not expect me to indulge him, nor to attend this event. Tolerating his sight is already a concession I make for your sake. My absence will speak for itself.”

The declaration hung in the air, heavy as the stone of their thrones. 

Without waiting for permission or rebuke, Tulkas turned, his broad shoulders cutting a defiant silhouette as he strode from the Ring. His footsteps rang out, each one a loud drumbeat, before fading into the silence once he dematerialized.

Manwë’s gaze lingered on the space Tulkas had vacated. His expression remained peaceful, but a faint shadow of regret flickered across his features. For a moment, the assembly was quiet. It was Varda once again who broke the impasse.

“Tulkas’ absence is not unexpected,” she said, her voice crystalline. “But, it is his choice, and we are bound to respect it. Let it not taint this gathering.”

Manwë inclined his head, acknowledging both her words and the sentiment Tulkas had carried with him.

Slowly, the Valar rose, their deliberation concluded.  Yavanna and Aulë exchanged quiet words as they left, their tones low and thoughtful. Nienna lingered a moment longer, her sorrowful gaze sweeping the circle before she, too, departed.

After a while, only Varda remained, her radiant presence a lone beacon in the fading light.

“Is that truly your intent, Melkor?” she asked him directly at last. Her eyes, piercing as starlight, locked onto his, their intensity unrelenting. “Healing, or something else?”

Though he held himself steady, the weight of her regard unsettled him.

Melkor met her gaze, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the silence between them seemed charged.

“Lady Varda,” he said finally, his voice soft, “it is as I have said. My sole intent is to uphold the unity we cherish. To let this moment pass unmarked would be a disservice - to the Eldar and to ourselves.”

Varda’s gaze lingered on him - studying him - a moment longer before she inclined her head, a gesture of acknowledgment but not trust.

Melkor watched her go, his faint smile faltering behind her.

For a fleeting moment, an ancient longing stirred within him, so deeply buried that he had nearly forgotten it ever existed. As her light faded, something darker flickered in his mind.

Now, as he stood alone in the Ring of Doom, Varda’s radiance stirred thoughts of another.

Artanis, young and fiery, who had for years now subtly defied him with the same unflinching brilliance. 

He had heard from one of the Noldor nobles gathered in Finwë's palace about her latest outburst with Eönwë. How she had dared to challenge the Herald of Manwë himself, questioning his wisdom, his authority.

The noble Noldo, a staunch admirer of her father, had spoken of it in hushed tones, torn between awe and unease. " She is bold, far too bold ," they had said, their voice tinged with both disapproval and admiration. " Eönwë has patience, but even he cannot tolerate disrespect for long. Lady Artanis stands as though even Eru himself could not bend her will ."

Melkor had taken those words and turned them over in his mind, savoring their implications. 

For years, he had watched her from afar, her image an enduring thorn lodged deep in his thoughts. 

In the time since he first saw her, her goodness had hardened into an unshakable sense of justice. The way she worried for and cared about her people - the way she believed she could protect them - all of it repelled him. He loathed her sense of righteousness, the way it managed to shine despite her selfishness and pride. And yet, there was something more about her.

Artanis had been the only Elf perceptive enough to sense that something was amiss, and brave enough to voice her suspicions. 

She was sharp, relentless in her questioning, and unlike the others, she had not been lulled into complacency by the radiance of the Trees or the wisdom of the Valar. She saw flaws where others saw perfection, and that quality, more than anything, had captured his attention.

He had seen it before, the spark that now danced in her eyes, one he relentlessly sought by prying into the minds of others, searching for any trace of her thoughts. The same hunger he had cultivated in others of her line. She was consumed with a desire for greatness, a longing to carve her own place in the grand design of the world. To Melkor, it was an irresistible contradiction: she desired power but wielded it for the sake of others. She was ambitious but uncorrupted, fearless but not cruel. 

And where Varda remained forever unattainable, Artanis was within reach.  She did not shine with the purity of the stars but moved with a force that demanded recognition. Her vitality could be harnessed, shaped. She could stand as either a formidable ally or a devastating opponent.

But he did not merely seek to use her. 

No, after having watched for a century, his obsession ran deeper, darker. 

He craved her.

Artanis seemed to embody the one thing he could never possess: the strength to stand immovable, uncorrupted. Her courage, her defiance, her desires - they had not come at the cost of her heart. She remained good, though flawed, and it maddened him. 

She was everything he had forsaken in himself, everything he had once been before his hunger for dominion had stripped him bare. She was a reminder of what he had lost and a promise of what he might still corrupt.

He wanted to break her not just to wield her strength but to tarnish it, to prove that even an Eldar as bright as the daughter of the Golden house of Finarfin, sister to Finrod the just, Aegnor the steadfast, and Angrod the loyal, could fall. And at the very same time, he wanted to preserve her, to claim her brilliance for himself, as if by doing so he could reclaim some part of the greatness he had lost.

Melkor’s lips curled, relishing the taste of the vision forming in his mind.

She could stand at his side, bound by chains of light - shackles forged from her own devotion to what she deemed righteous. Those chains would imprison her, tethering her to the ideals that blinded her to the freedom he could offer. Or she could wield with him the chains of shadow, unburdened by the constraints of morality, her strength unleashed and unbound.

Both paths led him to him, willingly or otherwise.

One as a prisoner of her own virtue, unable to let go of the light that bound her, and the other as a sovereign of the dark truth he would show her. Either way, she would belong to him - her defiance tempered, her brilliance reshaped into a tool of his design.

He would have her loyalty, or he would break her will entirely. Her force could either serve his purpose or be extinguished. 

I have done this before, after all , he thought. Have I not turned the unyielding into the obedient, the admirable into the abhorrent?

For now, though, he would wait. 

Patience, one of the few virtues he still claimed, dictated his next move.

Her relentless search for answers, her refusal to turn a blind eye, and even her goodness - all of these would inevitably draw her closer to him.

The grand celebration in Finwë’s Halls would be the perfect chance.

There, amidst the light and splendor she held so dear, he would begin to fit the shackles around her neck.

Chapter Text

On the day of the celebration, Valinor appeared to awaken from a long dream.

The palace of Finwë seemed alive, buzzing with an energy rarely seen within its grand halls. The air itself appeared to shimmer with anticipation: a blend of excitement and reverence radiating from every corner of Tirion. Rarely did the entire House of Finwë gather together in one place, and rarer still in a setting outside the solemnity of a wedding or a formal council.

That day, however, the Palace was transformed into a realm of splendor, a living testament to the Noldor’s capacity for celebration and joy.

Like streams of gold and silver, the courtiers of Tirion poured through the halls, their laughter blending with the music that filled the air. The rhythmic hum of conversational voices complemented the melodies woven by harps and flutes. Even the streets of Tirion appeared to join in the celebration from outside the palace walls, their streets resonating with the far-off strains of music and the happy chatter of those who had gathered to witness the event.

There was something uncharacteristic even in the excitement that buzzed among the crowd.

Elves, who normally moved with calm and reserved grace, were animated - their gestures feeling lively, and their smiles unrestrained. Finwë’s household staff hurried about, moving swiftly to ensure every detail of the evening proved flawless. The spirit of celebration was evident and unbridled everywhere, from the tiniest flower arrangement to the hall's magnificent layout. The high, vaulted ceilings framed a space where the magnificence of the Noldor’s craft was on full display. Sculptures and art usually unseen adorned every surface. A dais had been raised at the far end, and on it a veiled display was waiting to hold Fëanor's most recent and eagerly awaited creation, the reason for the evening's gathering.

Everyone was speculating. Whispers floated through the crowd, voices tinged with awe as they spoke of the Noldor's unmatched skill.

“For this work to bring even the Valar to our midst...” one voice said.

“They say it’s a masterpiece beyond anything we have ever seen,” another added.

It was into this charged atmosphere that Melkor stepped. 

His arrival, though unannounced, commanded immediate attention. 

The robes he was wearing were crafted from shimmering silver fabric, smooth and flowing, exquisitely tailored. Dark, intricate embroidery ran along the edges and sleeves, forming sharp, angular patterns reminiscent of ancient glyphs. The high collar and fitted design exuded authority, and the hem, just brushing the ground, was bordered with the same meticulous detailing. A belt of blackened silver completed the attire, its polished surface set with small, dark gemstones, subtle but imposing. Melkor's hair cascaded in deep, jet-black waves, falling past his shoulders and framing his defined features with elegance.

He paused at the threshold of the gates, taking in the scene with the faintest hint of a smile - the splendor of the Noldor’s craftsmanship, the excitement in their voices, the flicker of hesitation in their eyes as they dared to glance at him.

Yet, as grand as it was, it lacked the depth of what he once knew. 

The constant radiance of Valinor softened all things, washing over them.

These Elves, never having known the Years of the Stars, could not fathom how the majesty of darkness might sharpen their revelry, the way shadow could amplify light, turning even the simplest gathering into something sublime. He did. And he missed it.

As he stepped past the gates and into the celebration, his gaze swept the hall. Near the center, the family of Fingolfin stood, their presence commanding in its unity - siblings and children talking with courtly poise. At the edge of the gathering, he caught a glimpse of Finarfin’s sons, their bright faces alight with anticipation as they moved through the crowd. Fëanor and his family, however, had not yet arrived, their absence palpable despite the hall’s vibrancy.

A ripple of motion caught his attention as one of Finwë’s sons broke from a nearby group and walked toward him, his face alight with the intent of approaching him. Finarfin moved with grace, his face warmed by a genuine smile. If he felt any hesitation about approaching Melkor, it did not show.

“Lord Melkor,” he greeted, his voice clear and unhesitant, carrying a melody of its own. He inclined his head respectfully, the pale blue mantle across his shoulders glinting with threads of gold. “It is an honor to welcome you to our halls. Your presence and that of your brothers and sisters today is a gift to all who have gathered.”

Melkor returned the bow, his expression one of subdued grace. “Prince Finarfin,” he replied. “The honor is mine. To witness such a gathering, in a place so radiant, is to glimpse the heart of the Noldor’s greatness. Truly, the Trees’ light finds its echo here.”

Melkor’s gaze shifted briefly over the room, and he spoke in a tone of polite curiosity. “I notice only Yavanna and Aulë among the Valar tonight.”

Finarfin smiled, nodding toward the far side of the hall where a subtle glimmer of green and gold marked Yavanna’s presence. “Aulë has always been generous with his time among us. It is no surprise he is here. And Yavanna follows where he goes.” He glanced toward the central dais, still awaiting its most anticipated arrivals. “I imagine it won’t be long before Manwë and Varda grace us with their presence. They are rarely late to such occasions.”

There was a pause before Finarfin added, his voice carrying a note of warmth, “But for now, I am glad to have the chance to share something of my father’s legacy. Nearly all of my family studied under Aulë at one point or another. It has shaped our hands and minds alike. The halls on this day reflect not just my father’s craft but the guidance of the Smith.”

As Finarfin smiled, Melkor studied him more closely.

There, in the prince’s open expression and his kind, unassuming demeanor, Melkor glimpsed shades of Artanis. Finarfin’ sharpness of feature, softened by the warmth in his eyes, was unmistakable in her as well. Yet, where Finarfin’s warmth flowed freely, an unconditional gift to anyone he spoke to, Artanis' was fiercely guarded, given only to those she deemed worthy of receiving it. 

The thought brought a flicker of amusement to Melkor’s lips. If only Finarfin knew how his daughter’s had occupied his own thoughts of late…

“If you would permit,” Finarfin continued, breaking Melkor’s reverie, “I would be glad to show you my father’s works. This hall holds many of his creations, each one a labor of love. As I said, tonight, we celebrate not just Fëanor’s genius.”

Melkor inclined his head. “It would be a privilege to walk in the shadow of such artistry.”

Melkor and Finarfin moved through the halls together, their strides unhurried as they passed displays of Finwë’s artistry. The younger prince spoke with quiet pride, gesturing to sculptures and tapestries as they walked. His voice carried the reverence of a devoted son, his admiration for his father’s craft evident in every word. As they walked, Melkor caught with his peripheral vision the sight of two more Valar entering the celebration - Irmo and Nienna, their serene presences weaving through the crowd.

“This one,” Finarfin said, pausing before a tall sculpture of an eagle mid-flight, its wings spread wide in majestic defiance, “has always been my favorite. My father carved it nearly a century ago, inspired by the sight of Lord Manwë’s eagles soaring over Taniquetil. It reminds me of our people’s strength and resilience.”

Melkor stopped to study the piece, his long fingers tracing the intricate lines of the wings and the sharpness of the talons. “Your father’s hand breathes life into stone,” he commented with admiration. “The eagle’s gaze is almost alive, its spirit captured for eternity. King Finwë’s work speaks not only of skill but of a vision that transcends mere craftsmanship.”

Finarfin’s expression softened at the praise, a subtle flush of pride coloring his cheeks. "He is more than an artisan. My father sees the potential in all things and shapes them into beauty."

Melkor nodded, his eyes taking in the sculptures that lined the hall. “Indeed, Finwë’s passion for creation is a gift. It reminds me of Fëanor - although they are fundamentally different. King Finwë’s devotion lies in understanding things as they are and guiding them toward their fullest potential, without demanding more than they can give.”

Finarfin smiled at that, nodding in agreement. “Yes, my father has always found joy in the simple act of creation, in bringing forth the best of what is already before us.”

Melkor’s gaze grew contemplative, a subtle glint of something darker flickering in his eyes. “It’s true that your brother shares that passion, but perhaps, in striving to create something greater, Fëanor demands more than him - more from himself, more from his craft, more even from those around him."

The Prince hesitated for a moment, his smile shadowed by a trace of unease. “Indeed,” he agreed, slowly. “My father’s is a gentler passion.”

Melkor nodded in return. “A noble approach. Untainted by malice. Seeing the world’s beauty and wishing nothing more but to enhance it.”

He paused, then continued, his voice lowering slightly. “Whereas Fëanor… I wonder if his creations are rooted in something deeper. Perhaps a desire to prove himself, not only to his kin but to his father as well. After all, when one lives in the shadow of greatness, the urge to surpass it can become… all-consuming.”

Finarfin’s brow furrowed, “My brother...” he countered, his voice careful now. “He too has always sought to elevate our people through his work.”

"Of course," Melkor confirmed smoothly, inclining his head in agreement, realizing he might have overstepped. "It is only natural that one so gifted would strive to reach beyond what others consider enough. To ask more of what is already great. After all, that is the mark of true ambition.. But it is not for us to speculate on the inner workings of another’s heart, especially one so bright as Prince Fëanor."

Before Finarfin could respond, the measured rhythm of approaching footsteps cut through the conversation, drawing their attention.

From behind, Fingolfin approached, his presence keen.

Draped in a mantle of deep sapphire, his silver circlet caught the light as he moved with effortless authority. His expression was calm, but there was an unmistakable tension in his gaze as it settled on Melkor. Beside him walked his wife, Anairë. Her gaze, observant, mirrored Fingolfin’s intensity, though it carried a quieter, more measured edge.

“Lord Melkor,” Fingolfin said, bowing his head with the barest hint of formality. “I see you’ve found a guide to our halls. Are the festivities meeting your expectations?”

Melkor turned to him, his smile unbroken. “Prince Fingolfin, Princess Anairë” he replied, “Your brother has been the most gracious host. It is a rare delight to walk among such artistry with one so attuned to its spirit. Truly, your people’s artistry is a testament to their brilliance.”

Anairë’s lips curved into a polite smile, her voice conversational. “My husband tells me these halls were different in our youth. It seems King Finwë’s artistry has only grown finer over time.”

“Indeed,” Melkor said. “Time and skill often shape such things into greater beauty. Though I imagine not all changes are welcomed equally.”

Fingolfin’s lips quirked faintly, the closest thing to a smile he allowed. “Finarfin, for one, is always welcoming of change. He tends to see the good in it, and in most things. And, in most people.”

Melkor chuckled lightly, his gaze moving between them. “An admirable trait, no doubt. There is strength in such openness. To meet the world without pretense is a power all its own.”

“Strength, yes,” Fingolfin replied. “But there’s also a kind of risk in openness. Not everyone deserves such trust.”

A flicker of weariness crossed Finarfin’s eyes, quickly masked by his characteristic warmth, and he stepped forward without hesitation, his voice light, trying to ease the tension that had begun to gather. “Brother, let us not let the conversation stray to darker places. This is a night of celebration, after all.”

It was not the first time he had stood between Fingolfin’s sharp-edged wariness and Melkor’s provocations. Though adept at peacemaking, the strain of maintaining the fragile decorum of the evening was undeniable.

Anairë’s voice was gentle but decisive as she glanced at Finarfin. “Well said. Let us turn our thoughts back to the joy of the evening."

For a moment, Fingolfin held Melkor’s gaze, a tense stillness hanging between them. Then, with a curt nod, he turned to Finarfin. “Of course,” he said. “Forgive me if I disrupted the mood.”

Melkor inclined his head, all easy courtesy. “There is nothing to forgive, Prince Fingolfin. Your words are always worth hearing.”

He bowed next to Finarfin and Anairë, his expression as gracious as ever. “Thank you for your company,” he stated, before taking his leave and turning away, moving deeper into the bustling hall.

As he walked, he exchanged fleeting pleasantries with the other Valar who had joined the gathering.

Yavanna offered him a gentle nod of acknowledgment while Aulë gave a small, approving glance, as if Melkor’s participation was a step toward redemption. Irmo and Nienna lingered at the edges of the crowd, their forms watching the celebration with quiet detachment. Melkor’s own movements were fluid and unhurried, weaving between the gathering with the air of someone effortlessly at ease in the space.

Eventually, his attention was drawn toward the music at the far end of the hall. 

A lively melody played by skilled hands filled the space, the notes blending seamlessly with the chatter of the guests. Near the musicians, Melkor noticed a figure standing slightly apart from the rest.

Maglor. 

The son of Fëanor stood deep in discussion with the players, his movements precise, almost urgent. Even from a distance, Melkor could see it—the passion etched into every gesture, the intensity of someone preparing for a performance that would leave the hall breathless. There was a quiet tension to Maglor’s manner, a gravity that spoke of a need to create something not merely beautiful, but transcendent.

Melkor lingered briefly, watching him with bare amusement. 

Of all the sons of Fëanor, this one intrigued him the most. Maglor lacked the fire and fury that defined his brothers, but his artistry burned with a different kind of fuel. His music was raw and unguarded, a window into a soul that sought meaning in every note, as though the world could be remade in melody. It was this vulnerability - the open wound of creation - that set him apart.

There was power in Maglor’s art, Melkor mused. A power that bound others to him, drawn helplessly by the emotions he wove into his song. For now, though, he let the thought drift, and his gaze slid elsewhere.

He turned toward the wide arched windows that lined the back of the hall. 

The glass caught the soft light of the evening, casting faint reflections of the revelry behind him. Beyond the windows, the palace gardens stretched out, their paths adorned with delicate garlands of flowers, their vibrant colors mirroring the celebration within. Melkor’s steps slowed as he approached one of the windows, his gaze narrowing as he searched the gardens below.

For a moment, he allowed himself to wonder if Artanis might be there. 

He remembered the first time he had seen her in that very spot. But the gardens appeared empty, save for a few scattered figures strolling along the paths.

As his eyes shifted, he noticed a figure standing by the adjacent window, she too gazed into the garden below. He recognized her to be Amarië, betrothed to Finrod. She had not yet noticed him, her attention fixed intently on something - or someone - beyond the glass.

Melkor stepped closer, his voice smooth and low as he addressed her. “Searching for someone?”

She started slightly, her gaze snapping toward him, though she recovered quickly. Her blue eyes were wary but composed and while she regarded him politely, he could tell her expression was guarded.

“Lord Melkor,” she greeted, inclining her head. “I hadn’t realized I was not alone.”

He smiled faintly, his tone easy. “The gardens are quiet tonight. A small respite from the liveliness of the hall.”

Amarië’s gaze flicked back to the garden, and though she said nothing, her eyes kept searching. Melkor studied her for a moment, and the pieces fell into place.

Of course - Finrod.

“It seems the one you seek is not in the garden,” he quipped. “But no doubt he’ll appear soon. Lord Finrod is rarely far from those who hold his heart.”

She smiled but remained silent, the unease of being addressed by a Valar evident in her composure. Melkor observed her for a moment longer, the quiet between them broken only by the distant hum of the celebration.

It was almost as though Melkor had summoned him, for Finrod emerged from the crowd behind them, his steps quick and purposeful.

His golden hair caught the light of the hall as he approached, and the tension in Amarië’s posture dissolved the moment her eyes found him. Her expression softened into one of unguarded devotion, a look that Melkor registered and quietly filed away, his own face remaining a mask of polite interest.

“Lord Melkor,” Finrod greeted, his tone warm although carefully measured. “It’s a pleasure to see your brothers and sisters here tonight - a refreshing change, along with your own presence.”

Melkor’s smile remained steady, though the subtle weight of the remark wasn’t lost on him. “A rare pleasure,” he confirmed. “The celebration feels more complete with so many familiar faces present."

Finrod nodded with a small smile. “It’s not often that such an event draws us all together.” He gestured subtly toward the far side of the hall, where two more Valar had joined the gathering. “I noticed Lady Nessa and Lord Oromë arrived a short while ago. And as for uncle Fëanor and his family, they should be here any moment now. Maglor, at least, is already with the musicians.”

Melkor tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as his voice dipped into something lighter, almost casual. “And yet, not everyone is here, are they?” 

He let the question hang for a moment before adding. “I’ve seen no sign of Artanis tonight.”

At the mention of her name - title conveniently left behind - Finrod stiffened imperceptibly. 

His easy demeanor faltered, and though he quickly recovered, Melkor caught the small shift in his posture. The prince’s expression remained polite, but his knuckles tightened briefly against the goblet he held, his body language betraying his instinct.

Melkor’s smile deepened, just enough to hint at amusement. “I hope she hasn’t chosen to miss such a gathering. It wouldn’t be like her to stay away.”

He added the remark with care, his tone laced with just enough familiarity to suggest an intimate understanding of her habits.

The effect was immediate. Finrod’s posture stiffened even more, his shoulders drawing back as though instinctively shielding against the insinuation. 

Protective, as expected.

Finrod’s pale complexion betrayed him further, though he forced a small, tight smile in response. “She… rarely misses these events. I’m sure she’ll make an appearance soon.”

Melkor inclined his head in confirmation, lingering on Finrod for just a beat longer than necessary. “Of course. It’s hard to imagine a celebration of this scale without her presence.”

The silence that followed felt stretched, though it was broken quickly as Amarië rested a gentle hand on Finrod’s arm, her touch grounding him.

Finrod nodded slightly, his expression softening as he turned his attention back to her, though the tension he had evoked in his shoulders remained visible to Melkor’s discerning eye.

Melkor let his dark eyes drift back toward the window.

Why would the mere mention of Artanis elicit such a reaction from Finrod? 

The restraint, the guardedness, the sudden shift in demeanor...

What is Finrod hiding?

He hesitated, the faintest trace of caution flickering in his thoughts. 

Invading the minds of the Eldar was a delicate game, one he avoided when the Valar might sense his meddling. Their sensitivity to such intrusions posed a risk he rarely took - especially with a mind as focused and guarded as Finrod's. Yet the temptation gnawed at him, the allure of unraveling the mystery too compelling to resist.

Melkor let his attention seem to drift, the hum of the celebration and quiet strains of music masking the sharp focus of his will. Quietly, he reached out, threading his way into Finrod’s mind.

The Elf showed no sign of noticing, his surface thoughts preoccupied with the warmth of Amarië’s presence and the lingering tension of their conversation.

Melkor sifted through the layers cautiously, his curiosity mixing with annoyance at the mundane clutter he encountered: a half-formed thought about the arrangement of the music, a fleeting memory of a conversation with a courtier about a tapestry design, even a brief musing on whether Amarië would approve of the wine he had selected earlier.

How tedious , Melkor thought, his lips twitching slightly. Their minds are often so cluttered with the trivial, it’s a wonder they ever achieve anything of substance.

He pressed deeper, seeking something with sharper edges. Something hidden. 

And then he found it. The memory unfolded before him vividly, its clarity sharpened by its emotional weight. Artanis stood before Finrod, her posture unwavering, radiating a boldness that seemed to defy the very air around her. The scene was unmistakably recent, and her words carried a gravity that even Melkor found compelling.

As the memory dissolved, Melkor was left with a sharp, consuming satisfaction.

She thought of him. 

Not in fleeting terms, not as a passing curiosity, but with intended focus. 

That much was clear from the echoes he had unearthed. Her thoughts of him had weight, meaning, and this knowledge settled over him like a rich, intoxicating pleasure.

By questioning him, by doubting him, she had opened the door herself. Artanis had invited him into her thoughts without realizing it.

It was always the same with those who thought themselves unshakable. Her scrutiny gave her a false sense of control, but it only tightened the invisible bonds between them. She believed she was exposing him, unraveling the web he had woven through Valinor, when all the while, she was becoming ensnared herself.

He gazed out at the garden, but his mind was far from the scene before him. 

Her determination to unmask the darkness he had woven into Valinor almost amused him. There was something almost touching, in its way - the belief that her vigilance could undo threads he had spent centuries entwining. She thought herself insightful, perceptive, perhaps even daring. He had now glimpsed her perspective on the encounter with Eönwë, how she had cloaked her defiance in the guise of some higher calling. Fascinating, really, how she shaped her own narrative, convincing herself that her actions were a noble resistance against a force she could scarcely comprehend.

Unlike her brother.

Finrod had dismissed her suspicions. To Finrod, Melkor was little more than a disruption, a shadow he believed their light could simply outshine. 

Such confidence. Such naïveté.

Artanis, for all her flaws, at least recognized the shape of the storm gathering at their edges. She hadn’t dismissed him as Finrod had. She wasn’t so blind as to think he could be ignored or outlasted. 

Of course, she didn’t truly understand him either.

She didn’t yet grasp the scale of what he was, what he was capable of. But her inability to comprehend him fully was less offensive than her brother’s dismissal. At least she saw the need to look closer, to question, to resist. She thought she was fighting him, standing apart from him, but in truth, her attention tethered her to him more firmly with each passing day. And now, knowing that he had taken root in her thoughts too... 

The way her suspicions clung to her, the way she undoubtedly turned his words over and over in her mind, searching for cracks... 

Does she even realize how deeply I have her already? 

He allowed himself a moment of indulgence, imagining her alone, pacing, her sharp mind filled with futile efforts to uncover his secrets.

How much of her time did he already occupy? How often did she think of him, question him, try to piece together the puzzle she thought he was?

The idea of her restless frustration, her inability to push him away, settled into him like a long-awaited comfort.

The thought of her struggling against him was intoxicating. 

He imagined her questioning replaced by a trembling, helpless surrender. He pictured her standing before him, stripped of her defenses - bare not only in body but in spirit, every last shred of her resistance laid bare for him to savor. And yet, even as the darker currents of his mind churned, a flicker of caution tempered his thoughts. 

There was something fragile in the game he was playing - something that required patience. Artanis was not a creature to be rushed. Too much pressure would risk snapping what he intended to bend.

For now, he would let her think she was free. Let her believe her vigilance kept him at bay. 

The distant hum of the hall intruded on his thoughts, faint but insistent, pulling him back to the present. He turned slightly, his gaze sliding briefly over Finrod and Amarië again. Their quiet moment of closeness barely registered with him. They were inconsequential, mere actors on the periphery of the far more compelling drama that bound him to Artanis.

His thoughts wandered, the growing impatience within him like the slow tightening of a predator's snare.

If she would not come to him, he would find her himself.

Closing his eyes briefly, he focused his mind, reaching outward. The Elves’ fëar shimmered like scattered stars, each luminous and distinct, mirroring their bearers' spirits. But it was her fëa he sought. He extended his awareness further, searching for the familiar shape of her essence. He found it easily enough, impossible to mistake after that much time.

The ghost of a smile touched his lips. She wasn’t far.

Melkor turned from the window, paying little mind to his surroundings. Whispers trailed him as he passed, small fragments of gossip brushing against his awareness.

“Part of Fëanor’s family is here! ”

“I have heard Nerdanel looks stunning tonight.”

“King Finwë is arriving.”

The words meant nothing to him. His focus was singular, his presence cutting through the lively throng with an ease that rendered his movements almost invisible, despite the force of his intent. She would be exactly where he expected her to be. The path was clear, guided by the delicate pulse of her presence that tugged at him like an invisible cord. At last, as he moved beyond the largest cluster of revelers, he found her.

Artanis stood amidst the polished grandeur of the hall, deep in conversation with her two other brothers, Angrod and Aegnor.

Her laughter reached him first, a light and melodic sound that carried effortlessly above the murmur of the crowd. She radiated joy, her face alight with a warmth that seemed to soften even her sharper features. She leaned slightly toward Aegnor as she spoke, her gestures animated, her golden hair styled in an intricate braid woven with delicate threads of crimson and gold. Tiny adornments, crafted to resemble blooming flowers, were tucked seamlessly into the plaits, giving the impression of a living cascade down her back.

Her gown was a deep crimson, bold but elegant. The rich hue was accentuating the fairness of her skin, and the generous neckline of the dress framed her collarbones, which shined like polished ivory.

She was striking.

Melkor paused briefly, taking in the scene. 

The sight of her, so unguarded, so alive, sent a strange jolt through him. Here was the same woman who had spoken of exposing him, of unraveling the rot he had sown, now glowing with vitaly and poise as if untouched by any such concerns. 

For a moment, he did nothing, merely watching her, letting her presence fill the space in his sight as she did his mind. Then, he began to close the distance. This time, he allowed himself the indulgence of a full smile - not his usual measured expression, but something more vibrant, more dangerous.

As he moved toward her, he saw her stop mid-word, her laughter fading as her gaze locked onto his. Her expression shifted, caught somewhere between surprise and caution, like a bird stilled mid-flight, unsure whether to flee or hold its ground. Her brothers seemed momentarily oblivious, still focused on the conversation, but Melkor could see it in the way her fingers curled slightly at her sides.

He was almost upon her, nearly past the last group of Elves separating them, when a sudden note from an instrument rang out. 

A single clear note silenced the hall. All conversation ceased as heads turned toward the sound, and the atmosphere shifted, a collective stillness falling over them all. The herald’s voice rang out:

“Manwë and Varda, King and Queen of the Valar.”

The room shifted as all eyes moved to the entrance, where Manwë and Varda entered with their usual otherworldly grace. Their forms radiated authority, and for a moment, it seemed the very air grew heavier in their presence. The King of the Valar carried the hand of his spouse, and her starlit presence seemed to draw every gaze to her.

Melkor halted, his gaze flicking briefly toward both before sliding back to Artanis. She too had turned to watch them, her focus momentarily drawn away.

But before he could take his next step, another announcement followed. This time, the sound of the instrument was richer, deeper, carrying a grandeur that held the crowd transfixed.

“King Finwë and the House of Fëanor,” the herald proclaimed, his voice echoing through the hall.

A wave of anticipation swept through it, and the crowd shifted, parting like a tide to reveal Fëanor at its center. Behind him followed Nerdanel, her beauty understated but dignified, and their children trailed after, each one striking in their own right, their presence amplifying the weight of their house’s reputation.

But all of them were overshadowed by what Fëanor carried.

A ripple of awe swept through the hall, the collective intake of breath almost audible as all eyes turned to the jewels. Even the Valar seemed to pause, their expressions uncharacteristically still as their gazes fell upon Fëanor’s creation.

As Melkor’s gaze landed upon the jewels, time itself seemed to fracture.

He froze.

The smile he had worn, so carefully constructed, vanished - erased, as though it had never been.

The hall around him faded into irrelevance. 

The music, the murmurs, the shifting of the crowd - all of it dissolved into a distant, meaningless blur.

For there, in Fëanor’s hands, lay the future - not just of the Noldor, but of Arda itself. 

For there, in Fëanor’s hands, lay the Silmarils.

Chapter Text

The light reached her before anything else.

It poured across the hall, gilding every surface and face it touched. Artanis blinked, momentarily dazzled, her breath catching in her throat. 

There, at the heart of it all, Fëanor stood - resplendent, indomitable - as though he himself were the source of the brilliance that now set the chamber ablaze.

But the radiance was not his. 

Her eyes dropped to the jewels in his up-raised hands.

They seemed alive, pulsing, almost breathing. She could scarcely comprehend what she was seeing - each gem contained within it a light she had only seen in the Two Trees, woven into something pure, untouchable. A fierce longing stirred in her - not for the stones as treasures, but for the craft, the glory, the hint of immortality they seemed to promise.

“Behold, the Silmarils!” Fëanor’s voice rang out. He lifted the gems higher, and the crowd gasped as one. His pride shone as fiercely as the jewels themselves - almost, but not quite, surpassing their splendor.

The entire hall seemed entranced, held captive by the gleam before them. For what felt like an eternity, no sound dared to intrude upon the spell of awe that gripped every soul.

Then, piercing through the religious silence, the sound of a horn rang out once again, and heads turned as one toward the grand doors. King Finwë entered, draped in robes of deep indigo. His face, noble and serene, was lit by a smile that deepened the lines of pride carved into his features.

At the sight of her grandfather, Artanis felt her heart lift, as it always did. He carried with him the steadiness of a mountain, a quiet power that needed no boasting. But tonight, his presence seemed subdued, overshadowed.

“Father!” Fëanor’s voice rang out, filled with a warmth that seemed almost out of place amid his usual sharpness. A warmth Artanis herself had not heard in centuries. He stepped forward, lowering the gems only slightly as he bent his knee before the King. “The fruits of my labor, a light eternal, captured and made manifest! Behold the brilliance of the Two Trees, reclaimed and perfected by my craft! Let them stand as the pride of our people and our house!”

Finwë’s eyes softened as they rested on his son, and for a moment, Artanis could see only love in his gaze. But as the King reached to touch the casing that held the jewels, she could not help but notice the way Fëanor's hand tightened around it. 

“The glory of our people indeed, my son,” King Finwë said, his voice warm with affection. In that moment, he seemed less a king and more a father, his gaze soft as he beheld the work of his eldest child.

The celebration swelled again, voices rising in praise of the prince of the Noldor and the treasures he had wrought.

But the reverent hum of voices fell to a hush as the Valar approached. 

As they encircled Fëanor, the very air seemed to shift. Artanis watched as their eyes moved between the jewels and the Prince, who now stood taller than ever, his face alive with intensity, his stance resolute.

Manwë stepped forward. The King of the Valar raised a hand, and when he spoke, his voice resonated like the first breath of wind over a still landscape, carrying effortlessly to every corner of the room.

“People of the Noldor, and all who dwell in Valinor,” he began, “tonight is a day of wonder and rejoicing. For what we have witnessed here - the creation of Fëanor, son of Finwë - is a marvel unlike any Arda has known. Within these jewels, the radiance of the Trees lives on, captured and preserved in a form so pure, so luminous, that it defies even the limits of imagination. They are a gift to all who behold them, a beauty that shall endure even as the ages turn and the stars wane.”

As his words were still hanging in the air, the Valar King turned to Fëanor, who still stood at the center of the gathering, “Lord Fëanor,” Manwë continued, “your craft has reached its pinnacle. In your hands, you have captured light itself, giving form to the formless, and beauty to the ineffable. It is a work of such magnitude that even we, who were present at the Music of the Ainur, are humbled by it.”

This was what her uncle's life had been leading to - every spark of his brilliance, every moment of defiance, every sleepless night in his forge had culminated in this triumph.

He had seized a light that no other could imagine, let alone create, and now the weight of that glory pressed upon him. The crowd voiced their agreement in low, rippling tones, their words filled with admiration for their prince, but Fëanor seemed to hear none of it. His gaze remained fixed on the Silmarils, his hands trembling slightly, as though he feared that even now they might slip from his grasp.

Manwë gestured toward King Finwë, who stepped forward, his silver crown catching the light the stones radiated. “Let it also be known that this is a moment for the house of Finwë to shine. Under his wise and noble rule, the Noldor have flourished, their hands shaping wonders that echo the beauty of Eä itself. King Finwë, come to my side, for tonight your house is exalted above all others.”

The King of the Noldor ascended to stand beside Manwë, his presence a quiet counterpoint to the majesty of the Valar. 

A murmur of approval swept once again through the crowd, and Artanis saw the faintest smile touch her grandfather’s lips.

“This is a joyous moment indeed,” he proclaimed, “one that Valinor has never seen the likeness of. Let us celebrate it, not only for the light of these gems but for the unity they represent. May their light remind us of the purpose of all things: to illuminate, to inspire, and to unite.”

The hall erupted in applause, and cheers and exclamations filled the chamber, reverberating against the ceilings. 

Some elves uncharacteristically clapped with fervor, their hands stinging from the force of their applause, while others raised their voices in song, weaving fragments of praise and wonder into an impromptu melody.

As the enthusiasm subsided, another voice rose. 

Varda, beautiful in a way that words could not really convey, moved to Fëanor’s side.

Artanis watched as Fëanor’s prideful demeanor shifted in her presence, his fiery confidence dimming under the intensity of her gaze. There was a subtle change in him - an unspoken acknowledgment of her authority, a deference that even he could not deny.

Upon seeing the scene unfolding before her eyes, she unexpectedly felt a pang of envy twist in her chest.

It wasn’t just Varda’s beauty that struck her; it was the effortless way she commanded respect, the influence she wielded without lifting a finger.

Something deep and restless stirred within her. It wasn’t only admiration she felt - it was more like a familiar ache, like a half-formed thought - one she knew too well. She, too, had longed for that kind of power - not just to be perceived, but to shape the world around her, to bend even the most stubborn wills to her cause just by the power of her own presence. But then she caught herself, a flush of shame warming her cheeks.

Artanis allowed the moment to pass, her gaze softening as she refocused on the scene before her. 

The Lady of the Stars looked at her uncle, then at the Silmarils, and her expression shifted. There was no joy in her eyes but solemnity.

“Prince Fëanor,” Varda said. “The light you have captured is of the Two Trees, a light unsullied and untainted, drawn from the deepest blessings of Eru. It is a light that none have ever wrought into form before, and in your craft, you have given justice to the greatest work of my sister, Yavanna. You have preserved a beauty that was thought beyond preservation, and for this, you are to be honored.”

Her gaze lingered on the Silmarils alone this time, their radiance reflecting in her own star-like eyes.

The Vala paused for the briefest moment, her gaze sweeping toward her brothers and sisters in turn, none excluded. Each seemed to bear the weight of her unspoken words - and Artanis was sure she saw a momentary flicker of her eyes toward Melkor.

Artanis was still mesmerized by the authority and grace in Varda’s presence, unable to tear her gaze from the Lady of the Stars, and the glance had been so fleeting, so subtle, that she questioned if it had even happened. “But such light is no mere treasure to be owned. It is a gift, born of creation itself, and must remain pure. See that you guard it well, for it carries not only your legacy but the legacy of the Trees, and the spirit of their makers.”

For a long moment, Varda said nothing else, but her gaze locked with Fëanor’s. 

Artanis felt the ripple of ósanwe between them - silent, profound, and charged with meaning beyond her comprehension. Whatever Varda said in thought, it struck the Prince deeply. His fingers loosened on the gems, his lips parting as though to speak, but no words came.

And then his eyes glistened, a rare tear tracing his cheek. He nodded, his voice trembling as he said, “Do as you will, Lady Varda. They are yours to bless.”

Varda raised her hands with a movement that felt both solemn and graceful. The air around her shimmered faintly, and it seemed as though the light the jewels projected could recognize her authority and bent to her will. The gathered host watched in silence, their breaths held, witnesses to a rite too sacred to interrupt.

She began to speak then, her voice low at first but charged with a power that seemed to come from beyond the bounds of Arda itself.

The words - spoken in the ancient tongue of Eru - wove through the air like the strands of a melody, each note carrying an echo of creation. The language was unfamiliar to most present, including Artanis, but its meaning seemed to resonate in their hearts, a reminder of the Music from which all life had sprung.

As her voice rose, the Silmarils answered, their light surging to a degree that was almost unbearable to the eyes to behold. The gems blazed like stars newly born, their radiance illuminating every face, every corner of the hall, until there was nothing but light. 

Artanis shielded her eyes, and yet even through her fingers, she felt the purity of it, its essence so perfect it seemed to pierce through her very being.

And then, with a sudden, radiant pulse, the Silmarils dimmed.

Not in loss, but in sanctity .

She felt the shift -a holy barrier encircling the jewels, unseen to the eyes and yet clearly palpable.

Varda lowered her hands slowly, her gaze fixated on the gems as she spoke. “These jewels are now hallowed ,” she declared, her voice resounding with quiet authority. “No hand unclean or heart unworthy shall touch them without suffering. They are a treasure of Arda, and a testament to the Light of the Creator.”

Fëanor exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing over the gems as though he could feel the change. He lifted them once more, his voice steady. “The Silmarils,” he said, “are bound to our fate. May their light endure, and may we prove worthy of their keeping.”

The applause began anew, though it carried a different tone now, reverence overtaking celebration. 

And yet, amid the swelling voices, Artanis’ gaze finally drifted to the edges of the hall.

She had not intended to seek him out but something about the moment she had just witnessed turned her thoughts toward him. Not directly, but by the starkness of contrast. For if she were to name a presence utterly at odds with the holy awe she had just experienced, it would be his.

Her gaze found him where she had last seen him, yet his entire bearing seemed changed.

Where his shoulders had been proud and imperious, they now seemed heavy, as if weighed down by an unseen force. His dark eyes, which were burning as they bore into hers only moments before, dimmed with something else entirely.

Artanis drew a sharp breath.

It was not the shock of awe, nor of defeat, she thought, but something deeper, older. It was the look of one who had felt the hand of fate brush against them, a hand so immense and inescapable that even a being of his power could not stand against it.

For the briefest moment, she thought he might fall, like a mighty tree bending under the force of a gale. His hands clenched at his sides, his face taut with suppressed emotion. And though no chains visibly bound him, Artanis felt she could almost see them - heavy, dragging him down. The chains that Tulkas had once fastened upon his body now seemed to weigh on his very spirit.

His lips parted, and Artanis thought she saw him mouth something, though no sound emerged. A name, perhaps, or a plea - whatever it was, it was swallowed by the din of the crowd.

For all his darkness, for all his might, Melkor looked... diminished .
And the sight filled her with no relief.

The moment passed as swiftly as it came. 

Melkor straightened, his face once again a mask of inscrutable calm, but Artanis could not forget what she had seen. He had been struck, not by the Silmarils alone, she figured, but by the weight of what they represented - something he could not touch, something he could now never claim.

Artanis saw him turn. 

Melkor moved slowly at first, as though reluctant to leave the pull of the jewels’ light, but then his steps quickened. His long cloak swept behind him, a shadow retreating into the brighter depths of the hall.

She watched, transfixed. 

It was not a mere departure. It was a retreat . 

She followed him with her gaze, waiting for someone, anyone, to notice the shift, to see the unease that radiated from him like a crack in the fabric of his being. Yet as she scanned the hall, the realization struck her.

No one had noticed.

Not the Valar, who stood tall next to her kin. Not Fëanor, who basked in the praise of his people. Not even her grandfather, King Finwë, whose eyes were fixed on his son and the treasure he held aloft as he was starting to explain how he had come to their creation.

They were all too absorbed in the celebration, their attention drawn to beauty and glory.

Only Artanis had seen it - the moment when Melkor’s composure had faltered, when the weight of something unseen had pressed upon him, forcing him to leave.

She looked back to the doorway. Melkor’s figure slipped through, vanishing into the corridor beyond.

Her heart raced. A voice in her mind urged her to stay, to let him go. It was no business of hers - what could she do, even if she followed? He was Melkor, greatest of the Valar, and she was but Artanis, a child of the Noldor.

And yet, her feet moved.

Perhaps it was curiosity, or perhaps it was something deeper, a gnawing sense that whatever had just occurred was not meant to go unseen. Her steps were light, careful, as she slipped out of the crowd. No one called after her. No one saw her go.

Beyond the doors the air was cool and still, heavy with a silence that felt unnatural after the clamor of the great hall. 

For a moment, she hesitated again. The hall behind her glowed with light and life and music, but the shadows ahead seemed to almost call to her .

And so, perhaps foolishly, she followed.

--------------------------------------------------

It took Artanis longer than she expected to find him.

By the time she passed through the great doors and into the corridors beyond, the faint echo of his steps was already gone. The palace stretched vast around her, its many halls silent except for the faint hum of distant celebration.

She followed where she thought he might have gone, her footsteps soft on the marble floor. But his pace had betrayed his urgency, and for a time, she found nothing - only empty passages, their high windows casting faint pools of light.

Then she heard it.

The sharp crash of something shattering cut through the stillness, followed by the dull thud of something heavy falling. Artanis froze, her breath caught in her chest, and then she moved, her steps quickening as the sounds grew louder.

She followed the noise, the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood echoing down the hall. It led her to one of the smaller libraries, a quiet space tucked away from the grand halls of the palace. The door stood ajar, its hinges creaking faintly as she pushed it open.

What she saw stopped her cold.

Melkor was at the center of the room, his form barely resembling the one he wore in the great hall just moments before. His body seemed to flicker, a shadow caught between the physical and the incorporeal. His robes were no longer silver but dark, and they shifted like smoke, and his hands - hands that had once shaped the very bones of the earth - clenched and struck with a force that made the ground beneath her tremble.

Bookshelves lay in ruins, their contents scattered like boats in a storm. Broken glass glittered on the floor, shards catching the reflection of his wrath. The room was thick with an oppressive weight, a force that seemed to radiate from Melkor himself, spilling out like an uncontained tempest from the depths of his piercing gaze.

Those eyes turned to her.

Artanis froze under their gaze, her heart pounding.  She realized his eyes were no longer eyes: they were voids, fathomless and consuming, pulling everything around them into their unrelenting depths. They were not simply empty - they churned with a terrible energy, a chaotic force that seemed to ripple and distort his once-fair features into something unrecognizable, something monstrous.

For a moment, she thought he might speak. His lips moved, but no sound emerged, only the faint hiss of something ancient and unformed. And then he turned back to the wreckage, his hands moving again, striking a desk and sending it crashing into the wall, dismissing her entirely.

Artanis swallowed hard, her fingers curling into the folds of her dress. Fear clawed at her, urging her to flee, yet she remained rooted, drawn by something she couldn’t name. A terrible fascination with the ruin before her. 

In his fractured rage, she glimpsed not just destruction but something profoundly broken, and against all reason, she could not look away.

“Lord Melkor,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

He stilled for a moment, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths, as if hearing his name made him remember himself. The shadows around him quivered, and for a moment, she thought he might collapse under the weight of whatever force consumed him.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice steadier now, though her heart still raced. “What has happened to you?”

His laughter came low and broken, a sound that sent a chill down her spine. 

It echoed through the shattered room, low and unhinged, reverberating against the walls. It wasn’t laughter born of humor but of something darker - rage, despair, and madness intertwining into a sound that made her skin prickle.

Melkor's form flickered again, his physicality straining against the power surging through him. His hands swept through the air, striking at nothing, sending more shards of glass clattering to the ground, as the shadows pouring from him thickened.

Artanis stood frozen in the doorway, her mind a maelstrom of indecision. 

Every rational thought screamed at her to leave, to turn back and alert someone - anyone - who could contain this force before it burned through the foundations of the palace.

But another part of her, deeper, quieter, stirred. It was not a naïve impulse, nor a belief that she could truly help him.

It was the part of her that had watched her brothers in moments of weakness, their strength momentarily faltering beneath the weight of expectation. It was the part of her that had soothed others with words when she herself had none to offer her own burdens. That same instinct now rose within her - a strange compulsion to reach toward the brokenness she saw before her.

To see a being of such might - one who had stood at the beginning of the world, shaping its very fabric - reduced to this state, filled her with a disquiet she could not ignore. 

His head snapped toward her, the motion so sudden and unnatural that she flinched. His eyes bore into her, and she felt her courage waver. Yet she did not stop.

“Why are you doing this?” she pressed, forcing herself to sound resolute despite her trembling. “What has overcome you?”

Melkor’s laughter stuttered and broke, his form stilling for the briefest of moments. He tilted his head, his expression twisted into something between a sneer and a snarl. 

“What has overcome me?” he asked, his voice a jagged echo. “You stand there, child of the Noldor, in all your naivety, and you ask?”

The shadows around him flared, writhing like living things, and Artanis’ heart leapt into her throat. A mocking curiosity lighted his fractured expression. His body seemed to become physical once more.

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?” he said, his voice low and taut, like the tension of a bowstring ready to snap. He stepped forward slowly, as if still granting her the chance to flee. When she didn’t, his imposing form loomed over her. “No... that’s not it.”

Artanis stood her ground, though her pulse quickened under the weight of his now unconditional attention. 

Melkor smirked at that, a cruel twist of his lips. “You could have run to Manwë or Varda. You could have left me to my... myself.” He gestured around the ruined room with a sweeping hand, as though mocking the destruction he had wrought. “But you didn’t.”

She hesitated, her fingers trembling at her sides. “I couldn’t. Not when you were-”

“What?” He cut her off, his voice rising, venomous. “Not when I was what? A threat to your kin? A danger to your precious family?”

She didn’t answer.

And then she felt it.

A force slamming into her mind, sharp, merciless. Her breath hitched, her eyes widening in shock as the invasion tore through her thoughts without hesitation.

“Ah,” Melkor murmured in satisfaction, his voice softer now, almost amused. “You feel it, don’t you?".

Artanis clenched her jaw, her body tensing as the pressure grew unbearable. His presence in her mind was vast, oppressive, like roots burrowing deep into the soil of her thoughts, twisting and splitting as they claimed every corner. 

She pushed back instinctively, her will rising to meet him. But she was no match for him.

He broke through her defenses with ease, burying himself deeper into the thoughts and feelings she had tried to shield. She could feel him there, moving through her thoughts with an intimacy that was both terrifying and vile, devouring her most private emotions as though they were a feast laid out for his taking.

It wasn’t just intrusion: it was possession. His presence was not curious or indifferent - it was intentional, probing, and cruel. His essence coiled around her memories, her fears, her intentions, unraveling them with a precision that felt sickeningly personal. She felt as though he were pulling her apart, piece by piece, every layer of her soul stripped away and examined under a lens of disdainful amusement.

“You,” his voice echoed in her mind, dark and velvet, “are an open book. So eager. So unguarded. So foolish.”

Artanis clenched her fists, trembling with indignation as her teeth gritted against the invasive pressure. “ Get out ,” she hissed, though the words were more a thought than a sound. “How dare you-”

“ Dare ?” He laughed, a low, resonant sound that seemed to seep into the very marrow of her being. “I do not need your permission, aistanaurë . You invited me here the moment you stepped into my shadow.”

The way he lingered, savoring the act, made her stomach churn. She felt violated, not just in mind but in spirit. And yet, there was something worse - a sickly, twisted allure in the way his voice wrapped around her thoughts, honeyed and venomous all at once.

“Such noble intentions,” he murmured, his tone softening to a mockery of affection. “A heart so pure, so bright. You are not here to scheme against me, not here to ensure your precious Valar’s safety. You’re here because you care. Because you can’t stand to see a creature, even one as dark as I, in pain.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Sure, there are schemes, yes... There are always schemes. But beneath it, in the deepest parts of you, there is only this ridiculous need to see others whole. Your desire to mend what cannot be mended. You are a fool.”

Artanis gasped as he withdrew abruptly, the sudden absence of his presence leaving her shaken and raw, her body trembling as though it had fought a physical battle. 

Her mind reeled as she struggled to steady herself against the weight of what had just happened.

“Do you think your pitiful goodness could soothe me, or hold back the fury that consumes me?" 

His voice rose, raw and jagged, the air around him shimmering with heat. 

And then, before she could answer, before she could even move, he struck.

It wasn’t a blow of his hand - he didn’t need that.

A wave of dark power rippled outward from him, unseen to the eye and yet unstoppable, crashing into her like a tidal wave, lifting her off her feet and hurling her backward with a force that stole the breath from her lungs.

She hit the wall with a sickening thud, her head snapping back against the unforgiving stone. 

The pain exploded in her skull suddenly, white-hot and searing, blurring her vision and forcing her to crumple to the floor. The world tilted wildly around her as she tried to orient herself.

A warm, wet sensation trickled down her scalp, and when she reached up with trembling fingers, she found her golden hair matted with blood. 

Her breathing came in shallow gasps, and she could feel her strength fading, her body slumping against the wall as her limbs refused to obey her and lift her up.

Melkor moved toward her, and the edges of the room warped with each step, bending and distorting until he seemed the only thing left in the world.

“Your indómë,” he snarled, his voice trembling with rage. “It’s feeble. Pathetic. It has no place here. You have no place here.”

Artanis coughed,, a small, wet sound tearing from her throat and spreading the taste of copper across her tongue. She tried to speak, to summon some answer from the hollow of her chest - but the words withered before they reached her lips. Her vision blurred, the world around her fading into an unsteady haze as the throbbing in her head grew unbearable.

He halted just before her and slowly knelt, mirroring the way he had once met her by the river in Lórien, though this time, there was no warning in his posture. His eyes roved over her trembling form, their piercing intensity making her stomach churn with a mix of dread and revulsion.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with mockery. “So delicate, so... exquisite in your brokenness.”

She tried to shift, to pull away, but her body refused her. Even the smallest movement sent a fresh jolt of pain lancing through her skull. She turned her head with agonizing slowness, her cheek brushing against the cold stone, the chill of it sharp against her burning skin.

Melkor’s hand drifted toward her face then, his movements unnaturally slow. She flinched once his long fingers brushed her cheek - disturbingly gentle, almost tender- a jarring contradiction to the violence that had left her broken on the floor.

“There it is,” he murmured, his voice sounding low and velvet in her ears, and yet laced with an undeniable undercurrent of cruelty. “The light, dimmed but not extinguished. Even now, you fight, don’t you? So determined to defy the inevitable, to put yourself in the way of the order of things. It’s... intoxicating, really.”

His hand roamed with slow intent, tracing the delicate curve of her jaw, the vulnerable line of her neck, before resting lightly on her shoulder. His fingers tightened, just enough to draw a sharp wince from her, and he chuckled - a sound  that seemed to vibrate with malice and something darker, something she couldn’t quite place.

“Do you know why I struck you, aistanaurë?” he asked, leaning closer, his breath brushing against her ear. It felt like the caress of a predator, savoring its prey before taking a bite. “Because your goodness repels me. It offends everything I am. And yet...”

His hand drifted lower, fingers grazing the blood-stained fabric of her dress with a touch so light that it felt at once cruel and intimate. They lingered at her wound, pressing just enough to send a tremor through her body, the pain twisting into something almost unbearable. “And yet,” he breathed, his voice trembling with a twisted hunger, “I can’t look away. It draws me. You draw me.”

He tilted her chin upward, forcing her to meet his gaze. 

The void in his eyes seemed to swallow her whole, and his next words carried an edge of contempt and twisted reverence. “Before the day I saw you in the gardens of this palace, all those years ago, I had never noticed you, or anything like you. Why would I? As I had never noticed the small flowers that grow in the gardens. They were always beneath my notice: fragile, fleeting things. Why should I care for something that can be so easily crushed?”

Artanis’ breath hitched, her body trembling beneath his touch. She couldn’t tell if it was fear, pain, or some strange mixture of both that made her chest tighten, her skin burn where his fingers traced.

“And yet, I saw you. That moment in the garden - when you knelt and placed that silly little flower behind the child’s ear - something shifted. You, with your softness, your innocence, your beauty... you revealed to me the existence of something I had completely ignored. I didn't even know something so small, so insignificant, could exist at all.”

His fingers drifted through her blood-matted hair in a mockery of tenderness. “You remind me of what I saw there in these halls tonight,” he murmured, his voice suddenly unsteady with what she registered as fascination. “Those jewels - the ones Fëanor held aloft, blazing with the light of the Two Trees. Beautiful. Untouchable. A creation I cannot claim, yet one that ensnares me all the same.”

He leaned closer, his breath heavy, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “You came here, asking what had overcome me. This is it. It is not their beauty alone. It is the knowledge that they exist and that what they are is beyond me.  I, who shaped the very bones of Arda, cannot bind that light to myself, make it mine in its entirety. But I can possess it. I can hold it in my hands. And, if I choose, I can destroy it.”

“And you, Artanis, you are the same. Something that defies me simply by existing. You are a thing of beauty, and beauty that does not belong to me is an affront. But everything can be claimed, possessed, bound to serve my will. Even you.”

His fingers lingered at her skin. He pulled back slightly, and his smile softened, as though he were speaking words of affection rather than ones steeped in depravity and violence. “I can see it clearly now. That is why I am drawn to you, Artanis. Not for your light, not for your innocence - but for the power of knowing that even you, with all your purity, can be made mine. To ruin. To twist. To consume.”

His blood-slick fingers drifted to his lips, the motion slow, languid, savoring the intimacy of it. He licked them deliberately slowly, his dark gaze never leaving hers, until her shallow breath hitched in her throat. “Even your pain,” he murmured, in a voice so low it sent shivers down her spine, “is delicious . A tribute to what I can make of you.” He leaned in, his words brushing the skin of her face like a forbidden caress. “And you feel it, don’t you? The sweet, maddening futility of your defiance.”

His other hand returned to her face, cupping her cheek with an almost possessive gentleness. “You don’t belong here,” he said softly, though his tone was anything but kind. “You belong to the world under the Trees. And yet, here you are, surrounded by my darkness. Wounded. Trembling.”

Her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment her lips trembled as she struggled to form a reply, but no words came. In response, his smile widened, as though her silence was exactly the answer he sought. 

He drew back then, his shadow pulling away with him, leaving the chill of it clinging to her skin. His laughter followed him, softer now and more menacing than what had been before - and then he was gone, swallowed by the corridor beyond.

At once, the world faded into a blur, the edges of her vision darkening as the pain and exhaustion overtook her. The sound of Melkor’s retreating laughter echoed faintly in her ears, distant and distorted. 

Artanis’ body felt heavy, sinking into the stone beneath her. Her thoughts unraveled, slipping further and further away, scattering like leaves caught in a restless wind. 

The last thing she felt was the weight of the shadows gathering around her, and then…

Nothing .

—————————————

When she opened her eyes, the light that met her eyes felt soft as it filtered in through the high windows of the library. The air was still - too still - and its silence felt unnatural. She blinked slowly, her thoughts sluggish, her mind struggling against the fog that clung to her, trying to recall how she had come to this place and why the weight of unease settled so heavily in her chest.

The pain was gone. 

Her hand rose, hesitant, to her temple - where she was sure the warmth of blood had once coursed down her skin - but her fingers found only smooth, unmarred skin. Her golden braid, which she remembered streaked with blood, now fell loose around her shoulders, clean and untouched, as if everything that had happened had been wiped away, leaving no trace but the hollow ache of knowing it had been real.

She pushed herself upright, her body trembling under the strain of the effort. 

The room around her was pristine - bookshelves standing untouched, the glass in its frames gleaming, the air carrying only the faintest scent of parchment and polish.

There was no sign of Melkor.

Her fingers traced the stone wall behind her, searching for something solid to anchor her, but it offered no comfort. Her memories of what had happened here were hazy, their edges blurred and indistinct, as if they too had been scrubbed clean, like the spotless room around her. And yet she could feel it still - the echo of his presence, lingering like the aftertaste of a bitter wine. 

Had he touched her? Hurt her? Or had it all been a fevered dream?

She shook her head, trying to dispel the feeling, but it held fast, sinking into her bones.

Slowly, unsteadily, Artanis rose to her feet.

The wound she remembered was gone. The blood, vanished. And Melkor… 

She took a shaky step forward, her breath shallow as she kept trying to piece together what had happened. But the more she tried to grasp, the more she felt the details of the encounter slipping further away, leaving behind only a hollow ache and the corrosive sense of violation.

For a moment, she thought she heard his voice again, whispering in the recesses of her mind. But when she turned, there was nothing. 

Drawing a deep, trembling breath, Artanis forced herself to move. Whatever had happened here - whatever he had done - she could not remain.

When she stepped back into the halls, they were quieter now, their earlier splendor softened into the subdued hum of the lingering guests. Most had already departed. The chandeliers above still cast their light, but it was muted, spilling long, gentle shadows across the marble floor.

“Artanis,” a calm, familiar voice called from across the room. She turned sharply, her heart still racing from the memories of the shattered library - memories that seemed to dissolve, losing their materiality with every step she took, like fragments of a dream slipping away upon waking.

Maedhros approached her with leisure, his auburn hair gleaming under the light. His tall frame and composed demeanor exuded a quiet authority, even now, as the celebration waned. He studied her with keen, discerning eyes.

“Where have you been?” he asked, his tone soft but carrying a faint thread of concern. “You vanished for the better part of the celebrations!”

Artanis hesitated, her thoughts spinning as she tried to conjure an answer that wouldn’t betray her unease. She forced a smile, hoping it would suffice. “I... needed some air,” she said somehow vaguely, the words feeling thin even as she spoke them.

Maedhros’ brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t press her. Instead, he gestured toward the nearly empty hall. “You missed quite a spectacle. The celebration carried on in true Noldorin grandeur - dancing, singing, and no shortage of wine.” He smiled faintly, the sharp features of his beautiful face softening. “I even saw Finrod and Amarië stealing a kiss in the gardens. I doubt they thought anyone was watching.”

Artanis managed a faint laugh, though her mind was elsewhere. “And the Valar?” she asked abruptly, the words coming out sharper than she intended.

Maedhros paused, measuring her. “The Valar remained for most of the evening,” he said, his tone careful. “Manwë spoke again, of course. Another long speech about unity and light. Very inspiring, though perhaps a touch redundant. Nienna, however, sang an ode to the Trees, a haunting melody that silenced even the most restless among us.”

“And the others?” Artanis pressed, her stomach tightening with anticipation.

Maedhros tilted his head slightly, considering her question. “Ulmo didn’t stay long - he never does - but when he spoke, he seemed genuinely moved by the way Father captured the light of the Trees. Oromë stuck around longer than usual, though I suspect the wine had something to do with that.”

“And Melkor…” His tone shifted. “Melkor was... surprising. He mingled freely tonight, more than I’ve ever seen before. He personally congratulated Father on the Silmarils - calling them ‘the greatest work of any in Arda’.”

Artanis’ breath caught, her thoughts racing, but she kept her expression carefully composed as Maedhros continued. 

“He seemed...” Maedhros hesitated, searching for the right word. “Relaxed. Almost at ease. It’s strange to say, but he was... charming, even. He laughed, spoke highly of our craft, and mingled with the guests like one of us. If I didn’t know better, I might’ve thought he truly enjoyed himself.”

The words felt like a blow in her face, and Artanis fought to keep her expression neutral. But the slipping image of Melkor that played in the back of her mind - his form fractured, his laughter wild, his darkness consuming, images coming to her blurred - clashed violently with the picture Maedhros was painting.

“Are you certain?” she asked, her voice quieter now, trembling despite her efforts to steady it.

Maedhros frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her. “Of course I’m certain,” he confirmed. “Why do you ask? Did something happen?”

Artanis opened her mouth, but no words came. The weight of the truth pressed heavily against her, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak it. Not when she could hardly make sense of it herself. Instead, she shook her head, forcing another smile. “No,” she said softly. “I was just curious.”

Maedhros regarded her for a long moment, his gaze searching. Then he nodded, though his expression did not fully ease. “You’ve always been curious, Artanis,” he commented, his tone lighter now. “Sometimes too much for your own good, I suspect.”

She managed a small laugh at that, though it felt hollow but serviceable. “Perhaps.”

He placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “You should rest. It’s been a long day, and you look... pale.”

Artanis nodded, her throat tightening around the simple gesture of thanks she offered him.

As Maedhros turned and walked away, she watched him go, the warmth of his presence fading with each step as she was left alone in the quiet hall.

Her thoughts twisted inward, tightening into a knot of unease she could not unpick.

She had seen him - truly seen him -and she now knew what the others could not, or would not, acknowledge. Melkor’s charm, his carefully constructed mask. A façade stretched thin over a hunger that had never lessened, a darkness that had never truly abated.

And yet, she could not share what she had witnessed.

The knowledge, fragmented and slipping through her grasp like water through cupped hands, was hers alone, pressing against her ribs with a weight she could neither name nor cast off.

She had a sense of what had happened, of what she had seen in the shadows of that room, but the details danced just beyond her reach, maddeningly indistinct. She feared for herself, for what he might do if his attention turned toward her again. But more than that, she feared for those around her. To speak of what she had glimpsed would only risk pulling them into the same perilous orbit that now surrounded her.

Whatever mask Melkor had worn tonight, whatever charm and games he played, she had glimpsed the truth beneath it - enough to know her fears were founded.

And though she could not fully understand or articulate it, she knew one thing with certainty: it was only a matter of time before that truth revealed itself again.

Chapter Text

Time is a complex matter for those immortals. 

In a land of endless light, time is something material and yet inconsequential.  It moves forward in a way that is imperceptible to those who have no end, measured not by the rise and fall of suns but by the steady rhythm of events that mark the ages.

A great stretch of time had passed ever since the day Artanis had met Melkor in the small library of the palace of the Noldor. 

Years and years of the Trees, which would one day, once the Sun and the Moon had come to populate the skies of Middle-earth, account to a century. 

A century in which Artanis had not seen Lord Melkor.

At first, she lived in terror of him, though she told no one. It was a partially irrational fear, for she knew he would not outright cross her in fear of the other Valar and her family. Still, it clung to her, like the cold that lingers on the branches of trees after winter has passed. 

She feared he would seek her out, would appear unbidden in some quiet, unguarded moment. Not in his fair form but looking as he had in the library. Each whisper of wind through an open window, each flicker of shadow in her chamber, made her pulse quicken and her breath falter. She imagined him everywhere . In the reflection of the mirror on her desk, in the quiet corners of the great halls, even in the small shadows casted by the trees in King Finwe’s gardens.

For decades, her mind played cruel tricks on her. 

She dreamed of his voice, soft and venomous, seeping into her thoughts just as he had that day. She imagined his presence behind her as she walked, his breath brushing her ear, his eyes - those dark, fathomless voids - burning into her even when she was alone. In those moments, her terror was so vivid that it became real, and she would at times awaken from restless sleep with her heart pounding, her hands trembling as if he had just been there.

But time moved forward, as it always does. Even for those who are immortal. 

Decades passed, and Melkor did not come. 

The terror, once sharp, dulled to a lingering fear - a headache that stretched across her days but no longer consumed them. She felt aware of its absurdity, though that awareness did little to banish it. She would glance over her shoulder less often, though she still caught herself looking. She would pause before entering darkened rooms, though she no longer lingered for minutes at the threshold.

That smaller fear became a part of her, a companion she carried with her but no longer heeded. It was there, always, but it no longer dictated her movements or robbed her of sleep. It lived in the background, a hum she could ignore when the demands of life called her to action.

And then, slowly, even that faded. 

It did not vanish in an instant, but rather wore away like a stone smoothed by the relentless flow of a cascade, bit by bit. She realized one day, almost absent-mindedly, that she was no longer expecting him to appear. The thought of him no longer sent a chill down her spine. 

He had not come, and he would not come. The world had moved on, and so had she.

Or so she told herself.

What lingered after the fear was something else, something quieter but no less insidious. It was a habit of thought. A place her mind wandered when the impelling necessities of life exhausted themselves before her. When her tasks were complete, when the voices of her kin quieted, when the light of the Trees dimmed into their softer phases - then her thoughts would circle back to him, unbidden.

But it was not terror, not even fear. 

It was a kind of viceful curiosity, a restless need to return to the fragmented memory of the last time she had seen him, as though the truth of it might reveal itself if she pieced it together just right. The details were slippery, blurred at the edges like a dream half-forgotten. She remembered his voice - not the words, but the texture of it, dark, commanding, wrapping around her thoughts. She remembered the way his presence had filled the room, pressing down upon her as though he were a storm given form. And yet, how she had left the room, or what exactly had passed between them, remained frustratingly elusive.

The memory was a riddle she could not solve, but she kept returning to it, prodding at the edges. She told herself it was for understanding, for resolution, but deep down she knew it was more. 

It was turmoil . It was the same hunger that had stirred within her in the days before Melkor had appeared in her life, the yearning that had long chafed against the endless peace and quiet of Valinor.

She tried to occupy herself, throwing her energies into her studies and pursuits. 

She spent hours in the halls of lore, pouring over the histories of Arda and the secrets of the Valar. She trained with her brothers, honing her strength and skill, finding momentary satisfaction in the clash of swords and the discipline it required. She even returned to Aulë’s forge, where she sought to master the crafting of jewels and metals, though her talents there were still modest compared to the Noldor’s finest smiths. And when the weight of her thoughts grew too heavy, when the glint of steel and the polish of silver felt cold and lifeless in her hands, she turned instead to the humble work of Yavanna’s pastures. There were days when she found herself smiling again, her heart lightened by the gentle sway of grasses in the breeze or the feel of the light warming her skin.

But none of it was enough. 

The restlessness she had felt as a younger elf, the quiet ache to step beyond the bounds of Aman, returned with a vengeance. It whispered to her in the still moments, a voice that grew louder with each passing year.

It wasn’t enough to be surrounded by beauty; she wanted to shape it. 

It wasn’t enough to walk the lands of Valinor; she wanted lands of her own, a realm that bore her mark, her will, her rule. The desire to create and to command burned in her heart, an echo of the ambition she had seen so vividly in her uncle, though she told herself her own dreams were nobler, more tempered.

And so, when her tasks were done, when there was nothing left to distract her, her thoughts would circle back to Melkor. It wasn’t terror that brought her there anymore, nor even the need for answers. It was the way that moment in the library had broken the sameness of her days, how it had felt like a crack in the perfect façade of Valinor. A glimpse of something raw and chaotic and alive. Something she craved.

It was not that she longed for him, she told herself. It was that he reminded her of what lay beyond this place: a world where light and shadow still wrestled, where things could be shaped by hands and wills alone, where the land bore scars of struggle but also the marks of triumph. A world that waited, unmade , as she felt.

The more she lingered on these thoughts, the more the ache within her grew. Her life in Valinor felt smaller, narrower, the days more suffocating in their endless calm. She told herself she was destined for more than this - a destiny that lay not in the perfection of Aman, but maybe in foreign, untamed lands. 

And so, as the centuries passed, the quiet yearning in her heart grew into a resolve. 

Someday, she would leave this place. Someday, she would make her own realm, one that bore her name and her light.

She had expected his absence to bring her peace, to still the currents of unrest that had begun to ripple through the hearts of her kin. 

But peace did not come. 

And in Melkor’s silence, other voices rose.

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Fëanor had been a constant presence in Artanis’s life over the previous centuries, and that much didn't change in the century that passed.

Not because she sought his company, but because his actions left ripples across Aman too great to ignore.

In the wake of his crafting of the Silmarils, his fame had grown to heights previously unimaginable. The Noldor, already renowned for their skill and creativity, now looked to him as a figure almost divine in his mastery of craft, similarly to how they revered the Valar Smith. His school of smiths, once a modest workshop, had become a grand institution, a beacon of artistry for the Eldar. The best among the Noldor sought admission to study under him, to learn from his unmatched talent, though it was said his demands on his students were as severe as the one he placed on himself.

Even the Valar took notice. 

Aulë himself visited the school, offering lectures on the deep mysteries of crafting. His presence added a divine sanction to Fëanor’s endeavors, though Artanis wondered if Aulë truly recognized the storm he was stoking in the prince’s heart. Each new creation, each word of praise, seemed to wind a spring ever tighter within him, the stored energy trembling just at the edge of release.

The tales of his works reached every corner of Valinor. 

It was said he crafted jewels that could rival the stars, blades so sharp they seemed capable of cutting the air itself, and objects so beautiful they brought tears even to the eyes of the wisest and oldest among Iluvatar's Children. But these stories often came with darker whispers - of confrontations with his half-brothers, of words spoken in anger, of a defiance that seemed to grow bolder with each passing season.

Artanis had thought, as many had, that the recognition he received from the Valar would soothe his fiery spirit. Surely, the honor of crafting the Silmarils and the admiration of all Valinor would temper his pride. The blessing of Valar herself would allow him to find respite, would it not? 

But it did not. If anything, it seemed to deepen his resentment. She had heard of an argument in the courts of Finwë, where Fëanor’s voice had rung out with deeply worrying words, accusing even those closest to him of envy and betrayal.

However, even amid his growing isolation Fëanor’s charm remained potent. 

She recalled the day he brought her the mirror, a decade after the celebration in Finwë's palace.

How he had approached her during a small celebration her father had organized in their own house. The air felt warm and fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers from the gardens outside, their sweet aroma mingling with the faint, spiced smoke curling up from the braziers that lined the hall.

The soft murmur of voices of her kin filled the space, punctuated by the gentle plucking of harp strings and the occasional trill of laughter. He had walked toward her with an air of calm, his hands cradling the gift as though it were a treasure from the depths of Eä itself.

“Artanis, I have had time to think,” he had begun, his voice low, and she could sense the price he was paining to confess. “About my actions and my words with you. They were unworthy of our kinship, and for that, I owe you an apology.”

He had offered the mirror to her then, holding it out for all to see. 

Its beauty was undeniable - the silver frame glinting, its surface smooth and flawless, reflecting her image with a clarity that seemed almost alive. At its crown were three stones, each of unmatched brilliance: one white, one golden, and one dark.

“May this serve as a token of reconciliation,” Fëanor continued, his voice high enough to carry through the hall, “for you are deserving of it.”

The eyes of the gathering were upon her, and Artanis, though unsettled, could find no way to refuse. To do so would have caused a rift far greater than the one he claimed to wish to mend. She had accepted the gift with a nod and a quiet word of thanks, though her fingers trembled as they brushed the cool surface of the frame.

However, that reconciliation was not meant to endure, for Fëanor slowly changed. 

In the first years, he made certain that his greatest creation was not only present but displayed for all to see at every gathering of the Noldor. Sometimes the Silmarils adorned his brow in a diadem of exquisite design. Other times, he wore them as a necklace.

She could not deny the power of their beauty. The Prince himself seemed transformed when he wore them, his presence magnified, his words smarter, his demeanor more commanding. He was generous with his craft, that much she had to admit. In those early years, he had gifted exquisite creations freely, his works bringing joy and wonder to his kin.

But as the months bled into years and the years blended into decades, Artanis began to see how his grip on the Silmarils grew tighter and tighter. 

His pride began to sour into something harder, more possessive. She noticed it first in subtle ways - the way his hand lingered over the gems when he set them aside, the unease she felt she could glimpse in his eyes whenever someone dared to admire them a bit too closely.

And then, he began to withdraw entirely. 

His appearances at gatherings grew less frequent, his dazzling charm replaced by an undercurrent of suspicion. When he did attend, his words carried a harsher edge, his smile less ready. The Silmarils, which had once been a source of shared wonder, now seemed to act as a barrier between him and the rest of his kin.

It was Maglor who confirmed what she had begun to suspect. 

One evening, during a quieter moment, he had approached her, his usually serene face lined with concern. “He speaks of them constantly,” he confided in a low voice, his gaze darting to ensure they were not overheard. “Not just of their beauty or their light, but of how others covet them. He believes my uncles want to take them from him - first the Silmarils, then everything else.”

Artanis frowned, her chest tightening at the words. “What else does he think they want?”

Maglor hesitated, his expression darkening. “He speaks of their envy. He accuses them of plotting against him - of wanting his place as our father’s heir. Even... my mother.” His voice caught at the last, as though the very thought pained him to say aloud.

Her brows furrowed as she regarded him. “Do you think it's true?” she asked softly.

Maglor shook his head. “No. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he believes it. I’ve heard him, Artanis, speaking to himself in the forge when he thinks no one is listening. He whispers of betrayal, of treachery. He grows more cautious by the day. Even I can feel it.”

Artanis had seen the signs herself.

She had caught him watching Fingolfin once, his gaze devoid of affection but rather, calculating, though he said nothing. And even his words toward their father, King Finwë, had taken on a sharpness that had not been there before.

“It is the Silmarils,” she murmured, her tone heavy with the weight of the unease the situation evoked in her. “He has bound himself to them.”

Maglor nodded, deep in thought. “They are all he sees now. Even we, his children, seem like shadows beside their light.”

The conversation stayed with her long after Maglor had departed. 

As Artanis gazed at the mirror before her, tracing its intricate frame, she felt a pang of understanding. 

The desire to create, to shape something beautiful and enduring, was one she shared. 

But a  question hunted her, unresolved: was it possible to hold such beauty without being held by it in return?

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And then, the news of Men came.

They reached her as a ripple through the still waters of Valinor, spoken first in hushed voices among the loremasters of Tirion and then spreading to the wider courts of the Noldor. But locating the origin of the news was impossible.

The Valar, it was said, had hidden a truth from the Eldar: the coming of a Secondborn race, the Atani, Children of Ilúvatar who would follow the Eldar in the great design of his creation. 

The revelation stirred the Eldar deeply. 

Many among the Noldor received the news with wonder, marveling at the design of Eru, whose wisdom had shaped such contrasts between the races.For some, it was even a cause for joy - a new chapter in the unfolding song of creation, a testament to the beauty and diversity woven into Eru’s design. For many, though, it was troubling. 

The Secondborn were to awaken in Middle-earth, in lands the Eldar had been told were still untamed and wild, though some of the Elves still dwelt there. These beings, unlike the immortal Firstborn, would live brief but unbound lives, their fates not tied to the circles of the world.

Unlike the Elves, whose spirits were drawn to the Halls of Mandos upon death, Men would not linger in Arda. The Halls of Mandos, known as a place of waiting and reflection for the Eldar, were where Elves would reside until they were either given a new body or chose to remain in the peace of Mandos. For the Elves, this process was part of the great design, tying their existence eternally to the world of Arda.

But Men, it was said, would not follow their path. Their spirits would pass beyond the circles of the world, to a destiny unknown even to the Valar.

The Eldar, who had long believed themselves to be the favored children of Ilúvatar, now questioned their role.

If the Secondborn were to walk freely in Middle-earth, shaping the land to their will, what did that mean for the Firstborn, who remained bound to the light of Valinor? 

Whispers of doubt began to circulate.

Why had the Valar waited so long to share this knowledge? Why had the Eldar been brought to Aman, far from the lands where the destiny of Arda seemed to unfold?

Artanis listened to these whispers with evergrowing unease. 

She found herself torn between fascination and resentment, same as her peers. 

The idea of Men - their brief, unbound lives, their freedom to walk a world untouched by the perfection of her paradise - stirred a strange yearning in her heart that she could not suppress. She imagined Middle-earth as a canvas, waiting to be shaped by hands and wills, by dreams and ambitions. It was a vision that called to her, even as it troubled her.

Yet even for her with that vision came questions she could not escape. 

If the Secondborn were destined to inherit Middle-earth, what place was left for the Eldar? And for her? Were she to remain in Valinor, confined to this land of endless light, her life circumscribed by the will of the Valar? Had the immortality of the Eldar, once seen as a blessing, become a bond that tied them to a fate not entirely their own?

These thoughts unsettled her, although they were not entirely new. 

And so, while others debated the wisdom of the Valar and the mysteries of Men, Artanis found herself retreating into the depth of thoughts that felt like an unmovable thorn lodged in the back of her brain.

But she did not voice her doubts, nor did she join the murmurings of discontent that began to stir among her kin. And still, in the quiet of her mind, she wondered if those murmurs were right. If indeed the perfection of Valinor had begun to feel more like a cage. If the world beyond, untamed and unformed, could be where her true destiny lay.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Years passed, and the restlessness did not disappear. 

Why am I not enjoying my life in Tirion? 

It was a question that crept into her thoughts when she least expected it. She lived among beauty, surrounded by the love and affection of her kin and her family, under a light that never waned. Her days were filled with learning, crafting, and the pursuits that should have brought fulfillment. And still, the emptiness persisted.

Throughout the years, Artanis had watched her brother Finrod and Amarië, their bond steady and serene. Their connection seemed so effortless, woven from shared glances, quiet laughter, and a language that passed between them without words. It was a constant in her life, as reliable as the rhythm of time itself. At first, she felt it as something distant from her, something she could observe with appreciation but not envy. She had her heart, her plans, her desire to create, to learn, and to learn how to rule. She had no need for such a bond.

Then she began to notice things she hadn’t before. 

The quiet but palpable connections between others around her, the subtle gestures that spoke of something shared, something understood. And the way Amarië would lightly touch Finrod’s arm when he laughed, as though drawn to his joy. She began to perceive the way their gazes would meet, holding for just a moment longer than necessary, and the world around them seemed to fall away as they did.

It wasn’t just Finrod and Amarië. 

The court of Tirion was alive with such movements. Lovers exchanging glances across the celebrations, voices softening when directed toward a beloved. Even the way some of her cousins lingered in their words, their touches, hinted at a depth of connection that eluded her. Artanis, so often consumed by her own ambitions and the vastness of her dreams, found herself increasingly drawn to observe these fleeting interactions.

She began to wonder why she felt untouched by the warmth that seemed to flow so easily between others. 

Why, when she looked around and allowed herself to imagine such a connection for herself, did everything and everyone seem... dull ? 

The Noldor were brilliant and skilled, yes, but predictable. Their craft was exquisite, their words polished, but they lacked something she found herself craving. Even those who pursued her - for there were always some - seemed bound by a formality that felt more like duty than desire.

Artanis knew herself to be admired. But the admiration of others left her cold. She found herself longing for something she could not name. Something raw, something that burned, something that was alive.

Driven by curiosity, she sought answers in the halls of lore. 

She read of love, of the bonds that grew between the Eldar and the ways in which those bonds endured through the ages. She studied the songs that spoke of unions both blessed and tragic, of spirits entwined and the fulfillment found in such connection. She lingered over passages that spoke of the elven body, its capacity for sensation, and how it could serve as both a vessel and an expression of the spirit’s deepest longings.

The more she read, the more questions arose. 

Why did others feel so deeply, and she did not? Why did her heart remain untouched, her spirit without solace? 

The lore gave her understanding of what might be, but it did not give her the feeling itself.

And so, her curiosity turned inward. 

She began to wonder not just about love, but about herself. 

What was it that others felt when they spoke of connection? What was it that stirred their hearts and quickened their breath? 

She began to experiment, hesitantly at first. 

Among the Eldar, such matters were rarely spoken of, their culture one of reserve and propriety. Expressions of intimacy were woven into bonds of deep connection which were sacred and unspoken, far removed from the casual indulgence of sensation. To touch oneself, to explore one’s own body, felt like stepping into forbidden territory. A private act that stood apart from the solemnity and grace the Elves so highly valued.

For a time, Artanis wrestled with this conflict, her curiosity battling against the quiet voice of restraint instilled by her people, but eventually, she caved in.

Her fingers started to brush against her own skin, tracing the places where she knew she was sensitive: her wrists, her collarbone, the hollow of her neck. The warmth of touch was faint, but undeniable.

She told herself it was for understanding, a pursuit of knowledge as valid as her studies in the halls of lore. 

In time, her explorations became bolder. 

Alone in the quiet of her chamber, she let her hands travel further, discovering the ways in which her body responded, how her breath could catch and her heart could quicken in her chest. As her explorations deepened, she felt the undeniable pull of something more.

Not intellectual but primal, a stirring that came not from thought but from the sensation itself. Her fingers strayed further, testing, discovering, until her body responded in ways that both startled and fascinated her.

Now, on this evening, she sat alone on her bed, the fine linens cool against her skin. 

She wore a pale nightshift, the delicate fabric falling loosely over her form, its lightness allowing her to feel the soft warmth of her own body beneath.

Her hand rested lightly on the curve of her thigh, her fingers tracing idle patterns against the smooth expanse of skin just below the hem of her shift. As her hand found its mark between her legs, her breaths became shallow, and her chest rose and fell in a rhythm that matched its wandering movements. Her eyes were half-closed, her golden hair spilling across the pillows in waves, as she allowed herself to drift into that space where thought dissolved into sensation.

The world outside her chamber faded, irrelevant in this moment. 

Here, there was only her touch, the warmth it kindled within her, and the quiet hum of her own being seeking release. The pressure of her touch deepened, her breath hitching softly in her throat. The sensations she conjured were faint but growing, and she let herself follow them, her mind quieting with each passing moment.

But as she sank deeper into this private realm, something lingered at the edges of her awareness. 

Her gaze, almost unwilling, drifted toward the mirror on her desk, and for a fleeting moment, her eyes locked on the reflection within. 

She saw herself, her hair disheveled over her shoulders and framing her barely dressed body. The pale nightshift clung lightly to her, translucent and revealing in the soft light. Her lips, slightly parted and reddened by her explorations, drew her attention in a way that startled her.

That's when she saw something. 

The dark stone at its crown gleamed faintly, its blue hue seeming to pulse in time with her breaths. Her gaze remained on it, drawn by something she could not name, and for a moment, her hand stilled.

It is just a mirror , she told herself. But the thought did little to ease the tension coiling in her body. The reflection it offered seemed less like her own and more like a thing observed, captured in a frame that turned her private moment into something exposed.

She tore her gaze from it then, her breaths coming out shallow and quick. 

“An illusion,” she murmured to herself, her voice a faint tremor against the stillness of the room. But even as she turned away, the weight of the mirror’s presence bore down on her, refusing to relent.

Her fingers curled into her palm as she turned away, forcing her thoughts to scatter. 

But as the minutes passed, the feeling of unease grew stronger, pressing against her mind with a persistence that made her pulse quicken more but for all the wrong reasons. The warmth she had built within herself faded, replaced by a cold, creeping dread.

She turned back to the mirror, her gaze drawn irresistibly to the dark stone crowning its frame. Her hand trembled as she reached out, her fingers brushing the cool, glassy surface of the obsidian-like gem.

The moment her skin made contact, a jolt ran through her. She gasped, her breath catching in her throat as the world around her seemed to dim, her focus consumed by the blackness within.

And then she truly saw it. 

The blackness was not empty, not void. It was alive. 

She recognized it instantly, with a clarity that sent ice coursing through her veins. 

And then it came - the realization, cold and unrelenting. 

For a century, she had not seen Melkor.

But Melkor had seen her.

Chapter Text

That day was a fragment of time that would outlast the ages of the world.

Even when the One Ring had met its fate in the searing fires of Mount Doom, when the name Artanis had faded into legend and remained known only to the few living elves who still remembered it, and the shadow of evil had lessened and become a tale of prophecy and caution, her thoughts would still return to that day. 

It was a day that would divide the history of Eru’s creation, the kind of moment that fractures time into a before and an after. 

Peace, which had endured for countless ages beneath the watchful gaze of the Valar, was broken that day. Words became steel, silence became shouts, and the light of harmony dimmed under the shadow of a beautifully crafted blade.

Beautifully crafted things, in the end, proved to be the bane of the Eldars’ existence.

It was through beautifully crafted jewels that Melkor would one day cast aside the last shreds of his pretence, unleasing unspeakable evil upon the world and binding light itself to his dark ambitions.

It was through a beautifully crated blade that the unity among the Eldar of Valinor was severed in an instant, replaced by a distrust and a grief that would follow them for eternity. 

And it would be through beautifully crafted rings that Middle-earth would descent into an age of despair and brokenness.

Beauty and creation had shaped the fate of Arda, their splendor only matched by the ruin left in their wake. 

And that day, much was left in ruin.

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The square beneath the Mindon Eldaliéva was unusually silent, the expectant hush of the gathering broken only by the soft rustle of cloaks and the faint murmur of voices. The air was heavy, pregnant with a tension that seemed to seep from the very walls of the house of Finwë.

Artanis stood near the edge of the square with her brothers, her gaze fixed on the great doors of their grandfather’s home. The weight of the moment pressed upon her, a palpable force that matched the unease in her heart. Her mind raced with thoughts of the impending confrontation, the words that might be spoken within those hallowed halls.

Her father had ascended the steps moments ago, disappearing into the hall where King Finwë waited with his lords. But the unrest of the Noldor had spilled beyond the confines of that chamber. Whispers of rebellion, of betrayal, had drawn many others to the square, eager to see what might unfold. There was a sense of inevitability, a shared understanding that this day was different.

The unrest between her uncle and his half-brothers had simmered for years, but now it was reaching a boil. 

Artanis had seen the fractures deepen with every passing season, fueled by whispers that echoed through the halls of Tirion and beyond. Fëanor’s words had begun to openly speak of rebellion, of breaking free from what he called the “thralldom” of the Valar, and there were those among the Noldor who began to listen.

Her uncles had tried to temper his fury with reason, but their efforts seemed only to Fëanor's anger and confirm his fears. He viewed their every word as a challenge, every attempt at reconciliation as an insult. His mistrust of them had festered into open hostility, a wound that no balm could heal, that no embrace nor reassurance could contain.

Even King Finwë, strong as he was, could no longer bear the strain. The lines on his face had deepened with worry, and the light in his eyes seemed dimmed by the weight of his son's intransigence. He had tried to mediate, to bring peace to his divided house, but the rift had grown too wide, the discord too deep.

Artanis had seen the struggle in her grandfather’s eyes during their gatherings, the weariness etched into his once-unshakeable countenance. He had called this one in desperation, summoning his lords and kin to council in a final attempt to restore peace. The fragility of that hope was evident also to those, like herself, who stood standing on the edge of the square now but had been standing on the edge of the conflict for years.

Her thoughts drifted to Yavanna. 

Artanis had seen her in the Pastures not long ago, as she often did when looking for the pleasurable exhaustion of physical work. The Vala had been a constant presence in her adult life - solid as old earth, patient as the slow growth of her trees. There was something about Yavanna that soothed the troubled part of her soul, a part that seemed to emerge in full force when she was in Tirion.

But on that day, even Yavanna had shown signs of unease. 

Her gaze had lingered too long on the horizon, her hands moving absently over the petals of a great golden flower. When Artanis had approached, the Vala had spoken words that still echoed in her mind the topic.

“There is a discord in the hearts of the Noldor,” Yavanna had stated, the foreboding in her words unescapable. “You remember what I told you all those years ago, about the roots of the strongest trees?”

Artanis had felt the weight of those words, and though she did not feel vindicated in having her foreshadowing confirmed, she still felt a pang of frustration upon hearing them again.

Yavanna had turned to her, her usual amable expression replaced by an almost empty reflectiveness. “Your family stands at the edge of a precipice,” she had continued. “And even the tallest mountains crumble the hardest when the ground beneath them shifts.”

It was the first time Yavanna had spoken with such concern in all the years Artanis had known her. Until then, the Vala had always seemed untouched by the quarrels of the Noldor, her focus fixed on the enduring beauty of Aman. For her to express worry was no small thing, and it had left Artanis deeply unsettled.

Now, as she stood in the square, the memory of her words filled her with an even colder dread. 

She had seen the growing rift within her family, but she had hoped - perhaps foolishly - that it might yet be mended. Looking at the great doors of Finwë’s house, she wondered if even her grandfather’s authority could be enough to calm the tempest raging within.

The answer came in the form of doors swung open. Fëanor strode out, his face deformed into a mask of fury, his dark hair flowing like a banner behind him. 

At his side hung a sword, its hilt gleaming as if it, too, shared in his anger. 

The crowd murmured, their voices rising, but Artanis could only feel her chest tightening at the sight. There was something terrible in his expression, barely restrained, and her hands instinctively clenched at her sides.

Behind him came Fingolfin, his step slower, his face composed but pale. 

The two brothers, so different yet bound by blood, seemed like opposing forces - the flame of Fëanor’s fury against the steadfast stone of Fingolfin’s resolve. The atmosphere around them seemed to move differently, adapting to the weight of their dispute.

At the threshold, Fëanor turned sharply, blocking Fingolfin’s path. 

The square fell silent, the gathered Noldor straining to catch every word.

“See, half-brother!” Fëanor’s voice rang out, venomous. “ This is sharper than your tongue.” He drew his sword, the blade flashing in the light of the Trees, and set its point against Fingolfin’s chest. “Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of our father, and perhaps it will rid the Noldor of a would-be master of slaves.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. 

Artanis felt her breath stop, her heart pounding as she watched the confrontation unfold. Her brothers stirred beside her, their faces equally reflecting their shock and anger, but they did not move. 

No one did. 

The weight of Fëanor’s words, his blade poised to strike, seemed to freeze the square in place.

Fingolfin stood motionless, his eyes locked with Fëanor’s. There was no fear in his gaze, no anger - only an age-deep sadness that seemed to reach beyond the moment, to see the curse that had already begun to fall over their people.

He said nothing. Slowly, he stepped back from him with a few resolute steps. 

While Fëanor did not lower his blade, he made no move to stop him. Fingolfin turned, descending the steps with all the grace he could muster, and walked through the gathered host. The gathered Elves parted before him, the crowd stepping aside, all their eyes wide.

Artanis watched him go equally silent, her own heart heavy. Her uncle’s silence carried a gravity that no words could match, a quiet declaration against his brother’s fury. Fingolfin would not be drawn into Fëanor’s madness.

Yet the damage had been done. The rift between them was now laid bare for all to see.

Among the Eldar, to draw a blade against one’s kin was not merely a breach of decorum - it was an act of profound dishonor. A crime. For all their years in Aman, such violence had no place in their history.

But on this day, Fëanor had shattered that unspoken law, crossing a line that none had dared approach before. To draw steel against Fingolfin was not merely an affront to his brother: it was a scar upon the very fabric of their people.

And in that moment, as the cruel sound of the blade being drawn rang out out like a war horn, Artanis thought she could feel something sacred unravel. It was as though the very air around her had changed, a fragile spell - woven through centuries of harmony and shared purpose - had shattered in an instant. 

The peace that had long shielded her kin, an unspoken bond stronger than any stone, was broken. She knew then, with a clarity that sent a chill through her, that the world as she had known it would never be the same.  

This was not simply a quarrel between brothers anymore - it was the first crack in a foundation that had seemed unshakable, the resounding sound of a great tree cracking down on itself, its mighty trunk splintering as it failed to stand tall on its own roots. 

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The journey back home was unusually quiet, save for the murmur of her brothers’ voices.

Aegnor and Angrod walked ahead, their steps brisk and their conversation urgent, while Finrod kept pace beside Artanis, his expression clouded with worry. The events in the square had left them shaken, their usual lighthearted banter replaced by hushed debate.

“It’s only a matter of time before the Valar step in,” Angrod declared, his tone clipped. “They can’t ignore this - not after what Fëanor did.”

“And what will they do?” Aegnor countered, his voice edged with frustration. “Summon him to the Máhanaxar for judgment? Do you think he’ll submit? He’s gone too far to turn back now.”

“Too far for what?” Finrod interjected, his voice quieter but no less firm. “To mend what he’s broken? Perhaps. But Fëanor isn’t blind, he must see what’s at stake.”

“Does he?” Angrod snapped. “I saw no reason in his eyes today”

Their words blurred in Artanis’s ears as her gaze remained fixed on the path ahead. 

The rhythmic sound of their steps should have been grounding, but her mind was a tempest. The image of Fëanor, his blade gleaming against her other uncle's chest, played over and over, an unshakable vision that seemed burned into her memory. It reminded her of the last day in its old forge, when he had cornered her. 

She wondered the same as Angrod.

Would the Valar intervene now? 

They had watched for so long, unmoving. Did they feel the fragile threads of harmony fray and snap?

Her brothers’ voices rose and fell, their debate moving between anger and hope, but she remained silent, the weight of the day pressing against her chest. Fëanor had crossed a line, but where that line lead was uncertain. 

“Artanis,” Finrod’s voice cut through her thoughts, pulling her back to the present. She glanced at him, startled by the concern in his eyes. “What do you think?”

For a moment, she hesitated.

Then she decided to speak, her voice softer than she intended. “I think... the world changed today. And I’m not sure even the Valar can stop what comes next.”

Her brothers fell silent, their steps slowing as they exchanged uneasy glances at seeing their sister finally at loss for words. The path home stretched before them, seemingly endless in their common concern.

When they finally entered their house, it was as if the weight of the day had worn them down physically as well as mentally.  The usual comforts of the hearth and table held no appeal: none of the three brothers even glanced at the meal that had been set for them. Instead, they all drifted in different directions, each seeking solace in their own way.

Aegnor, his emotions often as fiery as his name, paced the length of the great hall, every movement restless and agitated. His hand brushed the hilt of his blade as though the act might steady him.

Angrod, ever more measured but no less intense, retreated to the library. She imagined him passing his hands as he often did over the rows of books, looking for a comfort in their familiar spines that would not come for him tonight. 

Finrod moved toward the garden, his hand resting on the bark of a tree, as if to draw strength from the living things around him.

Artanis, however, sought no distraction. She sought rest .

She climbed the familiar stairs to her room, her steps heavy with exhaustion. 

The weight she carried in her chest seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment. When she finally reached her chambers, she closed the door quietly behind her, leaning against it for a moment as if the simple barrier could shut out the world.

She glanced toward her mirror, its front turned towards the light seeping from the window in a small form of mockery on her side. Nonetheless, her jaw tightened at the sight of it. 

She reached up, fingers working through the familiar rhythm of loosening her braid. The simple act of undoing the strands offered a small comfort, a ritual to ease the weight of the day. As she slipped into a light blue nightgown, its silky embrace against her skin seemed to cradle her, although even its comfort could not fully soothe her.

Turning away, she moved to her bed. Sleep did not come easily, and when it did, it was not the refuge she had hoped for. Instead, her dreams were fragments of what was and what might yet be.

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She could not say how much time had passed, though the dimmed light of the Trees outside her window told her that the day had just slipped into evening. Artanis remained in her bed, unmoving, pinned there by her own thoughts.

But as the stillness stretched on, it became unbearable to sit in them. 

The silence had become oppressive. 

At last, she gathered enough willpower to leave the sanctuary of her bed. Pulling on a loose robe over her nightgown, she stepped into the hallway, the soft fabric trailing behind her. The quiet of the house was almost eerie, the usual hum of life replaced by a palpable tension. 

She needed to find her father. She needed to know what had transpired after the confrontation - what decisions, if any, had been made.

As she descended the stairs, her thoughts raced ahead of her steps. Reaching the bottom, she turned right into a dimly lit corridor, the soft glow of the lanterns casting long shadows along the intricately carved walls of her family’s palace. 

Suddenly, a sharp grip closed around her arm, pulling her with unrelenting force and pinning her against the cold stone wall.

The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, the surface pressing against her back and her bent arm, holding her in place. For a moment, the air seemed to shift, the familiar stillness of the palace giving way to something suffocating, something alive.

From the shadows, he emerged - not stepping into the light but forming out of the darkness itself. His presence filled the space instantly, commanding it, consuming it.

The first thing Artanis noticed was his smile.

It was not one of those he wore to feign mortal charm, an attempt to make others forget he was a God. No, this was a real smile, wide and warmed by the parody of an emotion that twisted his expression into something grotesque.

He loomed over her in such a way that, though she was tall, Artanis could see nothing beyond his shoulders. It was as if his black hair had become curtains, blotting out her peripheral vision, her sense of space. For a moment, she wondered if she was still in the corridor at all, the rough surface of the wall behind her the only anchor that allowed her to distinguish reality from vision.

The hand that wasn’t holding her arm pinned behind her back rested lightly on her waist, above her robe. It appeared to exert no pressure, yet Artanis knew perfectly well that even that faint contact was enough to keep her in place. If she focused, she could feel the heat seeping through the layers of her robe.

Her first instinct was to open her mouth and scream, but before a sound could escape, she felt it snap shut again - not by her own will but as though she had suddenly lost the ability to make a sound.

Melkor shook his head slowly, leaning in just enough for his breath to graze her ear. “That would be unwise,” he threatened, before returning control of her voice to her.

Although Artanis needed no proof of her absolute powerlessness against the will of a Valar, having such tangible evidence transformed her initial fear into something burning with frustration and anger. She tried to push him away, futilely, as though to prove to herself - and to him - that she would not surrender without a fight. But the truth was that it was not merely his strength or his hand that held her in place, but the sheer weight of his will, an immovable, otherworldly force against which none of her resistance could prevail.

For years, Artanis had feared him, yes, but it was a fear tempered by the knowledge that there was a red line Melkor dared not cross without losing his position in Valinor. She had long ago accepted that his penance was nothing more than a ruse, a calculated ploy to escape the confines of Mandos, but she also knew that his freedom came at a price: restraint, a discipline he was compelled to maintain.

But today was different.

He had invaded her home.

This was a place Artanis had always considered inviolated, a sanctuary where not even the shadow of Melkor had dared to tread - or at least, not in physical form. He had crossed the threshold of a place she had believed beyond his reach.

Whatever urgency drove him now must have been far greater than anything she had ever imagined. That red line had been crossed.

“I haven’t seen you in years,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, rough from the effort it took to find it through her shock. “And you have never dared to set foot here before. What compels you to do so now?”

Melkor lowered his face to meet her gaze, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. “Desperate times,” he murmured, his voice a low, seductive hum. “Desperate measures. Though...” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her cheek. “That’s not entirely true, is it? As we both know, Artanis, I’ve seen far more of this place - and of you - than you might wish to admit.”

The weight of his words slithered into her mind, their implications unmistakable. Her breath hitched, her initial fear simmering into indignation. She opened her mouth to retort, but his hand rose swiftly, and a single finger brushed lightly against her lips, silencing her with unsettling ease.

“ Shh , now,” he said softly, his tone dripping with condescension. “There isn’t time for games, though you know how much I enjoy them. Almost as much as I’ve enjoyed watching you. Tell me, Artanis - have you thought of me often before today?”

“No,” she spat, forcing the word out with venom, as though it might drive him away.

The mocking smile that played on his lips told her he was savoring her reaction, his amusement plain to see.

“Lying doesn’t suit you, little flame,” he said, his tone mimicking disappointment. “But I’ll allow it.” He paused for a moment, tilting his head slightly in feigned curiosity before adding, “Although, I can’t help but wonder... Were you thinking of me during those nights, with your hand sliding down your-”

Her slap came before she even realized she’d raised her hand.

The slap broke the silence like the crack of a snapping branch, the sound reverberating in the stillness of the corridor.

Pain jolted up her arm as her palm connected with his cheek, as though she had struck a marble statue. Melkor's head moved slightly to the side - not as much as that of a mere Elf would have under such fury - but his perfect lip had nonetheless split under the force of the blow, and a single drop of black blood appeared along his pale skin, stark against its eerie perfection.

For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the sound of Artanis’s breathing.

Slowly, Melkor turned his gaze back to her, his expression unreadable. The faint smear of black blood on his lips might have been satisfying, had it not been for the way he reacted. He did not lash out, nor snarl, nor rage. Instead, Melkor straightened with intentional slowness, brushing his fingers over his lip and inspecting the blood like an artist admiring an unexpected stroke of genius.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, so quietly that Artanis wondered if he even realized he’d spoken aloud. When he lifted his face again, unfortunately, all she saw in his expression was genuine amusement.

He stepped closer, though the movement was so subtle it felt as though the air itself had carried him forward, shrinking a distance she hadn’t realized she’d managed to create.

“You always find ways to surprise me,” he said lightly, his tone almost conversational.

His smile was now just short of a sneer, an expression of quiet satisfaction that only fueled her irritation further. Artanis did not know if Melkor could truly feel joy, but the imitation before her was convincing enough to make her blood boil.

Slowly, he raised the hand stained with his own blood, letting it settle against her cheek. The gesture, though feigning tenderness, was clearly intended to hold her in place, to keep her from escaping the intensity of his gaze.

He sighed, the sound carrying a strange, pensive edge. “Oh, I will miss you, that much is certain,” he purred, his voice laced with a peculiar note of melancholy. “You’ve been a delightful distraction from my work here.”

For a moment, Artanis forced herself to push past the fury coursing through her veins. 

She focused on her breathing, willing herself to think clearly despite the overwhelming sense of entrapment. If she could keep her composure, perhaps she could glean something from the Valar’s strange fascination with her - something she could use to help her people.

She narrowed her eyes slightly, forcing herself to meet his gaze with equal intensity. “What work?” she asked, her tone calmer now, as though they were conversing at a banquet and not in the oppressive shadows of a stone corridor.

“Come now, Artanis,” he replied, unable to contain his condescension. “You’ve always been the clever one. You know what work.”

Her stomach tightened as the weight of his words pressed against her, but she refused to waver. “Don’t hide behind your riddles,” she ordered firmly despite the turmoil within her. “Speak plainly.”

“You’ve known for a long time,” he observed, his hand sliding from her cheek to her shoulder, as if granting her permission to look away, to reflect on what he was about to reveal. “Who do you think has been whispering into your uncle’s ears all this time? Who do you think nurtured his ambition, stoked his paranoia, and tended to the fire of his convictions?”

Each word he added made her feel more powerless, as though she were paralyzed - not just in body but in spirit. She wanted to move, to run to her father, even to Manwë himself, but her feet might as well have been rooted in the stone. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but her mind raced to process the implications of what he was saying.

“Who do you think shared the knowledge of Men with your kin?” he continued, his tone softening into something almost reverent. “Do you think Fëanor, for all his brilliance, could have conceived all this on his own? Even that mirror of yours...”

Artanis’s body stiffened visibly at the mention of that loathsome object, the reaction enough to halt his words for a brief moment. Perhaps he was too tempted by the humiliation he knew he had inflicted on her to let the opportunity pass.

“A marvel of craftsmanship, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked, the false civility of his voice unbearable. “It suited you well, my lady, though perhaps not as well as it suited me. But even then, Fëanor forged beauty without truly understanding its potential. How could he have known the subtle purposes to which it might be turned?”

Artanis drew in a sharp breath, her body bracing- not in fear but in preparation, like the breath one takes before a leap or a plunge. Anger coursed through her veins, a burning fury ignited by the realization that, despite having been right about him all along, she had failed.

Her unwavering faith in the Valar had blinded her to pursuing the possibility that it could be Melkor himself who was directly responsible for all the suffering of her kin.

For a fleeting second, she feared that the searing rage within her might consume her from the inside out.

“You-“ she began, but he interrupted her, his voice rising with dark authority as his grip on her arm tightened. She could feel the pressure intensify to the point where her skin prickled with a numbing sensation beneath his fingers.

“Yes, me ,” he declared, his eyes blazing with pride and the raw satisfaction of someone finally free to voice a long-held truth. “Every shadow that has passed over this realm, every doubt that has taken root in the hearts of your kin, every word that has fanned the flames of this rebellion - it all leads back to me . And you, my perceptive little Elf, have seen it all without truly realizing. Until now.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears, the rush of blood nearly drowning out his words.

I cannot give in to this rage, this... fury. I must know more .

“And for what?” she forced herself to ask, her voice steely despite the tempest raging within. “To what end, Melkor?”

“For this,” he said with unrestrained pride, gesturing to the shadows around him as if they were a grand spectacle only he could see. “For the moment when all the pieces fall into place and the tapestry I have woven reveals its true shape. You, the so-called Firstborn, always so certain of your place in creation... Blind in your pride, fragile in your peace, yet daring to think yourselves the heirs of Arda..”

"But I will remind you, Artanis, and all your kin, of what you have forgotten. Your harmony is a lie, your peace a fleeting dream. And when it is torn away, you will know what it means to tremble in the shadow of my will.”

The realization hit her like icy water quenching the flames of her anger. 

Her breath caught, the defiance in her chest wavering against the enormity of his words.

She forced herself to meet his gaze, her body rigid as she steadied her voice. “You’re leaving,” she exclaimed - not a question, but a statement, piecing together the final fragment of his plan. “Why now?”

He seemed satisfied in seeing her grasp the meaning of what he was confessing to her. “Why now?” he echoed, confirming her worst fears. “Because, my dear Artanis, while we stand here exchanging pleasantries, the Valar have your uncle under their grasp. Even now, Fëanor stands before them, his fire subdued, his words interrogated, his Silmarils likely the focus of their scrutiny.”

Her breath grew shallow, her chest tightening as her instincts screamed at her to react, to act, to do something . Yet the longer he spoke, the more distant his voice seemed, drowned out by the sound of her own pulse, now quick and unsteady.

She was right.

Melkor no longer feared the red line she had once thought would restrain him, for that line was already being erased. He was no longer bound by anything, not his sharade, not the Valar, not Eru himself.

"It won’t take long,” he continued, interrupting her spiralling, his tone softening into something almost contemplative. "Not long before they begin to see the pattern, the hand that guided his ambition, fed his doubts, and played upon his fears. It won’t take long for them to piece it together."

He paused, as if weighing his next words. "And when they do, their wrath will turn toward me."

His hand moved under her chin, lifting her face as though noticing how she had retreated into herself. He forced her to meet his gaze again. "You know how they are, your precious Valar," he murmured, his voice laced with venom at the mention of his brothers and sisters. "They’ll clutch their pearls and their oaths, scrambling to preserve the fragile little peace they’ve built here. And when they realize whose design it truly was..."

He leaned in suddenly, his voice dropping to a low, menacing whisper, sending a shiver down her spine. "...let’s just say I have no desire to feel those cumbersome chains around my neck again anytime soon, little flame."

Her stomach churned at his words, at the unrelenting certainty in his tone.

Melkor allowed her a few moments to absorb the weight of his revelation, watching her intently, as though he could see the gears of her mind processing the implications, unraveling the threads of his plot.

Her jaw tightened but her voice betrayed little despite the rapid pounding of her heart. "And where are you going, that you think you can escape them?"

She hadn’t even noticed when his hand moved to brush her hair, so featherlight was his touch. It almost felt as if he lacked any physical presence at all. "Ah, still so curious," he commented with a low chuckle that rumbled from his chest. Then he rested his forehead against hers in what could only be described as a parody of a Noldor gesture of affection. "No matter how much time passes, you can’t help but worry about me, can you?"

"Answer my question!" she snapped, her voice rising as she pushed him back with her free arm, anger burning in her gaze.

He met her fury in kind, his grip tightening on her hair as his shadow grew larger, enveloping her.

"Far beyond this gilded cage," he growled with contempt. "Beyond the reach of your kin and their moralistic guardians." He didn’t allow her to hold the space she had managed to carve between them. He moved closer again, his ever-present smirk unwavering, a picture of smug satisfaction. "You speak of escape, Artanis. No, this is not an escape. This is a beginning."

Though his eyes remained locked on hers, when he spoke next it was clear he was no longer truly seeing her. His gaze looked through her, beyond her and this world, as though sifting through a vision invisible to her.

"A world slumbers. Its breath stilled, its bones yearning for my hand to awaken it. It has always been mine. It knows me, feels me. Even now, it calls for me to return."

His hand released her hair, drifting beside her head as if plucking the notes of an invisible instrument. "I will finish what I began so many centuries ago and remake it at last in my image, as it was always meant to be."

Artanis saw his focus return to the present after a brief moment of silence, his black eyes piercing through hers again.

"They cannot stop what I am," and his voice was now softer, almost wistful. "This world was never for me. But out there..." He sighed, his expression shifting as though he were savoring the very idea. "...out there lies a domain worthy of my power. A place where even the stars will bow."

She forced herself to continue her questioning. "Why tell me this?" she pressed, "What do you gain by letting me know?"

He rolled his eyes in exaggerated exasperation before replying. "Ah, little flame, must everything be a scheme to you? Perhaps I simply couldn’t resist the chance to see the fire in your eyes one last time before I go."

Her stomach churned, the intimacy of his words cutting deeper than his mockery ever could. His presence, so close, blurred the lines between fury and the unwelcome pull of his magnetism.

“And yet,” Artanis said with a carefully measured coldness, “you linger here long enough to suggest you aren’t as eager to leave as you claim.”

For a brief moment, his smirk faltered, replaced by something she could not name, a flicker of shadow across his expression.

But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a vacant and cruel look. “Perhaps,” he conceded, his tone incongruously sweet against the iciness of his expression, stepping back just enough to give her a sliver of space, as though to observe her fully. “Or perhaps I simply enjoy watching you try to untangle my truths from my lies, knowing full well that no matter how fast your mind races to outwit me, there’s nothing you can do.”

“That’s what you think,” she snapped back, the edge in her voice a reflex against the sting of his words. Her defiance elicited a mocking laugh from him, one that, despite her efforts, wounded her pride.

“You’ll savor tomorrow, won’t you?” he continued, his tone smooth and dripping with derision. “Marching toward Eönwë, that fire blazing in your eyes, demanding, accusing. ‘I warned you, I warned you all those years ago.’” 

The weight of his words hung heavily between them as he allowed the moment to stretch, savoring the tension. 

“And when he listens - oh yes, this time he will listen - you’ll taste the bitter irony, won’t you? That it took ruin and rebellion for your wisdom to find ears willing to hear it. All those years ago, when it was only your pitiful voice, they dismissed you. And now, when the damage is done, when the shadow has spread, they’ll finally look at you.”

His voice softened into something resembling tenderness as he leaned in. “Will you feel vindicated, Artanis? Knowing that they believe you now only because it’s too late to stop what I’ve set in motion?”

Artanis refused to flinch under the weight of his words, refused to let him see the doubt they sought to awaken. She lowered her gaze briefly, retreating from the intensity of his scrutiny.

“If they listen,” she declared through gritted teeth, “it will be to stop you.”

At this, he let out a genuine laugh, rich with amusement, before responding. “Ah, but little Elf. They will stop only what they can see. What I’ve left for them to fight. They’ll never understand the depth of the poison I’ve sown. They’ll forever chase the shadow, blind to the design of the hand that cast it.”

The weight of his words bore down on her, and Artanis felt her strength begin to falter.

Suddenly, it was too much - too much despair in the defeat his words evoked, too much anger at having witnessed all this unfold without being able to prevent it, and too much terror at the cost she might pay to learn more of his plans.

Would he kill her?

No one had ever died in Valinor. And yet, she knew, with a chilling certainty, that she could die. It was a thought she had never been forced to entertain until now.

“I know you wonder what happened the last time you saw me,” Melkor interrupted, once again cutting through the spiral of her thoughts. His voice was a velvet whisper, weaving itself into her consciousness. “I’ve seen it - the constant struggle to piece it together, to recall what I said to you, what transpired in that meeting.”

“You erased it, didn’t you?” she accused, finding strength in her indignation to confront him again. “Even if my mind cannot recall it, my soul carries the weight of that encounter. It is a wound I cannot name, yet it aches as though it were fresh.”

Once again, this seemed only to fuel the satisfaction etched across his features. 

His movements were so fluid they seemed like an extension of the air itself, and before she realized it, he was close against her body without her having seen him move.

“You give your soul too little credit.” His hand brushed again against her hair, as if offering consolation. “It remembers, yes, even if your mind cannot. But do you truly believe the pain you feel is mine alone?”

His touch shifted, trailing along the line of her neck, across her shoulders, and down her arms - a deliberate distraction she fought not to succumb to. She clenched her jaw so tightly she felt the impact of her teeth grinding together, and she struggled to keep her eyes open. His touch was like a poison, crafted to weaken her senses, and she fought with every ounce of strength she possessed not to yield to the temptation of surrender.

“Perhaps,” he continued, almost indulgent, “I erased your memory not to harm you, but to spare you. From yourself. To cleanse your conscience of the burden of what you said and did in that room. Some weights are better forgotten, wouldn’t you agree?”

Artanis shook her head sharply, refusing even to entertain the possibility that his words might hold a grain of truth. “You speak of sparing me as though you know anything of kindness. But the void you left in my mind speaks louder than your words. Whatever I said, whatever I did, the stain lies on you - otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

“I am here precisely because I bear that stain,” he replied to her surprise. His voice curled around her like silk. His hand, steady on her waist, pressed just enough to remind her that her escape was not her own to decide. “I am here to offer you a place by my side.”

At those words, Artanis’s breath stopped entirely.

The air between them, already thick, became suffocating in an instant, laden with the unspoken implications of his invitation. It was as though she had been struck in the stomach, the force knocking the air from her lungs, leaving her struggling to recover. Melkor’s gaze lingered on her, expressionless and unblinking, as though daring her to deny him.

Artanis’s free hand, which had been resting against the wall, clenched into a fist. The tension in her body was so severe that even the act of blinking felt like a monumental effort.

“I see it in you, little flame,” he continued, his tone sweet, like a spell being woven around her. “That hunger you try to bury beneath your golden veneer. You’ve always longed for more . More than these lands, more than their dull, shallow peace. You’ve grown tired of this place, of these people - haven’t you?”

His shadow swallowed what little space remained between them.

The hand at her waist now bore real weight, its presence undeniable as he moved it toward the knot of her robe. "I know your dreams, Artanis," he said, loosening the knot with an unhurried grace that made the act feel almost ceremonial. "You dream of walking untamed lands, of carving your name into the very fabric of the world. You dream of power - not borrowed, not shared, but yours. True power."

He paused, and his eyes drifted down her form, the thin fabric of her nightgown doing little to obscure her. It lingered not with admiration but with the weight of possession. "You want to be revered," he murmured next, his hand sliding almost imperceptibly beneath the robe and toward the small of her back. "As Varda herself is. To be more than a golden light in the background. To command, to shape, to rule as you see fit."

His hand moved lower still, his fingers light as feathers. The touch was maddeningly subtle, yet it sent a rush of heat coursing through her blood, her body reacting against her will.

"And you want to be desired ," he said, his voice softening, its edges like velvet. "Not merely admired from afar. Not worshipped with cold, distant regard but craved - hungered for." 

He tilted his head just enough for his whispers to crash against the sensitive space of her neck, his breath warm against her.

"I could give you everything , Artanis. Everything your heart desires could be yours. If you follow me now, I would remake you. You would be more than they could ever imagine. More than they could ever hope to be."

Her chest rose and fell, brushing against his as her breath quickened despite herself. His words, his voice, were a honeyed poison, seeping into her veins and numbing her reason.

"I could give you everything," he repeated, his tone still inviting, but beneath she could sense the sharp edge of a trap. "If you follow me now, everything your heart has ever longed for could be yours. Power, reverence, freedom... fulfilled desires."

His lips brushed against the curve of her neck now, and for the briefest of moments, she considered it.

His words wrapped around her like the tendrils of a poisonous flower, the sweetness of his voice masking the thorns beneath. It was intoxicating, a heady, spiced wine coursing through her veins, tempting her, drawing her into the shadow he carried like a mantle.

For a single heartbeat, Artanis allowed herself to hesitate.

One moment in which her vanity reveled in the offer of a god. One moment in which her pride swelled at the thought of being seen - not for what she was, but for what she could become. One moment in which she imagined herself as a freer, more powerful version of herself, capable of anything.

For a fleeting instant, her world narrowed to his voice, his presence, the intoxicating pull of his promises. His words were not mere temptation: they were a vision, rich and vivid, of what she could become. It was the kind of vision that shattered resistance, the kind that consumed lesser wills.

But she was not lesser.

That thought, as strong as a wave crashing against a cliff, swept her mind clean. Her thoughts recoiled from the temptation with sudden clarity. So she pressed her hand against his chest - a firm but controlled push - as she steadied herself.

“You’re wrong,” she replied, her voice steady now, each word weighted with an unshakable resolve, cutting through the haze like a blade drawn for battle. “What I seek - what I dream of - lies far beyond your reach. It cannot be twisted or stolen, and it will never bear your mark.”

For the briefest moment, his expression shifted, the smugness in his eyes flickering into something closer to irritation, or perhaps disbelief, before hardening into a razor-edged menace.

“Ah, but you’re lying to yourself,” he murmured, his hand hovering close to her as though the space between them was already his to command. His fingers curled slightly, taunting, as if savoring a forbidden thought. “You fear what you could become if you dared to let go of their fragile, suffocating rules. Imagine it, Artanis - unbound, unrestrained, your true self. I could create-”

“You are incapable of creating anything new,” she shot back, unwilling to yield to his empty promises. “All you can do is corrupt what already exists, twisting it into a mockery of what it was meant to be.”

Her words seemed to strike him like a physical blow. 

His eyes widened, the mocking smile vanishing for the first time as his expression darkened into something far more dangerous. His hand stilled, then clenched painfully around her arm, the sudden pressure forcing a sharp gasp from her lips. For a moment, the corridor felt as though it would collapse under the weight of his fury.

“You dare ?” he hissed, his voice a low, seething tremor, laced with an anger so primal it seemed to ripple through the space like the aftermath of an earthquake. “You think I'm incapable of creation? You think I, the mightiest among the Ainur, am bound by any limit?”

The full force of his presence pressed down on her now, and for a moment, she felt as though the very fabric of the world shifted under his weight, fragile and ready to break.“I am Melkor ,” he proclaimed, his voice resonating with the weight of ages. “The first, the mightiest. The songs of the Ainur were shaped by my will. Creation bends to me, Artanis. I do not twist - I remake. And when this world is mine, you will see what true creation looks like.”

Her breath caught, her pulse hammering in her ears, but she refused to falter. “Then show me something new,” she challenged, “Because all I see is a shadow of what you once were.”

A single, excruciating heartbeat passed. 

She braced herself, muscles coiled, ready for the inevitable retaliation, prepared for his wrath to erupt in some terrible, final act of violence.

But then his expression twisted into something colder, his smile devoid of warmth and heavy with cruel satisfaction, a promise of torment rather than forgiveness.

“You will regret those words,” he proclaimed as if speaking of a prophecy already etched into the fabric of fate.“When the light you cling to falters and dies, and you stand amidst the ruins of all you hold dear, you will remember this moment. You will remember that I offered you eternity, and you chose ashes.”

Without warning, he stepped back, his presence retreating like a receding tide, leaving a hollow ache in the air where his shadow had loomed. His grip on her arm loosened and fell away, but his voice lingered, wrapping around her like an invisible chain.

“But no matter,” and his tone now distant, as though speaking from a place just beyond reach. “You will see me again, aistanaurë . Whether you wish it or not, you will see me again.”

And with that, he vanished, his form dissolving into the shadows, leaving the corridor colder and darker, as though the very stone walls had consumed him. 

Artanis stood trembling, her back pressed against the stone, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

Her mind raced, not to understand, but to contain the sheer magnitude of what had just occurred - the violation, the threat, and the terrifying certainty that his words were not mere boasts but omens of what was to come.

She glanced down at her arm, where the faint, unmistakable bruise was already forming - a cruel brand of his dominion, searing not just her flesh but the edges of her resolve. It was more than a mark: it was a promise, a reminder that Melkor had bound her to his shadow in ways she had yet to comprehend.

For the first time in her life, Artanis felt doom - a weight unlike anything she had ever known in the undying lands of Valinor. And she knew that, for all the ages to come, this day would haunt her.

Chapter Text

In Artanis’ memories, the hours that followed that fateful night were a blur - distinct moments that she could recall with painful clarity if she focused, yet impossible to place precisely on the timeline of her grief and fury.

An age later, recounting this story to her husband, Artanis would sigh and sink into a chair, hands covering her eyes as though the pressure could bring the details into sharper focus.

Those hours remained vivid, yet indistinct; the emotions lingered if she paid them mind, as if she were living them anew. But they were also confused, for the wound that had suddenly been ripped open in the hearts of the Eldar and even the Valar seemed to pulse and warp everything it touched.

--------------------------

The first emotion she recalled feeling was rage.

That evening, after her encounter with Melkor, Artanis had gathered her strength and made her way to the dining hall, from where her brothers’ voices reached her ears.

She hadn’t looked at herself in a mirror, but she knew that what had transpired was written plainly on her face. Aegnor confirmed as much when he rushed to her the instant she stepped into the room, his expression shifting from concern to alarm. When she began speaking, her brothers listened to her story in stunned silence, disbelief and humiliation shadowing their faces. Melkor had been in their house, had touched their sister, had spied upon her, had tried to humiliate her and seduce her into leaving – and that affront to her honor seemed to wound them as deeply as the enormity of his betrayal against the Valar.

Finrod had gone pale, his usual composure shattered, the vastness of his grief barely contained. Aegnor, though he said little, had clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white, as though he might strike Melkor himself were the Dark One to appear before them. Angrod, lips pressed into a thin line, had left at once to find their father, the tension in his shoulders betraying his unease. 

But Artanis was not sad, nor was she afraid.

Artanis was furious.

Furious at her own blindness, for having failed to grasp the depth of Melkor’s deceit despite having glimpsed more of his true nature than most. Furious at the Valar for refusing to listen to her warnings, now that they were proven funded. Furious, though she loathed to admit it, at herself – for she thought there had to be something broken, something inherently wrong with her to have drawn the attention of so vile a creature.

Perhaps this had been his intention all along: not to convince her to join him, but to break her spirit, to twist her resolve into a snare, like a slow-poisoned arrow buried in the flesh, hidden yet burning, sapping her strength and warping her clarity. A festering wound, yes, but one that bled into every corner of her being, as though he had crafted it so precisely that she would carry it forever. Her honor defiled, her warnings unheard, and the certainty of her righteousness now tainted with questions: was this her fault? Was it she who had drawn his malice, she who had allowed him to linger too close, too long?

And with these thoughts, her rage grew sharper, like a dagger she was both wielding and impaling herself upon.

And at the bottom of it all, the small yet powerful fact that the Valar should have known. They, who sat in their eternal halls, wise beyond reckoning, had overlooked all of this. That failure, more than anything, for it meant that this pain could have been prevented, this wound never inflicted.

--------------------------

The second emotion was weariness.

Artanis remembered mounting her horse alongside her father and brothers, setting off toward the Máhanaxar in hopes of reaching the Valar in time.

Melkor had told her that Fëanor was already under interrogation the previous night, but Artanis knew well that any judgment passed by the Valar would not be through osanwë alone - they would summon Fëanor in person to the Ring of Doom. Under normal conditions, the journey would take at least three days of steady riding. Assuming that her uncle had set out the night before, when the trumpet sounded, he had perhaps half a day’s advantage over Artanis and her family.

Their fastest horses allowed only one brief stop, in a small village built along the road for pilgrims bound for Valmar. Even then, Artanis’ stomach was clenched too tightly to eat, and her body ached under the weight of everything that had come to pass. She stayed awake while others rested, turning over her thoughts as though rehearsing a speech - or a confession.

She had done nothing wrong.

The more she revisited the events of the last two centuries, the less sense it all made.

It was true, of course, that when she first spoke to Melkor, she had been impudent, brash in her youth and idealism. She had stood against him, shielding a young Elf from Melkor’s misdirected wrath. Even then, her heart had made her wary of him, though she could not have said why.

It was not that Artanis disbelieved in redemption. On the contrary, she understood it to be possible - but only at great cost. Redemption required a price, a real sacrifice, something that could bring even a fraction of restitution to the world. And liberty - the liberty taken from Melkor for nearly three ages - was not enough. It was not real. She had seen no intent to heal in him, not even at the height of his masquerade.

Yes, she had antagonized him.

Perhaps unlike others, she had refused him the deference so often offered to the Valar, refused to lower her head before him. But that did not mean she had encouraged his attention. Nothing she had done could justify what he had become, nor his audacity in seeking her out. And yet, as she scoured her memory of that fateful day when Fëanor unveiled those accursed gems, she found nothing but gaps and questions. Doubt clawed at her heart, but deep in her soul she knew - she had done nothing shameful.

Her heart was pure. Perhaps too pure.

Had she not shared her concerns with Eönwë and Yavanna? Had she not placed her trust in the Valar as was her duty?

For the first time in a long while, Artanis felt the stirrings of pity for her uncle.

To have Melkor’s voice in one’s mind for years, whispering encouragement, feeding doubts, would be enough to drive even the most honest soul to madness. Artanis knew that Melkor’s attempts to seduce her were only a weapon in his arsenal, a cruel means to tend her ego to hide the rot within his promises. Yet as she turned the thought over in her mind, she could not help but feel unclean - for the realization that Fëanor , too, might have been a victim of that same poisonous attention.

And still, despite Melkor’s claims, Artanis knew the Silmarils had nothing to do with him.

She had seen his face when he first laid eyes upon them, and such emotion could not be feigned, not even by a Vala. The Silmarils were pure and without fault, and for the sake of her uncle’s sanity, she could only hope that Manwë would see it too. Their situation was desperate enough without that madness taking root.

The next morning, the Light of the Trees was only just brightening when they mounted their horses again.

Riding had always been a joy to Artanis. On horseback, she felt a mastery over herself, a freedom, a clarity of thought that quieted even her most restless emotions. The cold wind against her face, the loosened strands of her hair tugged free by the breeze, the rhythmic sound of hooves striking the earth - these things gave her a small but necessary reprieve. Even amidst the tension of what lay ahead, the ride brought her some measure of peace.

But that peace was short-lived, for when they reached the gates of the Máhanaxar, a great number of Elves had already gathered around the stage of judgment. The crowd was restless, like a sea pressing forward. They had come from Tirion and beyond, drawn by the sound of the trumpet. In some faces, Artanis recognized supporters of Fëanor - his loyal followers, former students of his school, and small families of artisans from Tirion. She was surprised to see others from Alqualondë as well: unfamiliar features, though she remembered glimpsing some of them during her days in her mother’s city by the sea. The crowd thinned near the entrance to the Máhanaxar, held at bay by unseen authority.

Then she saw her cousins, gathered as one. Their faces were set and their expressions guarded, like a family steeling itself against unseen blows. They had come, no doubt, to stand with their father, but discomfort lingered in the stiff lines of their shoulders. It was no easy thing to know the eyes of all Valinor were fixed upon them, nor to bear the shame and whispering that followed Fëanor’s name.

And then there was Nerdanel..

Artanis’ gaze paused on her, surprised to see her standing there. Nerdanel was not alone. Beside her, to Artanis’ greater astonishment, was Fingolfin’s wife, Anairë. Artanis had known the two women were close, bound by years of friendship, and she knew that Fingolfin’s wife had been a steady presence for Nerdanel in these troubled times - especially as Fëanor’s rhetoric had grown harsher, his mission slowly turning into a crusade. Yet Artanis would not have expected her to follow Nerdanel here, not after the bitter clash between their husbands.

Perhaps, Artanis thought with a pang of reluctant understanding, Fingolfin’s wife knew what many refused to see: that Fëanor’s family, for all their flaws, were as much victims as anyone else. Perhaps, though she might not know whose hand had driven him to this madness, she recognized that it was not entirely of his own making.

It was a small act of grace, Artanis thought, but in that moment, it felt significant.

--------------------------

The third emotion was frustration.

Frustration when, after forcing their way through the dense throng of Elves gathered around the Ring of Doom, Finarfin at last found a narrow path to the entrance - only to be halted by  the herald of Manwë himself.

Eönwë stood at the threshold, a gleaming figure of authority in white and silver, his presence a silent rebuke to all who dared approach unbidden. Artanis clenched her fists at her sides, her pulse quickening, annoyance pooling in her chest as Eönwë raised a hand, signaling their passage was barred.

“Fëanor of the House of Finwë is still under trial. None may enter,” the Maia decreed, his tone unyielding, like a gate wrought of stone and will. His voice carried with it the resonance of the higher airs, as though each word were shaped by the winds of Taniquetil itself.

“With all due respect, I care not for your decree,” Finarfin said, his voice cutting cleanly through the murmurs of the crowd like a blade drawn from its sheath. “My daughter bears knowledge that cannot wait - the Valar must hear it now.”

Eönwë seemed taken aback, his stoic facade briefly cracking at Finarfin's uncharacteristic sharpness. For a moment, he appeared almost unsure, as if reassessing the prince who rarely raised his voice in such defiance. Then, as though to steady himself, he turned his gaze to Artanis, his silvered eyes narrowing slightly with a mix of curiosity and doubt, as if he were attempting to see through her expression to the truth she claimed to hold.

Artanis, despite herself, met his gaze with an unflinching, neutral calm. She would not give Melkor the satisfaction of seeing her as the frantic, desperate figure he had painted her to be, no matter how tempting it was to let the frustration boil over.

“Prince Finarfin,” Eönwë said, his next words tinged with a faint edge of skepticism, “with all due respect, the Valar possess wisdom beyond reckoning - I doubt your daughter holds any revelation that has eluded their sight.”

Artanis opened her mouth to rebuke him but before she could summon the words, her father spoke again, his voice ringing with authority. 

“Do the Valar know that Lord Melkor is the one behind all of this?”

For a heartbeat, Eönwë faltered. If a Maia could pale, Artanis would have sworn he had. His gaze flickered from Finarfin to Artanis, then to her brothers standing close behind, each one tense and watchful, before he took a step back, and he closed his eyes.

Artanis recognized the stillness for what it was -  a polite way of signalling he was speaking through osanwë. She wondered to whom he was reaching: Manwë himself? One of the other Valar? Or perhaps someone closer, yet unseen? The thought sent a fresh ripple of unease through her, though she kept her face composed.

The moments stretched.

When Eönwë’s eyes finally opened, his expression was unreadable, though there was the faintest trace of weariness in his brow.

“The Valar will address the Eldar shortly,” he concluded, his voice quieter now, though it carried no less weight. “And you, Lady Artanis, will be received - in due time.”

Artanis let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. Eönwë’s words were not a dismissal, but neither were they an invitation. It was the promise of a delay, and in that delay lay both hope and dread.

They understood then that they had been dismissed. Aegnor’s hand settled gently on Artanis’ shoulder, as he leaned into whisper, “Let us go and speak with our cousins. I will not say a word to them - it is right that you have the chance to speak to the Valar first - but I am certain their hearts, too, are burdened by the weight of these hours.”

Artanis nodded, unable to summon words.

Her brothers vanished into the crowd behind her, their figures swallowed by the sea of elves flowing around them. Alone, her gaze drifted back to Eönwë. The Maia had resumed his vigil at the entrance, but she wondered if his stillness was only a mask.

Was he truly unmoved, or had Finarfin’s words pierced even his timeless certainty?

------------------------------------------------------

And finally, the last emotion she felt that day was heartbreak.

Whether it had been minutes or hours, she could not tell - time lost all meaning in the shadow of the Máhanaxar.

The air felt expectant, as though all of Aman itself held its breath.

And then, at last, King Manwë emerged from the Ring of Doom, his form towering and radiant, though weighed by an invisible burden.

At his side walked Námo, the Doomsman of the Valar, stern and solemn, and behind them Varda. Fëanor followed, and behind them, to Artanis’ shock, came her grandfather, Finwë.

The sight of him struck her.

King Finwë, whose wisdom and dignity had always been their anchor, looked changed - his expression etched with grief, his steps measured as though each one cost him dearly. Even Varda, whom Artanis had always seen as the most otherworldly of the Valar, appeared shaken. Her brilliance, usually so dazzling, seemed muted, and her gaze carried a rare tension, as if the light she bore faltered beneath the weight of what had transpired.

Artanis scarcely registered Manwë’s pronouncement, though the words would remain in her memory forever.

Fëanor, son of Finwë, was to be exiled.

The declaration reverberated through the air like the toll of a great bell, and Artanis felt as though it echoed within her bones.

But it was not the judgment alone that would haunt her.

What she remembered most vividly was the murmur that rose from the crowd, a sound that swelled and shifted like it had suddenly became a living thing - a confusion of voices, whispers of disbelief, anger, and sorrow. And then, when Finwë stepped forward, the murmurs stilled. He laid his hand upon Fênor’s shoulder, a touch both tender and unshakable, as though to anchor his son where words might fail.

“I will follow my son to Formenos,” he proclaimed, his voice clear and sorrowful. “In exile, I will remain at his side.”

The silence that followed was absolute, as though the world itself had been hollowed out.

Artanis felt her heart break anew, not for Fëanor, nor even for her grandfather, but for all of them.

For the Noldor, who had lost so much in a single day: a prince consumed by his own greatness, a king who would abandon his throne out of love, and the fragile peace that had shielded them since their awakening.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Far to the south of Valinor, in the dense canopy of ancient, twisted woods, Melkor stood alone.

Around him the air felt heavy with silence and a vague scent of decay. It suited him. This forgotten corner of Aman felt closer to Middle-earth, to his dominion, to what felt familiar to him.

He smiled to himself as he stepped over gnarled roots and broken stones, his cloak trailing like a shadow behind him. Things had unraveled more swiftly than he might have hoped, but not swiftly enough to trouble him. In truth, he had been given far more time than he had anticipated before the veil was torn away. Time to set the Noldor on the path he had carved for them and watch them trip and fall. 

Even now, he could sense his brother’s call, Manwë’s voice reverberating like a distant call - a summons, clear and imperious, demanding his return to answer for himself. It pulled at him, a persistent tug against the edges of his thought.

The mighty King of Arda still thought words could bind him, that he would explain himself like some errant child before the thrones of the Valar. The thought delighted Melkor, for within that call he could hear the humiliation and sorrow threading through Manwë’s mental voice. The weight of a king whose great dominion had been shaken, whose trust in harmony had been betrayed. It was subtle, but Melkor knew it for what it was: weakness. Manwë, for all his lofty airs, had tasted doubt.

And what of Tulkas?

Oh, how Melkor could imagine the thunderous crash of Tulkas’ fist against... something, that primal roar of frustration when the warrior learned the truth. The image pleased him. Tulkas, who laughed so easily, who saw the world in black and white - that simple brute must now feel powerless, his fists unable to strike at him. It was a rare pleasure to humble one so quick to anger.

Melkor’s smile widened, his sharp teeth gleaming faintly in the dark. They would rage, they would mourn, and still they would fail. Their pain was a song sweeter than any he had ever sung into the world, and for a moment, he reveled in the depth of it. Manwë’s sorrow, Tulkas’ rage, the bewilderment of all the Valar.

A flicker of intrigue darkened his smirk. Fëanor has told us everything, Manwë’s voice had whispered. And more curiously still - and the young Eldar princess has clarified your role further, brother. Return to Valamar and explain yourself at once. 

So the proud Artanis had dared speak of him. He lingered on the thought. Artanis had not shrunk back into fear and silence of the consequence, as most of her kin would have done. She had spoken. Boldly, dangerously. There was something delicious in that, in her willingness to act, no matter the consequence. Rumors would now follow her, whispers that she had meddled where others dared not tread - that her name might now linger in the same breath as his. And still, she had done it.

How predictable the righteous are, he thought, though the curl of his lips betrayed a trace of admiration.

It was rare for one of her kin to stand before the Valar, to cast stones so freely in a hall built upon silence. And in doing so, she had played into his hands perfectly, laying bare his role for all to see. The thought pleased him, that she, so upright and pure, might be marred by association. He could almost see it, the sidelong glances, the doubt creeping into the hearts of the other Eldar. It was a quiet victory, but no less sweet for it. They would call her bold, reckless perhaps, but there would always be that lingering question: how closely had she walked in his shadow? What price had she paid to acquire that knowledge?

“Brave little princess,” Melkor mused with mocking sweetness. 

As if that could weaken him, as if that wasn't his design all along. Maybe she had hoped for justice, dumb little thing. Justice was an invention of his brother, a word given weight only by those with the luxury of believing in it. Melkor laughed softly, the sound swallowed by the dark.

Finding Ungoliant had proven far more difficult than Melkor had anticipated, though he had known where to look. 

He had known she would be here, lurking in these places where even the light of the Trees dared not intrude, a place so forsaken that even by the birds of Manwë would refuse to reach, but here appeared to be quite a broad concept now that he had spent years in his search.

As he went deeper into the forest, it felt like the land itself resisted him, as though repelled by his quest. Trees grew twisted and knotted, their branches clawing at the sky like grasping hands, and the earth was a treacherous mire of roots and stone. What little light filtered through the canopy above was swallowed whole, devoured before it could reach the ground.

The pull of her malice grew stronger, together with the foul smell of death, as he pressed deeper into the gloom, the air around him thickening until it felt as though he was wading through unseen waters. The silence became absolute, for no living thing could survive it.  And then, at last, he found her.

He felt her before he saw her.

It unsettled him more than he cared to admit that even he, the mightiest of the Valar, could not dismiss the feeling. It was a rare thing indeed to encounter something that reminded him of his own limits - to know, even in his supremacy, that there were things in the world which could undo even him if he faltered.

He was no fool.

He recognized true power when he saw it, and Ungoliant was power incarnate: wild, unbound, and utterly indifferent to the will of others. The irony did not escape him. Here he was, the great Melkor, stumbling through shadow and ruin in search of her, like some beggar pleading for a favour.

She appeared slowly, as though emerging from the Void itself. Her limbs, spider-like and grotesque, wove in and out of the darkness, their form impossible to track. At her core, an unholy emptiness yawned wide, a consuming nothingness that swallowed all light, all warmth, and all life.

Melkor halted, his expression amicable as he addressed her. "So, you have grown, Ungoliant," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of its history. He was not addressing a servant, not commanding a lesser being, but speaking to a creature as close to a peer as one could come. "The hunger that surrounds you now, it is far greater than it was when last we spoke." 

The darkness quivered in response, though no words came. 

She did not greet him, nor did she stir. The void had no need for courtesies.

Her many eyes, if they could be called such, gleamed faintly with an unnatural luminescence, signalling that she was giving him attention.

"I have sought you for a purpose," he continued, "I bring you a feast worthy of your craving. A feast beyond all feasts. A hunger worthy even of you, old one."

Then she moved.

Each step she took sent tremors through the roots and stones, her unseen weight pressing into the land until it seemed to groan beneath her. Where she lingered, even the ground itself recoiled as if in agony. At last, she stopped, her towering form looming over him.

And still, she did not speak. Instead, the void around her seemed to listen, as if her attention alone had weight enough to bend the world.

Melkor felt it: her curiosity, her hunger, her interest.

He spread his hands, his voice soft, smooth, the confidence in it unwavering “You have lingered here in silence for too long, old one. But I bring you purpose. I bring you satiation.”

Chapter Text

The lullaby sung by the waves was a balm to her restless mind.

The gentle murmur of the tide seemed to smooth away the sharp edges of her thoughts, carrying her back to a time she could only describe as pure, untouched and innocent. Mornings like these, spent by the shore, transported her to a childhood she could still felt in her bones. The sensation of sand shifting beneath her feet, burying them like an intangible, ever-shifting blanket, tethered her to the earth, grounding her in the moment.

The water, cool and rhythmic, rose and fell against her legs, its gentle motion cradling her as if she were on a swing. Her hair, damp from her earlier swim, clung in strands to the light fabric of her dress, and the briny scent of the ocean mingled with the subtle sweetness of the blossoms nearby. With her face turned toward the light of the Trees, Artanis inhaled deeply, savoring the tranquility that seemed to suffuse the air of Alqualondë - a balm not only for her body but for her fëa.

This place was sacred to her. 

It was more than a refuge; it was a threshold to a self she had nearly forgotten. 

Even for an immortal, the illusion of returning to childhood was a rare gift. If she concentrated, she could almost see her brothers as they once were - figures larger than life in her youthful memories, chasing each other across this hidden cove. The beach lay tucked beyond the harbor and the elegant swan ships whose prows, graceful as the birds they mimicked, still glinted in the distance.

Lying on the sand was an indulgence unbecoming of a princess of her rank, yet here she allowed herself such moments. Few Noldor knew of this secret place, shielded by the cliffs and the gentle vigilance of the Teleri. And the Teleri, bound to the sea as they were, would never begrudge her desire to reconnect with the ocean. She relished these stolen moments, lying where the waves almost reached her ears, their sound becoming one with the rhythm of her breath.

It had been years since her arm had troubled her. Years since the light of the Trees had returned to its ancient brilliance. Yet that morning, as she awoke, her arm had burned with an intensity she had almost forgotten. The pain had been fleeting but piercing, as though fiery claws had settled where his fingers had once rested. The cry she let out in her sleep had echoed through the small home she kept in Alqualondë, but there was no one to hear it, no one to come to her aid.

She had sought clarity in the weariness of physical exertion, but even that failed her. The questions she had carried for so long remained unanswered, their weight pressing down as heavily as ever.

Two seasons had passed since she had come to the city of the Teleri, and her stay had been pleasant, if uneventful. Finrod and Amarië had visited her not long ago, bringing news from home. Her mother was expected soon as well, intending to reunite with her own family and the court of King Olwë. Artanis had resolved to ask her mother whether she too longed to return here permanently - and whether she felt the ache of being unable to do so.

Her father, on the other hand, had rooted himself even more deeply in Tirion in the absence of King Finwë. It was as though he believed that by anchoring himself there, he might somehow mend the void left by the dislocation of the Noldorin royal family.

The Valar, it seemed, were also attempting to address the fractures that had spread through the Eldar. Perhaps no longer blind, though still shortsighted, they had labored for years to heal the damage wrought by Melkor. Many efforts had been made to reconcile the Elves - both among themselves and with the Valar - and the latest was a decree for a grand festival, “the likes of which had never been seen in Aman.”

The celebration would take place on the slopes of Taniquetil, bringing together all the Elves of Valinor, the Valar, and the Maiar in the presence of Manwë and Varda. It was to be a rare gathering, meant to honor Eru and the blossoming of Yavanna’s flowers.

When Artanis heard of the festival, her first thought was that it was naïve.

In the years since Melkor’s escape, she had often wondered where he had gone. 

She assumed that if he had remained within Aman, the Valar would have found him by now. Her father had suggested that he had likely fled to Middle-earth in search of the remnants of his lost power. That would explain the Ainur’s struggle to track and imprison him. Oromë and Tulkas, Manwë had assured them, were hunting him, and it was only a matter of time before he was found.

Memory, Artanis mused, had its own kind of magic. The edges of that fateful day had softened, the sound of Fëanor’s sword leaving its scabbard no longer rang in her ears but lingered faintly, a shadow of a sound. Yet she knew peace had not been achieved. Melkor had not been captured. And as for Fëanor, she doubted he would be willing to pay the price such peace required.

Was the humiliation he had suffered enough to force reflection? Yavanna had repeated to her the words spoken by Mandos upon Fëanor’s condemnation: “In this time, counsel with yourself and remember who and what you are.” But what was Curufinwë, if not Fëanor, a spirit of fire that consumed everything aroudn him? The fire that had forged the Silmarils was the same that had burned bridges, divided kin, and left scars upon the very fabric of their people.

Perhaps her heart, so often overflowing with kindness for others, had grown too hardened against the prince. In her eyes, he had brought too much grief to their kin, and she could not escape that pain.

That day, Artanis lingered by the sea, letting the waves cradle her as though she were one of their own. She listened to the roar of the ocean and imagined it sweeping her away, carrying her to distant shores where the weight of memory and duty might finally be left behind.

-----------------------------------------------------

Leaving Avathar was a relief, even for a being like Melkor, who rarely experienced the discomforts that plagued lesser creatures.

For years, he had remained there in a form that reflected the depths of his malice: immense and shadowed, as impenetrable as the chasms where he had sought Ungoliant. It was a form born of necessity, yet one that tethered him to the desolation of Avathar, a place even he found oppressive.

From the jagged summit of Hyarmentir, the southernmost peak of Aman, Melkor surveyed the vastness of his imagined dominion. The land stretched out below him, gilded by the light of the Trees, yet to him, it was nothing but a canvas awaiting his dark brushstrokes. Here, far from the watchful eyes of the Valar, he allowed his thoughts to roam freely, contemplating the precise steps required for his success.

Securing Ungoliant’s support had come at a price, one he had paid with deep reluctance. Her hunger was a force beyond even his control, a hunger that would one day demand payment in full. Yet for now, she served his purpose. As he ascended the webbed strands of her unholy darkness, each thread humming with a sinister energy, he mulled over his plans with the precision of a craftsman honing his tools.

The Silmarils were in Formenos. Of that, he was certain.

His failed attempt to sway Fëanor had been a tactical misstep, yes, but it had also served his broader strategy. To stir Fëanor’s ego, to sow seeds of paranoia about the Valar’s intentions toward the jewels - these were maneuvers as deliberate as any strike on a battlefield. When Melkor told Fëanor it was foolish to believe the Silmarils could be safe in any vault within the realm of the Valar, he had not lied. The jewels were not safe from the Valar. And least of all, from him.

Yet for all his cunning, Melkor knew that the key to victory lay in restraint. Patience, he reminded himself, was as much a weapon as his strength or his lies. And patience, for one who had waited in the Void itself, proved to be the most excruciating of disciplines.

Patience to act when the Valar were distracted, their attention turned elsewhere, so they would not stop him.

Patience, for though they styled themselves as the caretakers of Arda, their vision was limited and their focus easily diverted. It had always been this way. The Valar, with all their might, had underestimated him at every turn, their vigilance dulled by their self-assurance, urgency byuried by their preoccupation for harmony. 

Patience to find a way into Formenos that would not alert his pursuers, who still scoured the wrong corners of Aman and Middle-earth in search of him.

Patience to navigate his escape across the blessed lands and flee to Middle-earth, where his return was awaited like the rising of a dark tide.

Melkor would strike only when the moment was perfect - when the Valar were complacent, their gaze fixed on their gatherings and their precious Children, and when the power of their unity was fragmented by their overconfidence. That was the art of true mastery: not to overpower his enemies outright, but to let their own failings undo them.

During his years in Valinor, Melkor had carefully avoided overusing his osanwë. Keeping his thoughts open had been a necessary concession, for to close himself off entirely would have risked the scrutiny of the Valar. Foolish as they were, they had never explicitly demanded such openness, but the risk of their probing was ever-present. So, Melkor had lived in isolation, his thoughts veiled even from himself at times.

But now, with their influence reduced to a faint, impotent whisper on the edges of his mind, he allowed himself the freedom to reach out.

Reaching Middle-earth through the vast expanse of Arda was no small feat.

The distance was immense, and the gift of osanwë had grown rusty from centuries of disuse. His will had to traverse the sea, pierce the Echoing Mountains, glide through the mist-shrouded reaches of Hithlum, and descend into the desolate shadows of Dor Daedeloth. It was a monumental effort, a stretching of his essence across the invisible currents of the world, but Melkor relished the challenge.

It had been too long - far too long - since he had allowed his servant to feel his call.

Mairon, his thought whispered, it is your master who speaks. The hour of my return is near.

The name, spoken not as a mere summons but as a claim, reverberated through the unseen bond that tied them. Melkor felt the familiar thrill of authority as the connection reawakened. Across the leagues of Arda, he sensed the sharpness of Mairon’s mind, honed by years of vigilance, and his immediate response.

My Lord.

-------------------------------------------------

“It’s important that we all attend, Artanis. I feel this may be our chance.”

Eärwen, her mother, sat on the only armchair in Artanis’ small home, holding a cup of herbal tea that her daughter had prepared after they returned from their long walk along the shores of Alqualondë. The afternoon had been spent discussing the latest news from Tirion, the preparations for the Valar’s festival, and speculations about who would attend.

“Not everyone,” Artanis replied, leaning against the table at the center of the room. “I spoke with Lindëmir, Olwë’s harpist. He told me the Teleri have no plans to participate, and I find myself drawn to their example. I’d rather stay here.”

Her mother sighed - a deep, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. She looked at Artanis with an expression caught between pity and gentle reproach, and Artanis, sensing the shift, straightened.

“This isn’t about them,” Eärwen said finally, her voice steady but tinged with exhaustion. “You know that better than I do. It’s not unusual for them to abstain, nor is it expected that they would join. The tensions in our family are little more than distant gossip to them, shielded as they are by the mountains.”

She took a sip of her tea, her gaze distant. “We don’t have that luxury. And if I’m honest…” She hesitated, as though bracing herself, before continuing with resolute clarity. “I don’t think your father can bear this situation between Fëanor and Fingolfin much longer. He tries to hold this pain close, to carry it alone, but I know he misses his father’s counsel and his brother’s companionship. If there’s even the smallest chance this festival could help us take a step toward peace, I think it’s worth trying.”

Artanis rose and began pacing the small room, her movements aimless but restless, as if seeking answers in the worn wooden floorboards. Eventually, her steps brought her to the window, where she paused to stare at the silhouette of the mountains in the distance.

“I don’t know, Mother,” she said at last, her voice low. “There’s a feeling I can’t shake.”

“A feeling?” Eärwen prompted gently, though the tension in her voice betrayed her concern.

Artanis didn’t answer immediately, but her hand moved instinctively to her arm, resting over the place where the phantom pain of his fingers lingered. Behind her, she heard her mother’s breath hitch.

“Do you think-”

“No,” Artanis interrupted sharply, turning to face her. “The truth is, I don’t know. But I know the Valar wouldn’t leave themselves exposed to threats. Even so, I can’t quell this unease in my heart. I hoped the sea would comfort me - and it has, to some extent - but part of me remains trapped in suspicion.”

“I cannot pretend to understand how you feel, my daughter,” Eärwen said softly, her tone weighted with sorrow. “And I cannot help but grieve that you are still a victim-”

“I am a victim of nothing,” Artanis cut her off, her words sharper than she intended. But they were true, and that truth was what she had fled.

In Tirion, the eyes of her brothers had lingered on her too long in the months after Melkor’s escape, as though they were waiting for a crack to appear in the perfect composure she presented to the world, for the illusion of her serenity to shatter. That discomfort was nothing compared to the stares of the other Noldor in Tirion.

To them, the scars Melkor had left on her mind and spirit might as well have been a crimson cloak draped across her shoulders: impossible to shed, impossible to hide. Some treated her as though she carried an invisible infection, waiting for symptoms to erupt. Others, especially the more pious among Finwë’s court, whispered behind her back, questioning why a young maiden had so often been in the presence of a Vala.

The truth of her encounters with Melkor had been twisted and distorted in the retellings, passed from mouth to mouth until they no longer bore any resemblance to reality. In some stories, she was a beacon of resistance, a light standing against the malice of the First Dark Lord. In others, she was little more than a plaything, discarded and emboldened only afterward to denounce her captor. In all the tales, her role was exaggerated, inflated to proportions she could neither recognize nor accept.

The reality was far simpler.

She had interacted with Melkor only a handful of times, most of them in public, and she herself could not explain how she had come to possess the information she had shared with the Valar. Despite her efforts to continue living as she always had - teaching children to weave and fight, tending horses in Tirion’s stables, helping harvest Yavanna’s gifts, braiding flower garlands in Lórien’s woods - none of it had been enough to erase the shadow of association.

Artanis did not have the heart to hate, not even her uncle. 

The disdain she felt for him burned fiercely but lacked the malice required for hatred. Yet, in those years, she had wished she could hate Melkor.

But for the Vala who had tried to beguile her into submission, she felt only pity - a deep, abiding sorrow for an ancient soul so broken that it could find joy only in domination and destruction. Perhaps it was her pity that had repelled and fascinated him in equal measure.

Here, in Alqualondë, she had found some measure of peace.

To leave it now, even for a noble purpose, felt unbearably difficult. Facing the reality of her life in Tirion again - even if it was reframed on the slopes of Taniquetil - felt just as daunting.

“You’re right, Artanis,” Eärwen said after a long pause. “But all I can do is urge you to think on it. If you change your mind, I brought some gowns with me. Should you decide to join us, we would be glad to have you.”

Eärwen rose and stepped toward her daughter, placing her hands gently on her shoulders to turn her. Leaning forward, she rested her forehead against Artanis’, her eyes half-closed. “Namarië, yendënya.”

Artanis stood in place, her gaze fixed on her mother’s retreating figure as the door closed softly behind her.

A strange weight settled in her chest, as if the room had grown colder in her absence.

She could not know - could not even imagine - that this would be the last time she would see Eärwen’s face, hear her voice, or feel her touch for two full ages of the world.

The fleeting simplicity of this parting would echo in her heart for centuries, a quiet moment rendered monumental only by the cruel hand of time.

-----------------------------------------

The night brought her no counsel, only a vision. A terrible vision.

She recognized Formenos immediately. The once-brilliant walls, adorned with intricate designs and gleaming under the light of the Trees, were now blackened, marred by cracks and creeping vines that clawed upward like skeletal fingers. In the vision, Artanis walked through the halls of the palace, her steps echoing against the cold stones. Once alive with light and laughter, the corridors were now cloaked in a darkness deeper than anything she had ever known.

Her life had been spent surrounded by the radiant splendor of the Trees’ light, but here, that light was absent - devoured, it seemed, by the oppressive gloom that suffused every corner. She moved cautiously, each footfall reverberating ominously, as though the shadows themselves were listening. Every turn promised hidden horrors, every alcove a lurking presence.

Then she entered the great hall.

At its center knelt a figure, warped and grotesque, bathed in a sickly, unnatural glow. Artanis froze, her breath caught in her throat as she recognized him: Fëanor.

But this was not the Fëanor she knew. His once-mighty form was gaunt and broken, his body hunched as though crushed beneath an unbearable weight. His skin, translucent and deathly pale, revealed veins that pulsed with an unnatural blackness. His hands, charred and burned down to the bone, clutched the Silmarils. The jewels cast a cold and merciless light that seemed to mock his suffering.

His eyes were wild, unfocused, fixed on a point she could not see. He did not seem to perceive her presence.

Then she saw the dagger.

In his right hand, Fëanor gripped a bloodied blade, his fingers trembling. Fresh blood dripped from the steel, pooling at his feet. With mounting dread, Artanis followed his gaze to a figure crumpled on the floor nearby.

Her heart stopped.

It was her grandfather, Finwë. His chest bore a deep, fatal wound, blood spilling freely and staining the stone beneath him. His breaths were shallow, labored, his life slipping away. Yet his eyes -dim but aware - sought hers, pleading silently.

Artanis’ horror deepened as her gaze shifted beyond Finwë to the banquet table. There, seated in unnatural stillness, were the lifeless forms of Nerdanel and children. Their faces were pale, their hands still gripping utensils, as though death had snatched them mid-meal.

Fëanor’s voice broke the silence, low and fractured, muttering disjointed words as if fragments of thought shattered against each other, unable to cohere.

“They didn’t understand… they couldn’t understand… They wanted to take them from me… to give them to the Valar… at the Harvest Festival… to appease them…”

His bloodshot eyes flickered to hers for an instant - a heartbeat - and for that brief moment, he seemed to see her. Then his gaze clouded, lost in his torment.

“They judged me… oh, yes, they did… I saw it… their eyes, full of suspicion… full of envy. Even her…” His trembling hands clutched the Silmarils tighter to his chest, ignoring the wisps of smoke rising from his burnt flesh. “Even them… my children… they wanted what is mine. What I created. What was forged from my light, my soul… no one will ever understand...”

Artanis remained rooted in place, paralyzed by the sight of him. His muttering grew quieter, a whisper that carried infinite despair.

“They couldn’t understand… not even you could, Artanis. Their light was pale, reflected, not true… not like mine..”

She flinched as he spoke her name, the sound warped and monstrous, devoid of anything mortal.

“But you…” he continued suddenly, his voice lifting with a spark of recognition. “Perhaps you could have seen. Could have known. You, who heard the same promises… the same whispers… Perhaps you would have understood… or perhaps not. Who can truly comprehend?”

For a moment, his gaze met hers, feverish and searching, before sinking once more into the abyss of his torment.

“If only… if only the time had been different. The choices, other. But it doesn’t matter now, it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing can change what has been.” His voice broke, descending into an anguished murmur meant more for himself than her.

Artanis felt her heart twist with a pain she could not name.

A broken smile crossed his lips then, fragile and grotesque. “And yet… perhaps there might have been another way... Another step, another moment... But it’s too late now. Too late for all of us.”

Then, suddenly, Fëanor rose, his movements violent and abrupt. The bloodied dagger flashed in his hand as he lunged toward her.

Instinctively, Artanis closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, she was in her bed in Alqualondë.

The sound of the sea reached her ears, muted by the pounding of her heart. She was drenched in sweat, her nightgown clinging to her trembling form, her breath shallow and uneven.

The urgency she had fought to silence for days now surged within her, overwhelming and undeniable.

The pain in her arm, the haunting vision... It was not a warning of Melkor’s presence, but a grim reflection of the chaos his actions they were about to unleash.

Formenos.

The name echoed in her mind, heavy with dread and necessity. She could no longer ignore the call.

Her uncle stood on the brink of destruction, teetering between obsession and ruin. The Silmarils were consuming him, pulling him deeper into a darkness from which he might never return. And if the Valar demanded he bring the jewels to the festival, it would be too late.

For Fëanor, for the Noldor, for them all.

She had to act. She had to reach Formenos. She had to stop him.

Rising quickly, she was grateful her mother had left suitable riding clothes. She dressed with haste, donning a sturdy tunic and cloak, then sat to write two letters - one to her father Finarfin, and one to Fingolfin. In them, she explained what she could, omitting the darkest details of her vision but warning of the danger that loomed over Formenos and the house of the Noldor.

Leaving the letters on the table near the door where the messenger would find them, she wrapped herself in her cloak, pulling the hood low over her face to avoid attention. Her mare, a swift and loyal creature of her father’s stables, greeted her with a soft nicker.

“Little one,” she whispered, stroking the horse’s muzzle, “I need your best today. We must reach Formenos with all speed.”

The mare whinnied gently, nuzzling her hand as if in understanding.

Artanis swung onto her back, tightened her grip on the reins, and set off into the night, the shadow of her vision haunting her every step.

Chapter Text

Artanis’ goal was clear.

She needed to reach Formenos before Fëanor departed for the slopes of Taniquetil, learn whether the Valar had requested the Silmarils, and reason with him about it. The urgency of her mission pressed against her chest like an iron weight.

No matter how hard she tried to focus on the sensation of the wind against her face, the intensity of her ride, or the splendor of the mountainous landscape surrounding her, the vision that had seized her in her sleep clung to her mind like an unshakable veil. Formenos, shrouded in darkness. Fëanor consumed by madness, his family victims of his paranoia, and King Finwë, collapsed and dying, his lifeblood staining the cold stones beneath him.

There was something in that vision - something tangible, something foreboding - that had clinged to her mind and refused to let her go. She, who had never seen night with her own eyes, who could not even conceive of what true darkness might look like, had glimpsed its shape in that pure, unrelenting terror.

The closest her mind could come to recalling such darkness was from her dives in the waters of Alqualondë.

Sometimes, when she swam deeper and deeper, chasing elusive rays of light that bent and vanished in the currents, she would open her eyes and find herself surrounded by a world without light, a realm of pure shadow.

Cold. Isolated. Her heartbeat the only sound. Just as Formenos had been in her vision: silent, suffocating, and untouchable.

She had chosen the shortest path, the one that wound through the mountains. She had been to Formenos only once, many years ago, during its inauguration. Even then, the place had unsettled her. Now, as she navigated the narrow, twisting trails, she prayed her sense of direction would not abandon her in her hour of need.

When she finally reached the highest point of the mountain pass, where the fortress came into view, she allowed herself a brief moment of relief. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked down.

Formenos loomed below, desolate and imposing.

Where Tirion was gently nestled upon a hill, full of light and life, its majestic spires balanced by familiar, comforting shapes and kissed by cascading fountains and natural streams, Formenos was a stark contrast. It was a fortress that seemed to have risen fully formed from the barren ground, already steeled for defense. Its walls were high and graceless, a web of harsh lines and squared bastions. The land surrounding it mirrored its exile: wild, untamed, and barren, as though life itself had chosen to keep its distance. The entrances were narrow and concealed, built for defense rather than welcome, while massive towers rose against the sky, silent sentinels against an unseen threat.

Artanis pulled her horse to a halt, tightening her grip on the reins.

She studied the terrain ahead, searching for the quickest route. The mountain pass seemed the most efficient way to reach the fortress. While less direct, it would allow her to cut the distance in a straight line. However, as she traversed the path, her horse began to grow restless. Its steps faltered, its ears pinned back as though sensing something Artanis could not.

Before she could understand what was happening, a deafening rumble tore through the air. A portion of the mountain beside the path gave way, collapsing in a cascade of rocks and debris that completely blocked her route. Her horse reared, letting out a sharp, panicked whinny, and she tried to hold the reins tightly, her voice soft and steady as she attempted to calm the animal. Yet inside, her heart trembled. A mountain’s collapse was no small event in the undying lands of Valinor.

There was something unnatural in what had just occurred - a shift, subtle but undeniable, in the balance of the world around her.

Still, the urgency of her mission pressed her forward, allowing little room for reflection. Each moment spent pondering felt like another grain slipping through the hourglass, and she could not afford the cost of hesitation.

Forced to find another route, she pressed on, pausing only when absolutely necessary. When night fell - or what passed for night in Valinor’s eternal light - she set up a meager camp at the edge of a small forest, more for her horse’s sake than her own. She wrapped herself tightly in her cloak, eating what little lembas she had brought in her hasty departure.

Staring up at the canopy of leaves, she let her thoughts drift. She hoped her father would read her letter in time, and that her vision was nothing more than a warning - a glimpse of a danger that could still be averted, rather than an unchangeable thread tied to the Unseen World. And eventually, she closed her eyes, willing herself to rest.

But the darkness behind her eyelids was far too similar to the abyss she had seen in her vision. She hoped for a dreamless sleep and was relieved when at least that wish was granted.

-----------------------------------------

Artanis was exhausted. 

Her forehead glistened with sweat, her cloak clung uncomfortably to her body, and she shared the same thirst as her mare, who had ridden diligently without pause to bring her to her destination. Every fiber of her being cried out in protest at the unrelenting journey, but she did not slow until the towers of Formenos came into view.

The stone path leading to the palace seemed endless, bordered by barren and infertile land. Each step felt heavier than the last, her body pleading for respite, yet the urgency in her heart refused to waver. As she passed beneath the imposing gates, the tension that had gripped her soul during the ride seemed to deepen, curling into a knot beneath her ribs.

Guards intercepted her the moment she reached the outer gate, their sharp gazes scanning her with practiced caution. Their posture was rigid, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

"Who are you, and what is your purpose here?" one of them demanded, stepping closer with suspicion.

Artanis steadied her breath, lifting her hand to unclasp her dusty cloak. As the fabric fell away, it revealed her pale, noble features and the cascade of golden hair that framed her face.

"I am Artanis, daughter of Finarfin and granddaughter of King Finwë. I bear urgent news for my grandfather."

The guards exchanged uneasy glances, the tension in their faces softening only slightly. Artanis realized, with a pang of discomfort, that she was an outsider here. Few ventured to Formenos unless they were part of Fëanor’s inner circle, and fewer still approached unbidden.

"Wait here," one guard commanded, disappearing beyond the stone archway. The other remained, watching her with silent scrutiny.

When the first guard returned, he gave her a curt nod and gestured for her to follow. Artanis straightened, forcing her exhaustion to the back of her mind, and stepped forward, passing through the gates into the courtyard. 

Here, under the watchful gaze of more guards stationed along the walls, she was made to wait once again. Their silence was unnerving, and she could feel their eyes tracking her every move, weighing her presence like an uninvited storm cloud.

After what felt like an eternity, a second guard appeared, their footsteps echoing against the stone. They exchanged brief words with the first, then motioned for Artanis to follow them deeper into the fortress. 

The transition from the harsh exterior to the fortress’s interior was jarring.

The hallways of the palace, to her great relief, were immaculate. The air inside was cool and still, carrying no hint of decay or neglect. It was tranquil, orderly, and completely at odds with the desolation she had seen in her vision.

For a fleeting moment, her heart lifted. Perhaps she had been wrong. Perhaps her fears had been born of nothing more than a restless mind.

But then, the image of the main hall from her dream surfaced in her thoughts once more: cold, lifeless, and silent as a tomb. Her relief crumbled under the weight of her doubt. She would not feel at ease until she saw it with her own eyes.

As she was escorted toward it, her breath caught in her chest. 

The heavy doors swung open with a resonant creak, and Artanis half-closed her eyes, bracing herself for what lay beyond. 

But when the doors opened, the anxiety was replaced by a deep sense of relief. 

Instead of desolation, she was met with light and warmth. The main hall was alive, its grand expanse filled with the low hum of voices. At its center, seated upon a simple yet dignified throne, was King Finwë.

His face lit up with joy at the sight of her, his smile breaking through the weight of her apprehension. Around him, courtiers and attendants stood in clusters, their expressions relaxed, their presence a testament to life and order within these walls.

"Artanis! My child, we were not expecting you!" Finwë exclaimed, rising from his throne and beckoning her forward with open arms. "Had I known you were coming, I would have arranged for a far warmer welcome than what I am sure the guards provided."

His voice was warm, carrying the resonance of a ruler but the affection of a grandfather. As he stood, his tall and imposing figure seemed to shrink slightly, tempered by the unmistakable tenderness reserved only for his family.

Artanis bowed briefly, but as she straightened, she felt her face soften into an unbidden smile.

Her heart, though still weighed down by lingering tension, swelled at the sight of his familiar face.

His high cheekbones, the proud line of his nose, and the intelligent glint in his eyes had not dimmed with age. Yet, with a pang, she noticed an underlying weariness, a heaviness to his movements and a faint shadow beneath his gaze, that she had not seen before.

"King Finwë, there was no need," she said softly, stepping closer and allowing him to rest his hands on her shoulders, a gesture of genuine affection and joy at her presence.

In the tumult of her thoughts over the past days, she had not considered the loneliness her grandfather might be enduring.

Formenos, though inhabited, was no Tirion. Its streets were quiet, its royal halls somber and subdued. There were no cascading fountains, no ceaseless music or industry, no light chatter from courtiers weaving between one festivity and the next. Here, Finwë was surrounded by loyal subjects, but far from the vibrant life that had defined his reign. And above all, Finwë had not seen much of his family in years.

For the first time, it struck her how much he had given up for Fëanor’s sake.

She wondered, with a sinking feeling, if he ever felt that the price of loyalty to his eldest son had been too steep - even for an immortal being who had already lived a life marked by sorrow and sacrifice.

Her musings drew her back to the present, where Finwë’s expression, kind and watchful, searched hers for answers.

"I expected to see Fëanor at your side," she ventured, her voice betraying an anxiety that had not yet dissipated.

Finwë’s smile faltered almost imperceptibly, and a flicker of curiosity flashed in his eyes. Though few outside the family knew the full extent of the tension between Artanis and her uncle, it was impossible to miss their differences when they were in the same room. Finwë, wise from his long years, clearly sensed that her question carried more weight than it appeared.

"Fëanor is no longer here at Formenos," he replied, his gaze drifting momentarily toward the window. "At the request of the Valar, he left few hours ago to journey to Halls of Manwe with his family. In fact, I am surprised to see you here."

Artanis stared at him, momentarily unable to respond.

Fëanor was already gone. His family, she deduced, must have been unharmed and traveled with him. While she did not arrive in time, her vision had not come to pass - at least not today. The tension that had gripped her throughout the journey seemed to drain away suddenly, leaving her legs weak beneath her.

"He has left..." she murmured, almost to herself, before nodding absently. Her heart still raced as she glanced around the hall, as if seeking reassurance in the orderliness of her surroundings. Finally, she asked, her voice quieter now, "And he took his family with him? Just them?"

Finwë nodded, though his eyes remained fixed on her, now tinged with mild concern. "Yes, Nerdanel and the children. He was eager to answer the summons to the Taniquetil." His voice softened, and the wisdom of years filled his tone. "Do not think that I am not pleased to see you, Artanis, but what has brought you here? I can sense your worry, but I cannot yet see its cause."

Artanis hesitated.

She needed to speak with him, but not here - not in the presence of guards or courtiers who might misinterpret her words or spread whispers through Formenos. Foresight was a revered gift among the Eldar, and visions were treated with solemnity, but they were also private, meant for careful consideration and trusted counsel.

Her vision, though it had not yet come to pass, had not been proven false either. Its vividness haunted her, and the responsibility it carried weighed heavily upon her. She could not ignore it. Yet, revealing it required tact. Finwë was not only her grandfather but her king, and she could not withhold such matters from him.

"May I speak with you in private?" she asked, lowering her voice to ensure it would not carry to the ears of those gathered nearby.

The King's eyes narrowed slightly, his curiosity piqued. "Of course, Artanis. But I trust that whatever you have to say will hold the same weight tomorrow as it would today. You can afford the luxury of rest."

His tone shifted, gentler now, "Do not take offense, my dear, but looking at you, I would say you need it more than you may admit"

She lowered her gaze, biting her lip as the exhaustion she had pushed aside surged to the surface. The ache in her limbs, the dryness of her throat, the sheer weight pressing down on her shoulders - all of it was undeniable now.

"I had hoped to join the other Noldor at the festival," she said after a pause, attempting to redirect the conversation. "I imagine you yourself plan to leave soon?"

Finwë shook his head, surprising her. "I will not attend."

His answer startled her.

Artanis had assumed he would travel later, as the celebration stretched over many days. The idea that he would not participate at all had never crossed her mind. The unease she had begun to suppress stirred again.

Finwë smiled knowingly. "I see your unease, Artanis. It is written plainly on your face. You have never been one to hide your emotions well, even from birth."

He stepped closer, and lifted her chin gently so their eyes met.

There was no reproach in his touch, only a quiet reassurance that reminded her of the bond they shared. "We can speak of this after you have rested. Allow me to arrange quarters for you, and we shall share a meal later, in private. Then, tomorrow, you can depart for the festival."

There was no mistaking the finality in his tone.

His words, though kind, were not a suggestion but a directive. Artanis, though strong-willed and unaccustomed to deferring, knew when to yield. This was not a battle she would win, nor one she needed to.

"Thank you for your hospitality," she said sincerely, meeting his gaze. "It is good to see you again, King Finwë."

"And I you, Artanis," Finwë replied with a sigh, the weight of years briefly touching his voice. "You, your father, your mother, your brothers... I have missed you all. I do not regret following my son into exile, mind you. It was my choice, and I would make it again. But that does not mean I have not felt the void of your absence."

The simplicity of his words disarmed her. There was no bitterness in his voice, only honesty - a plain, unembellished truth. The strength she had summoned to carry her this far faltered for a moment. She took a deep breath and nodded, her throat tight.

"I will rest for now, and then we will speak."

Finwë smiled, his hands clasping hers warmly. "The road to Taniquetil is long, and I am certain both you and your horse will set out stronger and refreshed tomorrow. Now, come. Let me show you where you can rest, and we will meet again for supper."

With a gentle gesture, he beckoned one of his attendants forward, giving precise instructions for her care. The servant, a woman with kind eyes and a quiet demeanor, bowed deeply and gestured for Artanis to follow.

Artanis followed the attendant in silence, her steps slower now that the urgency of her arrival had faded.

When the attendant finally left her in a modest but comfortable chamber, Artanis felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She sank into the bed, her body yielding to its softness, and for the first time in days, the tight knot of worry within her loosened, if only for a moment.

--------------------------

When Artanis sank into the steaming bath that the attendant, had prepared - and it felt like a rebirth. 

The hot water enveloped her, washing away the exhaustion of days spent on the road. Her muscles, tense from the long journey, softened under the soothing heat. Her hair, once matted and caked with dust, unfurled in golden waves around her, shimmering like sunlight on water. She ran her fingers through it, feeling the grit and grime dissolve as the water worked its magic.

The air was filled with the fragrant aroma of herbs and salts, carefully chosen and placed beside the tub.

The scents stirred memories that felt both distant and achingly near. She thought of Tirion, where preparations for festivals filled the streets with vibrant energy and joy. The smell of freshly baked bread mingled with the perfume of flowers woven into garlands. She remembered evenings spent with her cousins, braiding their hair and laughing together, their voices echoing through the halls. They would descend to the grand dances, and twirl endlessly through the celebrations.

For a moment, she let herself drift in the warmth of the bath and the sweetness of her recollections. It was a fleeting reprieve, a reminder of the life she felt she had left behind.

When she returned to the room that had been prepared for her, she was greeted by the sight of a clean gown laid out neatly on the bed.

It was simple but elegant, its soft fabric a welcome change from the rough attire she had endured during her journey. Her travel clothes, battered and worn beyond saving, had been taken away. But as she moved closer, she was relieved to see her dagger lying on the bed beside the gown, untouched.

Finrod had given her that dagger. It had been a gesture of reconciliation, though unnecessary, for Artanis had never harbored any resentment toward her brother. And yet, she knew the weight of guilt Finrod carried - the guilt of having ignored his own doubts about her path. She had seen it in the way his smile faltered when they spoke, in the unspoken sorrow that lingered in his eyes.

“I fear that if the other Noldor were to see you wielding a sword, they might misunderstand,” he had said, pressing the dagger into her hands. “But this - this can always remain with you. And I, better than most, know how skilled you are at using it.”

She had smiled then, recalling the years of training they had shared, sparring in the quiet glades of their youth. Without hesitation, she had hidden the dagger within the folds of her gown, its weight a silent companion. Since that day, it had followed her everywhere, a talisman of her brother’s care and her own resolve.

But tonight, she decided, there would be no need to carry it.

The fortress of Formenos, despite its harsh exterior, felt safe for now.

She approached the window, brushing the light curtain aside, and gazed out at the landscape beyond. The sky was aglow with the ever-present light of the Trees, and she noted the shifting angle of the shadows across the ground. Judging by the light, she estimated that half the day had already passed.

If she ate and rested briefly, Artanis calculated, she might still resume her journey and reach the festivities by their third day. Yet the thought of leaving so soon brought a pang of uncertainty. The vision that had driven her here still loomed in her mind, unresolved and waiting to unravel its meaning.

With that thought, she left the room and made her way toward the palace’s main hall.

The corridors were quiet, save for the occasional murmur of servants attending to their duties. An elf she did not recognize inclined his head politely and pointed her toward the dining hall, where she was to meet with her grandfather.

When she entered, she found Finwë already seated at the head of a long table, a goblet of elven wine cradled in his hand. The sight of him - the noble bearing in his posture, the warmth in his eyes- sent a wave of nostalgia washing over her, one she had not expected.

"Ah, my dear," he said, rising slightly from his chair as she approached. "I was about to send for you, but I wanted to give you time to rest as much as possible."

"Thank you for your thoughtfulness, King Finwë," she replied with a respectful bow.

He gestured for her to sit beside him, and she took the seat to his right.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, a servant appeared with a steaming plate and set it before her: fresh-baked bread, spiced roasted meat, and tender vegetables. The aroma filled the room, stirring a sharp reminder of how long it had been since her last proper meal.

Finwë watched her with a faint smile as she ate.  After a moment, he broke the silence. "So, Artanis, I am sure you have much to tell me, and perhaps even more to ask."

Artanis hesitated, her gaze falling briefly to the untouched goblet at her side.

She began cautiously, recounting the events that had brought her here. She chose her words carefully, avoiding mention of her life in Tirion after Fëanor’s banishment. Part of her wasn’t sure how much her grandfather knew about her role in exposing Melkor’s schemes or the alienation she had faced among her own people afterward. Another part of her simply didn’t want to burden him with tales of a city he had not seen in years, a city she was sure he missed deeply.

When she spoke of her time in Alqualondë, Finwë’s expression softened. He leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on the arms of his chair, as if drawn closer by her words. "The sea has its own kind of peace", he said in confirmation, quietly, as if lost in his own memories. "The Teleri understand it well."

In turn, he began to share his own stories of Formenos. He spoke of Fëanor, his sons, and the life they had built in exile - a life that, though filled with purpose, carried an undeniable weight of isolation. His voice grew somber as he explained why they had chosen not to join the festivities.

"Our presence was not explicitly requested," he admitted, his gaze dropping briefly to the goblet in his hand. "And as long as the ban on my son remains, I cannot consider myself a true king, nor feel truly united with the others of our kin."

Artanis lowered her gaze, the sadness in his words cutting through her.

She could understand the pride behind his decision, even if it pained her to hear it. Suppose she had been in his place - would she have acted differently? Likely not. Fëanor had inherited his stubbornness from somewhere, and she understood the quiet indignation Finwë must feel, knowing his son was bound by what he perceived as an injustice. Even though he never shared his son's distrust of the Valar, he was still protective of his family.

She did not press him further on the matter. Instead, she reached out to touch his hand gently and said, "I understand, my King. The festival would feel less like a celebration without you there. We will miss you all the more for it."

When she asked about Fëanor’s work and whether he had continued his creations, she noticed a hesitation in her grandfather’s voice.

"Yes," he said at last, "but as his art grows greater, so too does his jealousy of it. Since Melkor’s visit-"

Artanis froze.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart skipped a beat.

"Melkor was here?" she interrupted, her voice barely a whisper.

Finwë looked at her, his brow furrowing slightly. "Yes, some time ago. Fëanor drove him away and alerted Manwë, but since then, he has locked the Silmarils and his greatest treasures in an iron room deep within the palace. Every day, he visits it to ensure their safety, as if even the air might conspire to steal them."

"He would not entrust the keys to anyone - not even to me. When he departed for Taniquetil, I saw the weight of his decision in his face, the price he paid to take the keys with him. He would rather bear that burden than let them leave his hands, even for a moment."

A cold sensation spread through Artanis, tightening around her chest like an unseen hand.

She reached instinctively for her sleeve, her fingers brushing the fabric over her old wound as if searching for reassurance.

Finwë noticed her pallor and placed a comforting hand over hers. "I understand your unease all too well," he said gently, though his voice carried the weight of something unspoken.

Artanis gave him a questioning look.

It seemed the formal distance that often separated them had lessened somehow.

The truth was, while the Noldor loved to gather, her private moments with her grandfather had grown rarer over the years. Much between them remained unsaid, untold. At times, Artanis felt that Finwë, having seen the stars and the Sea, and having led the Noldor to Valinor, was untouched by the mundane worries that burdened his people. Yet, sitting at the table now, he seemed simply what he truly was: a wise grandfather speaking with his granddaughter.

Elves did not visibly age, and Finwë was as majestic as ever, but for a brief instant, Artanis thought she glimpsed his years, like the deep rings in the trunk of a mighty tree that quietly revealed its age.

"Let me tell you a story", he began, his voice quieter now, as if calling forth memories from a distant past. "When we Eldar still dwelt on the shores of Cuiviénen, before Oromë came to us, terrible stories were told to us. None of us were permitted to wander too far from our families or larger groups, for fear of being taken by the Hunters."

"The Hunters?" Artanis asked, leaning closer.

"Yes," Finwë said, his tone heavy with old grief. "The Hunters were merciless figures, and the tales painted them as dark and beautiful riders who lured the unwary with their songs, only to devour them. Their shadows loomed over our earliest days, and none dared venture into the wilds alone."

His gaze grew distant, a single line deepening on his brow as he relived those ancient days. "I lost many - friends and loved ones - to them. They would vanish into the night, and we would tell ourselves that their end was quick, that they were taken to be devoured and lost to the void. But..." He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. "The truth was far worse."

Artanis’ breath hitched. "What do you mean?"

The King’s expression darkened, "Those taken by the Hunters were not devoured, not in body. They were taken captive, stripped of everything that made them who they were. They were twisted - remade into creatures of malice and shadow, weapons forged for a higher being’s will."

Artanis recoiled, her heart pounding as she absorbed his words. "They were turned into... monsters?"

"Yes," he said softly. "Their feä, their very essence, was corrupted, enslaved to a will greater than their own. Even when we abandoned those lands, even when thought we were safe, even when we tried to forget, the memory of those we lost to them lingered."

Artanis felt a chill creep down her spine. 

"I remember the day I first saw Oromë," Finwë continued, his voice softening. "I thought he was one of the Hunters and fled from his sight."

Her lips parted in surprise. "But no - Oromë could not have been one of the Hunters.." 

She herself had glimpsed Oromë once, from afar, when she was still a child in Tirion. He was clad in gleaming armor, astride his mighty steed Nahar, whose hooves struck sparks against the ground. There had been a sense of wildness in him, as though a part of him still belonged to the untamed forests of Middle-earth, but his face shone with a fierce warmth.

"No," Finwë agreed, softening his expression. "Oromë’s face shone with a light I had never seen before, a light that did not exist in those early days. His love for us, for all the Quendi, was so real it seemed tangible, something you could reach out and touch. In that moment, I knew I would follow him anywhere - and so I did. The day he brought us to Valinor is a day I will never forget. The light of the Trees on my face was worth countless starless nights."

"Yet, you can imagine my surprise when I learned that the one who had sent the Hunters after us all those years was now allowed to walk among us," Finwë said, his voice heavy with the memory.

She held her breath, waiting for confirmation.

"Melkor," she whispered.

"Exactly," Finwë confirmed, as his gaze drifted to the far end of the room, where the light of the Trees spilled faintly through the high windows. "I knew then what Melkor was capable of. I had seen the fear he sowed, the ruin he could bring. He was not some distant threat, but a shadow I had known personally, a shadow that haunted us in Cuiviénen. And yet…"

He paused, his voice weighted with introspection. "Despite all of that, despite the deep unease that settled in my heart at the sight of him, I chose to trust the Valar. I had seen what they could do too - the light they brought into the world, their guidance in leading us from the darkness of Cuiviénen to this land of light. They carried the will of Eru Ilúvatar, and even when I did not understand their choices, I believed in the design behind them." 

Finwë turned back to Artanis, "I will not deny that it tested my faith, knowing what Melkor had done and could still do. But I chose to trust the Valar then, and I choose to trust them still. The Valar’s light had guided us once before, and I believed it would guide us again. Even now, knowing what I do, waiting in exile, I hold to that belief."

She looked at this skeptical then, and he seemed to sense it, for he added "That trust is not born of naivety, Artanis. I have seen much, more than most of our kind can claim. I have seen the Hunters take my kin, seen Oromë bring us hope, and seen the light of the Trees touch my face for the first time. Eru’s hand was in all of it, though we could not always see it then. If the Valar have not yet found Melkor, it is not for lack of purpose. It is because there is still more unfolding in the great design. And though we may not see its threads clearly, I believe there is meaning in all that has come to pass. Bear no fear."

Artanis swallowed hard, her throat tightening as the gravity of his words settled over her.

She envied his belief in the Valar. 

It was steadfast, a foundation that neither time nor betrayal could erode. Once, she had shared that belief. She had stood in Tirion’s radiant halls, her heart swelled by the knowledge that the Valar walked among them, protectors and guides. She had trusted in their wisdom.

But that trust had faded, and she could not pinpoint when it had begun to wane. 

Perhaps it was in the moments she saw Melkor’s influence stretch further than their reach, spreading lies that even the Ainur could not dispel. Or perhaps it was when the desires in her own heart had begun to stir, ambitions and yearnings she did not believe fit neatly into the Valar’s grand plan.

She did not know whether those desires had been born thanks to the Valar’s guidance or in spite of it.

The question haunted her, lingering in the quiet spaces of her mind where even their light could not reach. Now, though she could see the truth in her grandfather’s words, she could not feel it deeply in her heart. Where once there had been certainty, there was now a void - a quiet, aching absence where trust had once lived.

Artanis lowered her gaze, her fingers tightening briefly around Finwë’s hand as if seeking to draw strength from him. How did he still hold that faith so firmly, after all he had witnessed? His belief felt as distant to her now as the days of Cuiviénen he spoke of, shrouded in memory and myth.

Eventually, she answered "What I bear is not fear. Not of Melkor, at least".

And thus she began.

Once the words started, they spilled out in a torrent, unbidden and unstoppable.

She recounted every detail of her vision with vivid clarity: the madness blazing in Fëanor’s eyes, the pools of blood spreading beneath Finwë’s lifeless body, and the haunting image of her own children, their lifeless forms seated macabrely at a table as if in some twisted parody of life. Her voice grew more frantic with each sentence, the images burning brighter in her mind as she spoke.

"I know it wasn’t just a dream," she said, her jaw tightening as her hand clenched into a fist on the table. "I don’t know if it was a vision of the future, but something terrible is stirring. He might be gone to Middle-earth, unable to strike us directly - but the work he has wrought, the depth of the poison he has sown in Fëanor’s heart, could..."

Her voice faltered, trailing off as the weight of her words pressed against the quiet of the room.

Finwë sat back in his chair, his brow furrowed in thought as Artanis’ words hung heavy in the air between them. 

His hand, still resting gently over hers, gave a slight squeeze - a silent gesture of comfort, though his expression betrayed the weight of her confession.

"Artanis," he said at last, softly, "thank you for trusting me with this. Foresight is not something to be dismissed, nor taken lightly. It is both a gift and a burden, one that reveals what might be rather than what must be. And what you have seen…" He paused, his gaze meeting hers with quiet intensity. "It is troubling indeed."

Artanis looked away, her jaw tightening.

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, though her face remained a mask of determination. "I came because I thought I could prevent it," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Because if I stayed silent, and it came to pass, I would never forgive myself."

Finwë nodded slowly, his expression full of sorrow.

"You carry much weight upon your shoulders, child. Too much for one so young, even among the Eldar. I have watched my son closely in these years of exile. I will not deny that his spirit remains fiery, his pride unyielding, and his suspicion of the Valar has, if anything, grown stronger. Yet I tell you truthfully: he has not lost reason. Not yet."

He leaned forward slightly, his hand tightening over hers as he continued, his voice both resolute and tender.

"I know my son’s flaws better than most. His passion burns brighter than all the forges of Aman, but it is that same flame that animates the wonders of his hands. While it can destroy, it can also create. He is not beyond the reach of wisdom. He is not beyond the reach of love."

Artanis’ heart twisted at his words. "And if he were to slip further? If his flame burns too fiercely?"

"Then we must temper it. We must guide him back. He is my son, Artanis, and though I cannot shield him from the path he chooses, I will not forsake him. Nor should you."

Artanis’ eyes flicked back to her grandfather’s, her jaw still tight, her lips pressed together.

As she stared at him, her mind wirled with emotions, each pulling her in different directions. She wondered if he felt she was exaggerating the danger. 

"I don't doubt you, Artanis," Finwë replied, as if reading her mind, although most probably in response to her expression, shaking his head. "I am not dismissing the gravity of what you have seen. But I would have you judge with your own eyes when you reach the festival. You will see Fëanor there, among our kin, and you will understand why I still hold hope for him. Let his actions and his words be your proof, for all his faults, that he has not yet fallen to the darkness you fear. He still carries within him the capacity for remorse and the strength to seek forgiveness."

Artanis swallowed, uncertainty swirling in her chest.

She wanted to believe him, to trust his judgment, but still, she knew her uncle. She knew well the blaze of his spirit, and she could not help but wonder what years of isolation and festering pride might have done to stoke those flames.

At the same time, she knew the depth of her grandfather’s love for his son, and she wondered if love could be so great as to cloud his millennial wisdom. This thought, however, she could not bring herself to voice.

Finwë released her hand and stood slowly, then extended his hand to her, inviting her to rise.

"Now," he said, a small smile softening his features, "it is time you truly rest, if you intend to set out tomorrow. You have done all you can for today, and you must allow yourself to recover. A mind burdened by exhaustion sees danger where there may yet be safety."

Artanis hesitated, reluctant to leave the conversation unfinished.

Her mind still churned with questions and doubts. But her grandfather’s gentle command, tinged with undeniable authority, left little room for argument.

She rose as well, inclining her head in acknowledgment. "Thank you for listening, and for your counsel," she said quietly. "I will rest, as you ask."

Finwë smiled faintly, his hand resting briefly on her shoulder. "Rest well, my dear. The road ahead is long, and you will need your strength."

With that, he turned and gestured for an attendant to escort her back to her quarters.

--------------------------------------------------------

Artanis returned to her room, as the weight of the conversation with her grandfather settled over her. She moved to the bed, and she lay back, letting her head sink into the pillow. The fabric was cool against her skin, but even as her body welcomed the comfort, her mind remained restless.

She wondered if the Valar would view the King's absence from the festival with disfavor.

Would they see it as defiance or merely the act of a father protecting his exiled son? She wondered, too, if there was truly a chance for Fëanor to mend the rift he had opened within their family.

In the solitude of her room, she allowed herself to feel pity for her grandfather.

He was still bearing the consequences of having loved another woman besides Fëanor’s mother, a crime for which his son seemed determined, in his eternal life, to punish him endlessly. Though she knew love bound Finwë to his eldest son, she also recognized that guilt played its part. The king seemed to feel he owed his son a debt for that perceived betrayal.

It could not be love alone, she thought, that made him so fiercely protective of Fëanor, so forgiving of his behavior even when it offended his core beliefs. Surely, it was also that deep-seated guilt that had driven him to absolve Fëanor of falling victim to his own ambition - a hunger nurtured by the poisoned sustenance Melkor had provided.

And yet, knowing that the Silmarils were safe, and that the Valar had evidently not requested them, had lightened the burden of her premonition.

To reach the halls of Manwë would require three days of intense riding, and she knew her grandfather was right - resting now would allow her to arrive with a clearer mind and a lighter heart.

But there was a thorn in her side, one that refused to let her rest completely.

Why has no one told me about Melkor?

The thought gnawed at her.

She couldn’t believe that no one in her family had known of his visit. It seemed inconceivable that her family, the people closest to her, could have kept something so monumental from her. Finwë had told her that Fëanor had reported Melkor’s visit to the Valar immediately, so at the very least, her father must have known. Her father - so quick to speak of duty and loyalty - had chosen silence.

Had he hidden it from her out of fear of her reaction? Was he afraid she would rail against the Valar? Or had the silence been born of something else - a deeper, more deliberate deception? Did they all know that to reveal Melkor’s visit would ignite a fire within her, one too dangerous to control?

It stung more than she cared to admit.

She had never thought herself a stranger to her family, but this omission, this conspiracy of silence, made her wonder how well they truly knew her - or how well she knew herself.

In this, she realized with bitter clarity, she was closer to Fëanor than she cared to admit.

That same fire burned within her, too - a distrust of the established order of things and with that of the Valar, a defiance that no amount of reason could temper. It was an inheritance she could not escape, no matter how she tried.

But even this thought felt insignificant in the shadow of a greater fear.

How has Melkor managed to reach Formenos?

How had he reached Formenos while the Valar were allegedly hunting him? If he could reach Formenos, what was stopping him from going anywhere he wished? What was stopping him from standing in the very heart of Tirion or even the great halls of Valmar?

Had they not been serious in their pursuit? Did they see Melkor as less of a threat now that his lies had been exposed? Or worse, had they underestimated him just as she had?

It was almost laughable. 

The Valar, in all their supposed wisdom and might, had let him slip through their grasp once again.

They had sent him into exile once before, only to allow his shadow to return to Valinor. And now, when they proclaimed they were hunting him, Melkor had the audacity to walk boldly into Formenos, as if their efforts were no more than a nuisance to him.

Artanis clenched her fists, drawing blood.

His grandfather's words about Eru's grand design ringed in her ears. But what if this was no grand design? What if it was simply their failure, an inability to act decisively, to recognize the threat Melkor truly posed?

Even in her darkest thoughts, she had never allowed herself to truly question their competence. But now? Now the doubt crept in, insidious and sharp. 

Perhaps that was the greatest failing of the Valar: their belief that they had time. And wasn’t that what Melkor had always counted on? Time to sow his lies, time to corrupt, time to move unseen while they deliberated endlessly over their course of action.

And she had underestimated him.

For him to believe there was still a chance of persuading Fëanor to act in accordance with his schemes - even after his deception had been revealed - meant that Melkor trusted in the depth of his corruption. He must have in the depth of his claws within Fëanor’s soul.

A venomous whisper formed in the back of her mind.

Doesn't he have his claws in me, too?

It was with that grim realization - a bittersweet and sorrowful consolation - that Artanis finally drifted into a restless sleep.

And through it all, she felt like she heard the faint sound of a laughter, cold and mocking, as if the darkness itself found joy in her despair.

Chapter Text

When she woke, she prepared herself swiftly.

Her plan was clear: she would bid farewell to King Finwë, gather a few provisions for her journey, and leave Formenos.

Her riding clothes were washed and had been returned to her. She found them folded in a basket at the entrance to her door and changed quickly. She slid her dagger back into its sheath at her belt and draped her riding cloak over her shoulders, fastening it securely at her neck.

The morning air was crisp as she descended to the main hall. The corridors were quiet, save for the faint echo of her footsteps. When she reached the hall, she found Finwë in the company of several guards, likely receiving their report from the morning patrol. 

Artanis approached, bowing her head slightly in respect.

The guards glanced at her briefly before resuming their conversation, their disciplined demeanor unwavering. As she drew closer, she noticed movement at the far end of the hall. Lírien, her attendant from the previous night, emerged carrying a small bundle wrapped in cloth, likely filled with lembas and dried meat for the journey. 

"King Finwë," Artanis began, her voice steady as she inclined her head in a small bow. "Thank you for your hospitality."

Finwë turned to her, his expression melting into a faint smile. "You are leaving already, my child?"

"Yes," she replied. "I must set out if I am to reach the festival in time."

Lírien approached, holding the bundle out to her with a polite nod. Artanis accepted it gratefully, offering a brief smile in return. "Thank you, Lírien," she said, slipping the provisions into her satchel.

"The road to Taniquetil is long and steep. Are you certain you do not wish to rest longer before departing?" he asked.

"I have rested enough, my King. The journey ahead is urgent, and I do not wish to delay further."

Finwë studied her for a moment, before nodding slowly. "Very well. But take care, Artanis. And remember, you carry not just your strength, but the strength of your family with you. Trust in that."

"I will". With a final bow, she turned, headed towards her horse.

But as she was making her way toward the stables, a sound tore through the air.

At first, it was nothing more than a vibration - a resonance that was neither voice nor wind, but something far more alien, far more sinister.

And then came a roar. A sound that shattered the very fabric of the world.

It wasn’t a roar of any natural beast, nor a sound born of mortal lands.

It was an ancient, primordial wail - a cry that seemed to echo from the very bones of the earth and the skies above, as if the world itself had been struck with mortal anguish. It filled her ears, her mind, and her soul, shattering all sense of balance.

The ground beneath her feet trembled violently.

Inside the halls, paintings on the walls swayed as though alive, their subjects twisting grotesquely. Dust fell from the rafters, and for a fleeting moment, Artanis was certain the entire fortress would collapse around them.

Then the tremors subsided, but only slightly - just enough for her to move.

She ran toward the great gates, her legs trembling beneath her, her chest pounding. She heard Finwë and his guards following behind her shortly after, their footfalls ringing out like thunder on the stone floor.

The great doors of Formenos creaked open with a deafening groan, their hinges protesting as if even the fortress itself wished to resist what lay beyond.

And then she saw it.

The sight stole the breath from her lungs, her vision narrowing as if the world around her was closing in. 

“What is happening?” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible, and she turned toward the King.

For the first time in her life, Artanis saw something in her grandfather that she had never thought possible: fear.

Finwë stood beside her, his usually calm and commanding presence now shaken. His face had gone pale, his eyes wide with disbelief as they fixed on the same horrifying sight.

Around them, the elves of Formenos were gathering, drawn from their homes and posts by the dreadful sound.

Their faces were pale, their expressions frozen in shock. Some clutched their chests, their breathing shallow, while others simply stared southward, toward the essence of Valinor, their gazes transfixed as though under a spell.

Artanis clutched her chest, her mind pounding. She could barely draw a breath.

Then her gaze shifted back on the horizon, to try make a sense of what they were all witness, and her knees nearly buckled beneath her.

In the distance, where the light of Laurelin and Telperion had once shone unbroken, their majestic crowns now shuddered violently. The Trees themselves writhed as if alive and in unbearable agony.

She forced herself to focus, and in the growing void, she discerned a monstrous figure. 

It was not a creature, but a living mass of darkness - a colossal, grotesque entity whose very presence seemed to devour the light around it. Its claws, jagged and unholy, were sunk deep into the roots of the Trees, tearing into them with every heaving motion.

With each pull, the being emitted a noise that set her teeth on edge - a hideous sound of grinding bones. From its gaping maw oozed a viscous, black substance, thick as tar, that seeped into the earth beneath the Trees. Everywhere it touched, the ground blackened and cracked, corrupted beyond repair.

Artanis resisted the urge to weep as her gaze shifted to a second figure, and her breath caught in her throat.

Tall and fearsome, this one did not move with the wild chaos of the beast beside it.

He bore nothing of the form she had once known. 

Gone was the deceiver cloaked in splendor and feigned nobility.

Now, he was a being of overwhelming absence, his shape vast and warped. His armor, a shifting and fragmented mass, seemed less a crafted object and more an extension of the unnatural force he carried within himself. It was not solid but fluid, rippling like a mirage, distorting the space it occupied and leaving behind a faint, sickening shimmer that hurt the eyes to follow.

Melkor no longer seemed tethered to the natural order. 

In his hand, he held a great sword, its blade blacker than the void, its edges jagged and cruel. With a merciless motion , he struck Laurelind.

The monstrous spider-like creature lunged, her maw gaping, and devoured the light hungrily. The sparks vanished as swiftly as they had come, swallowed into her endless void.

The silver luminescence of the Tree dimmed as Melkor’s blade struck it with equal ferocity. Its silvery leaves shivered as though they were living hands reaching desperately for salvation. But no salvation came.

Ungoliant’s hunger was boundless, and her dark tendrils engulfed the wounded Tree, draining it of its life until its branches shriveled, its roots twisted into brittle ash, and its light was no more.

The world seemed to hold its breath.

Valinor, once radiant and eternal, was being plunged into an unnatural shadow. 

The light of the Trees, the very essence of the realm since its creation, was gone.

And in that moment, Artanis found herself thrust back into her vision - the depths of the sea, the overwhelming sense of suffocation... As though reality had conspired to mirror her nightmare.

“No…” she whispered, her body folding as if the strength had been drained from her limbs. “No, this cannot be...”

Beside her, Finwë stood frozen.

The proud and noble figure she had always known, the unshakable King of the Noldor, seemed diminished under the weight of what lay before them. His shoulders sagged, his hands hung limp at his sides, and his face was a mask of anguish.

“The light…” he murmured, his voice cracked and brittle. It sounded as though it might shatter entirely.

A bitter wind rose, sweeping through the fields of Valinor.

It carried with it an emptiness, a cold, hollow void left in the wake of the Trees’ destruction. The once-familiar warmth of the land was gone, replaced by an aching chill that seeped into Artanis’s bones.

She couldn’t tear her gaze away.  Every fiber of her being screamed at her to turn, to flee, to hide. 

But she was paralyzed, rooted in place by a shock so profound it seemed to take hold of her soul.

She couldn’t hold herself together any longer.

Tears streamed down her face, warm against the rising chill, as she watched Melkor.

His gaze turned toward the heavens, and even from afar, his cruel grin was unmistakable. There was a terrible joy in his expression, a reveling in the destruction he had wrought. It was as though he were declaring the end of one era and the dawn of another. His era.

The world around her seemed to shift unnaturally.

It was not a sudden darkness, but an absence that crept over the land like a suffocating tide, consuming everything in its path. 

The great shadow descended upon Valinor. The light failed. 

This wasn’t merely an absence of light. It was something alive, something tangible, a force that pressed against the skin and filled the lungs with a choking sensation.

And then, Artanis saw it—the creature, springing forward toward the sacred wells of Varda.

From the distance, she appeared to drink from them, her massive form growing larger with each passing moment. The waters, so pure and eternal, seemed to vanish into her, leaving the land dry and barren.

Ungoliant swelled to monstrous proportions, her form twisting grotesquely as though her greed could not be contained. Even Melkor, towering as he was, seemed small beside her now, a shadow against her immense presence.

For a long moment, silence reigned. 

Every song, every sound, every breath seemed to vanish, swallowed by the suffocating stillness that hung over the land. It was a silence so absolute it felt as though the world itself had ceased to exist, replaced by an alien presence that weighed heavily on everything it touched.

The elves of Formenos fell to their knees as if struck, their bodies trembling with a dread they had never before known. Many covered their faces with their hands, unable to bear the sight before them. It was not merely fear: it was a visceral, all-consuming despair that clawed at their very souls.

Their cries, raw and piercing, rose like a lamentation to the heavens. Some called out to the Valar, their voices cracking as they begged for aid that would not come. "Manwë! Varda! Hear us!" The names echoed in the trembling air, but no answer came, no reprieve. Others could only wail incoherently, the sounds of their anguish like a terrible dirge. The noise was deafening, a cacophony of suffering that rose like the final gasp of a dying world.

The expressions on the faces of her kin would be seared into her memory forever - wide, unblinking eyes, mouths agape in silent screams, tears streaking pale cheeks. One elf, a young guard she recognized from the night before, collapsed entirely, his body crumpling as though it could no longer endure the weight of the moment. Another, older and once proud, tore at his hair as if trying to claw the terror from his mind. Children clung desperately to their parents, their small voices trembling with questions no one could answer. 

And yet, even this terrible chorus was swallowed by the oppressive stillness that she was feeling.

She tried to move, to speak, to comfort those around her, but her body refused to obey. She could only stand frozen, her heart pounding so fiercely she thought it might shatter.

But even this did not last long.

For  then it came: a shift, a movement in the unseen tide of dread that enveloped them.

It soon became clear that the darkness, the force that had consumed the light of the Trees, was not content to linger. It was not a static thing; it was alive, purposeful, and insatiable.

From miles away, Artanis felt it - a cold, sharp presence brushing against her mind, invasive and unrelenting. It was not a whisper but a command, an assertion of will so potent it was almost tangible. The air around her seemed to constrict as if reacting to the weight of its attention.

The gaze of the Dark Lord had shifted. 

His gaze was fixed northward.

Toward them.

She felt sick.  She didn’t need words, nor did she need confirmation from anyone else. She knew, in the depths of her soul, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone.

He was coming. To Formenos.

She tried to speak, to warn those around her, but her voice would not come. Her tears, warm against her cheeks, blurred her vision, but even through her fear, she could feel the weight of his intent pressing down on her.

Melkor was coming, and she knew that Formenos would not stand against him.

----------------------------------------

The wave of darkness consumed the land as it rolled northward.

The air itself seemed to vibrate with a silent threat, pressing against all who stood in the courtyard of Formenos.

Though Artanis had not yet found her voice, the others too noticed the terrifying speed with which the shadow moved toward them. At first, the voices were little more than whispers, brave words summoned by the boldest who managed to find their voices buried beneath their despair.

"He is coming," whispered one of the elders, his voice trembling as though the weight of the words might crush him.
"Melkor and that thing are coming here!" shouted another, their voice cutting through the oppressive stillness.

The murmur began to ripple through the gathered elves, growing louder as more realized what was bound to happen. Fear swept over the crowd like wildfire, spreading panic from one face to the next.

Some clung to one another, their hands gripping tightly as though sheer proximity could shield them from the horror. Others turned to Finwë, their eyes wide and pleading, desperate for the strength they could no longer muster within themselves.

Yet others began to retreat, their whispers rising to a chorus of lamentations, panic creeping steadily into their voices. "We cannot fight this," they muttered. "Not him… not that creature…"

Artanis inhaled deeply, forcing herself to shake free of the shock that had held her frozen.

She wiped her tears away with her elbow, commanding herself to focus. Whatever was coming, she would not face it paralyzed.

Turning sharply, she looked to Finwë, but he too seemed lost in the enormity of what was unfolding. His gaze was fixed on the advancing shadow, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. His normally regal bearing was eclipsed by the raw horror etched into his features.

Artanis moved to him, gripping his shoulders firmly. Her touch was urgent as she tried to break through his torpor.

"King Finwë, we must leave. Now. If he comes, we cannot stand against him."

She knew the truth: there was nothing they could do.

Melkor had chosen the perfect moment. The festivities had begun, drawing the Valar to Manwë’s halls. Whatever time they would take to respond would not be enough to intercept his advance. And whatever his will upon reaching Formenos, no mortal being could stand in his way.

But that did not mean all was lost. It could not mean that.

Artanis refused to dwell on the implications of their situation, on the confirmation of her darkest fears. She could not allow herself to linger on the bitter vindication that told her she had been right. She would have traded a thousand humiliations for being wrong if it meant avoiding the reality now spreading like ink before her.

Finwë’s expression was grim, but she saw the flicker of resolve returning to his eyes. He took a moment, inhaling deeply, summoning the authority his people so desperately needed. But Artanis, standing close enough to see beyond the mask, noticed the cracks forming beneath it.

He had been wrong.

The thought struck her.

He had believed in the Valar, in their strength, their wisdom, their design. He had chosen trust over doubt, hope over fear, and now that trust had failed them all. The enemy he had once fled from in Cuiviénen had risen again, more devastating than ever, and the Valar had not stopped him.

And yet, Finwë stood. He nodded to her, gently moving her aside as he stepped forward to face the gathered Noldor. His voice rang out, as though nothing had changed. But Artanis saw the truth.

The weight of their circumstances pressed heavier on her shoulders as she watched him. Even now, Finwë clung to his resolve, his belief that they could withstand what was coming. Perhaps it was all he had left to offer his people.

When he spoke, his voice was steady, carrying across the courtyard with the commanding strength of a king. "Take your families. Gather what you can carry. Go to the hills or further north, to the safety of the other strongholds. Formenos cannot stand against Melkor. The soldiers will guide you to safety as best they can."

He turned to the nearby guards, issuing swift instructions on how to organize the evacuation. One of the soldiers offered him a sword, which he strapped to his side, his jaw tightening with determination.

"Go now!" he urged, his voice rising to carry above the growing panic.

The elves moved quickly, spurred into action by the king’s command.

Mothers ushered their children toward the gates, their faces etched with despair. Fathers carried whatever supplies they could, their steps heavy with dread. Warriors armed themselves with what little they had, forming protective lines to shepherd the people toward safety.

Artanis turned back to Finwë, her eyes pleading. "And you? You must go with them. He is coming for the Silmarils, I am sure of it" she said.

That was why Melkor had taken the risk of coming to Formenos to speak with Fëanor.

It had been plausible before, but now it was evident. He had come to confirm the jewels’ location, to ensure they were precisely where he needed them to be when the perfect moment to strike presented itself.

To her great surprise, Finwë shook his head, his expression openly troubled.

"You cannot stand alone against him!" Artanis cried, her voice cracking with a mix of anger and desperation. "This is madness. You must stay with your people, save yourself."

"No, Artanis," Finwë said firmly. "I will not abandon this place. It was built by my son, by our people. And the treasures within are not merely jewels, nor are they solely ours - they are the legacy of the Noldor. I will not see them taken without resistance. I will not see us crushed without resistance."

They exchanged a long, charged look, each taking the measure of the other’s will.

Artanis couldn’t help but admire the resilience of her King, even though she knew the consequences of his decision would be dire.

She turned and saw the first of the elves fleeing into the hills.

She was torn.

Part of her screamed to follow them. You cannot stand against what is coming. Your strength is needed with them, among your people. She knew the Noldor would need leadership, guidance, and courage in the dark days to come. You can rebuild. You can be their future.

But there was another voice, quieter but more insistent.

It was the same voice that had guided her to Formenos, that had pressed her forward. You cannot leave him, it whispered. Not like this. 

She turned to her grandfather. The sight of him - the King who had been a pillar of strength and wisdom her entire life - now standing alone against an unstoppable force sent a sharp pang through her whole being.

The logic of leaving was undeniable.

If she stayed, she would surely perish, and what would that accomplish? Melkor could not be defeated, not here, not now. Staying would be foolish, reckless - a waste. But as much as she tried to convince herself, the thought of abandoning Finwë felt like a betrayal.

A hush fell over Formenos.

Her choice crystallized in that silence.

To flee would be to abandon not only Finwë but everything she believed herself to stand for.

She had come here to prevent a terrible fate, not to bear witness to a worse one passively. If she left now, she would carry the weight of that failure for the rest of her days. She would be haunted not just by what happened but by what might have been had she stayed.

She reached Finwë and grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at her

"Grandfather," she said, dropping the title in the urgency of the moment.  Her voice was heavy with emotion. "I am a princess of the Noldor, as you are their King. If you will not seek refuge, then I will not allow you to face Melkor alone."

The words were not spoken lightly. She knew what they meant. She knew the choice she was making.

For a moment, Finwë looked stunned, his composure breaking ever so slightly. His expression darkened as his gaze dropped to her hand on his arm, as though the weight of her determination burned through him.

When he finally looked back at her, his expression was a mixture of sorrow, pride, and frustration.

"I am a king, yes, but I am also a father, a grandfather," he said, his voice low and pained. "And you ask me to watch my granddaughter stand here with me, knowing what is to come. Knowing there might be no victory, no salvation in this stand."

Artanis opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a hand to stop her.

"I understand your resolve, Artanis. I see your courage. But courage alone does not shield the soul." 

Artanis took a step closer, her eyes blazing. Silently, she called upon Eru, begging for the strength to say what needed to be said, for the clarity to choose the right path.

"If we are to stand for what we are, then I cannot abandon you now," she said "What would it mean if I fled while you stayed to defend our name? What kind of people would we be if we were to leave our king stand alone to face this?"

Finwë sighed deeply, his shoulders drooping for a moment before he straightened again. He seemed to be looking into himself to reach for an answer he could not find.

"You think yourself so different from Fëanor," he said at last, his voice tinged with regret. "But you are just as proud as he is." He hesitated, his expression tightening. "But that does not mean you must share his recklessness."

"I understand that if I remain, I may lose my life. But I will not allow history to remember me as a coward who fled from her destiny. I will not abandon you."

"Seeking refuge is not an act of cowardice, but of wisdom, my child" Finwë replied, "There is nothing you can do here, Artanis. You must see that."

"That’s not certain," she said firmly, her voice rising with conviction.

Finwë opened his mouth to respond, to press her further, but before he could speak, it was too late.

The moment to argue was gone.

And before the King could ask more, before their conversation could reach its end, the shadow reached the gates of Formenos.

--------------------

Melkor, who until now had moved as a convulsive, towering mass of roiling darkness, began to materialize in the distance, at the far end of the road leading to the fortress.

At first, his form was vast, a monstrous distortion of the horizon, but as he approached, he seemed to shrink, his shape coalescing into something unnervingly familiar.

By the time he reached the entrance to Formenos, he stood before them in the fair form that he had so often used to deceive. He wore black armor, its surfaces gleaming faintly as though imbued with the lingering essence of the stolen Trees. When he reached the threshold, he removed his helm with a slow motion. Long black hair spilled forth like a cascade of dark waves, framing a face both beautiful and terrible, its features sharp, symmetrical, and unnaturally perfect.

Behind him loomed Ungoliant.

She was an abomination of size and shape, her grotesque body shifting and writhing with a sickening fluidity.

Her many legs clicked against the stone road, the sound echoing like the ticks of a death knell. Her countless eyes moved ceaselessly, glinting like shards of obsidian as they scanned the space around her.

She was immense, larger than any creature Artanis had ever conceived.

Next to her, Melkor now seemed small, insignificant, dwarfed by her horrific presence.

Her presence filled every inch of the space she occupied, warping the environment so that nothing beyond her grotesque form could be seen. She was singular and yet manifold, a mass of contradictions that twisted the eye and unsettled the mind, forcing all focus upon her in a way that left the horizon an unreachable dream.

Artanis and Finwë stood side by side, their shoulders almost touching now.

Without needing to speak or coordinate, they moved as one. Finwë unsheathed his sword, its polished blade catching what little light remained, while Artanis drew her dagger.

The sight seemed to amuse Melkor beyond measure.

From deep within his chest came a sound - a low, guttural growl that rumbled like distant thunder. It began as an inhuman noise, animalistic and primal, but as it grew, it shifted, morphing into a grotesque laugh, and then a voice.

"So this is the resistance of the Noldor," Melkor said, and hearing his voice so clearly after so long sent a shiver down Artanis’s spine. "A king and his little princess."

His gaze swept over them, lingering just long enough to press its weight upon them both, before turning to take in Formenos itself, as if he were measuring it, calculating how long it would take to make it his own.

When his gaze returned to Artanis, she felt as if a blade was placed against her throat, but she did not flinch. 

Almost without realizing it, she raised her dagger, holding it before her face in a defensive gesture. Her voice was steady as she said, "You are not welcome here, Melkor."

This only deepened the amusement on Melkor’s face.

His smile widened into something unnatural, too sharp, too full of teeth. It clashed violently with his otherwise elegant features. Artanis realized she had never seen him like this before - so fierce, gloating.

"Ah, Artanis," Melkor began, his tone slipping into something unsettlingly familiar - a mixture of condescension and false amusement, as though he were scolding her. "How noble of you to stand here, shoulder to shoulder with your king." His voice softened, almost purring, as he tilted his head, regarding her with a mockery so refined it felt like a personal attack. "And what a coincidence to find you here, don’t you think?"

Artanis’s grip tightened on her dagger, her knuckles whitening as her anger and unease surged. But she said nothing, holding her ground.

"Oh, you came to save the King, I imagine," Melkor continued, his tone growing lighter, as he took another step forward. "After all, someone had to protect him from Fëanor’s madness, isn’t that right?"

He paused, savoring the effect of his words on her, before continuing with a smirk. "And who better than you - so full of light and good intentions. So eager to prove yourself."

The words hit her like a blow to the stomach. Artanis flinched involuntarily, as if Melkor’s voice had physical weight.

No.

"The Noldor," Melkor continued, his tone shifting to derisive incredulity, "always so trusting in their connection to the Unseen. So ready to believe the whispers of the wind, the flicker of light, the dreams that I so generously provide..."

A wave of nausea rolled through her.

She could feel her heart slowing, its rhythm distorted by the shock that coursed through her veins. Every syllable felt like a lash, striking at her pride, her purpose, her very identity.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to an almost intimate murmur. "It was child’s play to lead you here, to separate you from the others. You, Artanis, so righteous, so proud. You didn’t even pause to question what you saw, did you?"

Somewhere deep within her, something began to stir - something dark, insidious.

Humiliation.

She had faced Melkor before. She had met his gaze and stood firm against the weight of his malice, drawing strength from her convictions, from the belief that her spirit at least was above his reach.

But this was different.

This was the first time he had truly pierced her armor - not with power, but with precision. He had found her deepest vulnerability, the fragile core of her pride, and turned it against her with devastating accuracy.

Artanis felt the heat rise to her face.

She wanted to look away, to hide from the weight of his gaze and the truth it forced her to confront. But there was nowhere to go, no escape from the realization that he had played her like a harp, weaving a melody not of her choosing.

All her resolve, all her pride in her foresight and strength, had been a tool in his hands. She had walked willingly into his trap, her fears and her rightousness driving her steps.

The humiliation was unlike anything she had ever felt before.

It wasn’t just the humiliation of being outwitted. It was the knowledge that he knew her. He had seen her - not just her actions, but the core of who she was. He had looked into her fears, her goodness, her hopes, and found the precise threads to pull. This wasn’t the impersonal malice of a distant enemy. This was personal.

He didn’t just mock her actions; he mocked her being.

He didn’t just revel in her humiliation; he relished in the fact that he had created it.

Artanis clenched her fists, the hilt of her dagger digging into her palm, grounding her against the rising tide of despair. She wanted to scream, to fight, to do anything that would drown out the suffocating realization that, for all her strength and foresight, she had been so painfully predictable to him.

"What do you want, Melkor?" Finwë spat, breaking the spell his words had started to cast on her. He stepped forward to place himself between Melkor and his granddaughter. With a protective arm, he moved Artanis behind him, a gesture both noble and futile.

"You wanted to believe," Melkor continued, ignoring the King entirely, his focus unrelenting on Artanis as he leaned to catch her gaze ""You needed to believe that you alone could make the difference" each word cutting deeper than the last "And in that need, I found my path to you-"

"ENOUGH!," Finwë commanded, his voice cutting through the suffocating fog that had enveloped Artanis’s mind.

She gasped softly, the sound barely audible, but it was enough to pull her from the precipice of despair. Finwë stepped forward, his shoulders squared, his sword raised and ready. His eyes burned with the fierce determination of a father protecting his family.

"You can scorn us, Melkor," he said, his voice firm, "but you cannot take what is ours. Not without a fight."

Melkor’s laughter filled the air once again. "A fight?" he repeated, "Oh, Finwë, how quaint. I do not come to fight."

He opened his arms, feigning innonce. "I come simply to take what is mine, and what I desire", his gaze flicked back to Artanis, his smile widening and carrying a silent, sinister undertone, "Everything I desire."

Artanis raised her head at that. "There is nothing here that belongs to you, vile creature. You’ve destroyed enough already, and we will not allow you to take anything more."

Melkor tilted his head, as if considering her words. "But I am not here to destroy. I am here to remake, to take what you and your kin have squandered and shape it into something greater. Something eternal, untouched by the decay of those cursed Trees".

He gestured to Ungoliant, her grotesque form shifting in response, satisfaction emanating from her many limbs. "That part has already been resolved, thanks to Ungoliant. And once the Silmarils leave these lands, nothing will bring those precious Tres back to life."

Artanis’s chest tightened, her breath catching as the weight of his words settled over her.

It was as if the pieces of a vast and terrible puzzle had suddenly locked into place. He had orchestrated everything: the vision, her journey, the timing of his attack, the destruction of the Trees.

And now, he stood before her, already victorious in a battle that hadn’t even begun.

Melkor took another step forward, and in response, Finwë struck with his sword. Or at least, he tried to.

Without even sparing the King a glance, Melkor caught the blade with his bare right hand. Dark blood dripped from his palm where the weapon bit into his flesh, but he did not flinch, did not even seem to notice. The blade might as well have been wood, its edge dulled to uselessness against his sheer might.

He held the sword there, unmoving, as if ridiculing the very idea of resistance. Slowly, he turned his gaze to Finwë, his eyes gleaming with delight.

"Finwë," Melkor said, "You know as well as I do that this is pointless. A waste of energy - a performance, nothing more. There is nothing you can do to stop me from overturning Formenos with a single word and taking everything within it. Alive or otherwise."

Artanis’s mind raced.

She knew he was right. They were no match for Melkor or Ungoliant. The might of the Eldar was great, but not enough to contend with an Ainur and his monstrous ally. But if they could delay him, even for a moment... if they could hold him off long enough for the Valar to intervene...

"No, little flame," Melkor interrupted, "Your precious Valar will not arrive in time. By the moment they realize what has occurred, Ungoliant and I will be long gone."

The words struck her but worse was the sensation that followed. She tried to push him from her mind, to block his presence, but his voice slithered through her defenses effortlessly.

In response, Melkor clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a sharp, condescending sound. "Pathetic," he hissed.

And then he struck her - not with his body, which remained still, holding the sword in one hand. He struck her mind.

Artanis gasped, her entire body convulsing as a sharp, searing pain tore through her consciousness.

It was as though something inside her had been ripped apart, leaving her raw and exposed. She crumpled to her knees with a strangled cry, her dagger slipping from her hand and clattering uselessly to the ground.

"Artanis!" Finwë turned, taking his sword back from Melkor's grasp, his face etched with concern. He stepped back slightly, his stance shifting to shield her.

Melkor’s smile widened as he took in the scene. "There is nothing you can do," he said, his tone calm, almost conversational. "Nothing but surrender to my will. Hand over the Silmarils, and the treasures of the Noldor. Now."

His jaw clenched as he stared Melkor down. "I will never bow to your will, cursed one," he spat.

And with that, he lunged forward, his blade raised for another strike.

The scene that followed seemed to last both a single moment and an eternity.

The clang of the sword striking Melkor’s armor was deafening, a sound like metal screeching against unyielding stone. The impact reverberated through the air, but the blade rebounded harmlessly, its force dissipated as though it had struck an impenetrable wall.

Melkor didn’t move. Not even a fraction of an inch. His smile remained, utterly unshaken by the violence aimed at him.

The remainings of the blade crumpled in the King's grasp like parchment, the sharp edge twisting and bending as though it were nothing more than brittle paper.

Finwë’s eyes widened, his grip faltering as the ruined weapon was torn from his hands. But as he took in the scene, Melkor reached out and grabbed the King by the throat.

The movement was swift, but its impact was devastating.

Finwë’s feet left the ground as Melkor lifted him effortlessly, holding him aloft as though he weighed nothing.

Artanis, still on her knees, could only watch in horror as her grandfather dangled helplessly in Melkor’s grasp. The King’s hands clawed at Melkor’s arm, his struggles futile against the unyielding strength that held him.

"Let him go!" she screamed, her voice raw and breaking with the strain, fueled by desperation and the last reserves of her strength.

Melkor’s dark eyes shifted to her, his smile widening as if savoring her anguish.

Once again, he reached into her mind, but this time he did not simply invade. This time, he allowed her to feel his presence, to understand the full weight of his power.

A vision blossomed in her consciousness, so vivid and visceral that it overtook her entirely.

Formenos - torn from the very earth that supported it. Its proud walls crumbled, the land itself upended as though struck by a cataclysmic force that had overturned its foundations. At its gates stood two heads impaled on spears, grotesque banners to Melkor’s triumph: hers and her grandfather’s.

Ungoliant - unrestrained, her monstrous form surging over the hills and descending upon the fleeing elves. Their screams rose in a terrible cacophony of despair that echoed across the land. And then came the silence, the sickening, hollow silence, as Ungoliant’s enormous jaws tore into the masses, devouring them limb by limb.

The great spider moved with horrifying speed and precision, her grotesque pincers clicking as she feasted, the remnants of her victims spilling onto the earth, staining it dark with blood. The cries of the Noldor faded into nothingness, their light extinguished in the maw of an insatiable void. The land itself seemed to recoil, darkening under the weight of the slaughter, the very soil steeped in carnage.

The vision overwhelmed her.

Her face had gone as pale as death, her breaths shallow and ragged. Her gaze lost its focus, her surroundings dissolving into a blur of shapes and sounds she could no longer comprehend. Her young soul, untested by death, by war, by the true horrors of existence, could not bear the weight of such despair. She had thought herself strong, but this... This was beyond anything she could have imagined.

Even her vision - the cursed premonition that had driven her here - seemed trivial now, a faint shadow compared to the overwhelming dread Melkor had unleashed in her mind.

"Artanis!" Finwë managed to choke out, his voice strained as he fought against the iron grip that held him. His eyes, wide with concern, darted between the monstrous figure holding him and his granddaughter crumpled on the ground.

"Do not worry, foolish King," Melkor said almost soothing . "I am merely showing Artanis what could so easily become reality. What awaits her and her people."

He tilted his head, his dark hair spilling over his shoulders , and added with a grin, "If only there were… another way."

React. Now.

Artanis, still ensnared by the remnants of the vision, took a moment to register the suggestive tone in his words. Her horror hadn’t yet transformed into rage, but deep within her soul, her fury began to gather.

"I already told you not to speak to me in riddles, you vile creature" she hissed, without mustering the strength to meet his gaze.

"Look at me, Artanis" he said, without consequence. She did not oblige him.

"I said, look at me."

This time, it wasn’t a request.

The moment the words left his lips, her head snapped upward against her will, her eyes locking with his.

The sensation was sickeningly familiar. It yanked her back to the corridors of her home, to the first time he had stolen her voice, rendering her helpless. That same suffocating power now gripped her again, a reminder of how utterly insignificant her resistance was before him.

"Let us make this simple, shall we?" he offered, "Surrender to me willingly, Artanis. Follow me, carry the Silmarils for me, and I will let the King and the rest of the Noldor here live."

He released Finwë, letting him fall backward like a discarded doll. The King crumpled gracelessly to the ground, gasping for air, his hand clutching his throat.

"Resist," Melkor continued, his tone turning colder, "and that vision will be only the beginning of what awaits your kin. After all, the Teleri are but a mountain range away..."

He let the words linger, their meaning clear and cruel.

"You wretched being!" Finwë rasped, his voice raw as he struggled to regain control of his breath.

Her gaze was locked with Melkor’s, her mind racing.

She knew the truth of his threat. He had the power to do everything he promised: to obliterate Formenos, to unleash Ungoliant on the Teleri, to raze the very foundations of their world. And there was nothing she or Finwë could do to stop him.

If she gave herself up, perhaps there would be time - a slim, fragile hope - to stop him later, to find some way to undo the horrors he had wrought. But if she resisted now, she knew with absolute certainty that her grandfather would die, and her kin soon after.

Her mind flitted desperately between the options, each more agonizing than the last.

She thought of her kin, scattered across Valinor, their joy at the festival now eclipsed by an impending doom they did not yet know.

She thought of the Teleri, oblivious to the monster lurking beyond the mountains, their laughter and songs destined to be drowned in screams.

And the Noldor risked losing both the Trees and their King in a single day.

Wasn’t that why she had come here in the first place? To protect him? To stand between the evil she had foreseen and the family she loved?

"Artanis, don’t do it!" Finwë rasped, his voice raw with desperation. "He only wants to use you to bring him the Silmarils. He cannot touch them! If you yield, he will make you a prisoner, an example-“

"SILENCE," Melkor commanded, and in istant, Finwë fell victim to the same paralyzing force that had rendered Artanis powerless before. The King froze where he stood, his body locked in place as though bound by invisible chains. His eyes burned with defiance, but his body betrayed no movement, his voice stolen by the overwhelming weight of Melkor’s will.

Melkor turned his gaze back to Artanis and closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Crouching before her slumped form, he reached out and placed a hand in her hair. His fingers tangled in the golden strands, his touch feigning gentleness. The gesture was intimate, and utterly revolting.

Artanis stiffened, disgusted. Without thinking, she spat at him, the glob of defiance landing squarely on his cheek.

Melkor paused.

Wiping the spit away, his smile did not falter. "A behavior most unbecoming of a princess of the Noldor, don’t you think?" 

And then, in one swift movement, he turned back to Finwë.

The King remained frozen, helpless as Melkor’s dark blade appeared in his hand. Melkor raised it high. 

"NO!" Artanis screamed, her voice raw with panic. "STOP!!" she cried again, her voice cracking just as the blade hovered over Finwë’s neck.

The blade halted mid-air, its edge poised to sever the King’s head from his body.  The moment stretched unbearably, time itself seeming to freeze as the Noldor’s fate balanced on the knife’s edge.

Artanis’s chest heaved as she forced herself upright, sheating her dagger back at the belt, her trembling legs barely able to support her through it all. Her panic surged into desperation as she shouted, "If I come with you, I need your word that you will not harm the King - or anyone else in Valinor!"

Melkor seemed to savor the moment.

Artanis watched in horror as he inhaled deeply, as if the victory itself were an intoxicating aroma he could drink in. He then exhaled with languid satisfaction.

He lowered the blade that had hovered so dangerously close to Finwë’s neck, sparing the King and releasing him not only from the looming threat of death but also from the crushing weight of his dark will. Finwe's eyes, wide and filled with lingering defiance, met Artanis’s for a fleeting moment.

Her own chest heaved as she struggled to process the scene before her. And then her focus shifted - to Melkor, who now turned to her with a triumphant expression, and had extended his hand toward her.

"I am nothing if not a being of my word," he promised.

Artanis froze. 
Her instincts screamed at her to recoil, to resist, to draw her dagger again and strike, no matter how futile the act might be. But she knew the truth: there was no escaping this moment. If she refused him, the death and destruction she had seen in her vision would become reality.

Finally, with a breath that shuddered through her entire body, Artanis forced herself to take a step forward. Her arm lifted slowly, her fingers trembling as they hovered over his. 

When her hand finally rested in his, the contact was brief but searing, like touching ice that burned. His grip closed around hers, and it felt like manacles closing in - an irrevocable bond forged in despair, chaining her to his will.

"Wise choice, little flame" Melkor said. "Now, we will go fetch the jewels, and we will depart at once."

Behind her, Finwë rose to his feet as quickly as his weakened body would allow. His hand shot out to her shoulder, spinning her around with surprising strength.

"Artanis," he rasped, his voice raw with desperation. "You cannot do this. You cannot go with him!"

Her lips trembled as she forced herself to speak."I have no choice, grandfather," she said, her voice so low it didn't even sound like her own. "If I don’t, he will kill you, and everyone else."

Finwë’s face contorted with anguish, his hands tightening on her shoulders. "Let him kill me, then!" he cried. "Better that I die here than to see you taken by him. Better that we all perish than allow him to take you!"

She opened her mouth to respond but found no words that could lessen the weight of his anguish - or her own. Slowly, she pulled away from his grasp, and turned toward the dark figure waiting for her.

------------------------------------

Her legs felt weak beneath her, her chest tight with terror as she stepped into the palace once more.

The halls of Formenos stretched before her, now abandoned, dark, and cold, just as she saw them. As he made me see them, she corrected.  

And beside her, Melkor loomed, silent for once, his presence a suffocating.

Artanis felt like a phantom wandering its corridors. She floated forward as though already dead, her mind a void of dread and resignation. Her body moved mechanically, until she found herself standing before the sealed iron door to the vault without even knowing how she knew where it was. She had no need to think, no need to search.

Melkor raised a hand, his fingers curling slightly as power radiated from him. 

The heavy iron door, a testament to the craftsmanship of the Noldor, began to crumble. It dissolved not with a shattering crash but with an eerie, unnatural silence, disintegrating into a fine, black powder as though it had been melted by an unseen flame.

The air in the chamber beyond was colder still, and Artanis suppressed a shiver as she stepped forward, her breath clouding faintly before her.

Beyond the antechamber, they found them: the Silmarils, resting in a small, ornate case, their light pulsating faintly against the surrounding darkness. Nearby, a heavy chest held countless other jewels and gemstones, treasures crafted by the hands of the Noldor.

Melkor’s eyes gleamed with greed as he gestured toward the Silmarils. "Take them," he commanded.

Artanis turned to him, "How pathetic," she spat, her words laced with venom. "For a being so powerful, you still need me to touch them for you."

Melkor’s demeanor didn't change, "The jest of the Valar was clever," he said, his tone cynical, "but not clever enough. Did they truly think I would not find a loophole? You see, little flame, I am nothing if not resourceful."

Her hand hesitated as it reached for the Silmarils, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the radiant case. When her skin finally brushed the gems, a surge of power coursed through her - blinding, searing, alive. For a moment, she felt as though the light of the Trees themselves had been reborn in her hands.

A wild, desperate thought raced through her mind.

Could I use them? Could their power be turned against him?

But the thought of Finwë, of her kin, of Valinor itself, smothered that fleeting hope. She could not risk it - not now. Not while so many lives hung in the balance. Her spirit burned with the hope that one day, this act of surrender would be avenged. That Melkor would be defeated, that the Silmarils would be returned to Fëanor.

She closed the case, securing the Silmarils, as Melkor was reaching for the other chests. 

-------------------------------------------------------------

As they emerged from the fortress, she felt like choking.

Ungoliant loomed at the gates, her form shifting grotesquely in response to the closeness of the jewels. Her many eyes glinted with a terrible hunger, and her legs clicked ominously against the stone. Melkor called to her, his voice echoing unnaturally. She moved closer.

Finwë still stood at the gates, weighted by what was to come. His eyes locked onto Melkor’s, blazing with defiance even as he stepped forward.

"You will take her from me," he said, his voice steady though raw with emotion. "But I have the right to say farewell to my granddaughter."

Melkor’s gaze flicked toward him, calculating. For a moment, the Dark Lord seemed to weigh the words, his expression inscrutable. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he stepped aside, as though granting Finwë a magnanimous moment.

Artanis watched as her grandfather approached.

"I understand your actions, Artanis," Finwë began, "I applaud your strenght, and your light. Yet light alone cannot sustain you where he is leading you."

Artanis flinched at his tone, sensing the unspoken warning beneath his words.

Finwë stepped closer, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret meant only for her. "Do you remember what I told you about the elves the Hunters captured?"

She recoiled instinctively, her breath catching in her throat.

"There are fates worse than death," Finwë continued, his voice trembling now, his composure cracking. "To see everything you love twisted, corrupted - used to feed his malice.... He doesn’t kill for the sake of it. He destroys everything that makes us who we are. He takes what is good and twists it until it is unrecognizable."

Artanis’s chest tightened as she watched tears well in the corners of his tired eyes. She had never seen her grandfather cry.

"Grandfather..." she began, but her voice faltered.

Before she could say more, before she could even comprehend the weight of his grief, Finwë moved.

It was a blur.

One moment he was standing before her, his sorrow etched across his face; the next, his hand darted toward her waist, grasping the dagger she had sheathed earlier.

"Forgive me, Artanis," he whispered, his voice breaking as he lunged toward her. "I do this only to save you from a far worse fate."

Time seemed to stretch and slow.

Artanis staggered backward, her eyes wide with shock as the blade in her grandfather’s fell down in her direction. She tried to step away, tried to raise her hands to stop him, but her limbs felt like lead, her mind too stunned to act.

The betrayal - the desperation - paralyzed her, and the dagger’s point hovered inches from her chest when it stopped.

It halted mid-air, frozen by a force that defied all logic or reality.

An immense shadow had moved between them, faster than Artanis could follow.

Melkor now stood between her and Finwë, his massive hand wrapped around the King’s wrist. The air crackled with an unnatural energy, and for the first time since his arrival at Formenos, Melkor was not smiling.

His expression was a mask of fury, his fair features twisting into something monstrous and cruel, something utterly devoid of the fair guise he had once worn. 

"You dared," Melkor snarled, his voice low and venomous, resonating like a quake that rattled the stone beneath them. "You dared to try and take her from me."

His grip tightened on Finwë’s wrist, forcing the dagger to clatter to the floor.

Artanis gasped as Melkor’s gaze turned toward her, his burning eyes glinting with possessive wrath. Then he turned back to Finwë, his face contorting into a sneer.

"I said I would leave Formenos with everything I desired," Melkor growled, "and yet here you are, daring to defy me. Placing yourself between me and what is mine."

Melkor did not reach for the dagger. Instead, he lifted his other hand and made a subtle motion, a mere flick of his fingers, as if summoning a hound to heel.

Ungoliant responded immediately.

The grotesque spider-like creature darted forward with a speed that defied her massive form. Her many legs clicked against the stone, and her monstrous maw opened, emitting a guttural, bone-chilling sound as she pounced.

Finwë had barely a moment to react.

His eyes widened, his hands instinctively rising in a futile attempt to defend himself. Ungoliant’s fangs struck with precision, piercing his chest as part of her massive body pinned him to the ground.

The King gasped, a sound that was both a choke and a cry, as blood spread rapidly beneath him. His hands clawed weakly at her carapace, but his strength faltered almost immediately.

"NO!" Artanis screamed, the sound raw and desperate as she lunged forward.

But she never reached him.

Melkor raised his hand once more, and shadows coiled around her like chains, binding her in place. She struggled against them, tears streaming down her face, but the dark tendrils held her fast.

Finwë’s body trembled as he fought to lift his head, his eyes searching for Artanis.

In them, she saw a fragile, lingering warmth, a love that refused to be extinguished even as his life slipped away. Blood stained his lips as he managed to rasp, "Forgive me, Artanis. I had to try."

His voice was barely audible, each word a struggle against the weight of his injuries. "You… I have failed you… I only wanted to spare you…"

His lips moved again, as though he longed to say more, but his strength gave out. His head fell back against the cold stone, and with a final exhale, he collapsed, lifeless.

Artanis froze for a heartbeat, as though the world itself had shattered around her.

Then, a scream tore from her throat - a raw, guttural sound that carried all the anguish, fury, and despair she felt in that moment. Her cry echoed through Formenos.

Her body convulsed as she struggled against the shadows that bound her, thrashing violently, her wrists burning as she tried to break free. Every fiber of her being screamed to throw herself at Melkor, to claw at him, to avenge her King.

"Monster!" she spat, her voice cracking as she gasped for air between sobs. "You swore you wouldn’t harm him! You swore!"

Melkor turned to her, his expression calmer now. "No, little flame," he said smoothly, "those were not the terms. He broke the agreement when he dared to lift his hand against you. But as I told you before, I am a being of my word." His eyes glinted darkly as he added, "I did not lay a finger upon him."

Her rage boiled over, consuming the raw grief that threatened to drown her. "We’ve wasted enough time," Melkor continued, his tone dismissive. "It’s time to go."

Artanis froze, her chest heaving as tears streamed down her face. In that moment, she felt a sharp, new sensation.

She understood now, for the first time in her life, what it meant to truly hate. 

It wasn’t just anger or fury. It was deeper, a venom that seeped into her feä, into the very core of her being.

Every part of her ached to see Melkor suffer - to see him feel even a fraction of the torment she now endured. Her hatred was so pure and consuming it felt as though it might scorch her from the inside out.

Her body sagged against the shadowy binds that held her, the fight leaving her limbs but not her spirit. Her tears fell freely, bitter and scalding, as her chest heaved with silent sobs. She felt hollow, as though her heart had been carved out and left to bleed endlessly.

But then, deep within that void, she found a spark, and a small light ignited in her - a fury so intense it burned away the despair, leaving only a simmering promise.

This will not end here.

One day, this pain will be avenged.

Melkor would pay. One day, he would pay for all of it.

Chapter Text

Artanis could not recall when she had lost consciousness.

Perhaps it had been hours after she saw the mutilated body of King Finwë - when her tears had finally run dry, and the weight of her chained, battered body had dragged her into darkness.

But when her eyes fluttered open, her first impulse was to shut them again.

The world she awoke to was a grim and desolate one. 

Cold winds howled across barren plains that stretched endlessly into a bleak horizon. Everything about the landscape felt wrong, as though it had been abandoned by light, life, and purpose.

She became painfully aware of her predicament: though the invisible chains Melkor had summoned no longer bound her limbs, any sense of freedom was an illusion. 

She was perched atop a monstrous steed unlike anything she had ever seen, a beast that seemed barely born of flesh. Its form was similar to a horse's but it was shrouded in roiling darkness, with only faint glimmers of crimson light where its eyes should have been. The creature's movements were unnaturally smooth, as though it glided rather than galloped. The air around it shimmered faintly, ricocheting off its form as if it was simultaneously there and not.

Artanis felt its cold essence seep into her, a biting chill that reached deep into her bones and left her shivering uncontrollably.

Her hands were unbound, yet they clung instinctively to the coarse reins. Whether the reins were real or some cruel manifestation of her captor's will, she did not know - but falling from the creature’s back held no comfort. 

Her eyes, which had only ever known the Light of the Trees, still struggled to adjust to the unrelenting darkness that now cloaked Valinor. Shadows blurred into indistinct shapes, leaving her unable to discern where safety ended and danger began.

The only light in this suffocating gloom came from beneath her cloak. The faint, otherworldly glow of the Silmarils, nestled within the pouch she carried, pierced the darkness with a subtle radiance. Even through the container, their brilliance was unmistakable.

She had never seen the landscape surrounding her before, but from its barren contours and lifeless desolation, she was fairly certain she was in the deserts of Araman.

As her awareness returned, she noticed the terrain becoming ever more bleak as they advanced. The ground grew harsher, more inhospitable, and the cold intensified with every passing moment.

It wasn’t just the creature beneath her that was responsible for the freezing sensation, she realized.

The very air around her was growing colder, biting and relentless. She looked down at her hands, now an unnaturally red hue from the chill, and became aware of the effort it was taking to keep her jaw clenched, her teeth barely restrained from chattering.

“In these lands, your little flame means very little, I would say."

The voice came unexpectedly from her side, though it seemed to emanate from above her.

She surmised it was because he had assumed a form of greater stature for the journey. Without a guiding flame, Artanis could see nothing beyond the immediate stretch of ground beneath her mount’s feet. Even the faint glow of Ungoliant’s countless eyes - glittering like gems in a cloud of darkness - was more a presence she sensed than something visible.

He appeared to be riding a creature similar to hers, though much larger in size. The beast moved in parallel with hers, its unnatural speed matching her pace effortlessly. His voice, carried by the wind of their gallop, was neither taunting nor sharp as it usually was, but subdued, almost lost in the howling winds.

She did not respond.
She had no desire to engage in conversation with her grandfather’s murderer.

“I could help you, Artanis,” he suggested, his tone almost casual as he drew closer, close enough for her to catch a fleeting glimpse of him.

His stature had returned to something more familiar, and his voice now came from beside her.

“I don’t need any help from someone like... y-you,” she managed, betraying her conditions.

It wasn’t entirely true, and they both knew it.

Her voice, ravaged by disuse and frozen deep in her throat, barely rose above a whisper. Were it not for the fact that the being beside her was a God, she would have been certain he could not hear her. Her teeth, which had obeyed her will until now, began to chatter uncontrollably, a tremor that seemed to mock her resolve.

“For all that I find your pride delightfully ridiculous most of the time,” he replied, “it will be of little use to you where we are headed. If you want to survive the journey, I’m afraid you’ll need to allow yourself the luxury of asking for help - even if it’s from a creature like me.”

She knew he was right.

They could not be far from the Helcaraxë now, and it was clear Melkor intended to reach Middle-earth by that route. All she knew of the Grinding Ice came from her studies in the halls of lore or third-hand accounts from cartographers in Tirion. But it was enough to know that her riding cloak would not be sufficient to survive the frozen expanse that awaited them.

Yet, to what end should I survive?

“Come now,” he said, his voice tinged with his usual mockery. “There’s no need to take such a grim perspective. After all, if you find my company unpleasant, you have no idea how utterly intolerable Mandos can be.”

“G-get out of my head,” she forced out, her voice trembling as much from the cold as from her rising frustration.

“At this rate,” he countered smoothly, “there may soon be no mind left to linger in anyway.”

She refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. 

Pulling her cloak tighter around her, she gripped its edges with renewed determination. She tugged the sleeves of her tunic down as far as they would go, trying in vain to shield her frozen hands from the relentless wind.

Without another word, she pressed onward, ignoring his presence entirely, focusing instead on the grueling task of simply enduring.

-------------------------------

Finrod was present when the Valar finally summoned the Eldar, two days after the fall of the Trees.

To describe those hours in words was an impossible endeavor.

How could one articulate the joy he had felt only days earlier, when the rift between the Noldor seemed, if not wholly mended, at least bridged? 

On the day of the great celebration, it had appeared that peace might once again bloom among the sons of Finwë. For a fleeting, golden moment, the rift between his uncles Fëanor and Fingolfin seemed to have healed. Fëanor had bent his pride to acknowledge his brother, and Fingolfin, in turn, had extended his hand in genuine reconciliation. All who were present had dared to hope that harmony might be restored.

But that fragile hope had been torn asunder almost as soon as it had been grasped.

What words could capture the horror of the moment Ungoliant and Melkor rose above the hill, their terrible forms consuming the light and life of Valinor?

What language could express the void that the blackened sky etched into his soul? A void deeper and darker than the absence of light?

Darkness had fallen upon Valinor, bringing with it the sense of something irreparably broken. Many voices had risen in lament, but to Finrod, it seemed that the grief of all the Eldar combined could not fill the chasm that had opened in the world.

His heart clenched when the Valar summoned them once more to the Ring of Doom. 

The gathering was a reckoning of the tragedy, yes, but it was also an acknowledgment that nothing would ever be the same. Whatever was to be spoken there, the haunting events of those hours would linger.

By the time he arrived, the rest of his family was already there.

Yavanna stood before them, her radiant face streaked with tears - a sight Finrod had never thought he would witness. The sorrow she bore was not like their own. It was deeper, older, and foreign, the grief of an immortal whose life's labor had been despoiled.

"The Light of the Trees is gone," she admitted, her voice breaking under the weight of the truth. "And now it lives only within the Silmarils of Fëanor. The Prince, in his foresight, has preserved it. Even for us, who are the mightiest under Ilúvatar, there are works that can be achieved but once. I created the Light of the Trees, it's true, but I can never again craft such a marvel. Yet, if I had but a fragment of that light, I could restore them before their roots dry and wither. Our wound could be healed, and the evil wrought by Melkor undone."

Her words settled over the gathered crowd, their weight silencing even the faintest whisper.  It was swiftly replaced by a palpable tension, as all eyes turned to Fëanor. In him, it seemed, lay the fragile hopes of Valinor.

Fëanor stood silent among the gathered Noldor, his figure rigid and unmoving. For a long moment, he said nothing. 

Yavanna’s request had been clear, her plea simple in its expression. 

And yet Fëanor did not move. 

His face betrayed no immediate response. It was taut, as if gripped by an unbearable inner struggle. His jaw opened and closed as though struggling to form words. A single vein surfaced on his forehead, pulsing with the intensity of the battle raging within him.

Tulkas, his patience as short as his temper, muttered something sharp under his breath, his hands clenching at his sides. Aulë, ever the mediator, placed a restraining hand on Tulkas’s arm, murmuring something soft that cooled his ire.  But Finrod paid no mind to the exchange. He was watching Fëanor, trying to understand the storm of emotions that played across his uncle’s face.

Finrod knew the history that lay behind Fëanor’s silence.

For centuries, Finrod knew, his uncle had nursed a deep mistrust of the Valar - though not entirely through his own fault, that much was now clear. 

And now, here they stood, gathered in the aftermath of a tragedy that each of them must have known, in their hearts, was foreseeable. Yet it was to Fëanor they now turned, asking for a sacrifice. Fëanor, who had long felt slighted, misunderstood, and constrained by their decrees, and was now pressed by an expectation that seemed as heavy as the Trees themselves.

In his heart, Finrod knew his own answer would have been simple, had the choice fallen to him. He would not have hesitated. 

But unlike his uncle, his soul was not burdened by the weight of grandeur and ambition. For Finrod, creation was a joy, a fleeting pastime - not the cornerstone of his identity. And he knew that the Silmaris were him were not merely a treasure but the tangible essence of his very being, in which he had poured a part of his soul.

The silence stretched unbearably, until at last Fëanor stirred. His hand, trembling slightly, rose to brush against the hilt of the sword at his side. His lips parted, and all of Valinor seemed to hold its breath.

When he finally spoke, his voice was like a thunderclap in a tempest: sharp, commanding, and impossible to ignore.

“For the great and the small alike,” he cried, striking his chest with a dramatic gesture, “there are works that can be made but once. I could surrender my jewels, but I would never create their like again. And if I must destroy them, my heart will break, and I will be the first among the Elves of Aman to die.”

His words resonated through the gathered host, evoking shock and uncertainty in the crowd. Some exchanged uneasy glances, others murmured anxiously, their disbelief palpable.

Finrod, however, was not surprised.

He knew his uncle too well. 

He knew the pride that burned within Fëanor’s heart, the stubbornness that refused to bow even under the weight of grief and loss. Like all present, Fëanor grieved the tragedy that had befallen Valinor. But unlike others, he did not weep or falter. His words were not a plea for understanding but a declaration of resistance, an unrelenting assertion of his will.

Though the murmors, a voice that seemed to rise not from a single throat but from the depths of the earth itself spoke: "Not the first.”

It was Mandos.

The intensity of the exchanges between Fëanor and the Valar quickly swallowed the moment, diverting the attention of all but a few. 

But Finrod could not ignore it. The words reverberated in his mind like an echo that refused to fade, and he turned instinctively, seeking the eyes of his father, Finarfin, standing a short distance away.

“Father,” he asked, his voice low and tinged with an anxiety he could not suppress. “What did Mandos mean?”

Finarfin’s usually composed face was etched with concern. For once, the serenity for which he was so well-known faltered. He met Finrod’s gaze, his own eyes shadowed with uncertainty.

“I do not know,” he replied gravely, his voice as steady as he could muster. “But those words… they were no idle remark.”

For a moment, the weight of the unspoken possibilities hung between them.

But as his thoughts swirled, his attention was pulled back sharply when Fëanor’s voice rang out once again, commanding all attention to return to him. Finrod tore his gaze from Finarfin, his anxiety momentarily eclipsed by the magnetism of his uncle’s words. 

His tone was erratic, full of a fury that bordered on madness, as though he were a man beset by unseen enemies on all sides.  

“I will not do so of my own free will, But if the Valar compel me, then I shall know for certain that Melkor is of the same mold as they are!”

The raw intensity of his anguish was almost tangible, and all eyes turned toward the Valar, wondering how they would respond. Despite the harshness of his outburst, there was a twisted logic in his reasoning, one that could not be entirely dismissed.

At his proclamation, Mandos rose. 

In his cold, unearthly voice, he declared: “You have spoken your will.”

All the Valar excused themselves then, retreating into what appeared to be a silent, collective deliberation. Their gazes turned opaque and unfocused, as they began to communicate between themselves non-verbally.

As their divine presence withdrew, the crowd began speaking once more.

Some voices spoke with admiration and reverence, others with loud resentment. Those among them who sided with Fëanor embraced his stance, whispering words of corageous defiance towards the Gods sitting across them in their towering thrones, praising his refusal to yield to what they saw as the oppressive authority . Others, however, spoke with quieter disdain, condemning his pride as reckless and his reasoning as a dangerous indulgence. They urged those around them to consider the greater good, to set aside grievances and pride in favor of salvation.

But all voices fell silent when Eönwë’s commanding voice rang out, announcing the arrival of two messengers.

When they arrived, their faces were pale and stricken with anguish. They pushed their way through the gathered crowd of Elves, unheeding of those they jostled, and hastened directly into the center of the Ring of Doom, where the Valar and Fëanor stood.

Finrod’s breath caught as he recognized one of them—a loyal follower of Fëanor, someone he had met years before in Tirion. This Elf had accompanied his uncle and grandfather into exile at Formenos.

Formenos.

The word struck his mind like a hammer blow, bringing with it a flood of dread.

Before Finrod  voice his fears, Finarfin had already rushed forward, his face mirroring the same growing terror.

Artanis had been in Formenos.

Her letter, which had only reached them after they arrived at the festival, had explained her sudden departure. She had been seized by a dark vision in the night and had gone to ensure the well-being of those at the fortress. At the time, they had all assumed she would return to them swiftly, especially after Fëanor had arrived and confirmed he had not seen her at stronghold. It had seemed certain she must already be on her way to join them at the festival.

But now, the gnawing unease Finrod had carried in his heart since that moment began to solidify into something far darker.

“A terrible darkness advanced from the south,” said the younger of the two messengers, a face unfamiliar to Finrod. His voice trembled, each word a struggle against the fear that visibly gripped him. “Lord Melkor came to Formenos, shortly after... the darkening. At the gates of the fortress, he killed King Finwë, and...”

The horror unleashed by his words rippled through the gathered Elves. Gasps of disbelief and anguish filled the air, but for Finrod, the words barely registered.

There was more.

“What else?” Finarfin demanded, his voice raw and urgent, his terror naked in his eyes.

The older messenger, the one Finrod recognized, hesitated. 

He stepped forward, his gaze briefly meeting Finarfin’s before flickering away. The silence only lasted seconds and yet it felt infine, and that was when he knew, before he even began speaking.

“Lord Melkor,” the messenger began, his voice breaking under the weight of his next words, “has forced his way into the Iron Room. He was seen leaving the fortress alongside that enormous creatures with the greatest treasure of the Noldor, and...” He paused, his face pale, as if to speak further would shatter him entirely.

“Lady Artanis at his side.”

The world stopped.

Finrod’s breath caught in his chest, his pulse pounding painfully in his ears. 

For a moment, everything around him - the gathered crowd, the cries of shock and grief, even the towering figures of the Valar now returning to the present - blurred into nothingness.

Artanis. Taken.

The realization was like a blade plunged into his heart. The ground beneath him seemed to fall away, leaving him weightless and adrift in an abyss of disbelief and despair.

The name hung in the air like a death knell, and the weight of it was more than Finrod could bear. His hand shot out instinctively, seeking purchase in the chaos. 

His fingers found his brother Angrod’s shoulder, and their eyes met - both wide with disbelief, their shared shock rendering them momentarily speechless. To his right, Aegnor was already moving, his breath sharp and ragged, as if the words spoken had struck him physically. 

Together, the brothers seemed to awaken from the haze of horror all at once, like a single entity, their grief and despair igniting a shared, desperate resolve. It was madness, Finrod knew - what could they possibly do? Where could they go? Yet the same fierce urgency surged through all of them, unspoken but understood. 

But their father was a different sight entirely.

The Prince of the Noldor staggered backward, his face ashen. 

His hands trembled, clutching at the fabric of his cloak as if to ground himself against the enormity of what he had just heard. His lips parted, but no words came forth - only a strangled sound, barely audible amid the growing voices of the crowd.

And then, as if the weight of the revelation had physically struck him, Finarfin began to collapse.

“Father!” Finrod cried, lunging forward just in time. 

His arms wrapped around Finarfin, steadying him before he could fall to his knees. The desperation in his father’s eyes was unbearable - a raw, unfiltered agony that Finrod had never seen before.

“She... she was there,” Finarfin whispered, his voice trembling as he gripped Finrod’s tunic with weak, unsteady hands. “Artanis... my daughter... she...”

“Father, hold fast,” Finrod urged, his own voice betraying the tremor in his heart. “We will act. We will find her. But you must stand.”

Finarfin’s breathing was ragged, his composure fractured, but he nodded faintly, leaning on his eldest son for support.

Across the Ring of Doom, the reaction of the Valar was equally striking. 

Yavanna, who had stood silently moments before, her face etched with sorrow over the loss of the Trees, now looked as if the very foundations of her being had been shaken. Her green eyes, usually serene, were wide with horror. Beside her, Nienna wept openly. Her tears fell like rain, their quiet sound a counterpoint to the rising murmurs. Tulkas, however, was consumed by anger. His fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles gleamed white, and his eyes burned with a fury that seemed ready to ignite the very air.

Around them, the air was pregnant with grief and panic. 

The elves in the crowd began to stir in confusion and fear, their voices rising as they struggled to comprehend the enormity of what had just been revealed. Some of their voices spoke of vengeance, their voices sharpening with anger as they cursed Melkor’s name.

“We must act,” Aegnor declared.

Angrod nodded, his jaw clenched. “We will not abandon her.”

But Finrod’s gaze drifted toward the Valar once more, his thoughts racing. 

What would they do now? Would they stand idly by, or would they finally act against the darkness that had taken root in their land? And above all, would it be enough?

It was the force of Feanor's anger that made him once again emerge from the depth of his sorrow.

“Curse Morgoth! Black Enemy of the World!” he bellowed. And though he did not know it then, it would be by that name that the fallen Vala would forever be known among the Eldar.

"And I curse youtoo, Manwë," he continued, his voice blazing with despair. "I curse the hour I came to Taniquetil when I should have remained in Formenos! If only I had stayed, my strength would have been worth more than your words and promises. I would have saved my father, I would have saved the Silmarils, and prevented Artanis from following him. And now look at what has come to pass!”

Aegnor took a step forward. "Prevented Artanis? What is that supposed to mean?", he demanded, his voice teetering on the edge of becoming a shout, his hand hovering instinctively near his sword.

"For all we know, she could have followed him willingly," came Curufin’s voice from the edge of the crowd.

Finrod couldn’t believe what he had heard.

The insinuation was beyond what he could endure.

He stepped toward Aegnor, placing a steadying hand on his brother’s shoulder, trying to calm them both, before turning his gaze to Curufin.

The crowd erupted into chaos again, voices rising, quickly dividing into factions.

Those closest to Fingolfin and Finarfin, who knew the princess well, dismissed the rumors outright. Though whispers of her ambition had spread after her bold appearance before the Valar, they knew her heart. Artanis’s ambition paled in comparison to the generosity of her spirit, and they could not believe she would follow someone so vile as to spill the blood of her own kin - unless forced.

But others, who did not know her as intimately, gave credence to the insinuations of the Fëanorians. The atmosphere among the gathered Elves grew volatile, emotions igniting dangerously.

"Enough. All that matters now is that Morgoth is no longer in these lands, and with him, the Silmarils. It is time to act."

With these words, Fëanor turned and fled the Ring of Doom, his figure vanishing into the crowd before anyone could stop him.

His actions, his fury, his loss - these were more powerful than any bond he still held with Valinor. Nothing could hold him back. His heart, fractured by grief, drove him toward a vengeance that, at the time, no one could truly comprehend.

One by one, the Valar began to rise, withdrawing silently from the gathering.

Manwë and Varda were the last to stand.

Their movements were slow, as if weighed down by the gravity of what had transpired. Finrod, watching intently, could have sworn he saw a single tear clinging to the eye of the King of the Valar, shimmering like a droplet caught between falling and holding on, unwilling to yield to the sorrow of the moment.

---------------------

As expected, the cursed God had been right.

After an indeterminate stretch of time, Artanis began to see only ice beneath her mount's feet - no longer the barren, rocky terrain they had traversed before.

She blinked against the sharp, slicing cold, but the effort felt heavier with each passing moment. Her eyes struggled to stay open, and she was now fairly certain she was losing at least a couple of toes to frostbite inside her boots. 

Around her it was oppressively silent, as though sound itself had been devoured by the cold.

The only noise was the groaning, creaking ice beneath Ungoliant’s immense weight. It cracked faintly with each shift of the monstrous creature, as though the frozen ground might splinter and give way at any moment. The sound sent a faint shiver down her spine, but even her fear felt muted now, dulled by the icy numbness spreading through her body.

Her breath, shallow and labored, came slower and slower.

Each exhale formed dense clouds of frozen air that lingered before vanishing into the void of the icy plains. She felt the dampness on her eyelashes crystallizing into tiny shards of ice, their weight making each blink an effort.

Without realizing it, her eyes began closing more frequently, instinctively protecting themselves from the wind’s relentless assault on her exposed face.

Her fingers, raw and red from the cold, had long since lost their feeling.

She barely noticed when they began to slip from the reins of her mount. The faint warmth she had managed to preserve in her core seemed to ebb away with every moment, leaving her limbs heavy and sluggish.

She was no longer sitting upright but slumping forward, her body curling inward in a futile attempt to shield itself from the merciless cold.

Her head dipped lower, her cloak pulled tightly around her frame, but it was insufficient. The frost seemed to reach through the fabric, piercing her skin, and burrowing into her very bones.

Her thoughts grew hazy, fragmented by the creeping lethargy that overtook her.

Artanis wasn’t sure when the transition from exhaustion to surrender began, but somewhere in the emptiness, she stopped resisting.

Before she realized what was happening, her body began sliding uncontrollably toward the frozen ground.

It was only an instant before she felt herself caught midair, just as her head was about to collide unkindly with the icy terrain.

“What I told your King applies to you as well,” Melkor’s voice cut through the fog in her mind, brimming with poorly conceived fury. “Do not think I will suffer defeat now, least of all by something as pitiful as the cold.”

There was an edge to his tone, a bitterness that underscored the memory of Finwë’s final defiance. 

She couldn’t tell when or how Melkor had dismounted his steed to catch her, but she was acutely aware of the cold embrace of his armor.

The metal bracings pressed against her, their frigid surface biting into her skin. His long black hair cascaded over her as he cradled her, its silken strands brushing her cheek, and her face prickled in reaction.

Even as her body betrayed her, surrendering to the frost, the sheer force of his presence enveloped her. His raw, overwhelming will seemed to reach into her very core, pulling her back to a fragile awareness.

A faint warmth spread from his hands, curling through her like an ember fighting to ignite.

It started as a whisper against her frozen limbs but grew steadily, pushing back the numbness in her legs and arms. That heat spread like a flame, intimate and all-encompassing, chasing the coldfrom her body. She felt the frost clinging to her cloak and clothes melt, the cold droplets running over her skin as though marking her surrender to his touch.

Little by little, her strength returned, along with the clarity of her senses. 

As her vision sharpened, she saw his face, close enough to catch every detail of his expression - the perfect stillness of his features, the sharp curve of his clenched jaw, and those piercing, dark eyes fixed on her with an unreadable intensity. Melkor was watching her with a serious expression, one dark brow slightly raised in what might have been mild curiosity - or disapproval.

The moment she regained her voice, she lashed out, twisting in his arms, struggling. “Let me go,” she demanded, her voice still shaky and lacking the force she had intended.

His grip tightened, not painfully but with a firmness that dismissed her defiance. “Careful now,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, his breath brushing her ear as he held her steady. His lips quirked in the barest hint of a smirk, though his tone remained almost clinical. Ungoliant is growing hungry again, and it would be wise not to tempt her appetite. 

Before she could respond, he set her back upon her mount.

When their eyes met again, there was no mockery in his gaze this time, only a weight that made her breath catch - a quiet, commanding power that made her skin crawl with unease.

Hold the reins and stay close to me. The crossing is far from over.

His voice in her mind was void of his usual derision or disdain. If it hadn’t been the voice of Melkor - the mighty Ainur - speaking but someone else entirely, Artanis might have sworn she detected a faint trace of dread within it.

And it wasn’t directed at her.

The warmth kept spreading through her limbs like a reluctant gift, chasing the frost from her body. But with every beat of vitality, it brought an unwelcome truth - her survival, for now, lay in his hands.

And yet, the shiver she felt down her spine was born of something else still: the unsettling realization that even the one who had taken her captive might not fully command the darkness that was following them across these lands.

Chapter Text

When, at last, they left Valinor behind, Melkor indulged in the feeling of victory.

He knew Oromë’s hunters had long since lost their trail, their hoofbeats silenced by the oppressive darkness conjured by Ungoliant. Her choking mists had blinded and bewildered them, scattering even the most determined pursuit. The echo of Tulkas’s frustrated roar lingered in Melkor’s mind and it was almost a soothing and gratifying overture to his triumph. To think of the mighty Valar’s warrior standing impotent, his golden chains cast to the barren earth, empty and useless - it filled him with satisfaction.

His fingers brushed instinctively against his neck, relishing the absence of bonds that had confined him for far too long in the past. 

The final curtain had fallen on an age-long farce. He was free.

He had returned to the land where it all began.

He had reached Middle-earth.

Turning his gaze behind him, Melkor took in his entourage. 

Ungoliant followed close, her monstrous form far too close for his liking, her appetite no longer merely audible but nearly tangible. Melkor felt the weight of her many eyes upon him, assessing not just him but the treasures bound to his shadow-laden mount, and if he focused he could basically hear the rasp of her breath. 

Artanis lay slumped, asleep, across the back of his mount, her unconscious form held fast not by ropes but by his will, actively keeping her in place. She remained bound, and her golden hair was dull and matted, a lifeless veil that hung over her pale face. She had not stirred for hours, exhausted beyond endurance.

Melkor glanced at her briefly before dismissing her with a curl of his lips. 

For a being older than Arda itself, it was rare to be confronted with new experiences. And on the few occasions such novelty did arise, it was almost never to his liking. This instance, of course, was no exception.

To care for something was an act Melkor had seldom been forced to undertake - and even then, only when it served his purposes. This situation followed that pattern at least, though its particulars were vexing.

Keeping the Princess of the Noldor alive was essential to his designs, though he couldn't deny the allure of possessing her entirely.

She was the key to bringing the Silmarils into the fortress of Angband, where he could work to unravel the enchantment Varda had woven upon them. Only then could their full power be harnessed. As they were now, the jewels were untouchable, a source of pain and wasted energy should he yield to the temptation of claiming them prematurely. 

Her life, as insignificant as it may be in his grand design, had become a linchpin in his dominion over the jewels.

In the past, the beings he had "tended to" had always been of his own stature - Ainur, Maiar, entities beyond the petty constraints of mortality. They had no need for food, no susceptibility to cold, and no requirement for rest. Their existence was untainted by the banalities that shackled the Children of Ilúvatar.

And Artanis bore all the weaknesses of her disgusting kind, dependent on base needs he found revolting in their triviality. This fragility had become glaringly evident when she had nearly succumbed to hypothermia during the journey. 

Her mortality grated on him, and posed an incovenience. 

Despite the vastness of his power, Melkor was not omnipotent. 

He could bend many aspects of the natural world to his will, but he could not entirely override the needs of a body tied to mortal constraints. Artanis required food and water to survive, and while they had paused briefly during their trek to allow her to satisfy her primitive needs, it was clear that a longer halt would soon be necessary. If he intended to see both her and the Silmarils delivered to Angband intact, she needed provisions.

Her own had run out, and her body’s quiet suffering had become eviden even in her silence by the subtle way she clutched her stomach and the pallor of her skin. After a while, the low, insistent growl of her stomach made it apparent even to someone like him, who didn not need nourishment. Yet she had not complained, prideful little thing.

And he did not force her to speak, for he had an eternity to strip her of her resolve.

---------

The fjord was now visible to the naked eye, its waters glinting faintly in the distance under the starlight. Melkor’s gaze swept across the landscape, calculating.

They were drawing closer to Angband - one day more at their current pace, perhaps two, if the treacherous terrain of the mountains delayed them. He contemplated pausing briefly by the riverbank; Artanis’s mortal limits required attention soon, if only to ensure she lasted the journey.

The end of this leg of his plan was nearly within reach, and with it, the culmination of an age’s worth of scheming.

At his side, he noticed something happening. A single, stuttered pulse, then silence.

He heard it not as a sound, but as a vibration in the fragile rhythm of the mortal heartbeat he had come to tolerate nearby. 

Instinct took over as he turned abruptly, his form tense, ready to crush any threat that might have dared approach. But as he cast his sight toward the source, what he found was neither beast nor peril. 

Instead, his captive sat atop his shadow-laden mount, her face turned skyward, her breath caught in reverent awe.

At the corners of her eyes glimmered the faintest hint of tears, invisible to any but the most discerning observer. Her mouth hung slightly open, her expression one of pure adoration. 

It was an expression Melkor had never witnessed firsthand on her face before, only vicariously, reflected in the minds of others, or through the palantìr. Her expression was open, raw, unguarded - a rare moment when the walls she fought so hard to maintain had crumbled.

She seemed completely enraptured by the sight above her.

Melkor prided himself on his superiority over all his siblings, and humility was a virtue he had long since discarded as beneath him. Yet, even he was not entirely immune to acknowledging the worth of his brethren’s creations. Among all their works, the craft of Varda, her tapestry of stars, was undeniably deserving of admiration - even from him.

Still, it had not occurred to him until this moment that Artanis, unlike her forebears born beneath the stars at Cuiviénen, had never truly seen the night sky.

She had lived her life under the golden and silver glow of the Trees, their luminous bounty drowning out the clarity of the stars. Now, in these untamed lands, where the heavens stretched out in their unclouded majesty, the stars shone brighter than she could have ever imagined.

“Welcome to Middle-earth,” Melkor said at last, his voice breaking the stillness.

Artanis flinched, the fragile spell of the stars shattered upon hearing his voice. 

Her gaze snapped to him, her wariness flaring back to life, but not before he caught a faint rememnant of wonder still lingering in her eyes.

“The stars… the land…” she began, fumbling for justification. “I have never seen anything like this before…”

“And yet it was beneath a sky like this that your kind awoke,” he replied, his voice carrying an almost patronizing lilt. “The Eldar rose under starlight, and it is here, in this world, that your beloved Eru Ilúvatar always intended for you to be. Not in the false light of Aman.”

“You speak as if the Valar did not bring us to Aman to protect us from you.”

He chuckled at that. "If you ask me, the Valar's decision was no noble crusade - just a whim to keep you close.”

“And you think yourself above such whims?” she countered.

Melkor smirked, pleased to see the return of her fire. Her moments of vulnerability were intriguing, but he much preferred the Artanis who bristled at his words, whose will clashed with his in a battle she had no hope of winning, but one that entertained him nonetheless.

“Perhaps not,” he paused. “Perhaps I am. Continue staring at the stars, Artanis,” he urged, a cruel edge slipping into his voice. “I doubt you’ll have the chance to do so again anytime soon.”

He watched her throat bob as she swallowed.

Good. 

She was remembering her place, her predicament. A flicker of satisfaction stirred within him. It had been far too long since he’d had a prisoner with spirit.

Not that he intended to waste her potential - no, transforming her into some mindless thrall or orc was far beneath his ambitions. There were far more creative ways to strip an elf of everything that defined them, to leave them hollow and entirely his.

With that thought, he turned back to the road ahead.

---------

When they finally reached the edge of the river, the group came to a halt.

Artanis felt the abrupt stillness as a jolt, her body lurching slightly from the sudden cessation of motion. 

She glanced around, her senses not yet attuned to the strangeness of the new land, and the scene offered no answers, only an ominous silence broken occasionally by the sharp winds that howled through the rocks.

Melkor dismounted first, his movements fluid despite the apparent weight of the black armor he wore. Without a word, he turned to her, his eyes unreadable. She felt his armored hands reach up, gripping her firmly as he lifted her from the saddle and set her on the ground. 

She struggled for balance, the unfamiliar terrain and her exhaustion making it hard to stand for a brief moment. Her gaze flickered downward as if grounding herself would steady her nervesm but the rocky ground beneath her boots only heightened her awareness of the strange land she now stood upon. 

The air here was sharper, crisper than anything she had known in Aman, and she caught faint whiffs of something wild - damp stone, distant water, and the silence of untamed lands.

When she dared look up, her eyes drifted instinctively across the shadowed terrain. 

What little she could discern in the dim light fascinated her despite her fear: jagged outcroppings of rock, hints of movement in the distant underbrush, and a sky scattered with stars that seemed to pulse. Her breath hitched as she tried to take it all in, a spark of wonder flickering deep within her wearied soul.

Everything around her felt new, and her face must have betryed what she was feeling for she soon realized that his gaze lingered on her. He didn’t comment but a muscle in his jaw twitched, and the faintest curve of his lips suggested a smirk - but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. Without a word, he released her and stepped away, his heavy boots crunching against the stones as he surveyed their surroundings

Artanis shifted her weight uncomfortably, her eyes darting between Melkor and Ungoliant, whose hulking form loomed at the periphery of her vision. “Why are we stopping?” she asked at last.

“You’ll stay here,” he declared with quiet authority, not bothering to answer her question. His tone brooked no argument. “I won’t be long.”

Artanis blinked, thrown off by the sudden statement. “Where are you going?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he paused to adjust the straps of his armor, the dark metal clinking softly. “Even gods have tasks to tend to,” he said at last, a cryptic response that gave her no real answer.

Artanis bristled, but before she could retort, the sound of a guttural hiss drew her attention.

Ungoliant, lingering a short distance behind with her massive, grotesque form, let out a guttural hiss.

“You will wait here too,” he commanded to the creature, turning his head slightly toward the monstrous spider, dismissing both his captive and his reluctant ally with a wave of his gauntleted hand.

He had taken no more than three steps toward the riverbank before Ungoliant reacted.

Her voice - her voice, she realized - scraped the air like raw chalk dragged mercilessly over stone. 

It was an awful sound, like thousands of harp strings snapping in unison, unnatural and overwhelming. 

The sound made Artanis immediately clasp her hands over her ears, though she could not decipher the words. The tongue was older than the stars, older even than the music of the Ainur, a language of primordial chaos that only Melkor could decipher.

It was beyond her comprehension, but the malice within it was unmistakable.

Her heart raced as she watched the scene unfold, and she was the mighty Valar stop in his tracks.

-------

“Black-hearted one! I have done as you commanded,” Ungoliant hissed, her countless eyes narrowing in hunger. “But I still hunger.”

Melkor’s gaze didn’t waver as he turned to face her.

This was the moment Melkor had anticipated - the reckoning he had known would come the instant he forged his alliance with Ungoliant. He knew his hunger was an abyss that could not be satisfied, not truly. Only delayed.

Not that he had ever truly intended to pay her in full. 

He had always intended to face this moment on his terms, within the fortified walls of Angband, where his strength would be bolstered by legions of his servants and the dark powers that resonated within the very stones of his domain, his Liuteant by his side. There, he would have had the advantage, the upper hand.

But this confrontation was unfolding far earlier than he had calculated. 

He glanced toward the horizon, where the jagged peaks of the Ered Lòmin loomed in the distance, shrouded in mist. They were close, tantalizingly close, but not close enough. 

He had given her power and purpose to serve his escape, but now her appetites had turned back on him. He had seen what she could do to the mighty Trees of Valinor, and he knew that if he pushed her too far, she would not hesitate to turn her destructive power against him. 

For the first time in countless ages, Melkor felt the uncomfortable weight of uncertainty pressing against him.

It was a feeling he despised, one he hadn’t experienced since his rebellion against the Valar in the ancient days.

“What more do you want?” Melkor demanded, closing in the distance between himself and Artanis.

His hand shot out instinctively, his fingers closing around her arm. The golden-haired elf flinched at the sudden contact, her wide eyes darting toward him, but she did not pull away. She was wise enough to know that this was probably not the time to protest being in close proximity to a Vala.

“Do you crave the whole world to fill your belly?” he growled, his tone a venomous mixture of disdain and contempt. “I promised you no such thing.”

Ungoliant’s response came almost immediately, both grotesque and pathetic - a keening wail that sounded like the tantrum of an angry child, warped into something monstrous.

 “I do not ask for the world,” she replied, her many legs clicking ominously against the ground, as though irritated by the insinuation.e. Her hulking form shifted forward, and Artanis instinctively shrank back, her sharp intake of breath audible even over Ungoliant’s unsettling voice.  “But at Formenos, you took a great hoard. I want it. All of it. You will give it to me, freely and fully.”

And she began to lurch forward toward his shadow-laden mount, aliva dripping from her half-open mouth, already prepared to devour.

Melkor hesitated, tightening his grip on Artanis’s arm.

He had no choice. 

For now, at least. 

Gritting his teeth, he reluctantly reached for the gemstones that hung from the saddlebags of his mount. 

“Take your jewels,” he spat, “Take what I will give you, Ungoliant, and be satisfied. But do not overreach, or you will find yourself undone.”

One by one, he handed over the treasures, his muttered curses lost beneath Ungoliant’s frenzied greed. 

Ungoliant devoured them greedily, her many limbs convulsing as the jewels vanished into the void of her insatiable maw. Their beauty, the craftsmanship of centuries, disappeared from the world forever. 

She grew darker and more grotesque with every gem she consumed, her shadow spreading further and thicker with each bite. But when the last of the treasures passed her fangs, she let out a guttural hiss of dissatisfaction.

“With one hand you have given,” she said, her voice a venomous accusationand all her eyes were suddenly fixed on the Elf.  “Only with your left. Open your right hand.”

Melkor’s right hand still clutched Artanis’s arm, his knuckles white as his fingers pressed against her. In her satchel, bound tightly against her side, were the Silmarils - the true treasures of Formenos. The jewels that had cost Finwë his life.

“No!” Melkor snarled. 

He drew Artanis even closer, shielding her - and the satchel - from Ungoliant’s gaze. “You have had your fill. Your work was done only through the power I lent you. I owe you nothing more. These will not be yours to touch or to see. They are mine. Forever.”

Ungoliant, however, did not retreat.

She had grown immense, her form now towering over him, her many eyes glinting and completely fixated on the girl. And Melkor - powerful though he was - had diminished. He was smaller now, weaker than he had been when they began. The sacrifices he had made to escape Valinor and the energy he had poured into fueling Ungoliant’s strength had left him drained. 

Artanis could probably feel his grip tighten, because she flinched again, but he was sure she could also see the subtle strain in his movements, the tension in his stance. He didn't need to say it to know: they were both in danger. 

Melkor’s piercing gaze turned to her then, his eyes burning with renewed urgency.

Run to the mountains. North.

She blinked, startled, her mind scrambling to make sense of what he had just said. 

"NOW!".

The ground beneath them seemed to quake with the force of his command. There was no time for questions, no space for defying his orders.

At last, Artanis turned and ran, and Ungoliant surged forward, her monstrous body expanding as her limbs shot out in all directions.

Melkor moved to intercept her, his blackened armor catching what little light remained as he placed himself between her and the fleeing elf, and he grew back in size, looking like a black tower.

Ungoliant’s net of binding wrapped around him then. Their constricting force pulled him towards her.

“How DARE you?” Melkor roared, his voice filled with fury and disbelief as the shadows closed around him.

His struggles sent waves of dark energy rippling outward, but Ungoliant’s web held firm, her hunger driving her strength beyond anything he had anticipated. 

And his cries were muffled as her choking darkness engulfed him.

-----

She did not stay to witness what came next. Her legs were already moving, her breath hitching in her throat as she plunged into the unknown wilderness.

She ran.

Artanis kept running.

The uneven terrain tore at her boots, sharp rocks slicing through the thin soles and numbing her feet, but she didn’t stop. Her body was on the brink of collapse, but survival instinct surged through her veins, pushing her forward. Every step took her further from them, from him.

But then it came.

She stumbled, clutching her ears as the cry washed over her - a bellow of rage and desperation so primal and vast that it felt like Arda itself was crying out in agony. 

The scream seemed endless, it filled the skies and echoed across the northern wastelands. 

It was a sound that made the lament of the Trees seem a mere whisper in comparison - a cry so raw and all-encompassing that it clawed at the edges of her very soul.

Melkor had unleashed a terrible cry, a bellow of rage and desperation. 

It rose impossibly high. The mountains trembled, their rocky faces splintering under the sheer force of the sound. The ground beneath her shuddered violently, as if recoiling from the power of that terrible roar.

Still, she ran.

Her lungs burned, and her legs screamed for reprieve, but she did not stop. 

She didn’t know where she was going - only that she had to reach the misty peaks she could see on the horizon. They rose like silent sentinels in the distance, shrouded in a veil of vapor, promising the faintest hope of escape.

When the echoes of Melkor’s cry faded into the silence of the wild, she found the courage to glance back over her shoulder. Against the endless black of the night, the fight raged on. 

Even from this distance, the clash between Melkor and Ungoliant was visible. Their forms were shadowed, distorted, and yet each movement was otherworldly in its power.

Melkor, despite his towering figure and the dark aura that surrounded him, was faltering.

From her vantage point, she could see him struggling. 

The shadows of Ungoliant’s web tangled around him, pulling him to his knees. His dark armor, once imperious, seemed smaller now, diminished under the weight of her relentless assault. 

Eventually, her nature had the better of her.

Artanis stumbled to a halt, each ragged breath hurting her lungs.

Melkor was still stricking out with bursts of power, but they were weaker, their impact no longer breaking through her suffocating embrace.

The great Dark Lord, the self-proclaimed ruler of Arda, was losing. 

Artanis should have felt relief, but instead, a deep unease settled in her chest. For all her fear of Melkor, she had never imagined him capable of such desperation.

But then, something else happened.

As she turned back towards the mountains, a roaring inferno tore through the horizon.

When her gaze locked onto the glow that seemed to bloom from the horizon. It felt celestial. At first, it was faint - a shimmer of gold and crimson - but it grew rapidly.

And when it was close enough for her to see, it grew, and it transformed into something far more terrifying.

Artanis froze, her mind struggling to comprehend what she was seeing.

Figures seemed to emerge from the blaze, their forms unlike anything she had ever seen. 

They were colossal and menacing, wreathed in living fire that danced across their bodies. Smoke curled around them, and their eyes glowed like molten lava. 

Massive whips of fire lashed out from their hands, their flames hissing and roaring as they struck the ground, leaving scorched craters in their wake.

Artanis had no name for these creatures. Their presence was both awe-inspiring and horrifying, and she felt remiinded that this new land held dangers far beyond her understanding.

She pressed herself against the jagged rocks to hide when they got closer to where she was standing, her body trembling as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. And trying to understand whether they were an immediate thread to her.

But they moved past her with unwordly speed, desceding upon the battlefield of the Vala.

A battlefield where Melkor had fallen to the ground, his strength finally giving out as the fiery beings - his servants, she realized then - were rushing to his aid. 

They surrounded him, their flames roaring as they drove Ungoliant back. 

The monstrous spider screeched in rage and terror as their fiery whips struck with devastating force, tearing through her tendrils. 

For the first time, she heard Ungoliant scream - not the guttural wail of hunger, but a shriek of fear as she recoiled from the onslaught, hissing of her retreat, vomiting black vapors as she fled.

When Ungoliant vanished into the night, the battlefield fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the crackling of the monsters’ flames. Artanis’s heart pounded as she saw them turn toward Melkor, who now lay crumpled on the ground, his dark form motionless. His armor was battered, the once-imposing figure reduced to something almost fragile.

One of them knelt, its fiery hands reaching out to lift Melkor’s unconscious body. The flames didn’t scorch him; instead, they seemed to envelop him protectively, cradling him like a fallen king. 

Without hesitation, the creatures turned northward, their fiery forms blazing a path through the darkness as they carried Melkor away. 

As they turned, Artanis’s heart pounded with a new realization.

For the first time since leaving Formenos, she thought she might have a way out of his captivity.

------------

The unrelenting darkness made it impossible for Artanis to gauge how much time had passed. 

The stars above, her only source of light, offered no sense of progression, no indication of morning or night. She knew only that her feet must now be bloodied, for she had walked nearly without pause since she had been freed, desperate to find refuge in the barren plains that stretched endlessly before her. Each step sent jolts of pain up her legs, but she kept moving, driven by the unrelenting instict to survive.

Her thirst had been momentarily quenched by the river, its icy water sharp against her parched throat, but hunger now gnawed at her with a relentless intensity. The sparse vegetation of the land offered no sustenance, and she had neither the tools nor the strength to attempt fishing in the river, whose current was too swift for her to wade into safely.

When she finally reached the base of the mountains, her steps faltered. She scanned her surroundings, her weary eyes searching for anything that might provide shelter. She needed a place to rest, somewhere to gather her thoughts and let her mind clear enough to consider her next steps.

At last, she found it - a small crevice, hidden among the rocky outcroppings at the mountain’s foot, close to where the river tumbled down from the heights. The entrance was narrow and unassuming, but as she edged her way inside, it widened into a shallow cave, its floor uneven and damp. 

She collapsed against the stone wall, her legs giving way beneath her. The cold of the rock seeped into her skin, but she barely noticed. The overwhelming weight of her exhaustion pressed down on her, and for a moment, it was enough simply to be still.

She was free of him, for now. 

The thought gave her a fleeting sense of relief, though it was tempered by the gnawing certainty that it would not last.  Melkor would not let the Silmarils - or her - slip from his grasp for long. She doubted he would need much time to track her down.

She checked her surroundings once more, and when she was satisfied that she was truly alone, she allowed her body to relax, her head tilting back against the cold stone.

Her eyes fluttered shut. 

The weight of her exhaustion pulled at her, and despite her hunger, despite her fear, sleep claimed her almost instantly.

-----------

It was her hunger that eventually woke her.

Artanis jolted upright, terror gripping her as her surroundings refused to align with her memories. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her hands gripping at the rough ground beneath her as she tried to make sense of where she was. The cave. The mountains. Once again, time was an enigma. 

How long had she slept? Hours? Days? The darkness would offer no clues, and the stars' positions were meaningless to her in this foreign land.

Her body ached as she moved. She unclasped her mantle, letting the damp fabric fall from her shoulders, and then reached down to unlace her boots. The motion was sluggish, her fingers fumbling from fatigue and pain. When she finally managed to pull them off and set them aside, she winced as she saw the state of her feet.

Blood stained her soles, streaking up her ankles. The skin was torn, blistered, and raw from days of relentless walking. 

She had known they were in poor condition, but seeing the damage made her emtpy stomach tighten. Her body had borne the full brunt of the journey - her hair knotted and matted with grime, her muscles trembling with each movement - but her feet definitely got the worst of it.

With effort, she unbuckled her belt and removed the satched slung over her shoulder, and the Silmarils with it. Her dagger, once a source of confidence, now felt like an artifact of a life that no longer existed. She set it carefully beside her boots before dragging herself toward the river.

The water was gentler here. 

The current swirled around her ankles as she waded in just enough to submerge her feet. The cold stung at first, but it quickly turned soothing, numbing the pain. Cupping her hands, she brought water to her face, scrubbing at the grime and dried blood that clung to her skin. In that small act of self-care, she felt for the first time like a real person again.

She took a look at herself in the dark water. 

The woman who stared back at her in the dark reflection of the water was battered, weary, but alive. What could she do now, if not endure?

Retracing their journey was impossible; that much was certain. 

The unnatural speed at which they had traveled had been beyond her comprehension, and the icy expanse they had crossed would surely claim her life if she tried to venture back.

But she didn’t know where to go. She knew nothing of this land, its people, or its dangers. The faint starlight above offered no answers, no guidance beyond the vague suggestion of the horizon. She was alone in every sense of the word, cast adrift in a land as foreign to her as the void itself.

Her gaze lifted toward the mountains ahead. 

No mountain was infinite. She could cross them, she reasoned. She would cross them, despite the odds.

Melkor had commanded her to go north, and she could only assume that direction would lead her closer to his designs. South, then, was the logical choice. South might hold something - anything - beyond his grasp. Something worth striving toward. Something to survive for.

Other elves resided in Middle-earth, after all. 

Not all of them chose to follow the Valar to Aman. Perhaps there were kin still dwelling in these lands, though she knew nothing of where to find them or how they would regard her.

She shook the thought away. She could not afford to lose herself in speculation. 

First, she needed to gather her strength. Hunt something to eat. Find her footing. Then, she could be on her way. There was no way forward but through.

Artanis pushed herself upright, her legs still trembling from fatigue. The promise of brief shelter, however cold and unwelcoming, was enough to spur her onward.

But as she neared the entrance, she saw it.

A faint, flickering light danced within the cave, casting strange, shifting shadows across the jagged walls. Her breath hitched.

There was a light inside. How could there be light inside?
She had not lit a fire - there was no time, no fuel, no means to do so. Nor had she sensed anyone approach during her restless flight. 

A terrible thought gripped her. Could Melkor already be back?

It was true that she had no real sense of how much time had passed, by it seemed improbable. She had seen him fall. His body had been battered, his strength utterly spent. Even for a god, recovery from such a defeat would take time - or so she hoped.

Still, he was a Vala, and she had learned not to underestimate him. But no matter how unlikely his swift return seemed, there was only one way to know for sure.

Her breath caught as she edged closer, and as she approached the inside of the cave, her hand instinctively went to her belt for her dagger. 

Her fingers met empty air.

“I believe you’re looking for this?”

The voice that greeted her was calm, conversational. It was low and warm, and it carried unmistakabe amusement.

She remembered now, with a bitter pang of regret, that she had removed the blade before leaving the cave. She had convinced herself that she was momentarily safe, that there was no immediate threat in the emptiness around her. What a fool.

Her eyes darted toward the source of the voice as she stepped cautiously into the cave, her body tense, ready to flee or fight - though with what, she wasn’t sure.

There, seated with infuriating ease on a stone near the entrance, was a man.

No, not a man. 

He was fair, but not in the way of her people. 

His long auburn hair caught the firelight, the color of molten bronze. Golden eyes, unnervingly bright, regarded her with curiosity. He looked utterly at ease, one leg crossed over the other, her dagger turning lazily in his hand as though it were a toy.

“Very brave,” he continued, his voice almost a purr. “Or very foolish, to reach for a weapon you do not have.”

Artanis stiffened, her mind scrambling for an explanation without succeding. 

“Who are you?” she demanded, forcing herself to speak despite the tightness in her throat.

He ignored the question, his attention still fixed on the blade. “Iron from Valinor, I assume” he mused, his tone almost reverent. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve seen work of this quality. Remarkable, really, what you kind can craft when they put their minds to it.”

She took a step forward, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “That is mine.”

His golden eyes flicked up to meet hers, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Oh, I’m aware. But you weren’t using it, were you?”

He flipped the dagger in his hand with an almost lazy grace before holding it out to her, hilt first. She hesitated, unsure whether to trust the gesture.

“Go on,” he said softly,  “Take it. I won't bite, I promise”

Artanis reached out, her fingers brushing against the hilt. 

The moment her hand closed around it, his grip tightened briefly. The corner of his mouth quirked upward, a smile that was neither kind nor cruel, but something in between. Then he released the dagger entirely.

“Good,” he said, leaning back against the cave wall as if settling in for a conversation. “You took your time returning. I wonder... were you considering taking a run for it?” 

She took a step back, clutching the dagger tightly, her mind scrambling for a response. 

“Or perhaps you simply wished to explore,” he suggested, "It’s understandable. The lands here have their charms, even in their wild state".

Who was this man, speaking to her as though they were old acquaintances? 

His appearance was unfamiliar, and he was certainly not an Elf. Nor was he one of the monstrous creatures she had seen come to Melkor’s aid. And yet, the way he addressed her - so calm, so measured, so disarmingly observant - unsettled her more than any overt threat ever could.

"Who are you?” she asked again, trying to infuse her voice with authority, though the edge of her fear still clung to the words.

The smirk on his face shifted into something more wicked, though his smile never quite reached his eyes. “Ah, introductions. How rude of me.” He stood then, and it was only when he rose fully that she realized how tall he was. He inclined his head in a gesture that might have resembled a bow. “You may call me Mairon.”

The name meant nothing to her, but the man - if he could even be called that - before her seemed to expect otherwise. He was watching her as if waiting for some reaction she wasn’t able to give, even if she had wanted.

"That does not answer my question", she replied.

He made a theatrical grimace, exaggeratedly offended, his hand briefly touching his chest as if wounded. “Truly? Does that name mean nothing at all to you?"

Her confusion deepened, and she continued to stare at him, puzzled.

He sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, given the circumstances. After all, news of me doesn’t travel as freely as it once did. A pity, really. And yet,” he leaned forward slightly “I’ve heard far too much about you, Lady Artanis.”

The mocking inflection he put on her title stung, and she was halfway to retorting when he cut her off with a languid wave of his hand. “And, of course,” he added, his gaze sliding meaningfully to the satchel abandoned near her boots, “about those jewels you carry. I do hope they’re as impressive as the tales suggest because, frankly, what I see before me now hardly seems worth the price my lord has paid.”

The insult was so blatant and unkind that under normal circumstances her pride might have flared, her vanity wounded by his words. But the realization that this man - this Mairon  -was another servant of Melkor snapped her attention away from her wounded ego.

Her grip on the dagger tightened, and she fought to keep her expression composed. “So, you’re just another creature in his service. If your master sent you, then take me to him and be done with it.”

“Another creature? Please.” His tone carried an exaggerated disdain, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as if the very suggestion was an affront to his dignity. "I am his Lieutenant, not some pathetic thrall like the Balrogs you’ve probably seen scuttling to his aid.”

Balrogs, she thought, filing the name away for later. So, that was what those monsters were called.

“And yet here you are,” she retorted, “fetching me like some obedient hound.”

He laughed at that, although he did not seem particularly mirthful. "Obedient hound? My, my, such bold world words from someone who has just been dragged across continents like a hunt prize"

"Is mockery a prerequisite to follow Melkor? You sound just like him"

"Lord Melkor, to you" he corrected, for some reason genuinely irritated by the lack of reverence she had just displayed  "And just to answer you question, no, I'm no one's hound. Don't mistake loyalty for servitude."

He got an inch closer. "You, on the other hand, sound eager enough to return to his side. Shall we make haste, then?"

Her jaw tightened. "Hardly".

"No, you don't look like it," he tilted his head, studying her disheveled form. "To be fair, you look rather miserable, actually."

She stiffened at his words, a small flicker of indignation sparking in her chest.

Growing up in the courts of Valinor, where every conversation was a delicate dance of poetry and song, she wasn’t accustomed to being addressed so bluntly. Among her kin, even the simplest criticism was wrapped in gilded metaphors. But this was not an Elf, and this was certainly not Valinor.

“I suppose I should thank you for your honesty?” she asked sarcastically.

"Honesty is one of my more endearing traits,” he said, straightening with a theatrical air of pride, spreading his arms in a gallant gesture, as if expecting applause.

Before she could muster a response, he took a step back, then another, his posture shifting into one of authority as he turned halfway toward the mouth of the cave. “Now, I’ll be waiting outside. Don’t take long. I’m not particularly patient, and you don’t want to test me.”

She stared after him, exhaling sharply through her nose.

The audacity. 

As his silhouette disappeared toward the cave’s entrance, her eyes drifted to the strange fire he had conjured, burning brightly in the center of the cavern without wood or fuel. 

She frowned, crouching slightly to examine it more closely. 

No smoke rose to the ceiling, no embers escaped, yet the warmth was undeniable.

What kind of creature was he? He was no Elf, that much was certain. 

The sharpness of his features bore a strange beauty, but there was something otherworldly about him. The fire was clearly his work, conjured with a power she didn’t understand. A Maia, perhaps, but not like the ones she had known in Valinor. Had she ever heard the name Mairon, and perhaps forgot about it? It was unlikely, considering she remembered everything else from her past to an almost exact degree. 

With a resigned sigh, she began to gather her things, muttering under her breath. 

Her fingers brushed against the cool leather of her satchel, where the Silmarils still casted a soft glow. She secured her cloak and slid her boots back on, slowly, wincing as the sore ache in her feet flared briefly before subsiding to a dull throb. 

She hesitated over the dagger, turning it over in her hand. 

On one hand, it was obvious her companion was not particularly intimidated by her holding it - his smug demeanor made that abundantly clear. On the other hand, the thought of following him unarmed, like some helpless maiden waiting to be escorted to her destination, was intolerable.

After a moment’s deliberation, she tightened her grip on the blade and kept it in her hand, just in case.

“What’s taking so long? Surely even your dainty feet can manage a bit of haste. Or shall I carry you, oh radiant Princess?”

She squared her shoulders as she approached, determined not to let his smugness get the better of her. Without pausing, she brushed past him, her chin held high and her dagger still firmly in hand. If he was trying to intimidate her, she refused to give him the satisfaction.

“Finally!” he drawled, uncrossing his arms as he fell into step behind her.

She rolled her eyes, muttering an insult under her breath, one that she doubted he could hear - or care, even if he did.

If this was the company she was to keep, she thought grimly, the journey ahead promised to be a very long one indeed.

Chapter Text

How had it come to this?

Artanis couldn’t help but ask herself this as she trudged along the damp terrain by the stream, each step heavy as her feet sank into the mud.

She had often lamented, in her life, the lack of adventure and the desire for discovery. 

She had spent long days by the sea imagining the lands beyond Belegaer, dreaming of a different life - a life with vast, untouched stretches of land where she could build something new, a land of adventures and freedom. Yet this, surely, was not the shape she had envisioned her wish taking.

She couldn’t stop wondering what was happening in Aman.

Had her brothers already realized she was gone? Had they found her grandfather's lifeless body? The thought was like a shard of ice lodged in her chest.

And Fëanor... what would he do when he discovered that the Silmarils were lost?

The cursed jewels hung heavy around her neck and shoulder, a noose that seemed to tighten with every passing moment, as though they sought to remind her of their futility.  Their light, so prized, had failed to protect their creators in their time of greatest need. They had failed to prevent the unthinkable - the defeat of the Noldor. For defeated they were. The Noldor, in their broader sense, had been vanquished - poisoned and made prey to a single, terrible will.

And now, she was next. 

That same will had its sights set on her.

The mind, she realized, had many ways of protecting itself - of pushing forward. Ignoring the future was her its way of surviving the present. 

Her deliberate avoidance of thinking about what Melkor might do once she was delivered to him was one of those defenses. Every fear she had ever harbored about him had always been tempered by the illusion of safety, the false belief that she was untouchable in Valinor. After all, nothing terrible ever truly happened in Valinor. No real tragedies.

But that wasn’t entirely true either.

Míriel’s death had been a tragedy, in a way - a wound that had never truly healed in her family, although it had led to her own existence. The strifle between her uncles was a tragedy, too. Artanis couldn’t help but wonder why all tragedies seemed to lead back to Fëanor: there was a lesson in that, no doubt, though this was not the time to ponder it.

Still, Valinor had been a place untouched by true horrors. 

No one had ever been tortured. 

No one had ever been murdered. 

No one had ever been-

No.

She stopped herself, forcing her thoughts away from the edge of that abyss.

Now was not the time to think of such things. Her steps were already weighted enough as they were, dragging through the mud.

She hadn’t expected her captor to grant her silence. 

She had braced herself for taunts, for cruelty, for some attempt to break her spirit as they journeyed toward Melkor’s unknown lair. Wherever Melkor might lay, for she knew only from stories that his great fortress, Utumno, had been destroyed by the Valar millennia ago.

Yet, he had offered none of that. 

Instead, they walked in silence, broken only by the relentless whisper of the stream and the muffled sound of their steps.

Artanis cast a glance over her shoulder, careful not to let him catch her watching. 

His dark brown tunic and cloack blended almost perfectly with the muted tones of their surroundings. He walked a few steps behind her, but his presence was a constant irritation at the edges of her awareness.

Mairon. The name lingered in her mind, its meaning clawing at her. Admirable. That’s what it meant. The irony was so bitter she almost laughed aloud. Admirable? To whom? Certainly not to her.

The name itself was in Quenya. The thought gave her pause. If he had taken a name in Quenya, it likely meant he was no stranger to the world of Aman. But then again, he was no Elf, for no Elf could summon fire as he had. And yet, she had never heard of any Vala or Maia by that name. Clearly, he had not called himself Mairon openly for a very long time -not as Melkor’s lieutenant, at least.

That revelation brought little comfort.

The stories she had heard as a child painted Melkor's servants as monsters, although neither Yavanna nor Aulë had ever gone into detail in their accounts. Yet this man - if he could be called that - did not fit the image she had conjured in her mind when thinking of them. He was not the grotesque, twisted thing she had expected. And that, perhaps, made him all the more dangerous. 

Still, she knew better than to underestimate him.

Good and evil, she had learned, were rarely as simple as the tales suggested. 

Melkor himself, the most vile and malevolent of beings, had proven to be far from a simple villain. His cunning and complexity were what made him so dangerous. He was capable of more than mere destruction; he had manipulated and beguiled, persuading an entire people - her people - to unravel from within. The downfall of the Noldor was as much a product of his charm as it was of his evident malice.

If this Mairon was even remotely like his master, then his sharp tongue and arrogant demeanor were merely the surface.

“Lost in thought, my lady?” His voice broke through her reverie, “Careful, or you might trip over a root and blame me for it.” The smirk that tugged at his lips suggested he had caught her watching him after all.

Artanis stiffened but refused to take the bait. She pressed on, her shoulders straight and chin lifted.

A few moments later, his footsteps quickened, and soon he was walking beside her. From the folds of his tunic, he produced something wrapped in cloth. “I nearly forgot,” he said, his voice suddenly less sardonic. “For you.”

“What is it?” she asked, making no move to take it.

“Just food.” His exasperated sigh made her suspicion all the more evident. “Oh, please. If I wanted to poison you, I assure you, I’d be far more creative than this. I’ve been ordered to deliver you alive and well, and judging by the sound of your stomach - louder than a Warg on the hunt, I might add - I suggest you eat.”

She raised a brow. “And what would this destination of ours be?”

“And where, exactly, would the fun be in telling you that?”

Artanis hesitated, her pride warring with practicality as she stared at the bundle in his hands. 

It was a humiliating thought. 

First, she had been dragged away by a dark god to an unknown continent, nearly frozen to death, and then forced into flight. 

And now? Now she was reduced to accepting charity from her captor?

Her gaze hardened as she studied him, searching for some hidden motive. 

His expression was neutral, almost maddeningly so. 

The indignity of the situation burned in her chest, her fingers twitching as though they longed to reject the offering outright. But, he was right. She could feel her last reserves of strength slipping away, a painful emptiness devouring her from within.

“I hunted it myself,” he added casually, as though that might somehow sway her. “Before I came to find you in that cave.”

Her hunger left her little choice.

She glared at him for a long moment, weighing her options, before snatching the bundle from his hands. “I’ll eat,” she said through gritted teeth. “But not because you told me to.”

His quiet laugh was infuriating. He took a step back, giving her space. “Of course not. I would never expect a princess to follow an order from the likes of me.”

Artanis tore a strip of dried meat from the bundle and bit into it, the rich, salty flavor filling her mouth. It wasn’t much, but it was sustenance. For now, it would have to do.

"For someone meant to be a lady, I must say your manners leave something to be desired,” he remarked.

If only he knew how much she wanted to leave those manners behind. “Stop calling me that.”

“What, princess? Or lady? From what I’ve gathered, that’s exactly what you are in Aman.”

“This isn’t Aman though, is it?” she snapped.

“That, we can agree on,” he said with a small, mocking bow before falling back into step beside her.

Artanis took another bite of the dried meat, and after a moment, she folded the cloth closed and tucked the bundle into her pouch, carrying on.

--------------------------

She missed the light of the Trees.

The stars above were a beautiful sight, even in her current state, but their cold brilliance could not compare to the warm glow she had once known. The inability to fully see the landscape around her made her deeply uneasy. 

On one hand, it made it impossible for her to discern their precise direction, so that even if she attempted to escape, she would have no way of retracing her steps. On the other hand, she could feel the vastness of the hills and mountains around her, smell the moss and stone in the air, and she longed to behold it all in its entirety.

“So, what kind of princess are you?” he asked abruptly, breaking the silence as they crested a steep incline. The climb had been grueling, a convenient excuse for her to avoid speaking to him for the past few hours.

“I already told you—”

He raised his hands in surrender, cutting her off. “Yes, yes, you’ve made yourself perfectly clear. But what I mean is, are you the daughter of the King of Aman?”

This gave her pause once again. It made her reflect on her earlier intuition about him.

Perhaps the name he had given her wasn’t real - or perhaps it was merely a translation. After all, the Elves had been in Aman for millennia, and even then, Finwë had been King of the Noldor, Ingwë the King of the Vanyar, and Olwë of the Teleri. That meant he must have left the continent either long before the Elves’ arrival or had never belonged to it at all.

Still, she tempered her curiosity. What difference would it make? The reality was that the man before her was leading her - as he had pointed out himself - like a hunter’s trophy to his master.

“Has your master not given you a report of where he’s spent the last five centuries?”

“My master has been... away, for a long time,” he replied, his tone cool, controlled. “And the mundanities of your kind are hardly topics of conversation between us.”

“And yet here you are, asking one of my kind" she echoed his clear disdain for the Eldar, "whether she’s the daughter of a King.”

His lips curved into a melanchonic smile. “True. But the road is long, and as much as I enjoy watching you fume with indignation, I might as well learn something as you do.”

Artanis hesitated but eventually decided to indulge him, if only to distract herself from the creeping ache of homesickness that had begun to stir in her heart. 

Her voice was even, detached, as though recounting a story that belonged to someone else. She told him in broad strokes about Aman, about the coming of the Elves, the Teleri and the Noldor, and the Valar who had brought them to the Blessed Realm. She described the gleaming spires of Tirion and the shimmering shores of Alqualondë, the Sea of Belegaer that separated them from the Outer Lands, and about the Pelóri, the towering mountains that stood as guardians of Valinor, their peaks often crowned with clouds. 

She did not speak of the falling of the Trees, and she was careful not to reveal anything that could be used against her, keeping her answers vague when it came to her family and affiliations.

He interrupted every now and then, asking clarifications, and if she didn't know better, she would have said that he seemed genuinely curious.

"Mmh. The Valar really did take you in as their pets, didn’t they?” he said eventually. Artanis’s hand tightened instinctively around the hilt of her dagger in response.

“Ah, careful, she has teeth!” he mocked, a grin spreading across his face. “That dagger, as fine as it is, won’t do you any good against me. You know it, and so do I.”

The truth of his words didn’t sting - it was a fact she had already acknowledged and accounted for. The dagger wasn’t her way out; it was her insurance. Her training had taught her that opportunities for a good strike came rarely, and when they did, hesitation could be fatal. If she struck, it would be once, and it would count. Until then, she would bide her time.

But his allusion tempted her, teasing at the question that had been burning in her mind, and against her better judgment, she allowed herself to indulge.

“And what exactly are you?” she asked, “I thought the Valar captured all of Melkor's servants in the Dark Days.”

His response was not what she expected. 

He threw back his head and laughed, the sound booming and wild, echoing off the craggy walls of the mountain pass they were crossing.

“Ha! Your precious Valar were too busy trying to put my Master in chains to concern themselves with the rest of us. Besides, they left these lands untouched for millennia aftewards  - does it really surprise you that they did not sit around to finish the job?"

In some ways, it didn’t.

Artanis’s thoughts drifted to the words of Finwë, to the design of Eru Ilúvatar that her grandfather had spoken of. The supposed harmony of it, the inevitability of its pattern.

But what grand design could possibly justify her being here, in the middle of nowhere, marching toward a fate that promised only servitude - or the hollow humiliation of being paraded as a trophy? It was impossible to conceive.

"You haven't really answered my question" she pointed out.

“Nor do I plan to,” he replied, his voice carrying a finality that made it clear the conversation was over - at least on his part.

Artanis turned away from him, focusing instead on the path ahead. The jagged cliffs rose high on either side of them, and the sky above was a canvas of stars, their light cold and distant, exactly as she felt. 

--------

“We’ll stop here,” Mairon announced, gesturing toward a small clearing where the treeline began to thicken. They were nearing the summit now, the air so sharp and cold that it bit at her skin, even beneath her cloak.

Artanis said nothing, though inwardly she felt a rush of relief.

She would never admit it - certainly not to him - but she imagined he had probably noticed how her steps had grown heavier and her posture more stooped as she struggled through rocks and tangled vegetation. Her body ached for respite.

Entering the clearing, Mairon shrugged off his cloak, folding it neatly before letting it rest on some nearby rocks, and then moved to the center of the space that would serve as their camp for the night. He raised a hand, and with a flick of his fingers, flames erupted from nothingness, summoned by his will as effortlessly as they probably had in the cave. The fire sprang to life instantly, crackling and casting flickering shadows across their faces, its light a welcome reprieve from the encroaching darkness around them.

“You’re quiet again,” he observed, glancing at her briefly. “Tired? Or busy scheming my premature demise?”

She shot him a sharp glare as she removed her satchel and sat down near a tree - far enough from him to maintain distance, but close enough to the fire to feel its warmth.

“Ah, so scheming, then,” he continued, undeterred by her silence. He eased himself onto a rock, relaxing into a position not unlike the one she had found him in the first time they crossed paths. “I must admit, it’s flattering to think you’d dedicate so much mental energy to me.”

“I assure you, you occupy none of my thoughts,” she retorted coldly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

“Fair enough,” he replied, shifting a few paces from the fire. “But you must admit, it could’ve been worse. I could’ve left you to starve in that cave and waited for you to pass out before dragging you here.”

“Generous of you,” she said dryly. “Should I thank you for forcing me to climb an entire mountain instead?”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” he teased.

Artanis leaned forward slightly, letting the fire’s warmth seep into her chilled limbs. 

Elves rarely tired , but they had been walking for hours and hours - or perhaps longer. Time remained an enigma, marked only by the ache in her feet and back.

For the first time, she realized how desperately she needed a bath and a change of clothes. When Melkor had dragged her from Formenos, she had only managed to grab her satchel of provisions - which was now empty, save for the jewels and the wrapped cloth he gave her.

“So,” Mairon said after a moment, breaking the silence, “what’s it like to be you? A princess of Aman, adored and revered, with the light at your back and the favor of the Valar shining on you? It must have been a charmed life.”

She frowned, unsure whether his words were a genuine question or a veiled insult.  Was he trying to twist the knife? “It wasn’t as simple as you paint to be.”

“Ah, of course not.” He leaned back on his hands, “I suppose nothing ever is.”

His lips curved into a faint, almost disinterested smile. “And yet, something must’ve gone terribly wrong in this enchanted life of yours for you to end up here.”

He wasn’t wrong. He was, in fact, entirely correct.

She reached into her satchel, pulling out the remaining bit of dried meat he had given her. As she opened it, the light of the Silmarils flared briefly in the clearing, their radiance catching Mairon’s eyes immediately.

She had wondered why he hadn’t asked to see them - if she had been sent to retrieve something so precious, she would’ve at least looked. After all, Melkor had nearly been defeated trying to keep them; it was only natural to be curious. Even she, who had seen and known them, struggled to comprehend the hold they had over the Dark Vala.

Yet, after a moment, Mairon’s gaze shifted back to her. He seemed intent on not letting her retreat into indignant silence, even as she ate.

“In my experience,” he said, gesturing faintly toward the satchel, “things that shine most brightly often attract dangerous attention.”

“It’s no wonder,” he continued, his eyes lingering briefly on her before returning to the flames. “When something stands so far apart, so distant from where it belongs, it becomes... impossible not to notice. Impossible to resist, even.”

There was an insinuation in his words - perhaps deliberate, perhaps not - that struck a nerve, leaving her feeling raw and exposed. 

A fear she had harbored for centuries reared its head. She had always wanted the best for her people, for those she loved. She wanted them to live in safety, to thrive in harmony.

And yet, to ensure that outcome, she had often placed herself in positions where she could be singled out - stepping forward when others hesitated, speaking when silence would have been safer. It was not arrogance, or so she told herself. It was necessity. Someone had to bear the weight, to take the risks that others could not.

But as Mairon’s words echoed in her mind, she couldn’t help but question herself. Was it truly selflessness that had driven her?  Were there truly “right” reasons for wanting to stand above others? At the end of the day, to lead, to command, one must first rise above. But to rise above was to invite scrutiny, to court danger - which was exactly what she had done, and how she ended up there.

“I never wanted any of this,” she said finally, both to him and herself, her voice heavy with resignation.

Mairon tilted his head, regarding her with quiet curiosity. “No,” he agreed softly. “I suppose you didn’t.”

“And yet,” he continued, his voice dipping into something quieter, more reflective, “what we want often has little to do with what we end up with, does it?”

For a moment, she thought his gaze flickered past her, as if looking at something far away - something she could not see. She wanted to ask, to press him, but the firelight seemed to hold him in a world of his own, and she realized with a pang of discomfort that whatever he was speaking of went beyond her.

The some-how playful edge of their conversation had cooled, leaving behind the undeniable reality of their situation, leaving behind something heavier. 

“You said your master has been gone a long time,” she began cautiously, breaking the silence herself for the first time. “Are you telling me you waited for him here, in Middle-earth, for three ages?”

He gave her a strange look, as if weighing whether to answer. His golden eyes glinted in the firelight, and finally, he nodded.

Three ages. 

Even for Artanis, it was a difficult span of time to comprehend. It stretched far beyond the lifespan of many things, an era that felt unfathomable even to her kind. But it told her something undeniable about the man before her - that he must have existed long before the Elves had awoken by the waters of Cuiviénen.

She thought back to the Hunters Finwë had spoken of, those restless spirits who roamed before the coming of her people, loyal to Melkor's cause. Could he be one of them? It seemed likely, after all.

“Quite lonely" she commented, almost without thinking.

A small pause followed, as if he were deciding whether her words deserved acknowledgment. “There’s no need for company when there is devotion,” he replied firmly.

Artanis frowned at his response, unsure whether it was meant as a rebuke or a deflection. “Devotion,” she repeated, testing the word as though it were foreign. “To a master who abandoned you for millennia? You waited - for what? Did you never question if he’d return, or wonder if your waiting was in vain?”

His jaw tightened evidently, and for a moment, she thought he might lash out. The flames grew accordingly, seemingly sensing his sudden irritation. “Abandoned?” he echoed. “No. To serve is to wait. To endure. Devotion doesn’t falter simply because time stretches longer than expected. It strengthens.”

Artanis said nothing, her fingers curling into the fabric of her cloak as she considered his words. Eventually, she asked cautiously, “And what of your own will? Or is it lost entirely in that devotion?”

He looked at her then as is he was trying to peel back her words to expose the truth beneath them. “Ah,” he said at last, his tone knowing, “so that’s your angle.”

Her brow furrowed, her suprise genuine. “My angle?”

"Spare me the feigned innocence, my lady" and it was clear that he went back to using the title to get under her skin “You prod and press, hoping I’ll betray some weakness, some hesitation you can exploit. It’s a clever game, but not clever enough.”

Artanis stiffened, sensing the danger in his sudden shift in demeanor. “I wasn’t-”

“Don’t insult me by denying it,” he cut in, suddenly cold. “If our positions were reversed, I’d do the same. You seek to understand me, to find a crack in my resolve that you could exploit to avoid your fate. It’s what I would do".

She stared at him, caught off guard by his words, but not for the reasons he believed.

She was struck by how much even his appearance seemed to have shifted in the span of a few heartbeats. Just moments ago, he had been relaxed, his features carrying an almost disarming fairness that, despite herself, she had found unsettling in its calm. 

Now, though, he looked different, as if another part of him had awakened and settled into place. His golden eyes, distant and reflective before, now gleamed with an intensity that made her instinctively tense. The change was so stark, so abrupt, that it left her momentarily off balance.

“I asked because I wanted to know,” she retorted simply. Artanis had no interest in convincing him of her truth; it was enough that she spoke it aloud.  “I don’t understand how someone could give up their will so completely. To wait - when you could have done anything else, been anything else. No cause, no master, no devotion is worth that.”

He blinked, and for an instant, something in his expression wavered.

“You misunderstand,” he said finally, his tone quieter, though the edge remained. “Devotion is will. It is choice. It is purpose. To devote yourself entirely to something greater, isn't that will in its purest form? Those who think otherwise are simply too afraid to understand it.”

“No,” she answered firmly, although that was supposed to be rethorical. Her unease suddenly sharpened into resolve, the kind that always seemed to surface when she felt the need to stand her ground for her beliefs. “That’s surrender. And I would rather be broken than surrender.”

“Bold words. Perhaps that’s why he chose you. To test whether they are born out of conviction or arrogance, once the weight of his will bears down on you."

And what could she possibly reply to that?

Artanis recoiled inwardly. 

She had known - of course, she had known - that this would be her fate. She had made her peace with it in the abstract, a grim acceptance born out of necessity.

But to have it laid bare like this, shoved so casually in her face, was another matter entirely.

Her teeth bit into the soft flesh of her mouth, the sharp tang of copper blooming on her tongue. Her fists clenched tightly in her lap, her nails digging crescents into her palms as she fought to steady herself. The small, stinging pain became an anchor against the rising tide of unease.

She could not - would not - let him see the flicker of fear his words stirred.

Yes, Melkor would try to break her. She had no illusions about that.

But the choice to endure it, to resist him in whatever way she could, had always felt like hers. To have Mairon twist it into a trial of her very essence, as if her will itself were some experiment in futility, made her stomach churn.

She forced herself to meet his gaze, though her breath felt caught in her chest. Let him speak of trials and tests, of weight and will - he could not take from her what she refused to give.

So she stayed silent, her jaw tight, her fists aching from the force of her grip.

“Now, rest,” he ordered, his voice regaining the same air of authority she had heard in the cave. “The hardest part of the climb is behind us, but the journey is far from over.”

And it was just as well. 

She had no desire to continue this conversation, no strength left to face the truths his words might force her to confront. For all his cruelty, she found herself oddly grateful that he chose to end it here, sparing her the need to wrestle with her own thoughts.

“And you? Don’t you need rest?”

“No,” he said simply. “I don’t sleep.”

“Well,” she said, her voice tinged with dry humor despite herself, “I suppose my only consolation is that I won’t need to worry about wolves or creatures attacking us.”

To her surprise, this elicited genuine laughter from him, a sound that momentarily dispelled the heavy tension between them. His expression softened again, the sharpness in his features blunted by the unexpected levity. 

When he replied, he seemed genuinely amused, though she couldn’t fathom why. “Rest easy, Artanis. That, at least, is one thing you don’t need to fear.”

Artanis didn’t move immediately. She hesitated, torn between the instinct to keep her guard up and the undeniable exhaustion pulling at her.

But the cold and the ache in her muscles eventually won. She lay down near the fire, wrapping her cloak tightly around her and clutching her dagger even as sleep began to claim her.

The sound of his breathing filled the silence around her, and yet, there was no malice in that sound - no threat. And though Artanis held fast to her righteousness, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Mairon’s certainty was as much a cage for him as her captivity was for her.

Chapter Text

"You won’t tell me where we are going, fine, but can I at least know how much longer I must endure this torture?"

The morning had been cold and unnervingly quiet.

Artanis had woken with reluctance, her muscles aching from the previous days' journey. She had chewed through the last of her dried meat without tasting it, her jaw working mechanically as her mind remained elsewhere, and resumed walking beside him without ceremony. They only exchanged the minimum amount of words needed to set up their next steps.

The mountain’s peak had been behind them for hours now, but the descent proved far worse than the climb. The ground was treacherously uneven, slippery with frost, and each step sent jolts of pain through her tired legs. Artanis couldn’t suppress the sharp intake of breath as she stumbled, catching herself on a jagged rock. 

The land before them stretched endlessly. Its details remained obscured, shrouded in mist and darkness, nothing more than a ghostly outline in the distance.

She hated the uncertainty of it.

Not that she was particularly eager to meet Melkor - far from it - but knowing how much longer this journey would last would at least give her the chance to plan... something. To call it an escape seemed optimistic, given her circumstances. After all, all she had was her dagger. No supplies, no provisions, no means to hunt. Well, not that she had seen any sign of life around them - no animals, no birds, nothing.

(Even in its constant night, the lands of Middle-earth shouldn’t had been so empty.)

In front of her, Mairon walked entirely at ease. The sight did nothing other than deepening her frustration.

"Pff, torture," he repeated under his breath, as if he had just heard an amusing joke. Then, louder for her to hear, "Four days. Maybe five, depending on how long we stop-"  

"Five days?!" she snapped, incredulous. "Five more days of this endless walking?”

 "No," he said with exaggerated patience, glancing at her over his shoulder. "Five days on horseback. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to arrive at the dawn of a new age. I’m sure Lord Melkor would be thrilled to wait."

Artanis stopped, her boots scraping against the frost-slick rock as her mind caught on his words. "On horseback?"

Mairon turned fully to face her, then. And there it was, the expression she had come to dread: his trademark sardonic smile.

"You look like I’ve just proposed a revolutionary concept,”, a chuckle lurking beneath his words, “Yes, on horseback. You know, riding. Surely, even the illustrious lady Artanis understands what that means?"

Ha-ha. Very amusing.

"Don’t patronize me," she hissed, her cheeks flushing despite herself. "I know what it means to ride. I just don’t see how we’re going to find horses here. Or do you plan to summon them out of thin air, like your flames?"

He laughed at that, a low, rich sound that grated on her already tensed nerves. She was so tired of being mocked. "Horses conjured like fire. I shouldn’t be surprised, really. You Eldar know so little of true creation, and yet you presume so much."

His condescending tone made her bristle, not least because it raised the question of how many Eldar he had actually interacted with to form such lofty judgments. But before she could snap back, he continued. "No, we’ll be riding actual horses. Lord Melkor commanded it. Though I did suggest Wargs - they’re far more efficient."

It was the second time he was mentioning the unfamiliar word, and curiosity bested her.

"Wargs," she repeated cautiously, "What’s a Warg?"

His initial confidence seemed to waver. For a moment, he just looked at her, as if reassessing his first instinct - to mock her, no doubt. Slowly, the realization seemed to dawn on him she couldn’t possibly know what he was referring to, and his voice, when he finally spoke, was noticeably more serious. "You'll see."

"If they are so efficient, as you say," she pressed, unwilling to let the subject drop, "so why are we using horses?" "

Mairon shrugged with practiced nonchalance. "Perhaps my Master deemed the sight of an elven princess riding a Warg too undignified. Or maybe," he added, his smirk returning with full force, "he thought you wouldn’t survive the encounter without swooning."

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stay calm, though the temptation to strike him - just once, to wipe that smug expression from his face, how nice would that be? - was overwhelming. She resisted, mostly because to do so would risk her balance on the treacherous terrain. "I will have you know I’m not that fragile."

"Of course not," he replied, his tone dripping with disbelief. 

She swallowed her retort, not because she didn’t have one but because she knew it wouldn’t change a thing.

Artanis was sick and tired of his dismissiveness, his cryptic comments, his smug certainty. She was sick of the unanswered questions, each one piling on the weight of her growing frustration.

Days had passed, and yet she still didn’t know what - or who - Mairon truly was. She didn’t even have answers to the smaller things, like what kind of creatures had brought her to Middle-earth or what these Wargs might be. She didn’t know what was happening in Aman, where they were headed, or when, if ever, she’d find an opportunity to escape. And even if she did somehow managed to escape, where would she go?

Still, the thought of riding, even briefly, brought her some familiar relief. At least, it meant leaving this mountain behind. Perhaps it also meant not having to speak to Mairon - for a time, anyway, which would be an added bonus.

"A half-day’s walk from here, there’s a stream with a waterfall," Mairon said somehow abruptly, breaking the silence as they resumed their trek, "The horses are waiting for us there."

Artanis’ brows furrowed in reaction. "And why are you telling me this?"

He didn’t pause or even glance back as he responded. "How long has it been since you last bathed?"

Heat crept up her neck at his question, and she was grateful for the hood of her cloak, which she pulled tighter around her.

 "Don’t take it personally," he added, with another dismissive shrug "But if I have to endure the sight of your hair in that state for three more days, I may find myself tempted to do something about it. A blade, you’ll find, can do wonders – not just for fighting. After all, delivering you to my Master in one piece doesn’t necessarily include all your hair still on your head’"

Embarrassment quickly turned into anger. Gods, she did want to punch him.

How dare he? She could easily imagine her state, her once-neat braid now unraveling into a chaotic mess, her hair matted with dust and streaked with mud from days of travel. But to have it thrown at her so plainly, so casually?

She had endured indignities before - long nights of hard labor, the sting of harsh words from kin.. But this? This was infuriating on an entirely different level. Perhaps she was vain and proud, after all. Her hair, more than anything else, was what made her feel undeniably herself.

Sure, her locks had seen better days, but this-this fool dared to stand before her, casually threatening to cut it down as if it were nothing? As if its loss would cost her no more than a passing inconvenience? His uncle - no, all her kin - would have killed for a single strand of it, and yet here he stood, treating it as if it were no more important than a tangle of weeds.

Her anger simmered, her composure barely holding. “And what, exactly, do you care about the state of my hair?” Say another word. I dare you.

"Nothing at all," he replied coolly. "But I've never been fond of messes. And right now, it looks as though a wild hawk has built its nest atop your head."

Ah. That explained a few things. Inconsequential things she had noticed in their time together.

The meticulous way he folded his cloak during their brief rests. His polished boots and pristine garments, even after hours of travel. His straight, immaculate hair and the perfect knot in the cloth that had once wrapped the meat he ate - elegant, complex, precise. He was a man who thrived on control, on perfection. Of course, her disheveled state would offend him as much as it amused him.

“If it bothers you so much, look elsewhere,” she said coolly, “You’re the one who is dragging me around Middle-earth. My cleanliness is none of your concern.”

Mairon paused mid-step, his shoulders stiffening ever so slightly at her retort. Clearly, he hadn’t expected her to refuse. Though his back remained to her, she could feel the subtle shift, as though he were recalibrating, reassessing her response.

He let out a low hum, tilting his head slightly in her direction, a gesture of quiet consideration. “You’re quite determined to make this difficult for yourself, aren’t you?”

Artanis said nothing. Her gaze remained steady, daring him silently to push further. Her pride was buzzing beneath the surface, but she refused once again to give him the satisfaction of a retort.

Mairon turned again, and this time his sharp, assessing gaze flicked briefly over her, as if measuring her resolve. He took a step closer, “You do realize,” he began, “that stubbornness of yours, while occasionally entertaining, is not really practical. Perhaps—”

“Are you done?” she interrupted. She shifted her weight to one leg and planted her feet firmly, her expression untouched by his patronizing attitude. The movement a subtle declaration of defiance, though her fingers betrayed her tension as they flexed against the strap of her bag.

“Almost” he replied, raising a single hand, the gesture languid as though to dismiss her interruption “If you’d rather cling to this whole display instead of taking the opportunity I’m offering, by all means - who am I to stop you? Either way, we must reach the stream. Take it or leave it. That’s up to you.”

He turned, as if to leave, but not without a parting remark over his shoulder. “Though I imagine the horses will undoubtedly appreciate it as you are, in all your... rusting charm.”

He seemed incapable of speaking without sliding an insult between his words, each one crafted not just to sting but to probe. He was testing her, pushing her buttons just enough to see how far he could go before she actually lashed out. He would enjoy her anger, she knew that much.

Artanis stood there for a moment, watching him walk away with that infuriating air of confidence, entirely too smug. Her jaw tightened as she fumed silently, her mind caught between her anger at his words and the undeniable truth. She did want to bathe. Desperately. And he was doing her a kindness, whether consciously or not. 

Letting out a sharp breath, she made her decision.

“Wait.”

He turned slowly, his expression guarded, already bracing for her next jab.

But instead of meeting his smirk with another sharp retort, Artanis straightened. “Thanks,” she said curtly, her tone clipped. The words costed her much.

For the first time, Mairon hesitated.

As he looked at her, he raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for a sarcastic follow-up. When none came, he lowered his head in acknowledgment - the closest thing to a "you are welcome" he could muster, probably - before turning back to the trek.

She had come to appreciate small victories.

After all, she had managed to defy him twice – first by refusing his offer, then by thanking him for it. It was not much, but still, it helped her find something of herself. Something she worried she might lose.

------------------------

It really did take what felt like half a day before they finally reached the valley at the base of the mountain.

The treacherous descent gradually gave way to gentler slopes, with the jagged rocks and frost-covered outcroppings slowly turning into softer terrain. Grass and small patches of moss began to dot the ground, cushioning Artanis’s aching steps.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the earth beneath her boots didn’t threaten to slip away underfoot.

She heard the water before she saw it, a soft murmur at first, growing louder as they advanced. She stayed behind him – the last thing she wanted was to appear overly eager to him – but her curiosity still hurried her steps.

They rounded a final bend, and the source of the sound came into view.

Next to a narrow, crystalline river lay an open space - a patch of flat, packed earth framed by clusters of trees. Though the waterfall itself was still hidden from view, its steady roar filled the air.

Mairon stopped, his cloak shifting slightly in the breeze as he turned toward her. “As promised,” he said, opening his hand broadly, seemingly proud of himself, “our humble respite.”

Artanis said nothing, her gaze sweeping over the area. Her attention lingered on the sound of the waterfall, tantalizingly close yet still out of view. She turned to Mairon and, despite herself, smirked dryly before asking, “I suppose this is where the horses will magically appear?”

He chuckled, apparently appreciating her first attempt at humor. “Patience, my lady.”

He strode toward the cluster of trees, leaving her trailing a few steps behind.

As she followed him towards a cluster of trees, the soft rustle of movement caught her attention, and she saw them: two horses tied to a low branch, their silhouettes blending into the shadowy grove. The first signs of life, beyond themselves, that she had seen since leaving Aman - a sight that brought a touch of warmth to her weary heart.

The first was a dark stallion, his coat gleaming like polished obsidian even in the dim starlight. His thick mane was intricately braided, each strand woven with a care that hinted at attention well beyond the ordinary. Beside him stood a mare the color of amber, her dark eyes meeting Artanis’s gaze, curious yet calm.

Artanis hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward slowly. She moved with care, her steps light, her posture unthreatening. The horses watched her approach, their ears twitching but their bodies remaining still.

She stopped a few feet away, extending her hand palm-up, allowing them to catch her scent. “Nár mára, meldor,” she murmured softly. The words were kind, a greeting that seemed fitting in the presence of such creatures. The stallion snorted, his breath visible in the cool air, but he didn’t pull away. The mare tilted her head, studying Artanis with an almost intelligent gaze.

Artanis smiled faintly and took another step closer.

She addressed the mare first, brushing her fingers against the soft velvet of her muzzle. “Ná vanima,” she whispered, with a note of wonder in her voice. You are beautiful. The mare blinked slowly, as if in agreement, and leaned into her touch.

Turning to the stallion, she offered the same care, her fingers tracing the intricate braids in his mane. “And you,” she said softly, “you are proud, aren’t you? Proud, but loyal.” He lowered his head slightly, allowing her touch, and Artanis felt a pang of something familiar - a deep, unspoken connection, as though these creatures understood her in ways no words could express. Artanis spoke to them both in a low voice, her words a soothing stream of gratitude. 

And then she noticed it.

The stallion’s braided mane caught her attention again, not just for the precision of its weaving but for the small silver beads woven into the strands. Each bead was etched with flowing patterns - curves that almost resembled elven designs, though less refined, rougher, as if imitating without truly understanding the artistry. Her attention shifted to the mare’s saddle, where an embroidered design curled along its edges. It wasn’t entirely elven work, but the shapes bore a faint echo of the star-lit constellations her people revered, rendered in a way that felt both familiar and alien.

These were no ordinary horses. They were... something else. Perhaps shaped by hands that had once admired her people’s craft but never fully grasped its essence. A shadow of elven beauty twisted into something utilitarian.

Artanis straightened slowly, her mind beginning to piece together the unsettling implications forming in her thoughts. She turned to him, a question already rising in her throat, but the words died on her lips.

Mairon stood a short distance away, leaning nonchalantly against a tree. His arms were crossed, and he was watching her. Not the horses, not the clearing - her.

Not because it was necessary or to make a scornful remark, but simply because he was watching her. Even the smile on his face seemed genuine, enough to make Artanis look away immediately, startled by its intensity. But the moment of vulnerability faded as quickly as it had come.

 “These horses,” she began, carefully trying to avoid a straight-out accusation “are not ordinary. Where do they come from?”

His captor raised an eyebrow at her question. “And what makes you think that?”

She pointed to the embroidery on the mare’s saddle. “The patterns - they remind me of something I’ve seen before. Not entirely elven, but close enough to suggest… influence. Whose hands wove these braids? And these,” she indicated the silver beads in the stallion’s mane, “are not your work. Where did you get them? Or should I ask - who did you take them from?”

Mairon’s smile froze for a fraction of a second, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly.  Then, with an almost lazy grace, he pushed off the tree and approached her. “Not my work?” he repeated. “And what, pray tell, gives you the impression that I am incapable of such refinements?”

Artanis stiffened at the shift in his tone but didn’t back down. Apparently, pride was not her sin alone. “I didn’t say that. If anything, the style,” she indicated the craftsmanship, “lacks… precision. And you don’t strike me as an imprecise person.”

Mairon regarded her with a quizzical look but refrained from responding immediately.

“The work is functional,” Artanis continued, carefully choosing her phrasing. “It serves its purpose - durable, practical, meant to endure rather than impress. But whoever crafted this didn’t concern themselves with details.” Her fingers brushed one of the silver beads in the stallion’s mane, and the creature snorted softly, stamping a hoof against the ground as if approving of her touch. “These lines… they’re efficient, not refined. I wouldn’t call this someone’s best work.”

Mairon’s curiosity was evident now, the slight tilt of his head betraying his interest. He crossed his arms more tightly, as if to get a better measure of her, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against his upper arm. “You surprise me,” he admitted. “Not many would notice these flaws in something so inconsequential, much less critique them with the eye of a smith.”

She turned her head sharply at his observation, meeting his face with words of defiance already half formed in her mind. Her first instinct was to challenge his assumption, to correct him - to remind him of a simple truth that everyone else in her life knew: she was a skilled smith. It was more than a skill; it was a source of pride, a part of her identity that she held dear.

But then she realized - how could he have known? To him, she was just a captive, another pawn caught in the web of his master’s machinations.

And taking that into consideration, it was just natural that he was now regarding her as if she was a curiosity. She probably had, if only for the span of their conversation, broken free from the image he must have had of her: the so-called princess, barely more than a decorative figure from a distant court. In his eyes, she was likely nothing more than a naive ward, a glittering ornament meant to be escorted rather than someone capable of sharp insight and understanding of tangible crafts.

If only he knew just how much she truly understood, how much she could do.

Memories stirred at the edges of her mind - dueling with her brothers, racing her horse at full gallop down the hills of Aman, long hours spent helping Yavanna’s elves with the harvest, and the days - oh, the endless days - spent in Aulë’s halls, learning first the delicate art of jewelry-making and then the intricate, disciplined craft of forging blades.. Those days, though, felt achingly distant now.

But she had no intention of allowing him the privilege of truly knowing her.

Her abilities, her inner strengths - those were not his to understand, let alone exploit. She had already paid the price of underestimating the value of guarded thoughts. Melkor had partially succeeded in his plans because he had known her - truly seen her - and had used that knowledge against her, twisting her doubts and ambitions into tools for his own designs. She wouldn’t make that mistake twice.

“I know good work when I see it,” she said eventually, revealing nothing more than she intended. “And apparently, so do you, given how you didn’t miss a chance to comment on my knife.”

“Mmh. You do seem quick to notice such things. An interesting trait,” he replied, carefully ambiguous, leaving her uncertain on whether it was meant as a compliment or merely an observation. Still, there was no hostility in it, only a quiet acknowledgment of her insight, which was probably correct.

“But I’m tired of receiving no answers,” Artanis pressed, refusing to let the moment slip. “Where did you get these horses?”

Mairon paused, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might truly answer her this time. Then, with his dismissive tone, which she had come to recognize instantly, he replied, “Let’s just say they belonged to people who no longer had the desire - or the means - to keep them.”

Guess what, another cryptic, unsatisfying response.

Artanis stepped back half a pace, her fingers curling protectively against the mare’s neck. “You took them, then.”

Mairon’s expression didn’t falter at the accusation, clearly not interested in denying it. “Took. Claimed. Borrowed. Does it matter? They’re here now, and they serve their purpose.”

The lack of distinction told her everything she needed to know about him.

Took. Claimed. Borrowed. He had said the words with such casual disregard, as if there was no difference between them. And perhaps, to him, there wasn’t.

He seemed a man who measured everything by its utility, a man for whom nothing held value beyond its ability to serve a purpose. She felt again the temptation to challenge him, challenge that whole idea, to dig deeper and understand whether his indifference was rooted in malice or sheer detachment. But she stopped herself.

What good would it do to antagonize him now? She wasn’t here to trade barbs or force truths from him that he wasn’t ready to reveal. In their conversations so far, there seemed to be an unspoken understanding - a delicate equilibrium in how much each was willing to offer the other. And in that balance, tenuous as it was, she had found the faintest semblance of control.

So, instead she turned her back to him and returned her attention to the horses, whispering softly into their ears. Both horses seemed to respond with quiet, almost mournful sounds, as though they understood her reassurance. In their eyes, she saw a reflection of her own turmoil. After all, they were alike in a way: creatures out of place, caught between worlds, their destinies at the mercy of forces far beyond their control.

“What did you tell them?” came his voice from behind her, his curiosity evident despite the casualness of the question. She wondered whether that was a display too.

“I asked them their names,” Artanis replied, still focused on them. She stroked the stallion’s mane gently. “This one is Dúven. And she,” her fingers brushed the mare’s muzzle, “is Aerlinn.”

Mairon said nothing at first, and when she turned, she found him watching her intently. Then, as if to fill the silence hanging between them, he moved toward the mare.

Her gaze followed him as his hand reached for saddlebags she had barely noticed were there in the shadowed grove. From them, he withdrew what appeared to be a bedroll, a bundle of blankets, and a small pack of provisions. Whether he knew they were there, or he put them themselves, would probably remain another unanswered question.

“I’ll wait for you at the clearing we passed earlier,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact as he adjusted the pack. “After preparing camp, I’ll go hunting. The waterfall is that way.” He gestured toward a faint trail that disappeared beyond the trees. His voice hardened. “It might take a while, so I might still be gone by the time you return. But before you entertain any ideas...” He let the weight of his words settle. “If you go anywhere else, I will know. Don’t be a fool.”

The abrupt shift in his tone caught her off guard, but Artanis chose not to comment on it. Instead, she asked the question that had been lingering in her mind.

“Hunt what, exactly? We’ve been traveling for days, and I’ve not even heard a bird fly near us.”

Mairon’s expression shifted slightly. Perhaps he hadn’t expected her to notice. “Animals, more than people, have the sense to detect danger,” he replied, the insinuation clear.

Not that Artanis needed the reminder.

She hadn’t forgotten he way the fire had mirrored his anger when he thought she was manipulating him, and the shadow that passed over his features in response. It wasn’t a threatening shadow, not yet grown enough to become one, but it had been enough for her to see it. To feel it.

She harbored no illusions about Mairon. He was every bit as dangerous as he claimed to be, but she had no intention of testing the depths of that danger—not unless absolutely necessary. She understood the risk of applying too much pressure.

Pressure could either break or forge a blade. And the fragile equilibrium between them was one she had no interest in shattering - for his sake or her own. For now, she would let it cool, tempered but untested. The time for testing would come, but not yet.

“You’re not taking the bow?” she asked, more out of curiosity than concern.

Mairon looked at her with the same amused expression he had worn when dismissing her earlier comment about wolves. His smile, though faint, was real enough to crease the corners of his eyes. “Don’t worry, my lady. I have my ways of hunting.”

With that, he gave her a slight bow, an elegant dismissal, and strode back toward the clearing with the same unhurried grace that marked his every movement. She watched him disappear into the shadow.

--------------------

Artanis followed the direction Mairon had indicated, moving beyond the thin veil of trees and further downhill, where the sound of rushing water grew louder.

When she arrived, the sight before her stole her breath.

It was the first instance of true beauty she had encountered since leaving the Blessed Realm.

A small waterfall tumbled gracefully from the hillside, its silvery cascade catching the faint starlight as it crashed against the rocks of a shallow basin. The stones surrounding the pool were smooth and flat, polished by the water’s relentless touch. Delicate pale flowers grew in sparse clusters along the edges, their faint glow mirrored in the crystalline water. The reflection of the sky blurred the horizon, dissolving the boundary between water and night, as though she stood at the meeting of two worlds.

The rocky wall cradling the basin was carved into small caves, their curves and hollows amplifying the gentle song of the waterfall into a resonant echo. It was a stark and unforgiving landscape, yet it held a magnificence that felt timeless. Here, in this pocket of solitude, the air seemed softer, lighter, lacking the sharp bite of the mountains they had crossed.

Artanis took her time. After all, he was away.

She perched on one of the higher stones, unfastening her boots with care so as not to disturb her already aching feet. The leather was scuffed and worn but the undersole still held. She set them beside her, along with her cloak and her bag, then glanced around to ensure she was truly alone.

The grove, the waterfall, even the sky - it all seemed untouched, as though it existed solely for her. In this stillness, she allowed herself to breathe, to let the walls she’d kept so tightly drawn begin to lower.

Reaching into her bag, her fingers brushed against the Silmarils. For a moment, she hesitated. Then, with care, she withdrew them, their light spilling into the clearing like a sudden dawn.

In the embrace of the waterfall’s solitude, their radiance was transformative.

She had seen the Silmarils many times before - beneath the Trees, they had been dazzling, wondrous, a testament to Fëanor’s brilliance. But now, in the desolation of Middle-earth, they were more than beautiful. Their glow illuminated the shadows, casting light where none existed. Now, in the desolation, they were beacons in the night, a promise of salvation, a memory of another life.

Perhaps this was how Melkor had seen them.

Perhaps this was why he had been so consumed by his need to possess them, to make their light his own.

She thought of the way his eyes had lingered on her hands when they had taken them, the look in his eyes as she placed them in her satchel…

No.

This time was for her, and her alone.

She would not allow him to enter even this small moment of respite. She would not allow any of them - their shadows, their schemes, their endless games - to intrude on this fragile sanctuary she had been given.

As she placed them gently back into the bag, they felt heavier somehow. Maybe they too carried the weight of all that had been lost for them.

Removing her tunic and leggings, she let her clothes fall in a pile near her boots.

She hadn’t realized until that moment the toll the journey had taken on her. 

Her skin, pale and gleaming under the starlight, bore countless marks - bruises and scrapes from her flight from Ungoliant and Melkor, the imprint of his hands where he had gripped her too tightly, and cuts where the jagged rocks of the mountain had struck her. 

Stepping into the water was indescribable.

Here, there were no words, no whispers, no weight of destiny pressing against her chest.

Her feet seemed to sing at the touch of the cool, smooth stones beneath the surface. The water wrapped around her like a second skin, pulling at her burdens like unseen hands. She let her head fall back, her hair fanning out in the current. The tension in her body began to unravel, thread by thread, as she waded carefully into the basin. Soon the water reached her waist, and the sensation was like an embrace - a return to something cleansing, purifying.

When she finally submerged herself fully, letting the current wash over her face, she felt, for one fleeting moment, as though she were back in her cottage at Alqualondë, the darkness no longer alien and hostile but familiar and gentle. Comforting, like the rhythmic sound of the waves lapping against the shore she had once called home. The water cradled her, and for that brief instant, the weight of her journey dissolved, leaving her suspended in something akin to peace.

She swam toward the waterfall, where the cascade fell more softly, its touch less forceful. here, she began to work her fingers through her hair.

The nest, he had called it.

And not without reason. Her golden hair fell in thick, tangled strands that resisted her touch. It took time and effort before her fingers could pass through it freely. The cool water worked its magic, soothing her scalp and dissolving the knots in her hair and mind alike.

Now, in solitude, she allowed herself a quiet prayer to Eru Ilúvatar.

She didn’t know what she prayed for - clarity, perhaps, or strength. To overcome her grief, which festered unspoken, a silent wound deep within her heart. To find the courage to continue this journey, despite its impossible cost. Or perhaps, she prayed simply to endure. To hold fast until the shadow was lifted, if it ever could be. She didn’t know whether she was supposed to ask for forgiveness. That remained an unanswered question, even to herself.

The words came softly, barely audible over the song of the waterfall, but they rose from a place deep within her. A place untouched by all she had seen, all she had suffered.

It was the part of her that still clung to hope, fragile though it was. It was the part that refused to let go of the memory of what had once been, and what, perhaps, could be again. She whispered them into the endless current, not knowing if her words would reach the One for whom they were meant. But it was enough to speak them, to let them slip from her lips, to let their weight leave her soul.

But what she didn’t know, while she washed the grime from her face, was that across the Sundering Seas, grief was already transforming into fury.

She didn’t know, as she even spared words of sorrow for Fëanor and his family, that her uncle was gathering followers with fiery words and defiant proclamations, igniting a spark that would soon blaze into a wildfire consuming the hearts of the Noldor. A terrible oath, unspoken but imminent, was coiling itself in the shadows, feeding on the anger and grief of her people, waiting to unleash doom upon Aman and Middle-earth alike.

And she didn’t know that her own name had been spoken - softly at first, then louder and more resolute - by her brothers, who were deliberating with heavy hearts on what to do. They were wrestling with caution and indecision, their love and loyalty driving them toward a path they scarcely understood, yet felt compelled to tread. For her sake. 

Here, amidst the peace of the clearing, Artanis remained blissfully unaware that even in the Blessed Realm, her people were poised to make a choice that would reverberate through the ages.

A choice that would curse them all, forever.

Chapter Text

When Artanis finally returned from her bath, she caught the faint but unmistakable scent of roasting meat on the breeze. Mairon had clearly already returned from his hunt.

Before him, suspended over the flames, was a boar. 

It was neatly butchered, the flesh glistening in the firelight. 

He was sitting comfortably on a blanket, his cloak neatly folded beside him with the same precision she had noticed the last time they had stopped. His auburn hair was tied back in a long ponytail, probably to keep it out of the way as he had dressed the meat, and he was lounging in front of the flames, his arms resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on the prize roasting over the fire.

Artanis hesitated on the edge of the clearing, observing him silently. 

There was something disconcertingly human about the scene - the crackling fire, the earthy scent of burning wood, the rough stones forming a makeshift hearth. This time, Artanis noticed, the fire was not conjured as it had been during their previous stop. It was real - built from branches and leaves.

When he saw her approach, Mairon smiled faintly and gestured toward a space he had clearly prepared for her. 

Her bedroll was positioned much like the previous time - far enough from his to give her a semblance of privacy but close enough to the fire for warmth.

"You’ve outdone yourself," she remarked dryly as she stepped into his eyesight.

The left corner of his mouth twitched upwards. "I aim to please."

The water had been refreshing, and the air in the valley was far milder than in the mountains, but the chill of night had seeped into her skin. Goosebumps prickled her arms, and her damp hair clung to her neck.

Mairon must have anticipated this because, when she sat down, she noticed two blankets neatly folded beside her: one of simple wool, the other lined with fur. Without a word, she exchanged her damp cloak - which she had cleaned as best she could in the stream - for the wool blanket and settled into her spot.

And although she would not admit it, she was grateful for it. 

She couldn’t understand why he was being so oddly considerate. 

Perhaps it wasn't kindness.

Perhaps it was for the same reason Yavanna, in her boundless compassion, used to sing gentle songs to the beasts grazing in her pastures before their time came. The melodies, soft and soothing, were meant to calm them, to strip away their fear before the slaughter. For fear had its way of tainting the meat, souring it, making it less.

"Why a real fire tonight?" she asked, stretching her hands toward the warmth.

"For the meat," he replied, his eyes flickering with the reflection of the flames, melted gold in the firelight. "My fire is just as real, but it seems I’ve yet to master the art of smoking food with it."

He looked at her once more, and watched her closely, as though debating whether to say more. Artanis caught his hesitation and rolled her eyes.

"Go on, just say it," she prompted.

"Say what?" Mairon replied, feigning innocence as he rested his chin on one hand.

Her expression turned severe. It was the kind of look that needed no words - one that plainly said, you know exactly what.

"Fine," he relented. "I’m relieved to see you weren’t harboring any wildlife in your hair after all."

Artanis glanced down, spotting a loose stone at her feet. The impulse was childish, but irresistible. She picked it up and hurled it at him. Naturally, he caught it with his free hand without so much as glancing at it, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You’re so serious," he remarked, leaning back onto his elbows and tilting his face toward the stars.

Artanis huffed and ignored the jab. "And I suppose you won’t tell me how you procured tonight’s feast?" she asked.

"I don’t think so," he said with a small shrug. "It would be entertaining, but perhaps another time."

She sighed, unsurprised. It had been worth a try.

Leaning forward, Artanis rested her elbows on her knees, drawn toward the fire by its warmth and the tantalizing smell of cooked meat. She was ravenous. The thought of real food after days of deprivation made her mouth water. Her last proper meal had been at King Finwë’s table - in what felt like an eternity ago. Her fingers twitched with anticipation. 

But as she reached for the meat, a hand shot out, gripping her wrist. 

Her breath caught.

He wasn’t rough, but the suddenness of his touch sent a jolt through her, her mind racing with the memory of other hands that had grasped her in anger or command. He had crossed the distance between them in the blink of an eye, silent as a shadow.

"What do you think you’re doing?" he asked, his voice low, almost a hiss.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, her pulse quickening. 

Something in her face must have betrayed her discomfort because his grip softened almost immediately. He let go, exhaling in what sounded like genuine exasperation.

"For pity's sake, there are utensils in the bag next to you," he said, looking at her sternly. "What were you planning to do? Tear into it like a beast?"

Artanis blinked at him for a moment before the absurdity of his words hit her. 

She couldn’t help it. 

The tension melted away, and she burst into laughter - her first genuine laugh in what felt like an age.  It rose from deep in her chest, spilling out in waves that left her gasping. 

This man - her captor, the self-proclaimed lieutenant of Melkor, the evil god who had set Middle-earth aflame, burned the Trees of Valinor, was appalled at the thought of her eating with her hands? Of all things, decorum seemed to offend him most?

Apparently, he wasn’t exaggerating. He truly hated messiness.

Her laughter rang out, uncontrolled and joyous, transforming briefly into a cough in the chill night air. She couldn’t stop.

At first, Mairon watched her with a mix of confusion and unease, evidently unsure what she found so funny. But as her laughter continued, his expression softened, shifting to one of quiet curiosity. He said nothing, allowing her the moment, even as he sat back down across from her.

She reached for the bag he had pointed to, retrieving what looked like a copper plate and iron utensils. As she kept chuckling, she reached once again for the meat, tearing down a portion and putting it into her plate.

As she bit into it, she realized Mairon had been right - the smoke had infused the meat with a deep, rich flavor. It was unfamiliar to her, strong and iron-rich, but satisfying. Though, in her current state, anything edible would have been a feast.

"Are you alright?" he tentatively asked after she finished. He handed her a leather canteen, which she took without ceremony. His gaze lingered on her, as though he expected her to unravel at any moment.

"Yes," she said, taking a long sip. "It was just… an ironic situation, that’s all."

"Ironic how?" Mairon asked, frowning slightly. 

"You being concerned about that" she gasped between breaths, forcing her laugh to stay down. "Consindering everything. Here we are, you dragging me through this Gods-forsaken-land to Eru-knows-where, and you’re worried about me making a mess while eating?"

Mairon was clearly unamused. "Decorum matters, order matters" he said coolly, as though he was pointing out the most self-evident truth in the world. "Even in... less-than-ideal circumstances, one must not descend into chaos."

She shook her head, her previous amusement slowly turning to exasperation "I’m about to be thrown at the feet of your master like some spoils of war, and you want me to eat neatly?". She rolled her eyes "You speak of order while escorting me to a Vala that has sowed nothing but destruction. Tell me, Liutenant - does your master share your philosophy? Or will he find more creative uses for me than instructing me on table manners?"

The smile slipped from Mairon’s face. He turned his attention to the flames, as though seeking answers in their dance, saying nothing.

"You know I’m right," she pressed. "What will Melkor do to me?"

It was the first time Artanis had allowed herself to ask the question. 

Five days was a fleeting moment in an immortal life, yet it felt like eternity when facing this unknown. 

What lay ahead for her? 

A life of servitude, captivity, humiliation? 

Would she become a slave, a concubine, or merely a trinket for Melkor’s amusement? 

The possibilities that churned in her mind were endless, and each more horrifying than the last.

After a long silence, he finally said,

"I don’t know."

Whether it was the truth or a kindness, she couldn’t tell, nor did it matter.

She glanced at him again. Mairon remained still on the other side of the fire, his eyes unreadable. In the glow of the flames, his sharp features softened for a moment, almost enough to make him seem less cruel. But she told herself that it was just an illusion, a trick of the light, fleeting, as it was gone in a blink of an eye.

She wondered, not for the first time that night, why he bothered with such measured decency. Perhaps he was simply amused by the game of it, the contrast between predator and prey.

They spoke no more that evening. 

When Artanis finally felt warm and dry enough, she shifted where she sat, and began working her fingers through her damp hair, braidining it loosely. As she lay down, curling beneath the wool blanket, she turned her back to him.

She closed her eyes, and waited for exhaustion to claim her.

He remained where he was, still as a stone, his gaze fixed on the dying flames. Whatever thoughts stirred in the depths of his mind, he did not share them.

----------------

When she finally woke, she found him already at the horses.

The camp had been taken down entirely, leaving no trace behind, and Mairon was busying himself with the saddlebags strapped to the mare. 

Part of her mane, Artanis noticed, was now braided in an intricate and elaborate design. 

The pattern was tight and precise, so complex that even she would have struggled to recreate it. She wondered if this was his way of making a point - of showing her that he was indeed more than capable of the refinements they had discussed the day before. 

But if that was his intention, she refused to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

“I’ll ride her,” he said without turning to face her. “They’re fine horses, but even they will need to stop for water and rest. We’ll ride until we reach the lake, and we will camp by the river’s tributary.”

Artanis nodded without a word and made her way toward Dúven. 

As she approached, the stallion greeted her lifting his head, ears pricking forward. His reaction was a quiet and joyful recognition of her presence. She smiled at him and placed her hand on his muzzle, stroking him gently. 

Despite everything, she felt her heart lift, if only for a moment. She was glad to see him again, and his warmth and familiarity soothed her.

“I trust by now you’ve proven you aren’t foolish,” Mairon said, breaking through the moment "But still: don’t even think of trying anything reckless. Follow my instructions on the road, and don’t entertain the idea of straying from the path"- He mounted his mare smoothly, in one single motion, adding, “I’m not the only danger roaming these lands.”

Artanis cast him a skeptical glance but said nothing as she climbed onto Dúven’s back.

Oh, how she had missed this. 

The world seemed to shift as she settled into the saddle, the ground falling further and further away beneath her. It wasn’t just height - it was perspective. The ache in her body, the heaviness in her heart, receded for a moment as the horse steadied under her.

Even Mairon looked different on horseback.

There was something about the way he sat - tall, confident, his posture perfectly aligned - that transformed him. For the first time, she could picture him as a general leading armies into battle. His usual mocking attitude, that constant undertone of disdain that seemed to infuse even the way he walked, was muted now. Seated atop his mare, he radiated control and authority.

With a gentle nudge of his heel, his mare moved forward. The horse hesitated at first, testing the weight of her rider, before finding a graceful, harmonious rhythm. Artanis followed his lead, leaning forward slightly and whispering soft words of reassurance to Dúven.

At first, her hands were unsure, clumsy on the unfamiliar reins. 

But as they began to move, she found a natural rhythm, her movements syncing with the stallion’s stride. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a bond that formed quietly in those first steps. Dúven responded to her, meeting her tenderness with his own silent reassurances: loyalty, speed, and the promise of safety.

She could feel him beneath her, his powerful muscles rippling with each step, his breaths deep and steady. The warm scent of him, hay and wind and the faint musk of leather, was comforting. She smiled softly at the delicate tinkling of the small ornaments in his mane, a sound like raindrops falling in rhythm as they moved.

Atop Dúven, she felt, for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, not alone.

A lump rose in her throat.

This solitude, she knew, was not something born of Middle-earth. 

It was older, deeper - a chasm carved long before she had ever set foot in this land. It was a solitude that seemed to find solace only in connection with the elements. The untamed embrace of nature, the quiet discipline of the arts, the unspoken trust of the animal world - these were real, alive, tangible. They reached out to her without asking for anything in return, and perhaps because of that, she found joy in offering them everything she had.

Dúven seemed to sense her sorrow. Beneath her, the stallion let out a soft sound—a gentle, reassuring murmur, like a lullaby spoken in the language of the earth. It was a sound that seemed to say, do not fear.

As they left the area where they had camped, they found themselves entering what seemed to be the main valley.

The land wasn’t entirely flat, but rather a patchwork of rolling hills dotted with clusters of vegetation. The greenery reminded Artanis of the Pastures where she had spent so much of her time in Valinor - yet here, it felt like a lesser version. A rough sketch of the final, perfected form that had existed under the light of the Trees. 

The trees in this valley didn’t stand tall and statuesque, but small and shadowed. Their leaves weren’t dense or shimmering but sparse and brittle, ready to fall. Even their shapes were irregular, twisted and undulating, likely shaped by the relentless wind and harsh weather.

As she had predicted, riding offered her a welcome reprieve. She had no need to speak to Mairon, who rode slightly ahead, leading the way.

As the horses shifted from a trot to a gallop, the sounds of the world around them merged into a single symphony. The rhythmic pounding of hooves against soil and grass, the faint creak of the saddle beneath her, the wind whipping through her hair - all of it blended into a harmonious cadence.

The air stung her skin as her horse picked up speed, its powerful muscles moving with an energy that seemed inexhaustible. Mairon had been right - these were exceptional horses.

Artanis felt herself melding with Dúven.

Her body began to follow his movements, fluid and instinctive, a steady forward-and-back rhythm that grew more natural with each stride. She noticed Mairon ahead, and it was the same for him. Man and horse moved as one, their motions perfectly synchronized, a single entity cutting through the wild expanse.

The ground rushed beneath them, a blur of earthy tones, and for a brief moment, nothing else existed. Only the thunder of the gallop, the metallic tang of damp rock and barren earth, and the intoxicating sense of total freedom.

The landscape around them was both savage and serene. The act of riding became a strange equilibrium—a balance between control and surrender. There was no room for fear atop Dúven. There was only the moment, only the feeling.

Mairon turned to look at her. His lips curved into a smile, an expression that seemed effortless, almost unguarded.

And for a moment, Artanis felt an impulse to smile back. 

It took more effort than she cared to admit to resist it.

-----------------------

The hours bled into one another, the stars above waxing and waning in brightness as if dancing to a rhythm she couldn't understand.

As they continued onward, the terrain began yet again to shift around them. 

They must have been nearing the lake, as the sharp, metallic scent of rock gradually gave way to the familiar smell of moss. Patches of greenery began to reappear - flowers and small shrubs dotting the landscape, their hues a quiet promise of life in this desolate place.

When they crested a small hill, Artanis saw a river. 

Its glimmering path connected to what seemed like an immense body of water - if he hadn't mention it to be a lake, she would have thought it was the delta of the sea. Under the darkened sky, its contours were difficult to discern, the edges dissolving into the horizon like ink into water.

“We’re almost there,” Mairon said, his voice breaking the stillness as he rode up beside her. She had slowed her horse to take in the view. “Beyond this hill lies another small valley, and just past that is the river’s tributary. There’s a small grove there where we can tie the horses.”

She traced the contours of the path with her eyes.

“You were right, ” Artanis began to admin, her hand brushing against her stallion's neck, "They are exceptional horses". 

Mairon glanced at her immediately, probably surprised by her concession.

“But,” Artanis added, her voice lighter now, “Dúven has more to give.”

The stallion beneath her snorted and pawed at the ground, his agreement unmistakable.

“More to give, you say?” Mairon echoed, an eyebrow arching. “A bold claim” 

She shrugged, patting lightly his neck "He's been pacing himself" she said with a hint of mischief, "The rocky terrain wasn’t exactly ideal to go full speed.."

Mairon brought a hand to his chin, stroking it as though contemplating the possibilities, altough his expression rapidly broke into a sly grin, spreading across his face, wrinkling his eyes (the only tell-tale sign - she had managed to figure out -  that he was not pretending amusement). She could tell he was plotting, and had probably just had her same idea.

“Alright then,” he said, the grin still firmly in place. “Do you see that spot over there? The pile of rocks beyond the incline, near the lake?” 

He gestured to a point ahead, but his indication was maddeningly vague. 

Artanis squinted, and though her Elven sight was exceptional, she found herself wondering just how precise his own vision might be. After a moment, she spotted what he meant: a cluster of jagged rocks standing out against the smoother terrain, few meters away from the lake's shores.

“Yes, I see it,” she replied cautiously, though a hint of a smile tugged at her lips. She worked to suppress it.

“Here’s the deal,” Mairon began, leaning slightly forward in his saddle. “If you can beat me there, I’ll answer one of your questions.”

“Three,” Artanis countered immediately, folding her arms across her chest.

“Oh, the lady bargains now?” Mairon said, feigning scandal, a hand rising theatrically to his chest. “Very well - three.”

“You seem awfully confident you’ll win,” she said, adjusting her position on the saddle. Her tone was still playful, but her determination began to settle into place. She would make him regret underestimating her.

Mairon offered her a slight bow from atop his horse. Then, with an almost lazy air, he turned his mare toward the descent, positioning himself for the race.

Artanis mirrored his movement, her eyes narrowing as a competitive gleam flashed in them. She caught his gaze, and for a brief moment, there was a shared spark between them - an unspoken countdown, a challenge thrown in silence.

They started in unison, without exchanging a word. There was no signal, no spoken agreement - they simply knew when the moment had come.

The hill stretched out before her, a steep and treacherous descent, its uneven surface promising danger with every step. But there was no time to think, no space for doubt. The adrenaline of competition had already taken hold, rushing through her veins like a fire ignited by instinct.

Artanis loved to compete. 

It was something she had always gravitated toward, an intrinsic part of who she was.

But for her, competition had never been about others. It wasn’t a matter of proving someone wrong or besting an opponent - it was a deeply personal game, one she played against herself. She thrived on testing her limits, drawing lines in the sand and then shattering them, a constant battle to improve, to grow, to achieve more. In that effort, in that relentless progression, there was a purity - a sense of accomplishment and forward motion.

This time, though, it was different.

This time, the competition wasn’t about growth or self-improvement. It was a defiant gesture, a rebellion compressed into the fleeting seconds of a downhill race. It was her way of carving out a space, however small and meaningless, where she could impose her will. A space where she could claim a victory, however inconsequential or pathetic a triumph might seem.

Her hands tightened on the reins, her muscles coiling with the effort of control. 

She let go of her thoughts and leaned into instinct, trusting Dúven and the raw strength coursing through him.

Ahead of her, Mairon’s laughter broke through the rush of the wind, carried back to her like a taunt. She caught a fleeting glimpse of him, a dark silhouette framed against the grass as he surged ahead. But there was no time to dwell on it.

A slight pressure from her heels, and Dúven responded with force, throwing himself down the slope like a raging river.

The world blurred.

The jagged rocks and sparse grass turned into streaks of muted color, the ground beneath them rushing away too fast to process. She could feel Dúven power in every stride, his muscles stretching and contracting with effortless precision, his hooves striking the earth like thunder.

There was nothing now but the exhilaration of speed, the wild thrill of letting go while still holding just enough control to guide the chaos. The wind roared past her ears, tugging at her hair and tearing at her cloak, but she barely noticed.

For the briefest moment, there was no competition, no stakes, no defiance - just the raw, unfiltered joy of motion. The world around her dissolved into a haze of movement, sound, and sensation, and she let herself be carried by it.

And then, just ahead, she saw Mairon again.

His figure was still a dark shape against the wild landscape, but this time, something in her stirred - a fire reignited. Her hands steadied on the reins, her posture shifted, and she whispered something under her breath - a word of encouragement meant only for Dúven.

The stallion surged forward, and the distance between them began to shrink.

The ground blurred beneath them, clumps of earth and clouds of dust erupting into the air as Dúven surged forward with the power of a thunderbolt. 

The steep incline of the hill pulled at them like gravity’s hand, and Artanis’s braided hair came undone, strands whipping wildly in the wind like a banner in battle. The air, sharp as a razor at this speed, stung her cheeks, but she didn’t care.

There was nothing else - nothing but the pounding rhythm of her heart in perfect sync with Dúven's, the deep roar of his breath like the cry of a warrior, and the relentless drumbeat of hooves striking the earth.

As they neared the bottom of the hill, she found herself almost side by side with Mairon. Their figures raced as shadows against the dim landscape, the tension between them palpable.

It was then that Artanis made her move.

The last stretch of the slope wasn’t sheer, but it was steep enough to feel like a plunge into darkness. She hesitated for the briefest moment - a flicker of doubt - but then she pushed it aside. She leaned forward, lowering herself close to Dúven's neck to streamline her form, her breath held tight as her legs coiled, taut as springs ready to release.

With a decisive press of her heels and a firm command from her knees and reins, she gave Dúven the signal.

The stallion responded without hesitation. 

His powerful frame launched forward in a leap that momentarily stole her breath. For an instant, she was suspended, weightless, caught in the void between sky and earth.

Then came the landing.

It struck with force, reverberating through her entire body, but Dúven handled it masterfully. His hooves dug into the ground like anchors, steady, as he powered forward with unbroken momentum.

Behind her, she heard Mairon’s voice rise - a sharp call, half-challenge, half-laugh - but the sound was already fading into the distance. A laugh of her own escaped her lips, brief but triumphant, as she urged Dúven into an even faster pace on the flat expanse below.

Every meter she gained ahead of him was a declaration of freedom.

The tall grass bowed beneath their passage, the dust rising behind them like ash scattered on the wind. The lake emisarry and the sound of water drew closer with each stride, its rushing sound clear now, a song of promise carried on the breeze.

She didn’t allow herself to slow, letting the harmony between her and Dúven guide her. In this shared effort, their unity was absolute - he was no longer just a horse but an extension of her will, a single, unbroken force in motion.

The lake's emissary was nearly upon them, its cool scent thick, the earthy fragrance of moss and wet stone. 

Just a little further.

With a soft, almost whispered command, she urged Dúven once more, and he answered with a final, powerful stride that made her feel as though they were flying.

For a moment, she felt invincible. 

The wind rushed against her like a loyal admirer, whispering its applause in secret, as though the whole world had conspired to cheer her on.

And then, finally, she smiled - fully, freely - as the jagged rocks came into view, the vast expanse of the lake just beyond them shimmering like a distant dream made real.

“Dúven, just a little more… just one mo—”

Before she could finish the sentence, a terrible sound ripped through the air.

**

The stallion beneath her let out a scream - an agonized, heart-wrenching cry, so close to a human wail that it froze the blood in her veins. For an instant, she didn’t understand, her mind grasping for meaning even as panic flooded her senses.

Then everything happened at once.

Dúven's body twisted violently, his muscles seizing in a frantic, chaotic motion. 

She felt him falter, his balance crumbling beneath her as he pitched to the side. Artanis had no time to react, no chance to comprehend the source of the sound before she was flung forward, her body hurtling through the air like a stone cast into the void.

The impact was brutal.

She hit the ground hard, her shoulder slamming into the earth before she rolled uncontrollably, dirt and rocks tearing against her side. Pain erupted in her arm and chest, a fiery explosion that stole the breath from her lungs. Her head struck the ground with jarring force, leaving her dazed, the world spinning wildly around her.

The chaos swallowed her.

The earth beneath her felt unstable, shifting like water despite the sharp press of stones biting into her skin. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she clawed at the damp ground, forcing herself to move. 

With immense effort, she turned her head, her vision swimming, to look for Dúven.

Dúven, who lay still just a few paces away, his dark coat a stark shadow against the ground. Dúven, his side jutted grotesquely by a single arrow, the shaft slick with blood that spilled in uneven streams down his flank. Dúven, who's glossy coat was marred by the thick, dark flow, pooling beneath him in a growing stain. Dúven, who's legs twitched weakly in the air, a desperate, futile attempt to rise, like a fish thrashing on land.

**

A shudder of horror coursed through her.

Ignoring the piercing pain in her ribs and side, Artanis forced herself to move, to turn toward the direction from which the arrow had come. Every motion sent sharp, stabbing protests through her body, but she pushed on, gritting her teeth.

Her trembling hand found the hilt of her dagger. Her fingers barely had the strength to hold it, her palm slick with sweat and dirt, but she gripped it all the same. She would not be caught defenseless.

The world still spun around her, a haze of pain and confusion, but her focus sharpened with sheer will. She scanned the horizon, her senses straining to find the source of the threat. 

The arrow had come from somewhere. Someone was out there.

Then, she saw them.

Torches, flaring to life one by one like sinister, burning eyes in the darkness, their light carving a jagged line of fire against the horizon near the edge of the lake.

For a fleeting moment, she thought it was an illusion - a trick of her concussed mind, a product of the blow to her head and the shock coursing through her body. 

But no, they were real. The air itself seemed to vibrate around them, charged with an energy she could not place.

Figures began to emerge, advancing slowly, their shapes silhouetted against the flickering glow of their torches.

Warriors.

Their armor gleamed faintly in the firelight - light, an intricate mix of silver and deep green. Their weapons - long, deadly spears, blades, and curved bows - caught the light as well, the glinting edges promising violence. They moved with a fluidity that was almost unnatural, like an unstoppable wave.

It was them.

They were the ones who had struck her horse.

Her heart pounded in her chest, the dull ache of her injuries momentarily eclipsed by a surge of panic. 

Were these the creatures Mairon had warned her about? 

The dangers lurking in Middle-earth?

Before she could form another coherent thought, another arrow sliced through the air, with a whistle. With a desperate burst of energy, Artanis rolled across the ground, the movement sending fiery pain lancing through her injured side. She barely made it behind the cover of the rocky outcrop, pressing herself against the cool stone as her breath came in short, ragged bursts.

The agony was overwhelming now, a burning that spread across her ribs and through her chest. Her vision blurred even more, the edges of the world fraying, but she fought to keep her mind awake, to cling to clarity as the figures drew closer.

As they came into focus, she began to discern more details.

When they were near enough, she saw their faces - or rather, what lay beneath their helms.

Their features were shadowed, obscured by the angles of their armor, but she could see something more. Something she hadn’t expected.

They weren’t creatures of Morgoth.

They weren’t dark or monstrous.

They were… Elves.

Before her, a group of Elves - familiar yet distinct from any she had ever known - advanced with long strides, loosing arrows into the darkness behind her. 

Their voices rose, calling out in a language she did not understand. The sound of it tugged at her memory, carrying an echo of something known yet utterly foreign. Their words were clearly threatening, directed both at her and at her captor.

They were tall, taller even than the Noldor, their figures commanding and almost otherworldly. Their hair shimmered like starlight - not silver like Telperion, nor golden like Laurelin, but pale, nearly white, glowing faintly in the eternal night of Middle-earth.

Artanis’s mind reeled. 

Before she could fully grasp the implications of their presence - other Elves, her kin, here in Middle-earth, not as distant legends or fleeting dreams of salvation, but real, visible, standing before her - she realized something else. She needed to make them understand that she wasn’t a threat.

But she never got the chance.

He reached them first.

What happened next unfolded both in a blur and with agonizing clarity, every second stretched impossibly thin.

Mairon dismounted in a single fluid motion, his body moving with the grace of something that wasn’t entirely bound by mortal physics. 

He seemed to glide from his horse like water cascading down a mountainside, every motion seamless and unnatural.

And the fury radiating from him... 

It was palpable.

It burned so fiercely that it felt physical, tangible. 

Artanis could feel the heat of it against her skin, as if it were an extension of the fire he commanded. The earth itself seemed to respond to his anger, warming beneath her palms, trembling faintly with each of his steps.

The Elves moved swiftly, dividing their group as he approached, but it was too late.

Before she could even blink, he was upon them.

Mairon surged forward like a serpent through tall grass, silent and lethal. 

The nearest Elf, the scout who had most likely loosed the arrow that struck Dúven, barely had time to react before Mairon’s long fingers coiled around his throat.

The crack of the Elf’s neck breaking was so loud, so violent, that Artanis clenched her teeth hard enough to send a new jolt of pain through her jaw. 

Instinctively, her eyes slammed shut, a futile attempt to block out the sound and the terrible sight of death before her.

No.

When she forced herself to look again, the scene before her had erupted into chaos.

Two Elves lunged at Mairon from his right, their blades gleaming.

Two more were on his left, closer to her, keeping their distance to shoot their arrows, their movements precise and coordinated, while another trio directly at him, long spears aimed and ready.

And there he stood, at the center of it all, a whirlwind of fury and power.

Mairon lunged forward, more beast than man, his movements feral and unrelenting. 

Despite the blood streaming down her face - so much blood - Artanis was almost certain his hand was no longer a hand. It was as though it had shifted, transformed into something monstrous, as he reached one of the charging Elves and struck him with a blow so savage it seemed to tear his chest apart.

Before the Elf’s body could even hit the ground, Mairon snatched his spear effortlessly. Without turning, he drove it backward, impaling another attacker who had been rushing toward him from behind.

They had no chance.

It was then - amidst the chaos, the violence, and the sheer inevitability of their defeat - that Artanis saw him truly for the first time.

The Lieutenant of Melkor.

The realization struck her as viscerally as the bloodied ground beneath her. She could hear a single word now, ringing out through the fury of the Elves’ cries of war, of grief, of despair.

Gorthaur! 

Gorthaur! 

They spat the name like venom, their voices filled with rage and hatred as they loosed arrow after arrow.

He seemed indifferent.

Some arrows he dodged, weaving through them like a shadow slipping through cracks in the light. Others struck him, embedding themselves in his flesh, but he didn’t falter. 

It was as though he couldn’t feel the pain, as though his body had transcended the limits of mortality. He was untouchable.

With another fluid movement, he swung his hand toward the third Elf. The blow severed the warrior’s neck so cleanly that his head slid from his shoulders as though it had merely been resting there. Not a single drop of blood fell to the ground, the act surgically precise, terrifying in its efficiency.

The horror was too much.

Artanis’s chest heaved as she clutched her injured arm, forcing herself upright. Her throat burned with unspoken words, her vision blurred with tears and blood. She didn’t even realize she was muttering under her breath, soft, fractured sounds spilling from her lips.

She didn’t know what she was trying to say. She didn’t even know if it would make a difference. She only knew she had to stop him.

No one deserved to die like this.

Especially not other Elves. 

Not others like her - immortal lives, radiant and eternal, snuffed out with such brutality.

These Elves… they weren’t invaders, weren’t servants of darkness. 

They had only been protecting themselves. That much was clear now.

They had probably seen her and Mairon riding toward them at full speed, had recognized them as a threat. It wasn’t their fault they had reacted as they had. It wasn’t malice - it was survival. Perhaps this was their land, their home, a place they had every right to defend.

The weight of her failure crashed down on her. How had she not thought of this? 

“S-stop.”

The word escaped her lips, trembling and weak, barely audible over the sounds of violence. It was too soft, too faint to stop anything.

Before the word was fully formed, Mairon was already upon the Elves on the right flank - those with their blades out.

The snap of a blaze echoed in the air, followed by a sickening crunch. The sound of a spine breaking.

Artanis could only watch, helpless, her vision fixed on the fiery red of his hair as it whipped through the air, tracing the lethal movements of his body. He tore through them with precision, with a ruthless intensity that turned every strike into a statement. To him, they weren’t lives - they were weeds, choking the wrong patch of earth.

“Please, stop!” 

This time, her voice rang out fully, loud and commanding, though the effort sent a new wave of pain through her chest. Her diaphragm strained against what must have been a cracked rib, but she didn’t care.

Her shout was loud enough to draw the attention of two Elves nearby. 

They turned toward her, their expressions dark and threatening.

Artanis froze, realizing too late that they didn’t understand her. 

Her words, spoken in Quenya, carried no meaning to them.

“STOP!” she screamed again, both at him and the elves, her voice now raw, her eyes locked on Mairon even as she began to back away from the advancing Elves.

And then it hit her.

Her hair - disheveled and loose from the ride- covered her face in tangled strands. 

They didn’t know.

They didn’t know she was one of them.

Her breath caught in her throat as the realization settled over her. 

Her hands shot up in a gesture of surrender, letting her dagger fall to the ground, palms open and outstretched. Moving slowly, she swept her hair back in one fluid motion, tucking it behind her ears.

The effect was immediate.

The Elf nearest to her, who had been nocking an arrow and drawing it toward her, froze mid-motion. His hands stilled, his bowstring taut, but the arrow did not fly.

Both Elves stared at her, their faces shifting rapidly through a cascade of emotions.

First, surprise.

Then, confusion.

And finally - relief.

They recognized her now. 

Not her, exactly, but what she was. The shape of her ears, the unmistakable mark of kinship, had stayed their hands.

For the briefest moment, the chaos of the battlefield seemed to pause, as though the world itself were holding its breath.

But before she could gesture, before she could try to explain, the eyes of one of the Elves closed forever.

Mairon’s spear pierced him cleanly from behind.

A thin rivulet of blood trickled from the corner of the Elf’s mouth as his body crumpled to the ground. The dull thud of his fall echoed… Artanis’s heart sank.

The other Elf stumbled in his retreat, slipping on the damp earth and falling heavily, his bow still clutched in his hands, his long silver hair spilling on the ground like a halo of stars.

Artanis didn’t have time to think.

Before Mairon could turn toward the fallen Elf, she forced herself to move. 

Every nerve in her body screamed in protest, the unbearable pain of her injuries threatening to paralyze her, but she refused to stop. 

Drawing on every ounce of her strength, she pushed forward, cutting through the pain until she stood between Mairon and his prey. Her arms spread wide, her body a shield, she faced him, her voice trembling with anguish.

“Stop it, enough! How much more blood do you want to spill?!”

Her face was a portrait of raw agony, her eyes wide with shock, her features contorted with desperation.

Mairon, in contrast, looked barely himself.

His face had shifted into a mask of unearthly coldness, his sharp features exaggerated to the point of unnatural beauty. His cheekbones jutted like blades, his golden eyes - once warm, like fields of ripened grain - were now as cold and unhuman as freshly forged steel. His pupils had narrowed into slits, feline and predatory. His hair, always red like the embers of a fire, seemed almost alive now, as though flames flickered through each strand. His lips were pressed into a thin, dangerous line, a warning in their stillness.

“Move,” he growled, the sound more a rumble than a word, deep and menacing, vibrating with restrained violence.

“No!” she cried, her voice breaking but resolute.

“I wasn’t asking.”

With one swift motion, he grabbed her arm and shoved her aside effortlessly, his strength overwhelming. Artanis stumbled, the world tilting as the pain in her side flared white-hot, but she caught herself before she fell.

Behind her, she saw the fallen Elf rise unsteadily to his feet, removing his helm and throwing it to the ground.

He glanced back at her, fear and desperation etched on his fair face, muttering words with his mouth before turning to flee into the night.

Mairon moved to pursue, but Artanis didn’t let herself think.

Her hand shot to her bag, still strapped tightly to her body. Her fingers closed around its contents, her breath ragged as she prepared to act.

“STOP, or I swear by Eru...!”

Something in her tone froze him instantly.

He turned toward her, his movements slow, charged with a fury that seemed to ripple through the air around him. His eyes, now little more than slits, gleamed as his nostrils flared in a feral expression of anger.

And then he saw them.

The Silmarils.

The container that held them had been pulled from her bag and now rested in her hand, her arm outstretched and ready. Ready to hurl the jewels into the dark depths of the lake.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, his voice venomous, trying to force her into submission, though one of his eyes darted briefly toward the lone surviving Elf, who was still retreating into the night, gaining ground with every passing second, calculating how much time he had before he would lose him.

“Watch me!” Artanis spat, shifting her weight onto her good leg, preparing to act before the pain in her side could overwhelm her resolve.

She had expected it. 

She knew he would come for her before her intention could fully translate into action.

He lunged at her in a single, explosive movement, closing the distance in the blink of an eye. The impact was violent, his body colliding with hers as they both crashed to the stony ground by the water’s edge.

The force of the fall jarred her, the uneven surface of the shore pressing painfully into her back. Mairon’s hand clamped around her wrist, iron-strong, pinning her arm - and the Silmarils - to the earth beneath them.

The jewels, dislodged from their container by the impact, tumbled free.

They lay exposed on the shore, their brilliance casting their stolen starlight across the dark surface of the lake. They gleamed like fragments of Valinor itself, fallen to the mortal plane.

Mairon didn’t seem to notice.

His focus was entirely on her. 

His chest pressed against hers, rising and falling rapidly with the exertion of the struggle. His hair, wild and disheveled, fell around her face like a curtain, its fiery strands brushing against her skin.

Artanis looked up at him, her breaths coming in sharp gasps.

His eyes blazed with fury, pure and unhinged, a storm of anger so consuming that it left no room for anything else. No greed for the Silmarils, no recognition of their naked beauty. Nothing.

Only rage.

It was as though she had ceased to be a person in his eyes, just a challenge to his power, an obstacle before his will, one he could not allow to stand.

He pulled himself off her, but only partially, his body still low to the ground. His face turned toward the lone survivor of the attack, the Elf who was now a dwindling figure in the distance.

Before he could rise fully to pursue, a pained sound escaped Artanis’s lips.

It stopped him cold.

For the first time, he seemed to notice the blood - not the blood staining his robes, but hers. It wasn’t the blood of others, spilled in the chaos of his wrath. It was hers, bright and vivid, soaking her hair and streaking her face.

In an instant, he was on her again, but the fiery rage in his eyes had been replaced by something else - something almost impossible to reconcile. Concern.

A sharp, guttural imprecation escaped his throat, rough and grating, spoken in a language she didn’t recognize. It felt wrong, and ancient. It was an imprecation, that much she understood.

“We have to leave. Now,” he said, his voice now serious but also disarmingly familiar, rising bile in Artanis’s throat.

How could this… beast-this devil that had just slaughtered a group of Elves with little more than his hands, his body drenched in their blood, smelling fouly of death and horror- speak to her as though nothing had happened?

As though they were merely holding a conversation?

As though he was worried about her?

As though he truly cared?

“N-no… no, Dúven—”

“There’s nothing to be done for the horse,” he interrupted, his tone clipped, final. His hand tore a strip from her tunic and pressed it firmly against the wound on her forehead, where the blood was pooling and running in rivulets down her face.

“No! Do s-something,” she said, her words slurred with exhaustion and desperation. “Heal h-him. You won’t tell me what you are, but it’s-it’s obvious you have p-power. Heal him-”

Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with the pull of her injuries, but her gaze burned with a pleading intensity. She reached for his free hand, her fingers trembling as they grasped his. “Mai-Mairon, p-please,” she murmured, her voice breaking, barely more than a whisper.

He didn’t respond immediately, his eyes animated by an unreadable emotion as he stared at her. But before she could decipher it, before he could speak again, her body gave in.

Her head grew unbearably heavy, the throbbing from her wounds overtaking her senses.

As her vision blurred and the world began to fade, she felt herself falling, her body succumbing to gravity’s pull. But just before her head could strike the hard ground, she felt an arm slide behind her neck, catching her.

The last thing she saw, before her eyes shut completely under the weight of her pain, was Mairon’s face - his features tight with focus, his movements steady as he cradled her, holding her head carefully away from the earth.

And then, darkness.

Chapter Text

What the fuck was I thinking?

The horse race had been reckless - idiotic, even.

There was no other way to put it.

He should have known better. Should have considered every possibility. Should have foreseen the chance that damned Elves might linger in these lands.

It had been so long since he had ventured beyond the depths of Angband that he hadn’t thought about how much they might have spread. He hadn’t considered that as their numbers grew, they would need more resources, more land. He hadn’t accounted for the fact that the cursed kingdom his sister had built around them would eventually no longer suffice.

He should have realized that they would push outward, those foolish little creatures. That the boundaries of her girdle, no matter how strong, would not contain their ambitions, their longing for more.

That beyond her protective veil, they would begin to stake their claim, unaware - or too proud to care - that they would end up wandering right into his grasp. But he hadn’t thought about it.

And now, the consequences of that oversight surrounded him.

It was his role - his purpose - to consider every possibility.

To envision every potential scenario, and to choose the optimal course of action.

How could he have been so careless?

How could he have been caught unprepared?

But worse - far worse - how had he failed to sense them before they attacked?

Because you weren’t paying attention. Because you were distracted.

The race had been too great a temptation.

That accursed Elf had called to his most primal instincts, his ego, and his vanity with that damned look of mischief etched onto her face.

Mairon loved to compete.

It was something he had always gravitated toward, an intrinsic part of who he was.

To him, competition was the purest expression of dominance - a way to manifest superiority in a visible, tangible way. A stage on which he could strip away any illusion of equality, proving his superiority with undeniable finality. He relished the knowledge that he had no limits, that his will could achieve anything, acquire anything. In the crucible of competition, his disdain for others sharpened, becoming a weapon in his hands.

And so, he hadn’t resisted.

No, not only had he succumbed to the temptation - he’d nearly lost too.

He had underestimated how long it had been since he last wore a physical form, since he last felt the rhythm of a horse beneath him. And underestimated her, too. And she - she - had nearly bested him.

If not for those damned Elves. The Elves he should have foreseen. The Elves he should have known might see them.

Now, as he walked across the blood-soaked battlefield, his boots caked in their gore, his robes heavy with the stench of death, and his hair dripping blood at each step, it was too late.

And that damned Elf had even allowed one of them to escape - most likely to warn the others of their presence. Of her presence.

Her horse, when he finally reached it, was alive, but barely.

The beast lay trembling, its flanks heaving as blood poured from a jagged wound.

Mairon crouched beside it, assessing the damage. What she had asked of him - to heal it - required a power he hadn’t drawn upon in eons. Once, he had wielded such abilities effortlessly, instinctively. But now?

He rarely doubted his abilities, but he wasn’t certain this gift was even still his to command. How long had it been since he had drawn upon his strength to heal, rather than destroy?

His first instinct had been to deny her.

To let the horse collapse beneath the weight of its wounds, to let fate run its course as it was meant to. Perhaps it would teach the Elf a lesson - that actions have consequences. After all, it was her foolish suggestion that had led to this and her stunt that had allowed the warrior to escape.

And when they reached Angband, Mairon knew there would be consequences for him as well. Wouldn’t it be fair, then, for her to bear some of that burden? Let her feel the cost of her actions, just as he would be made to feel his.

It was justice, wasn’t it? A balance to the scales.

And yet, even as the temptation gnawed at him, something stayed his hand.

Something in her voice when she had pleaded with him. Something in the way she had spoken his name.

She had begged him.

Called him by his name. Mairon.

When was the last time someone other than Him had spoken his name?

When had anyone last spoken it - not as a curse, not as a plea for mercy, but simply spoken it?

He couldn’t remember. The memory belonged to another life.

Perhaps it had been Yavanna. Yes, it might have been her.

On that fateful day, before His attack extinguished the Lamps forever and everything changed. She had called him by his name, with a gentleness that struck harder than any accusation could have ever done.

She had looked at him, perhaps searching for the Mairon she had once known - the Maia who had helped her husband craft the wonders that adorn Arda, the Mairon who she recognized as her son.

"You do not need to follow him. You can come home," she had said - or at least, that’s how he remembered it. But it had already been too late. He had made his choice. And when the Lamps had fallen, he had ceased being Mairon, the brilliant craftsman. He had become something else.

Melkor had shown him another path - a path that promised power in the darkness, freedom in the absence of light, a path that provided him the tools he had always longed to yield in building the world. Unbound by servitude, unbound by Eru's design. Since then, no one had spoken to him for who he once was.

And it had been even longer since someone had asked him for something - not begged for their life, not screamed for him to stop, not demanded that he leave. But asked. For help.

It was absurd, really. The sheer audacity of it.

Here she was - his prisoner, her kin slaughtered by his hand, everything she had even known destroyed under the the weight of his Master’s will, hurt and trembling, conscious of being little more than a lamb sent to slaughter - and yet she had begged. But not for herself, not even for revenge (which she had clearly refused by putting herself in front of danger - him - to save the life of those who attacked her), but for the life of a stupid creature.

And something about it unsettled him.

Her plea, so selfless in its desperation, touched a place within him he barely realized existed anymore.

A fragment of who he had been maybe, long before he had knelt before Melkor and offered him his love, his adoration, his very self. It had been so long since he had been asked to do something not self-serving, so long since he had considered it a possibility.

For millennia, his existence had been defined by domination and the complete obliteration of anything that stood in his and his Master's way. Yet now, in the blood-drenched aftermath of his triumph, she had asked him for this one, small thing: to save a pathetic little life. And though he knew it was foolish - even dangerous - to listen, he couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

He knew the cost of answering her plea.

To use that power again after so long, would send ripples through the world. Drawing on that power would reverberate through creation, alerting those who still held dominion and guard over such powers. Guardians who believed him dead. Who, in their rush to declare victory over his Master for the sake of their beloved pets, hadn’t searched deep enough in the pits of Angband to discover that the mightiest of the Maiar still lived, still thrived, waiting to serve his master once more, once the time came.

But what did it matter now?

That time had come.

Melkor had returned. He no longer needed to hide, no longer needed to wait.

The time to finish what they had begun together had finally come. His patience and devotion had been rewarded, at last. The centuries of waiting, of perfecting his craft, of preparing his strongholds and breeding his forces, had not been in vain. His Vala had come back to him, and Mairon was ready to stand at his side once more.

But he hadn't expected that Melkor would not return alone.

Even in exile, it seemed, Melkor had found the need to claim something for himself - a pet Elf, just like the rest of the Valar. A wild little creature with a terrible temper and a blatant disregard for authority.

Mairon could not fathom what he saw in her, considering how much he loathed her kind.

Just as he couldn’t in all honesty entirely understand Melkor’s obsession with the Silmarils, now scattered on the damp earth like forgotten trinkets. Why had he gone to such lengths to seize them?

They were beautiful, yes. Their radiance was undeniable, and their power radiated so strongly that Mairon could feel it even from a distance. The smith within him couldn’t help but admire and hate the skill that had wrought them. To think that the hands of an Eldar had wrought such perfection...it was almost unbearable. Their light surpassed even his memories of the Lamps, purer than the flames that had once bathed the world, as crystalline and untouchable as the stars in Varda’s eyes.

But her?

For days now, he had turned the thought over in his mind, trying to understand what could make one single, wretched, pathetic little Elf worth so much trouble.

Why drag her from Aman, when such an act would surely provoke the wrath of those who would come for her?

Why risk everything they were about to build Angband?

Why delay the reunion that Mairon had waited for, yearned for, with a devotion so consuming it teetered on the edge of worship?

Every design, every plan, every act of creation, had been for Him.

Angband was more than a fortress: it was his greatest work, it was a monument to the one he served, the one he adored. It was a testament of his loyalty to the Mightiest of them all. In every strike of his hammer against stone, in every shape he had given to molten metal, he had poured his vision for the world they would build together. Every stone laid in its labyrinthine halls bore the mark of his craft, but every blackened spine, every sharpened blade, was forged with more than just ore. The stronghold was a promise, an offering, a vow, a plea for Melkor to see – to truly see – the depth of his veneration.

And he had stood vigil over that monument, perfecting it in isolation, every addition a silent call across the vast emptiness, across the Sundering Seas. And in the long, bitter years of that solitary labor, through every moment of toil, through every whispered promise of what they would achieve together, Mairon had held fast to a vision.

He had imagined it with obsessive clarity.

He could see it so vividly, even know: Melkor’s gaze sweeping over the vast halls, lingering on his creations, tracing the sharp lines and strength of Angband, seeing, knowing, the devotion he had woven into every stone and every creature Mairon had created to serve Him. The way Melkor would look at him then – that would have made every ache in his body, every fragment of himself that he had poured and lost, worth it.

And in that moment - oh, in that moment - Mairon would feel alive at last. The way he always felt when he was seen by Him, truly seen.

He would have given anything for it. Reached to the highest peaks or plunged to the lowest depths to chase it. The way Melkor’s eyes would linger, even for a fleeting second, on the work of his hands, on him, his lips curling with approval, his voice tinting with the faintest note of satisfaction… it was enough to set his every nerve alight. And if the pain and the longing were the price to pay for that feeling, oh, how willingly he would pay them.

So when that moment had been stripped away from him, when Melkor had sent him to fetch her even before setting foot inside the fortress he had built for Him, Mairon thought his anger would swallow him whole. He had to fight against every burning instinct in himself not to incinerate the wretched Eldar the moment he would find her.

But as he saw her by the river, small and diminished in her pitifulness, the only thing that remained was the confusion - a gnawing, persistent question about what it was in her that held such power over Him.

But today, he thought he glimpsed it, at last.

Melkor had chosen her because she had something He would never possess.

Something Eru Ilúvatar had withheld from Him - not out of malice, but because it was not in Melkor’s nature to wield or understand.

Something Mairon knew Melkor would do anything to claim, to subjugate, and - when it inevitably slipped through His grasp - to destroy.

And something that, so long ago it felt like a half-forgotten dream, Mairon thought he might have possessed too.

–-----------------

When Artanis woke, the only sound around her was the murmur of the forest.

The timid rustle of its small forms of life, the gentle shift of leaves, the scent of fresh earth and mud, and the distant rush of water. Above her, the starry sky was veiled by the canopy of tall, slender trees, their tops swaying slightly in the whisper of the wind.

For a fleeting moment, in that fragile space between sleep and wakefulness - where one is not yet fully released from the embrace of rest but unprepared to set foot in the day - it seemed as though she could hear birdsong. There she lay, her head pounding, still heavy with the weight of images and sounds.

At first, the images were indistinct, vague figures moving without form, like scattered flames. The sounds, rhythmic and relentless, reminded her of the crackling of a forge fire, interrupted only by the sharp, unforgiving strike of a hammer against a freshly forged alloy - a blow that seemed to extinguish each flame with its merciless force.

But as that fleeting moment slipped away, as wakefulness began to pull her back into its grasp, the shapes began to coalesce, and the sounds sharpened.

This was no forge, and those were not dancing flames. No.

These were memories - memories of death, of ruin, of him.

The hammer was him, striking down with the same unrelenting intensity.

Artanis opened her eyes, the realization of where she was - and what had happened - crashing into her.

But she moved too quickly, and a sharp pain flared in the right side of her head, pulsing in time with the blaze crackling before her.

She searched for him with her eyes, lifting herself partially, though her body still felt heavy, aching in too many places to count. But he wasn’t immediately visible.

Her hands went to her face in a futile attempt to shield herself from the images clawing at her mind. As if she could hide from them, as if they weren’t etched behind her eyes, buried deep in the recesses of her thoughts.

Artanis - who for millennia had lived without ever witnessing death - had now seen more of it than perhaps any other Elf in Valinor. In the chaos of what might have been minutes or hours, she had seen the light extinguished from the eyes of her kin.

Immortal lives, snuffed out as though blown away by a cruel wind, drifting to distant shores, to Mandos, to the Blessed Realm far from pain and danger. Blown away by him.

The same man who now emerged from the woods to come stand beside her, gazing down with a severe expression as he held out a leather flask for her to drink. When she all but slapped it from his hand, his reaction was what she expected: he rolled his eyes so blatantly it seemed they might disappear into the back of his skull.

Yet he said nothing.

He merely picked up the flask from where it had fallen, dusting off the leather as if nothing had happened, and retreated to his makeshift bedroll a short distance away.

Artanis’s eyes followed him, and she noticed, almost unwillingly, how his clothes were clean, as were his hair and face. Not a trace of the horrors that had stained them was visible to the naked eye. As though nothing had happened.

But she knew. She had seen him.

She had watched as he descended upon the Elves, the disdain in his eyes as he crushed them one by one. She had seen his face stripped of any vestige of humanity, his gaze emptied of warmth, his mouth curling not into his mocking smirk but pressing into a flat, invisible line of cruelty...

Her hand moved of its own accord.

The metallic whisper of her dagger leaving its sheath tore through the murmur of the forest, and before she even fully registered his face, she was upon him. Her expression was an uncontainable storm: grief, rage, fury - a tempest of emotions she had carried since the moment she watched her grandfather fall to the ground, lifeless, at the gates of Formenos.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even react.

He allowed the blade to come to his neck, his golden eyes fixed on hers, unblinking. His hand raised only to grasp her forearm - the one she had extended in her attack. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t force her back. He simply held her there. Silent.

“You…” Artanis choked, her voice hoarse from disuse, trembling with the effort of giving form to the revulsion she felt. Her forehead throbbed, her pulse pounding in her ears, and she could feel the erratic beating of her own heart under the spot where his fingers encircled her arm.

“You’re in no condition to exert yourself,” he replied, his tone devoid of any emotion. His body language was strange, different from anything she had seen from him before.

He looked… tired.

“And I don’t think you’d be capable of it, even if you tried,” he added softly. Then, slowly, he partially loosened his grip on the dagger, allowing the blade to press closer to his skin until a thin line of crimson appeared.

A bead of blood swelled, then fell, stark and vivid against the pale line of his neck where the blade was kissing it. Still, he didn't move away.

Artanis’s first instinct was to recoil at the sight, her hand jerking back involuntarily.

With a shuddering sigh, Artanis withdrew and sat back in her place, the dagger slipping from her fingers.

He was right.

She sank back down, her legs folding beneath her, and stared at her blade, now lying on the ground.

She didn’t know if she was relieved or ashamed. That her heart, battered and broken as it was, still could not reciprocate his violence or his brutality. It wasn’t part of her, to hurt someone just standing there, defenseless (although, she knew he wasn't). It didn’t come naturally to her - not even in the name of justice. Not even for him. 

For a long while, neither of them spoke.

Mairon remained where he was, unmoving and silent. Yet, even though Artanis refused to look in his direction, she could feel the weight of his gaze on her, pressing inescapably against her resolve.

When she finally grew weary of enduring it, she stood abruptly.

She didn’t speak, didn’t spare him a glance as she took her leave to walk into the woods. And he didn’t follow.

------------

Artanis followed the sound of water until she found the stream from which it came - a narrow, fast-flowing current likely fed by the same lake they must have passed earlier. The banks were dotted with large rocks and scattered shrubs, their roots gripping the earth tightly.

Here, away from the oppressive weight of his presence, she could finally hear the pulse of the small forest around her once more. The undergrowth teemed with quiet life - the subtle rustling of vines, the faint splash of fish darting through the water, the scuttle of insects climbing the bark of trees, the distant chirping of birds nesting in the highest branches. In that layered symphony of not-quite-silence, she allowed herself a moment to sit by the stream.

Cupping her hands, she brought the cold water to her face and hair, washing away the blood that had dried in sticky, metallic-smelling streaks. The sensation was both soothing and jarring, the chill biting at her skin.

The wound on her head was tended to, and she had no doubt whose work it was. Yet her body remained a map of bruises and aches, a painful reminder of what had transpired. The cool water eased the sting, if only a little, but her torn clothes bore testimony to the ordeal.

She wondered if the Elf had escaped - or if he had hunted him down after she had lost consciousness.

She wondered where the Elves had come from, to what kin they belonged, what battles they had fought before this day, and what tongue had carried their cries as they fell.

Did they dream of they home as she did? Did they long for the safety of a place now lost, as unreachable to them as Valinor was to her?

And then, inevitably, the question turned inward.

Was there a path home for her? Some hidden thread in the tangled web of her fate that might still lead her back to where she had come from?

Could she ever return to her people, to the kin who had shared her life, her language, her heart? To her brothers, her mother, her father?

But as the thought lingered, it unraveled itself, leaving her with an empty certainty: no, there was no going back.

Even if she escaped - if she somehow slipped away from the fate that loomed over her -she could never reclaim what had been. Melkor had taken her life long before he could lay his hands on it. He had stolen it in pieces: the moment he turned her steps toward Formenos, the moment he led her eyes to the blood of her grandfather pooling on the stones, and even before that, the very moment he had lured her into the web of his design. The moment she put herself in front of him - against him - to protect a child from his fury.

Her grandfather's death had been his doing, but the weight of it pressed on her.

And now every wordless cry of pain, every dying breath of the Elves by the lake echoed in her mind as though she had drawn their blood herself.

She was forever changed, her life cleaved into two irreconcilable parts: before Melkor, and after Melkor.

Before Melkor, she had been Artanis.

But after Melkor? Did she have what it took to remain Artanis?

And the question lingered, unanswered, as the rushing stream before her carried on, indifferent to her struggle, placating her turmoil so that she could return to whatever it was that Eru's design had in its plans for her.

------------

Artanis retraced her steps through the woods, and found her way the campsite once more.

Mairon was still there, but no longer near the fire. He sat with his back against a tree, his knees bent, his hands occupied. In his grasp was a small, simple dagger, and he was carefully scraping at a piece of wood with small and precise movements, his eyes fixed intently on his task.

He couldn’t have been working at it for long; it was too early to discern what shape he was carving. At this stage, it didn’t resemble anything familiar - neither a creature nor a plant, just raw wood shaped by his blade.

He gave no sign that he had noticed her return. Not a glance, not a word. Only the rhythmic sound of the knife rasping against the wood broke the silence.

Artanis let out a faint, almost imperceptible sigh and moved to her bedroll. Kneeling carefully, she loosened the ties of her pack and began rummaging through it for something to eat.

As her fingers searched deeper, they brushed against something smooth and cold, and her breath hitched. Her hand froze inside the pack, unmoving, before she slowly withdrew the object.

The Silmarils, in their container.

How had he recovered them? Had he touched them?

Her gaze flicked toward Mairon. But no - she realized almost immediately - it couldn’t be. If he had touched them, the Silmarils would have rejected him. Their light, blessed by Varda, would have burned him, leaving him writhing in agony, his hands scorched by the purity they radiated. So how were they there?

But would he answer her, if she asked?

“You owe me three answers,” Artanis said then, the statement landing like an offer of truce.

“You didn’t win,” he pointed out without looking at her, factually.

“I would have, if we hadn’t been interrupted,” she shot back with a hint of pride in her voice.

At that, he turned his head toward her, and as they locked eyes, Artanis realized that the weariness she had seen in his posture before was still there, now etched in his eyes. “I want an answer from you, actually,” he said.

Was there no limit to his arrogance?

Artanis opened her mouth to protest, ready to remind him whose answers were owed, but something in his expression stopped her. He seemed almost weighed down by an invisible burden, slumping his shoulders, taking the edge off his usual assertiveness. So, instead of arguing, she just tilted her chin, signaling him to continue.

“Why did you try to save them, even though they attacked you?”

She blinked, caught off guard. The question wasn’t what she had expected.

For a moment, she simply stared at him, blinking rapidly as if trying to focus on his words more clearly. Wasn’t it obvious?

Her puzzlement must have been written plainly on her face, because he continued.

“You didn’t hesitate for even a second before stepping in front of those Elves. Even though one had an arrow nearly ready to pierce you. Even though they just tried to kill you and your horse. A horse you clearly cared about. Why?”

Artanis paused, weighing her words carefully.

Why had she done it? Was it simply because they were kin? Or would she have acted the same way regardless of their identity, once she realized they did not mean to pose a true threat? And even if they had been a danger, would she have been able to stand by and let him slaughter them like he had?

The answers swirled in her mind, but eventually she settled on the simplest one - the one that felt truest to her.

“Because it was the right thing to do.”

For a moment, his expression betrayed nothing. Then, subtly, a deep line formed between his brows, and she could see the faintest trace of confusion in his eyes - as though the answer itself was incomprehensible to him. He didn’t understand. Not at all.

Artanis’s lips parted, but instead of snapping back at him, she hesitated.

After all, he had asked. He could have dismissed the matter with his own assumptions, yet he had asked. He wanted to understand, and for that alone, she felt she owed him the decency of an answer. The heat in her chest cooled, and for a moment, she looked past him.

“They thought we were a threat,” she explained. "They didn’t attack us because they wanted to hurt us, they attacked because they thought we meant to hurt them. They were afraid.”

“And?”

“And, you proved them right", her gaze hardening as she met his. "You charged at them, slaughtered them, one after another. You didn’t hesitate for even a moment to think that maybe… maybe it wasn’t necessary. But no. Violence and cruelty were your first instinct. Although, I guess that's fitting for someone serving the likes of Lord Melkor". She spat his title with disdain, and burning hatred.

Mairon’s expression didn’t shift, although there was a subtle tightening around his eyes. He didn’t interrupt though, and she pressed on. “Well, as you have seen, it’s not mine,” and her voice grew stronger in her conviction. “I stepped in front of them because I knew what you would do to them if I didn’t. What you did to them. And having the chance to save even one innocent life was worth the risk of losing mine.”

Mairon’s dagger stilled in his hand. He studied her with a quiet intensity that made her feel like he was dissecting her words.

“Innocent? They would have killed you without hesitation if given the chance. Your mercy would have been repaid with your own blood.”

"So be it. The moment I choose to respond to fear with bloodshed, I lose something I can never get back. And I’d rather die with my soul intact, holding on to who I am, than survive by becoming something I despise".

She didn’t expect him to understand. Perhaps he never could. But he had listened.

She didn’t know what that meant, if it meant anything at all.

But she didn’t say it for him to understand, not truly. She had said it for herself - to remind herself of the line she would always refuse to cross, no matter how much the circumstances might try to push her toward it, now and in the future. Because if she lost that, she truly would be his.

He seemed lost in contemplation, studying the piece of wood in his hands as if it might somehow transform into the missing piece he needed to understand her explanation. Artanis found herself watching him, her earlier anger fading into something quieter, something she didn’t quite know how to name.

For a while, the crackle of the fire was the only sound accompanying the restless rhythm of their thoughts. Apparently, there was something about these brief moments of respite that seemed to draw them both toward heavier thoughts. Wasn’t this the same reason she had thrown herself into physical exertion and busy work back in Aman? To escape the inevitable space that stillness created for her mind to wander, to reflect, to dig up questions she couldn’t always answer?

Artanis stared into the flames, letting their shifting light blur the edges of her vision, until a faint noise from the woods snapped her out of her spiraling thoughts.  

The sound came closer. Louder.

Artanis stood, every nerve on edge. It was too steady to be the wind. Something - or someone - was out there. But beside her, Mairon remained seated, his posture relaxed. He didn’t even glance up.

She braced herself nonetheless, ready to face whatever it was, until the shadowy shapes emerged into the light.

Relief practically stole the breath from her lungs. It was their horses.

Both their horses.

Their movements were calm and unhurried, their heads bobbing as they stepped into the firelight. Her eyes darted over them, and she saw him - Dúven.

His intelligent eyes sought hers as he walked toward her. Artanis felt her throat tighten, her hand falling limply beside her. “Dúven,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she got closer to greet him.

He stopped in front of her, lowering his head to nudge her gently with his muzzle.

The simple gesture undid her.

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over her face before she could think of stopping them. She raised a trembling hand to rest against his neck, as if trying to check if he was real, her fingers trembling as they ran through his now unbraided mane. She swallowed hard, the tightness in her chest threatening to overwhelm her. “You’re alright,” she murmured, her voice cracking for the happiness she felt. “You’re alright.”

Behind her, she heard Mairon shifting, and she didn’t need to turn to know he was watching them.

“He healed you,” she said aloud, her eyes still fixed on the stallion but the words clearly meant for him.

Mairon’s voice came from behind her, lighter now, tinted with a specific tone of glee she had come to expect from him. “You did ask nicely,” he said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Artanis turned slightly, just enough to see him leaning back against his tree, his dagger now resting lazily on his lap. She was almost certain that, if she dared look closer, she would find the barest trace of a smile on his lips. “I did tell you,” he added, almost playfully “that I value good manners.”

She exhaled sharply, somewhere between disbelief and frustration, her emotions too tangled to parse. The weight of his flippant tone grated against the heaviness of their whole situation, and yet, she could feel gratitude swelling in her chest, leaving her both infuriated and relieved at the same time.

She didn’t know why he had done it - whether it was an afterthought, a whim, or some twisted sense of proving a point. But in that moment, she didn’t care.

“Thank you,” she said softly, the tenderness in her voice surprising even herself.

Mairon’s expression twitched. It was so fleeting that she might have missed it if she hadn’t been watching him. His lips parted, and she was sure he was about to say more, but then he must have thought against it because he settled for a small shrug.

Artanis lingered with Dúven, pressing her forehead gently against his, whispering him words of love and affection. You’ve been so brave, she murmured, so strong.

She knew better than to expect kindness from someone like Mairon. But whatever Mairon’s reasons had been, she was grateful for this. For Dúven’s life. For the quiet reassurance that, even in her captivity, there was still room for something good, however small.

"He cannot ride though. His injuries were severe, and we will need to leave him behind"

Artanis stiffened, her hand pausing mid-stroke. “Leave him behind?” she repeated.

Could she ever get an untouched moment of happiness in these lands? The relief she had felt moments ago now churned into something else entirely.  

She turned to face Mairon fully, her frown deepening. “You just said his injuries were severe. We can’t just leave him here. Where will he go? He might not survive on his own.”

At that, Mairon sighted and pinched his nose, as though he was costing him to indulge her frustration. "He's a smart horse, Artanis. You’ve said it yourself, he is no ordinary horse. And as for where he’ll go…” He gestured vaguely toward the woods. “It seems those who might claim him aren’t as far as you think.”

Artanis blinked, her anger faltering for just a moment as she considered his words. “What do you mean?”

“He’ll find his way home,” Mairon said simply, as if that was explanation enough, which it clearly wasn’t, so he added "To whatever kin of yours might still be out there. If you’re lucky, perhaps he’ll even carry news of your… predicament.”

Was that hope creeping into her chest? She could feel its faint warmth, but she pushed it away before it could make roots.

"And what about me?"

"What about you?"

He wasn't possibly suggesting what she thought he was suggesting.

"How will I ride?"

Mairon raised an eyebrow, clearly not understanding why she would ask such a trivial question.

“On my horse, of course,” he said, as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world.

Her jaw dropped slightly, and she shook her head. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m entirely serious,” he replied. At last, his smirk made an appearance as he caught the faintest hint of color rising in her cheeks.

“I will not ride with you,” she snapped, her voice louder now, though her blush only deepened. She hated herself for it. “There has to be another option-”

“There isn’t,” he cut her off, his tone barely containing how much fun he was having. “Your horse is injured, and as generous as I am, I don’t see the point in wasting time waiting for you to walk. You’ll ride with me.”

She could feel her blush creeping higher, crawling along her neck towards her ears. She turned her gaze away, as if looking at him any longer might only make it worse.  

Apparently, that was the wrong move, because the sound of Mairon chuckling followed immediately after. It started low but grew quickly, his voice breaking the forest’s quiet as the last of his earlier weariness seemed to melt away under the weight of his laughter.

“What’s the matter, Artanis?" he asked, his tone nothing short of teasing "Afraid of getting too close to a monster? Although…” and he fully grinned before saying the last words “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were embarrassed.”

The lightness of the exchange, his casual humor, didn’t sit right with her. How could he laugh so easily after what he had done?

But regardless of that, her blush deepened, and she scowled at him, her fists clenching at her sides. “You’re…” she started, the words catching in her throat as she searched for something fitting, something sharp enough to convey the depth of her disgust. For a moment, her mind spun, caught between the weight of her anger and the strange, unsettling ease he exuded.

Finally, she muttered, “Insufferable.”

At that, he burst in another laugh, the sharp edges of his teeth catching the firelight, and he threw his head back against the bark of the tree. “Insufferable? After all you’ve seen - after everything I’ve done - that is the word you choose for me?”

Artanis’s scowl deepened, her blush now more from anger than embarrassment. “It’s fitting,” she snapped. “You’re arrogant, infuriating, and-”

“And what?” Mairon interrupted, his amusement - no, more than that, delight - unmistakable. “A killer? A monster? A servant of darkness?”

Her fists clenched tighter at her sides, the nails biting into her palms. “All of that,” she shot back, her voice rising. “But more than anything, you’re insufferable.”

“And here I thought you might have a more… poetic assessment of my character. But no. Insufferable it is”. The word rolled off his tongue with exaggerated disdain, as if trying to mimic her delivery of it.

But regardless of how wide his grin now was, Artanis thoughts lingered on the way he sat there, so effortlessly at ease, as if his fair form and playful demeanor could somehow erase the truth of what he was. It struck her, how dangerous that was - how easy it could be, if she let herself forget for even a moment, to see him as merely the man he appeared to be, rather than the monster he truly was.

And maybe that was why he behaved this way.

Was it a calculated act, designed to disarm her? A way to lull her into a false sense of familiarity, to distract her from the blood on his hands and the darkness in his soul?

And was it for her sake, or his? Was this pretense of lightness, this mask of charm, about deceiving her or about deceiving himself?

Mairon watched her for a moment longer, his expression softening as the moment of mirthfulness passed, and when he realized she would not indulge him further, he said “We’ll ride once you have had time to rest and eat. You can stew over my insufferable nature until then.”

And without waiting for her response, he resumed his carving, the soft scrape of the dagger filling the silence once more.

Artanis exhaled slowly and turned away, her mind still turning over the questions she dared not ask aloud. She sank down beside Dúven, pressing her cheek to his neck. His warmth, the contact with his pulse underneath her touch, steadied her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed.

For now, she let herself lean into his quiet presence - while she still had the chance.

Tomorrow, the road would continue. Tomorrow, more horror might come her way. But tonight, under the stars, she allowed herself the small sliver of peace that the steady breath of this innocent creature gave her. 

One she would cherish, fleeting as she knew it was.

Chapter Text

His scent was unexpected.

Not that she had any particular expectations. After all, what was he supposed to smell like - darkness and evil?

Even Melkor didn’t smell of pure malevolence. Not entirely.

Melkor’s scent reminded her of some of the trees in the outskirts of Oromë's forests, their deep roots anchoring towering trunks against the wind; it reminded her of little flowers that she had once found the Gardens of Lórien, their sweetness alluring and almost intoxicating; and it reminded of the smoky richness of incenses, like those which burned deep in the Halls of Lore she visited from time to time in Aman, looking for wisdom and forbidden knowledge. 

But beneath it all, there was a discordant note. A sharp, acrid tang of sulfur that cut through everything else. It was subtle, almost imperceptible at first, until you were unbearably close. She had only ever noticed it in those terrible hours when he had pinned her in the corridors of her own home, forcing her to endure his proximity. The memory alone was enough to make her stomach twist.

Mairon’s scent, however, was entirely different.

It was woody and layered, lacking the acrid intensity of his Master’s. 

There was something oddly familiar about it, a sharpness that reminded her of the smaller trees her mother’s family had tended in their orchard near the Bay of Eldamar. Their vibrant fruits, glowing in shades of green and yellow, seemed to hold fragments of the Light of the Trees, their skins trapping a crisp brightness she could almost taste. His scent also bore a firey sweetness, similar to spices she had once tasted in a rare and elaborate feast the Valar had held for the Elves in Valmar. And then there was the woodiness, a resinous warmth that called to mind the ancient trees Yavanna kept in her sacred groves. 

As they rode, she couldn’t help but notice his hair, gathered into two long braids that fell neatly over his shoulders. Their pattern was intricate but unfamiliar, lacking the grace of certain Elven styles she had seen. But what it didn’t have in immediate beauty, it made up for in practicality. The braids were tightly bound, carved close to his scalp, ensuring they stayed firmly in place. 

Perhaps he had tied it like that intentionally, she thought, to ensure it wouldn’t strike against him - or against her - as they rode.

But still, when the wind lashed against them with particular ferocity, tossing a few loose strands into the air, Artanis would catch a faint metallic note hidden within his scent. It was strangely reminiscent of the briny aroma of certain seaweeds she used to find near a cove in Alqualondë, where she had often played hide and seek with her brothers as a child.

Of course, the whole ordeal had been as terrible and humiliating as she had expected.

At first, reinvigorated by rest, she had thrown herself into protesting with every bit of her remaining strenght.

She had once again declared her absolute refusal to the idea of riding with him, crossing her arms defiantly over her chest and puffing up like a rooster ready for a fight. Naturally, this had achieved nothing. If anything, it had only made her look more pathetic in his eyes.

When he had calmly pointed out that she seemed to be forgetting her place - that perhaps it wasn’t entirely clear to her that she was a captive - Artanis had flared up again. The heat of her indignation burned so brightly that it took (again) every ounce of her self-control not to (attempt to) punch him square in the face.

"Then you’ll have to tie me to the horse like a sack of grain because I won’t ride behind you," she had snapped, chin high, daring him to take her at her word.

For a heartbeat, he had said nothing. Then, she thought his jaw might ache from the sheer breadth of the grin that spread across his face. His usual air of affable amusement was infuriatingly intact as he tilted his head to the side and placed his hands on his hips. “Do you think it wise,” he had asked, “to threaten me with a good time?” The laughter in his tone was barely restrained, and she wanted nothing more than to wipe that smirk off his face.

But there was no point.

Eventually, she had been forced to accept two things: first, that no amount of protest or defiance would spare her from his proximity; and second, that Mairon seemed to derive a deep, genuine satisfaction from seeing her humiliated.

And so, with no other option, Artanis had given up.

She had returned to Dùven then, resisting the temptation to succumb to self-pity once more and try to flee with him - worried about what he would do to him if she tried. Instead, she had greeted the horse with soft, kind words: reassurances, expressions of gratitude, and gentle well-wishes.

The stallion had responded in kind, his large, intelligent eyes meeting hers with a warmth that seemed almost human. Artanis stroked his neck one last time, before stepping back, and watch him as he disappeared into the outline of the forest trees.

The sound of his hooves faded into the distance, the rhythm growing softer and softer until it dissolved completely into the quiet hum of the forest. Her hand rested over her heart, trying to steady the ache building there, and she released a long, trembling sigh.

When she returned to where Mairon and Aerlinn were waiting, she took a deep breath before facing him.

He was already mounted, and as soon as he saw her approach, he extended a hand to help her up. Artanis barely spared the gesture a glance before refusing it, gripping the saddle and climbing up behind him instead with stuff and reluctant movements. Every shift of her body betrayed her resistance, and by the time she settled awkwardly in place, her whole form was as taut as a drawn harp string.

Naturally, Mairon had noticed, and didn’t miss the opportunity to tease her a little more. “Are you comfortable?” he had asked, to which she replied in her own way - with a small kick to his ankle. He responded with a chuckle, and she curtly commanded, “Go,” pointedly ignoring his question altogether.

The first stretch of their journey was spent in near silence. 

The proximity was - as she expected - unbearable. 

Artanis had never been in such close contact with anyone outside her family, and the sensation was jarring in ways she hadn’t anticipated. 

She could feel the warmth radiating from his back through the layers of her clothing, and every shift of the horse made her acutely aware of how her knees brushed against his sides, how her hands awkwardly clutched at the saddle to avoid holding onto him.

It felt wrong - no, it felt weird - to share such closeness now, in this circumstance, with him of all people. She gritted her teeth, trying to focus on the road ahead, but the steady rhythm of the horse made it impossible to escape the awkward reality of their shared space.

Mortification had become an all-too-familiar companion lately. Perhaps she needed to accept that feeling mortified would be her constant state from now on. After all, humiliation seemed to amuse him greatly, and Mairon appeared to have no intention of offering her any reprieve.

He had insisted she keep her cloak pulled up, and although Artanis hadn’t asked why, the reason was obvious. He didn’t want her to be recognized, should any other Elves happen to appear. At least - she thought - this might mean that he was in no mood to spill more blood.

Gradually, they left behind the expanse of flatlands and rivers and found themselves once again facing mountains.

These mountains, however, were different - no mist shrouded them this time. 

They were tall and uneven, imbalanced, as if they had risen by accident. Where the previous mountains had been sporadically covered with vegetation, these were of dark earth, almost as if they had been scorched.

Still, while they were less steep, but the terrain was uneven and treacherous, forcing the mare to move cautiously over loose stones and unstable ground. Artanis quickly realized that maintaining her balance was a challenge, and though she loathed the idea, she was left with no choice but to grab onto Mairon to steady herself.

Her hands clenched at the fabric of his cloak with palpable reluctance, every fiber of her being protesting the necessity. She seethed internally, cheeks burning, and vowed that the moment the ground leveled out, she would let go as though she’d been scalded.

The smug silence from him only made it worse. 

“The other Elves we encountered. Who are they?” she asked, trying to escape it, and not really expecting him to answer.

“You’ll have to be more specific", he replied.

If it was true, as he claimed, that he had never been to Aman, the question might indeed have been difficult to interpret. She had told him, in broad strokes, about the various Elves living in Valinor, each with their own king, but she hadn’t elaborated on the deeper histories.

“Our tales speak of the Avari,” she began, watching him carefully. “Those of our kind who refused the Valar’s summons and chose to remain in Middle-earth. And then there are the Teleri. Many of them came to Aman, but others lingered in Middle-earth, drawn to its lands and seas. There, they lost their king and split from the rest, some staying behind, searching for him.”

“Mhm.” Mairon sounded mildly bored. “Your race is very contemplative, isn’t it?”

“Mairon.” She spoke his name with severity, her tone sharp enough to make it clear she wouldn’t let him deflect her question by hiding behind his usual jokes.

“And what makes you think I’d know?” he asked innocently then, casting an inquisitive glance over his shoulder.

“Those Elves knew you, which means you know them too.” Not a question. 

But since he didn't seem inclined to reply, after few hearbeats she asked: "What does Gorthaur mean?”

At the mention, Artanis was certain she felt his muscles tense beneath her hands where she was forced to hold onto him to avoid falling. She could clearly feel the shape of his back shifting under her fingers.

“It’s the name they call me,” he replied, his voice carefully neutral, confirming her suspicions. “In their tongue, it translates to the Cruel. Fitting, don’t you think?”

Gorthaur.

The name did suit him, didn’t it? 

After all, she had seen Gorthaur. In that field, soaked with blood and death, it was plain that he had earned his name. His actions had made sure of that. 

And yet…

While it was undeniable that he enjoyed cruelty to some degree - particularly whenever she would bristle under his teasing - he hadn't really hurt her. He hadn't tortured her. He hadn’t broken her. If he wanted to, he could have dragged her from the cave in chains, subjected her to hunger and pain, stripped her of everything but despair even before bringing her to his Master. He could have made the journey an unending nightmare.

But he hadn’t. Why? 

Was it restraint? Pragmatism? She had assumed at first that he simply didn’t find it worth the effort, but the thought no longer satisfied her. 

She shook her head. Though she couldn’t see his face, she fixed him with a stern glare, and her voice clearly carried the weight of her disapproval.  “And you accept it? You’re content to live with a name like that?”

“It’s a name I have earned,” he replied simply, but the tension in his back contradicted the supposed nonchalance in his tone. “Through actions, choices, and the necessities of the times.”

The sound that escaped Artanis’s lips was somewhere between disbelief and disgust. It was her turn to stiffen behind him, her fingers staying attached to him only out of sheer inertia.

“Necessities?” she echoed, the word laced with contempt. “What necessity calls for cruelty so great that it earns you such a name?”

"Kindness and compassion are luxuries for those who do not bear the burden of power"

"That’s what you tell yourself to justify it, isn’t it? That cruelty is necessary?". 

She let out a harsh breath. 

How could anyone come to believe such a thing? That cruelty - a force so destructive, so inherently corrosive of one's soul - could ever bring anything worth having into the world?

She did know the allure of power, or at least, she could understand it. How could she not? Especially now, when she had none. Power was intoxicating because it promised control, it whispered of safety, of justice, of being untouchable. She had felt its pull before. But to resort to whatever means to achieve it...

Her gaze flicked to Mairon. He sat so straight, so composed, as if his belief in those very principles gave him all the structure he needed. 

“Power doesn’t have to mean cruelty,” she reasoned "One can be strong without making the world suffer for it"

"And tell me Artanis, what have your kindness and compassion brought to you?"

"That's not-"

Her mouth opened, then closed, the words catching in her throat. 

What could she say to that? Because, in a way, it was true. 

What had her kindness and compassion amounted to in the end? What had they saved? What had they built? Her grandfather still lay cold and lifeless, her home was in ruins, and her people were fractured, scattered, lost.

All the times she had chosen to act selflessly, all the times she had stood firm in her principles, had they truly made a difference? Or had they simply made her an easier target? If her goodness hadn’t been enough to protect those she loved, if it hadn’t been enough to save herself, then what was the point of holding onto it?

The thought terrified her, the slippery slope of it.

But no. That wasn’t entirely true. Her goodness might not have saved her family, her home, or even herself, but it had mattered. It mattered to the Elf she had stood in front of when Mairon would have cut him down without hesitation. It mattered to the child she had once shielded from Melkor’s wrath, even if it meant enduring his fury herself. It mattered to the strong horse she had just left behind. And it mattered because it was hers. 

But as the words formed in her mind, poised to leave her lips— maybe it hasn’t brought me anything you’d find valuable - Mairon resumed their previous conversation, sparing her the need to lay her soul bare.

“I simply call them the Grey Elves,” he said "For quite obvious reasons.”

Artanis blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden shift.

“And the ones who attacked us,” he continued, as if there had been no interruption, “belong to the second group you mentioned. They rarely stray far from their lands.”

“And those would be…?” 

“Don't push your luck, Princess” he replied simply. 

Artanis sighed, recognizing that she wouldn’t get anything else out of him on the subject. It was clear that her questions had reached the limit of what he was willing to indulge, and she knew better than to risk provoking him unnecessarily. Whatever knowledge he withheld would remain locked behind that smirk of his.

She turned her gaze to the mountains rising around them. How much farther could it be? she wondered, her thoughts lingering on the towering ridges. Surely, they must be close by now. Was it beyond these mountains that Melkor’s sanctuary lay hidden?

“One more day’s ride, and we’ll be there,” Mairon said suddenly, his voice slicing through her thoughts. Her head snapped toward him, startled once more. Had he guessed her musings, or had he truly plucked them from her mind?

“Can you read my mind like he can?” she asked, her earlier restraint replaced by indignation at the thought that Mairon, like his master, might be able to worm his way into her thoughts against her will.

“Ha, wouldn’t that be fun?" he said dryly, though his voice lacked any real amusement. Before she could fire back, he continued, “No. Like you, I can only communicate with a mind willing to receive me. Only He-” and the weight of that word was impossible to miss, “-in all of creation, can force unguarded minds. And even for Him, that power comes at no small cost.”

A faint sense of relief washed over her. “Unguarded minds?” she repeated, latching onto the detail. “Does that mean a well-protected mind could resist him?”

At this, Mairon glanced over his shoulder, his expression clearly skeptical. “Potentially, yes,” he replied, though his tone made it clear how unlikely he thought it.

“And do you guard your mind against him?” 

He turned back to the path ahead with a slight shrug “Why would I?” he countered, almost disinterested. “My Lord has no need to read my mind to know what I think.”

“So you simply offer yourself to him without reservation? No defenses, no boundaries?”

Mairon sighed, his patience clearly wearing thin. “So many questions, Artanis. I have neither the intention nor the need to explain myself to you. I’ve already told you this little game of yours - this search for a crack to exploit - doesn’t work on me.”

“As I've already told you, I'm not playing any game,” she said firmly. “I’m just trying to understand you.”

“I don’t need your understanding, Elf.”

“Maybe I need to understand,” she retorted, “Did that thought ever occur to you?”

He turned his head slightly to catch her eyes before asking: “And why would you need to understand me?”

Artanis had always been curious, insatiably so, from a very young age. 

Where other children found contentment in the wonder of the world as it was, she sought to understand it - how things worked, why they were the way they were. She took particular delight in disassembling her wooden toys, to see how their pieces fit together, how the carvings and joints gave shape and movement to the whole.

Her curiosity, though, was not without its consequences. Many times, her father had come upon her surrounded by the scattered remnants of whatever object she had decided to study that day, her delicate fingers covered in wood shavings or smudged ink as she tried to recreate what she had taken apart. 

And while she eventually grew older and realized that not everything could be deconstructed and reassembled as easily as her childhood puzzles, she did not relinquish the will to try. Her curiosity shifted to loftier matters, to the foundations of the world itself - the forge of creation, the mysteries of craft and form, the interplay of power and balance.

It was that unrelenting need to know, that relentless pursuit of understanding, that had finally compelled her father to relent. With a patience worn thin by her endless questions, he had surrendered to the inevitable and sent her to study under Aulë, alongside her brothers.

There, in the halls of the great craftsman, she had found a way to get in touch with the joy of complex things once more. Her days had been filled with the heat of forges and the rhythmic strike of hammers, her mind alight with the secrets Aulë shared - secrets of making, of shaping, of imbuing the inanimate with life and meaning. 

But now, as she sat behind Mairon, clinging to a reality she could barely comprehend, she wondered if that same determination was a blessing or a curse. 

Not everything could be disassembled and studied. Not everything could be explained in clean, rational terms. And the new reality she found herself in was certainly far from simple.

Still, her old instincts lingered. Faced with the vast unknown, her mind grasped for answers. If she could not control her circumstances, she could at least try to understand them. To understand him. Perhaps it was a fool’s errand but if knowledge could grant her even the smallest sense of agency in a world where she had none, then she had to try.

And so, even as her fingers tightened on the saddle, her voice steadied. It wasn’t just an admission she gave him; it was a piece of herself. “To make sense of the new reality I’m forced to live in,” she said, “To keep myself from succumbing to hatred, despair, or worse. Maybe to find some kind of peace in knowledge, even if it’s bitter. I don’t know.”

The words surprised her as much as they seemed to surprise him. Mairon was quiet for a moment, then, he shifted slightly, his posture relaxing. When he finally spoke, he rewarded her honesty by offering a piece of his own in return.

“My Master and I share a vision of the world,” he said, almost contemplative. “A vision of how things should be.  When two people share something so absolute, there’s no need for deception or defenses. I give Him everything because I believe in what we are building."

The words came with an ease that belied their weight, but there was something in the way he said them, as though he wanted her to understand. Not to agree, perhaps, but to see it as he did. 

“A vision of the world?” she repeated, her voice tinged with doubt.

“In the world I will help Him create,” his voice gaining strength as he spoke, “there will be no uncertainty. No chaos. No weakness. Everything will be perfect, orderly. Every being will have its place, its purpose, its role.”

The words carried a conviction that made Artanis falter. 

Mairon did tell her that he hated chaos, messiness. Perhaps that was the allure of his vision. 

Power could be the answer to the chaos of the world. Perhaps, like her, he had once looked out at the vast, uncertain world around him and wanted to bring it into focus, to make it understandable. Perhaps they were not so different in that yearning. But they had different ways of envisioning a way through it.

“What you’re describing isn’t a vision,” she commented sharply. “It sounds like a prison.”

“It’s not a prison,” he shot back, his voice hardening in a way she had not yet witnessed in her conversations with him. For the first time, there was something that felt almost real in his voice, something defensive. It reminded her of herself - how her voice would rise whenever she felt misjudged, whenever someone questioned her intentions “It’s true peace, forged in fire and discipline. A peace where no one will long for better days because those days will already be here.”

Did he truly believe that? 

The idea should have seemed ludicrous. Bu there would be no reason for him to lie. Nor did he seem particularly inclined to do so. He had claimed, after all, that honesty was something he valued - at least, in his own twisted way. But could he really believe that Melkor, a Vala who had wrought nothing but destruction and chaos since the dawn of time, would desire something as bright, as noble, as peace? 

She found herself staring at him, the words she wanted to say slipping through her fingers. How could someone who seemed as sharp as he seemed get so lost in a lie like that?

“The Melkor I knew,” she began, “cares nothing for peace. The Melkor I knew destroys and corrupts for the sheer pleasure of watching the world burn.”

She saw it immediately - the faint twitch of the reins in his hands. For a moment, she thought he might whirl on her. Instead, his voice dropped, lowering to a point that warned her she had tread into dangerous territory.  “The Melkor you knew?” he echoed. “Oh, Artanis. The arrogance of you Elves is truly boundless. You believe you know Him?”

The way he said it, with such disdain... “I know enough. I have endured his presence in my life - in my family's life -  for years and years. I know what he is capable of.”

He turned in the saddle to fully face her then, and she saw the trace of something in his gaze as he spoke - was it surprise? No, it was darker. The way his jaw had locked in place suggested another emotion but Artanis could not bring herself to name it. 

“You speak of Him as if you’ve seen the whole of Him. As if your fleeting encounters have unraveled the depths of who He is. Tell me, Artanis, do you truly believe you’ve grasped even a fraction of His greatness? Of His vision?"

It was her turn to lock her jaw. 

Greatness? The word sat bitterly on her tongue. She worked hard to suppress the derisive laugh threatening to escape. 

Melkor was not great. Powerful, yes. The mightiest of the Ainur, perhaps. But greatness? Not in any way that mattered. True greatness was found in creation, in light, in the strength to better themselves. And Melkor, with all his power, had proven himself incapable of that.

“I know him better than I ever wished to", a thread of something bitter bleeding into her words, "I know the lies he tells, the promises he makes, the way he burrows into your mind until you start to doubt where your thoughts end and his begin. I’ve felt his shadow over my life for years, always watching, always waiting. I know exactly what he’s done to me - and to my family. That is enough.”

For whatever reason, her words seemed  to affect him deeply.

A rainbow of emotions flickered across his face, too fast to fully decipher. Though he tried to hide it, she caught the subtle movement of him drawing a deep breath, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. His eyes narrowed, a sharp glare fixed on her now, his facial muscles tight with tension.

“Perhaps I’ve misunderstood your relationship with Him.” he sneered at last, when he settled. And while he had resorted to mockery, she could tell it wasn't real. It felt forced, a shield hastily raised to hide whatever her words had stirred within him. “After all, you speak with such familiarity. Tell me, how did you earn His favor in all these years?”

The shift in his tone, the suggestiveness of it, made her prickle with discomfort. “What are you implying?” she demanded, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

“Perhaps,” he continued, leaning into his cruelty, knowing perfectly well he was retaliating whatever wound her earlier confession had inflicted on him, “this abduction isn’t at all what it seems. Perhaps my Lord saw you struggling under the weight of your fellow Elves’ judgment and decided to grant you an escape.”

There was something almost melancholic in the way his mouth curved upward, a cruel, hollow kind of smile, as he added: “Perhaps you were lying when you told me you never wanted any of this. Are you a prisoner at all? Or are you simply his Elven wh-"

And that was it. 

She had enough. There was only a certain amount of humiliation she would suffer without consequences.

Before letting him finish his sentence, she surged forward, her hand darting to seize the reins from his grip. The abrupt motion startled Aerlinn, and she whinnied, shifting nervously beneath them. Mairon twisted in the saddle, caught entirely off guard, his expression flickering between surprise and irritation as the last word died unspoken on his lips. 

"What do you think you are going?" he demanded, eyes glowing with something between anger and surprise.

Her breath came fast and shallow, her chest heaving as she glared at him, her nostrils flaring in anger. “Listen to me,” she hissed, her voice trembling, not with fear, but with the sheer effort of containing the fury within her. “Listen to me, and listen carefully, you bastard.”

She barely recognized the sound of her own voice. She had never cursed in her life before.

“Melkor has tried to take everything from me - everything. My dreams, my family, my life. From the moment he set his gaze on me, he sought out the cracks in my me, the weaknesses, the fears, and forced his way into them.”

Her grip on the reins loosened as her hands fell to her lap, closing into fists, searching for the resolve she needed to continue with what felt like a confession. She stared at him in the eyes, her own expression contorting for the sorrow she felt in laying her torments bare. “He used whatever goodness I had - my care for others, my refusal to leave anyone to his darkness - to drag me into his schemes. And I let him. I thought… I thought I could make a difference, stop him somehow. But I was wrong.”

Mairon said nothing, studying her with his own jaw clenched tightly, visibly.

“He twisted my uniqueness into isolation,” she continued, her voice growing stronger again, but her hands still trembling. "He discovered my desires, my ambitions, only to use them to alienate me from those I loved and trusted. And when he succeeded, when he managed to carve a hole into my life and leave me alone in it, he had the audacity to offer himself as the only one who could fill the emptiness he had created. And I refused him - seeing through his lies and chosing to stand against him - but he didn’t stop. No.”

The laugh that left her lips then was bitter, a harsh sound that carried no mirth nor amusement but only the depth of her defeat. “He took it upon himself to destroy my home, lure me into doing his bidding, threaten and kill those I loved, and take what he wanted anyway.”

Her throat tightened, and for a moment, she faltered, the words sticking to the back of her throat as she fought against the tears that were gathering at the corner of her eyes, threatening to spill and draw her.

“So don’t you dare, Mairon,” she almost growled, her hand shooting between them, her finger pointing at his chest, jabbing once as though to hammer her words into him, as though the pressure could force her point through his robes and into his soul.  "Don’t you dare sit there and suggest for even a moment that I wanted any of this"

Her voice cracked, but her fire didn’t diminish. If anything, it burned hotter, "And don’t you dare imply that I am anything more than yet another life he will take pleasure in reducing to ashes, another light he will extinguish without hesitation for the sole delight of proving that he can.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. 

Artanis sat rigidly, her chest rising and falling with each labored breath. Her hand, which had been so firm and accusatory, lost its strength. Slowly, it melted from a point of anger to a faint press of her palm against his chest, as if all the fight had drained from her.

Mairon’s gaze dropped briefly to where it still rested against him before lifting back to meet her eyes. But he didn’t push her hand away. Nor did he retort.

She couldn’t tell if she had won the argument or if she had simply exhausted them both.

But within that stillness, something shifted within her. 

In laying her truth bare, in saying aloud what she had barely dared to admit to herself, a piece of the puzzle fell into place. For the first time, she saw with perfect clarity the scale of Melkor’s malice - not just in his actions, but in the insidious way he had tried to consume her from within.

And yet, she hated it. Hated that she’d been forced to speak it aloud. Hated that she had to expose those cracks in herself, even to someone like Mairon, who would surely weaponize them given the chance. She hated Melkor for what he had done, yes. But most of all, she hated herself for not being strong enough to stop him, for letting herself be drawn into this whole affair.

She was about to pull away, to retreat into herself before she could lose any more pieces of who she was, when Mairon’s hand moved.

His fingers closed lightly over hers, trapping her hand against the hard plane of his chest.

The gesture was so uncharacteristic that she froze in place, her breath catching.

His grip wasn’t harsh. It was steady, firm, and almost... considerate. His thumb brushed against her knuckles in a fleeting motion, so subtle that she might have thought she imagined it if not for the warmth lingering where he had touched her. There was something there - something raw and unspoken in the way his gaze dropped briefly, as though avoiding her eyes. But whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Before she could fully process what had just happened, he lifted her hand from his chest and set it firmly back into her lap. The contact ended, and the barrier between them reasserted itself as though it had never been crossed.

“You’ve made yourself clear,” he said at last. There was no venom in his voice, just quiet restraint. 

Mairon wasn’t apologizing - he wouldn’t, not outright. To do so would feel like surrender for someone like him, she reasoned. But she recognized the words would be the closest thing he could offer her without admitting fault, without ceding a point.

Her eyes darted to his face, searching for some clue in his expression.

His features were carefully composed again, but his gaze was different now - something that wasn’t quite pity but could almost resemble understanding. His hand lingered a moment longer before pulling back completely, retreating to the reins as if nothing had happened.

“Good,” she said quietly, though the word felt ridiculously small in the face of everything that had just transpired.

Her voice barely carried above the sound of the wind, which had grown sharper as they ascended the mountain pass. 

Through their argument, the scenery around them had changed, she now realized. And through the wind clashing against them, she once again smelled the disarming warmth of his scent in the otherwise biting cold.

“For someone so powerless, you certainly have a lot to say, Elf” he remarked, though his tone lacked its usual bite.

It was clear to Artanis that it was an attempt to reassert control. She sensed how he tried to smooth over the moment of vulnerability that had passed between them.

But she’d spent enough fury for one day - so she said nothing.

It was a wordless refusal to play into his game. And he didn't push, didn't prod, didn’t try to twist the knife any further - a grudging acceptance, perhaps, but an acceptance nonetheless.

Whatever this moment had been, whatever strange truce they had stumbled into, it did little to bridge the vast gulf that lay between them. Nothing could, really. Distrust, anger, and everything else remained.

But it was nonethless a crack in the walls they had both built around themselves. 

And though she didn’t yet know what it meant, Artanis couldn’t help but feel that something had shifted, irreversibly, between them. Something that neither of them had chosen, but neither could ignore.

And something that neither of them truly understood, in that moment.

Chapter Text

Angband.

Artanis would never forget the day she arrived at Angband. 

The air had grown heavier and colder with every mile they rode northward. 

What had once been a familiar canopy of stars above them was now turning into an oppressive abyss, sinking lower and lower with every passing moment until it crushed the horizon into oblivion, until it erased any sense of direction.

Around them stretched an endless wasteland, jagged rocks clawing at the sky and deep fissures cutting through the earth like gaping wounds. 

There was no life here. The landscape was ruin incarnate, barren and deathly silent. 

No trees, no grass, no living thing dared to take root in this forsaken place. No sound of birdsong, no rustle of leaves. From time to time, a cold wind swept through the barren land, carrying with it a sound that chilled her blood. It resembled distant cries - faint, muffled. At first, Artanis told herself it was nothing, just the tricks of a mind frayed by fear. But the further they went, the harder it became to dismiss the idea.

These cursed lands reminded her for a brief moment of Formenos. 

But where Formenos had been a solitary, defiant stronghold, standing proud even in exile, the path to Angband was clearly designed for despair. It was an assault on the senses,meant to unravel whatever will was foolish enough to travel here. Nothing about it revealed itself clearly to the eye, everything remained shrouded in shadow. She felt as if she was seeing the renemnants of a nightmare, the kind that lurks beyond the edge of sleep and follows you in flashes in your waking hours. 

Even Mairon, riding in fron of her, was not immune to the shift in the air. Something about him had changed.

Until now, he had maintained an unsettling semblance of humanity. His movements, his expressions, even his breathing had mimicked life so convincingly that, at times, she might have mistaken him for one of her kin. It had been a calculated performance, she knew. It was clear to her that much of his mannerisms was deliberate, carefully constructed, but still - had it not been for a few subtle, unnerving details about him, in another life it would have fooled her.

But that illusion was gone now.

As their horse approached what she had thought was a dark, towering silhouette that loomed impossibly large in the distance - she noticed the change. Mairon was no longer breathing. His chest, which had risen and fallen rhythmically throughout their journey, was still.The small signs of life she had unconsciously relied upon were simply gone.

Had he ever truly needed to breathe, she wondered, Or had he done it only to make himself seem less threatening?

Now, his posture was rigid, his face expressionless, as though the weight of the land had stripped away his mask. He resembled a statue, unmoving and unfeeling. 

The mare beneath them grew restless, her hooves skittering on the uneven ground. Artanis could feel the animal's unease vibrating through the saddle. 

And then, suddenly, she realized: she was trembling.

Not from the cold, though the air around her was bitter, but from the terror that was growing within her.

That terror had root inside her shortly after the last time they had stopped, right after crossing the mountains and reaching the mouth of yet another stream. The scene had become almost a ritual by now.

“The horse needs rest,” Mairon had said, his voice calm and unshaken, as always. But Artanis knew it wasn’t the horse. It was his way of acknowledging, without truly admitting it, that she was the one who needed the break.

“If you think I’m taking you there in this state, you’re mistaken,” he had said, his tone carefully crafted to sound like a reprimand, though she could hear the concession buried within it. It was permission, of a sort - an encouragement to take a moment for herself, to wash.

“And let it not be said that I don’t know how to treat a Princess,” he had said at last, with a smug expression perfectly tailored to irritate her. His hands, however, had continued their work, turning the meat - rabbit, this time - over the fire of their camp.

Yet, unlike the days before, this istance was different. 

She knew there would be no further chances for respite. 

No further moments to catch her breath, no pauses that might allow her thoughts to wander toward the faint hope of rescue. This time, there was only the journey forward. And their usual back-and-forth - those exchanges with Mairon that despite her resistance served to distract her from the growing tension - did nothing to ease the unease roiling within her.

Artanis didn’t even know what she was hoping for anymore.

Perhaps, deep down, she still clung to the stories of her childhood, to the idea that someone would appear. Someone - be it a Vala, a Maia, or even Eru himself - would materialize before her as she prepared to step into the water. A figure of light, a divine messenger, offering her an unexpected escape. 

After all, that’s how the stories went, wasn’t it? When all hope seemed lost, when the protagonist was cornered by fate, some force of heroism or providence would arise, changing the course of events and saving them from their doom.

But no such salvation came for her.

As she floated near the edge of the water, her hands outstretched above her, her gaze fixed on the heavy, gray sky, Artanis realized the truth: no one was coming for her. Not now. Perhaps not ever. 

And there, with the cold current slipping between her fingers and her eyes half-closed against the ache of exhaustion and despair, she felt, for the first time, the full weight of her immortality.

Her thoughts drifted to the tales she had heard in Valinor, the stories of the Atani - the Secondborn of Ilúvatar. Men, destined to live brief and finite lives, who, in the end, would be freed from the world, leaving behind all burdens, all pain. And she envied them. She envied them for the gift they would been given.

For if she had been granted that same consolation, if she had known that her torment would one day have an end, perhaps she could have closed her eyes with greater peace. Perhaps she could have faced whatever awaited her with the quiet assurance that there was a limit, a final moment when all would cease.

But she did not have that luxury.

Her immortality stretched before her like an unending road, an infinite weight she would carry long after this ordeal was over, long after every fleeting moment of joy or sorrow had faded into memory. 

There was no door through which she might slip away, no conclusion that would bring her the release she so desperately craved. And that thought, more than the cold or the fear, hollowed her out from within.

Melkor had once told her he would make her anew.

His words had been soft, slick, dripping like poisoned honey. Words crafted with care, designed to slip beneath her skin and find her vulnerabilities. He had tried to use her own body against her, to twist her to his will, pressing all the buttons that - in what now seemed like another life - had once ignited her.

He had promised her power, and more than that. 

He had told her he would make her powerful, revered, desired. The tone of his voice, the smile on his lips, all suggested that he alone could do this for her. That only by following his path could she become the queen she had always meant to be.

But the subtext had been clear. If you do what I want. If you serve my ends.

And this - this was something Artanis would never accept. So what she expected was a way more bitter fate.

"There are fates worse than death," Finwë had told her. "He doesn’t kill for the sake of it. He destroys everything that makes us who we are. He takes what is good and twists it until it is unrecognizable."

And to save her from that fate, Finwë had tried to kill her. The thought felt like a stone hurled against her chest. 

Finwë had possessed the courage to do what she had not even been able to even contemplate until that moment. He had been willing to stain his hands with the blood of his own kin to deny Melkor what he wanted.

A courage she did not have, then.

She could do it now, though. 

The opportunity was there, within reach. Mairon was off hunting, somewhere beyond her sight. The Silmarils were with her. She was alone.

She could take her bag, fill it with stones, and let herself sink to the bottom of the water until she was no longer capable of rising. The Silmarils would remain with her, forever guarded in that silent oblivion. And perhaps, just perhaps, Ulmo himself might have mercy on her. Perhaps he would guide her remains back to Valinor on the currents, letting the sea carry her home. She did not know if the river fed into the sea, but she wanted to believe it did.

She would remain there, untouched, pure, radiant. Her spirit intact, her principles unbroken.

And Melkor, at last, would be left empty-handed. Unable to reach her, to reach the jewels.

For a moment, it seemed so simple, so right. 

And yet, deep down, Artanis knew it could never be her path.

It was not fear that stopped her; she had courage enough for such a choice. But that act, however liberating it might feel, was still a surrender. A surrender that would cost too much, she knew, for those she still loved. 

Melkor was vindictive. He had said it himself to Finwë. He would not allow anyone to place themselves between him and what he saw as his.  

It wouldn’t end with her. 

If she removed herself from his game, Melkor would simply find someone else to bear his wrath. His hatred could never be extinguished; when denied one target, it would simply seek another. And Artanis could not allow others to pay the price for her defiance.

The thought faded, carried away like a leaf on the water. Like the last traces of ash and dust from her journey, it was swept into the river’s current, to be borne away to some unknown place.

And now, as they rode the final stretch of their journey, drawing ever closer to what she had initially thought was a natural rise in the landscape, Artanis couldn’t help but wonder if she had made the right choice.

The first to appear were towers, rising impossibly high against the horizon - immense, almost surreal in their enormity. They were clad entirely in dark iron, the metal blackened with age and oxidation yet still gleaming faintly under the sickly glow of the torches mounted at their peaks, similar to watch fire, although no visible sentinels were there. 

And then, they came to the Gates.

The entrance was gargantuan.

It was grotesquely disproportionate, as though it had been crafted not for mortal eyes but for beings far older, far larger, and far more terrible. The gates rose before them like silent giants, their uppermost edges obscured by the darkness above.

Every surface of the doors was carved with horrifying precision. 

Intricate, chaotic reliefs sprawled across the iron, depicting beasts with twisted features, faces contorted in silent screams, and spectral figures writhing in agony. Among them stood demons armed with chains and blades, guardians who seemed to block any thought of entrance or escape.

Had she not been so overwhelmed by the oppressive horror of the the gates, she might have admired the craftsmanship. Whoever had created this monstrosity had poured into it a dreadful, perverse artistry.

She hadn’t even noticed when Mairon dismounted, nor that he had taken the saddlebags from the side of the horse. She hadn’t registered the first time he spoke her name. It was only when the mare beneath her let out an agitated whinny, its hooves scraping the ground nervously, that her focus broke away from the overwhelming sight of the gates.

“Artanis.”

This time, Mairon’s voice reached her.

She turned toward him, and something in his tone struck her. There was a tension there, subtle but unmistakable, threading through the calm façade he usually maintained.

Mechanically, she slid down from her horse, falling in step behind him, although she could feel her own body protest against it.

Mairon was standing impossibly straight, his head tilted slightly upward, surveying the towering structure before them. For a moment, he simply stood there, unmoving. Artanis felt the urge to speak, to ask what he was waiting for, but the words caught in her throat. 

"I have to hand it to you, Artanis," Mairon said then. "Others, by the time they reached this point, would have begged me to reconsider. To let them go. To show mercy."

Artanis swallowed hard as a wave of nausea rolled through her, forcing herself to focus on him. She hadn't even thought about it. 

Was it her pride? That all-encompassing force that refused to let her show weakness, even now? Or was it the unshakable knowledge that pleading would not make a difference? She hadn't fooled herself about Mairon, after all. She had kept the knowledge of what he was close to her heart.

"Before we step through these gates, there is something you must do."

Artanis blinked, her brow furrowing. His golden eyes flicked to the horse that stood behind her, its sides heaving from exertion, and she understood all too well. 

It was time for another goodbye, clearly.

"You need to let her go," Mairon confirmed, gesturing toward the creature. "She cannot follow you beyond these gates. What lies inside will break her. The air alone will poison her lungs, the sounds will drive her mad."

And once again, Artanis was surprised that his words came out without any sadistic cruelty. For he knew she would feel hurt.

Artanis turned her head toward Aerlinn again.

She realized then that the animal’s unease had grown steadily worse the closer they’d come to the fortress, mirroring her own. She had expected this moment, had prepared for the idea that even this last, small companionship would be taken from her. But still, preparation didn't soften the ache. 

Mairon must have noticed the hesitation in her eyes because his tone grew firmer. "She has served her purpose. Let her return to the world beyond these walls while she still can."

Artanis swallowed hard, her hand brushing against the horse’s flank. She lowered her forehead to the animal’s neck, closing her eyes as she whispered, Go, pretty one. 

She took a step back, releasing the reins, though her fingers lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. The horse hesitated, its large eyes looking at her as if seeking reassurance she had understood the order.

"Go," Artanis repeated, louder this time, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts to sound resolute.

The mare hesitated for a moment longer before turning away, her hooves clattering against the hard ground as she began to walk, then gallop, back down the path they had come.

Artanis watched her go, her heart sinking lower with every step the horse took. The sight of her retreating figure, growing smaller and smaller against the desolate landscape, sealed the knowledge in her that there was no going back past this point. 

And Mairon was right about the air. 

It was tainted, reeking of sulfur and iron, scraping against her lungs. Every breath felt like inhaling the remnants of something long dead and decayed. The acrid stench clung to her skin, her hair, her clothes. 

He spoke again, then.

But this time, the words that left his mouth were not meant for her. They were in the strange, guttural language that did not belong to the world she knew. The same she had heard him use once before, the language he had spoken when he found her wounded by the Elves. And he was speaking directly at the gates.

And as his voice echoed into the stillness, the response was immediate.

The doors began to move.

It started with a deep, resonant groan, like the earth itself splitting apart. 

The massive iron doors shuddered, their intricate carvings seeming to writhe as they shifted. Dust and rust cascaded down in thin streams as the doors began to part, the sound growing louder - screeching, grinding, setting Artanis’s teeth on edge.

Her stomach twisted, and she instinctively stepped back, but there was nowhere else to go.

Mairon turned to her then, his voice carrying through the unholy din as the gates continued their slow, agonizing movement. “Come,” he said, his tone weighted with an undercurrent of command. 

As the gates yawned fully open, the grinding and screeching of iron finally faded - but it was not replaced by silence. The opposite of it.

Artanis was shocked.

She didn't know what she expected, but it wasn't this.

Beyond the threshold of the gates stretched a vast, twisted realm, the magnitude of which defied her comprehension. An entire word, pulsing with life, and sound.

No, not a world. 

More like a... breathing engine. 

The light of countless forges and rivers of molten lava painted the darkness in hues of fiery orange and sinister red. For miles and miles, as far as her eyes could see, the land sprawled outward like a great, industrial abyss. Towering smokestacks belched plumes of blackened fumes into the already starless sky, mingling with the glow and heat emanating from the distant peaks of colossal mountains, the profiles of which she had not been really be able to perceive up until that moment. 

They were three immense peaks, bigger than anything she had ever seen before. 

They pierced the heavy, smoke-laden sky like fangs, their blackened sides glowing faintly with veins of molten rock. Rivers of lava flowed sluggishly down their slopes, spilling into deep ravines that hissed and steamed with the heat. The air above them shimmered with heatwaves, and every now and then, the glow intensified as eruptions from within sent fresh streams of lava cascading down their flanks.

The structures surrounding her were colossal, and their architecture entirely alien. She had never seen anything similar in Aman. 

None of the Valar’s halls bore any resemblance to this. Even the depictions in the Halls of Lore, the detailed records painstakingly crafted by the Loremasters of the Eldar, failed to capture anything close to what loomed before her now.

Her eyes strained under the weight of taking in all of that and put it under focus. 

It was clear now that the tales of Melkor’s capture she had heard in Valinor were deeply flawed. She had been told that his strongholds had been abandoned, left to rot in ruin as the Valar pursued him, dragging him back to Valinor in chain. 

But the truth of it all was layed before her eyes. 

There was no ruin. Not even close.

Mairon must had been right when he had said that the Valar had acted in haste. Looking at what stretched before her, it was clear they did. The Valar had not detroyed Melkor's works. If anything, they had merely paused them. This was not a place of ruin but of preparation, a stronghold waiting to be awakened.

And now, awake it was.

However, even as she took it all in, something else caught her attention.

Mairon. He seemed distracted. Annoyed, even.

He was silent, his gaze fixed on the three immense peaks. The sight was breathtaking in its terrible majesty, but Mairon’s expression was not one of awe. There was a tension in his face, and his jaw was clenching and unclenching rhythmically, seemingly displeased with something. She wondered what could unsettle him about his own stronghold.
But he said nothing. Whatever thoughts churned in his mind, he kept them hidden, and when he finally turned to her direction, it was only to spun her forward towards the northern side of... the courtyard? How could she really define what she was seeing?

As they moved, she realized that below them great pits gaped in the earth. 

Their depths were alive with flickering firelight and the writhing movements of countless figures, the origin of the sounds she was hearing.

Horrifying creatures scurried like ants, dragging materials, hauling boulders, clashing their hammers - every one of them intent on their grim tasks. Their roars and snarls were deep, guttural, unlike anything Artanis had ever heard.

The creatures were hunched and twisted, their limbs unnaturally long and gnarled. Where grime and soot did not obscure their skin, it was pale and mottled, stretched taut over wiry frames as though they had been starved. Their faces were monstrous: eyes far too large; jagged teeth that jutted grotesquely from their mouths, bared in snarls or grimaces of pain and fatigue. Their hands, huge and misshapen, seemed entirely unfit for their tasks, looking as a child's sketch of how hands should look like.

They wore scraps of leather and metal, cobbled together into something resembling armor but offering little protection. Many were scarred, their bodies bearing the marks of whips and burns, evidence of their own suffering even as they inflicted labor upon the earth. 

Artanis couldn’t look away. The sheer horror of them rooted her in place, her eyes wide with disbelief. What werethey? She couldn't recognize them, nor she had heard any story about such creatures. 

They didn’t seem like thralls, for she could see them interacting, moving with a semblance of purpose. Though horrifying and unnatural, they were evidently alive - terribly, undeniably alive.

“What are they?” she whispered, still unable to tear her gaze away from the pit below, the figures shuffling, climbing, and roaring in the firelight of their torches.

“Creatures of his making,” he said simply. “Born of despair, shaped by his hand. They exist only to serve.”

The vagueness of his answer made her skin crawl, and she hesitated, her lips parting as though to press further - but she stopped. The truth, she realized, might be worse than she could bear in that moment. 

Her unease lingered as they moved on, leaving the sprawling courtyard of forges and pits behind them. 

The acrid air gave way to a damp chill as the path began to slope upward, leading them toward an immense stone archway carved directly into the base of one of the towering mountains. She was taken aback by the sheer scale of it. The tunnel that stretched beyond it was so vast it could have accommodated entire battalions marching side by side. 

But this wasn’t an ascent, she realized. It was another descent.

The true stronghold was underground.

Why was she surprised? Of course the Vala of Darkness would live like a worm, burrowed beneath the ground, hidden away in the earth’s depths, cloistered in his fortress. It suited his nature, didn’t it? To control from the shadows, unreachable, untouchable.

And yet, despite herself, she couldn’t help but wonder at it.

How could someone as powerful as him choose to live this way? 

Removed from the light, from life,  from the air and vastness of the world he claimed to rule. Down here, far beneath the surface, he was not standing over the land as its master. He was buried within it, ensnared by his own need to remain unseen, yet all-encompassing.

But then, wasn’t that the paradox of power?

The more power one amassed, the further it detached them from the very thing they claimed to control. It no longer required their presence - only their will. The knowledge that he held dominion, that his influence stretched across the land like roots beneath the surface, was apparently enough to satiate him. He didn’t need to see it or breathe it.

And yet, in doing so, he had also severed himself from what he professed to rule, from the people and the life he claimed to dominate. It made her wonder if this detachment was deliberate - or if, in some twisted way, it was a kind of self-imprisonment. A cage of his own making, built to ensure no one could take from him what he in turn had stolen.

The question nagged at her, but no answer presented itself.

Instead, she followed Mairon through the archway, and as they descended deeper into the mountain’s belly, soon the only light became the luminisces of sconces, mounted on the walls. And oh, their descent was long.

It felt endless. How deep does this place go? How far into the earth can one fall before becoming unable to breath?

Artanis couldn’t help but think of the tales she had heard about the Halls of Mandos, where the dead walked vast and silent halls, stretching endlessly into the unknown. But those halls, she had been told, were a place of stillness, a place of judgment and waiting, where the weary could find peace - or at least resolution.  

But this was nothing like that. There was no rest to be found here. 

The deeper she walked, the more she felt torment seep into her skin, into her thoughts, an invisible weight she couldn’t shrug off and that crushed her, pressing on her lungs as she felt herself grasping for air.

"You'll grow accustomed to it", came Mairon's voice, once again perfectly in synch with her thoughts. He had turned to study her. She had probably slowed down under the strain of it all. "The pressure of the undergrounds, I mean. I can't vouch for the rest."

The fact that he was seemingly offering a consolation did nothing to steady her. Nothing, as she felt herself physically and metaphorically fall, deeper and deeper.  

After what felt like hours, they arrived at yet another gate, smaller than the first but no less intimidating. Mairon once again stepped forward and his voice ringed with the guttural sounds of the unknown language.

She imagine this would be the entry to the main stronghold.

As they walked past it, they stepped into an immense underground chamber, the first of many. 

The scale of it was almost incomprehensible; the ceiling arched so high above that even for her Elven eyes it was hard to distinguish where it finished, the faint glow of distant fires unable to reach its apex. 

Enormous pillars twisted upward, sustaining the underrgound structured, carved in the shapes of serpents, their heads rearing back , their tails coiling around the bases, their eyes glinting with embedded gemstones.

The path was mostly made of narrow bridges of dark stone, spanning over deeper pits, the drop below disappearing into the fiery abyss that was the base of the mountain.

Around them, side tunnels branched off in every direction, like the arteries of some monstrous beast. 

Some tunnels led to the forges - vast, glowing chambers where figures toiled over molten metal, their hammers ringing out in discordant echoes. Others led to barracks, where she caught glimpses of sleeping arrangements and the twisted forms of the creatures she had seen outside. Still more branched toward she thought she saw holding cells, their bars jagged and rusted, the faint sound of groaning or shuffling coming from within.

One was for her, surely.

Artanis tried to avert her gaze, to focus on her feet alone, but the scene was inescapable. And it was loud, louder that she would have expected, as all the sounds echoed across the high ceilings and reverbereted through the pits.

As they crossed one of the bridges, Mairon glanced back at her. He said nothing though, merely ensuring she was still following, before leading her until they emerged into yet another chamber.

This, she realized, must have been the heart of Angband’s forges. 

The air was choked with ash and smoke, and great furnaces lined the walls, along with immense anvils and cauldrons of bubbling ore, where other creatures were intent. Up close, they were even more horryfing, as she could smell them too. A nauseating mixture of sweat, burnt flesh, and molten metal. Chains hung from the ceiling, some of them attached to pulleys that hoisted massive blocks of stone or metal across the space.

Mairon moved through it all with ease, unbothered by the oppressive heat or the chaos of around them. 

But as they walked, she noticed something strange. 

The creatures, now in closer proximity, noticed them as well. And as they passed closer to a group of them, she saw it clearly: they flinched. Their movements were subtle at first - a shuffling step, a downward tilt of their heads - but the further they advanced, the more evident it became.

Some of them turned their faces away entirely, their large, misshapen eyes wide with what could only be fear. Others froze in place, their hands trembling as they held their tools, avoiding even a glance in their direction. A few let out low growls that quickly tapered off into silence as though they dared not make a sound.

Artanis’s first instinct was to think they were reacting to her. But the longer she observed, the clearer it became - they weren’t afraid of her. 

It was him.

It was Mairon they feared.

She glanced at him, her brows furrowing as she watched his effortless stride. There was no visible malice in his movements, no overt threat in his posture, and yet his mere presence seemed to make the creatures shrink back.

One by one, they shrank back from the path, retreating.

When creature dragging a chain too heavy for its frail frame stumbled in their path, its limbs quaking as it tried to haul the burden aside, it froze seeing Mairon approaching, its wide, pale eyes staring up at him, pleading silently.

Mairon barely spared it a glance, and the creature scrambled backward, whimpering softly as it pulled its chain closer, its hands clutching it like a shield. It struck her, because it reminded her of that day.

The way the child had retreated in the gardens, shrinking back when Melkor's gaze had moved toward him, arming himself with a piece of the fallen statue. That image burned in her memory, and now, as she watched the creatures recoil from Mairon with the same instinctive fear, she could not help but juxtapose the two.

It struck her then - the depth of his authority here. The power he wielded wasn’t just rooted in command but in the visceral, primal dread he inspired. They didn’t just fear him; they recognized him as their Master. Gorthaur.

Artanis's stomach churned, her discomfort surely evident in the way her gaze lingered too long on him. And Mairon, perceptive as ever, must have noticed, because he glanced over his shoulder, and asked "Something on your mind?"

She quickly looked away, her lips pressing into a thin line. "No," she lied.

He studied her for a moment longer, weighing whether to pursue the matter, but then seemed to decide otherwise.  

"We are almost there," he reassured her - as though that could mean anything to her. As though arriving would bring relief rather than deepen the dread that coiled in her chest. He had probably mistaken her hesitation for frustration or fatigue.

As if somehow, taken aback as she was by the magnitude of Angband, she could forget where they were headed.

As if she could forget him.

------------------------------

For all the time that had passed since they had crossed the threshold of the fortress, Artanis had assumed Mairon was leading her to Melkor. But as they descended deeper into Angband’s labyrinthine tunnels, that certainty began to erode.  

Angband spiraled downwards like a pyramid, she realized. 

Its foundations clawing into the earth, each level smaller than the one above it.

When they finally ceased their descent, the level they had reached was not adorned with grand halls or vast forges, nor buzzing with sound. It was rather quiet. The cealing were lower here - though still imposing - and the halls lacked sophistication, their stonework simpler, less menacing, almost... mundane. There was a strange sense of restraint in the design, which made the space feel less threatening. It resembled the incomplete halls of an ordinary stronghold, albeit stripped of any windows.

Knowing Melkor, this could have not possibly been where he resided. It lacked the grandeur and splendor she was sure the God would demand for himself.

“Where are we going?” she resolved to ask at last, curiosity finally breaking through the wall of her reluctant silence.

Mairon did not turn to look at her. “To your chambers.”  

Did he just say chambers?  

Surely he meant a cell. He could not truly mean a room. The very idea was absurd.

Why would she have a room? If Melkor’s goal was to strip her of her dignity, to punish her for defying him, why would he bother granting her even the illusion of comfort? 

Perhaps Mairon had misspoken.  

Perhaps he simply didn’t want to sour her meat before the slaughter, as he had done so many times before. She imagined him taking some twisted pleasure in this little game, letting her believe she would be given the luxury of a bed and walls that didn’t close in on her, only to revel in the expression on her face when it was all revealed as a cruel joke - a rusted cot in a damp, lightless cell.

And yet… the way Mairon had said it didn’t suggest jest. It wasn’t like him to withhold mockery if he meant to toy with her. 

“I thought you were taking me to him,” she ventured cautiously, attempting to keep the nervousness from creeping in her voice, though the tightness in her throat almost betrayed the effort.

“No,” was his simple reply, devoid of any inclination to elaborate further.  

Oh.

She didn’t know whether to feel relief or dread. 

On one hand, the idea of being spared - for now - the sight of Melkor and whatever twisted fate he had planned for her brought a fleeting sense of reprieve. She still had some time. Time. It was a fragile thing, useless in a place like this, but the knot in her stomach loosened ever so slightly at the thought regardless.

But on the other hand, why delay the inevitable? Why grant her time that served no purpose? What use was it if there was no escape?

Then it struck her - perhaps he had not yet recovered.

A strange, grim sense of satisfaction stirred within her at that thought. 

Melkor might be untouchable to her, yes. She could never truly harm him - not in this lifetime, not in any lifetime. But that vile, wretched creature had. She had seen it with her own eyes: the mightiest of the Valar, brought low, nearly undone by the very ally he had summoned. She alone had witnessed him falter, had seen his towering arrogance crumble as Ungoliant turned on him. She alone had seen him rescued - dragged back from the brink by his creatures, his Balrogs, in the midst of that desperate fight.

Was that the reason for his delay? Was he weakened, even now? 

That idea made her lean towards relief, however briefly.

But then, what did it mean for her? If Melkor needed time to recover, did that make her more vulnerable - or less? Did it mean he had left instructions for her fate, or was he waiting until he regained his full strength to deliver it himself?

Before she could press Mairon further for answers, he stopped in front of a door.

It was unlike the others they had passed. A wooden door, simple and unadorned. It was devoid of the intricate patterns that characterized much of what she had seen of Angband. Beside the door, embedded in the wall, was an unlit torch holder.

“We have ve arrived,” he announced, his voice neutral, devoid of interest. Without waiting for her response, he pushed the door open with a fluid motion and stepped aside.  

Artanis stepped forward hesitantly, her body stiff with the weight of dread. 

She braced herself for what she expected to see: a damp, barren cell. Cold iron bars. A modest cot, maybe a blanket if she was lucky. A chipped pitcher of brackish water. Cruel, perhaps, but reasonable. Reasonable for her circumstances.

But what greeted her instead wrenched the breath from her lungs.

She staggered back, her vision swimming as her hand shot out to clutch the edge of the doorframe to steady herself against the overhwelming tide of disbelief.  

It was impossible.  

The room before her was her room.

Her chamber from Tirion, recreated down to the smallest, most intimate detail.

Her eyes went wide as they darted frantically across the space, searching for cracks in the illusiont. She took in the carved beams of the ceiling that mimicked the intertwining branches of Laurelin; the soft ivory drapes framing the bed stirred an ache deep in her chest, their folds so perfectly rendered that she could almost hear the gentle rustling they had made in the breeze of Tirion. The desk was hers, every corner and notch identical.  Even the floor beneath her feet was made of the same pale, polished wood she had walked upon for centuries.  

Every object was in its place, every detail perfectly replicated. 

And yet, it was not her room. 

It couldn’t be. The air was wrong - cold and lifeless, stripped of the warmth of the Trees' light. The window that should have opened onto the vibrant streets of Tirion was missing, replaced by an unbroken expanse of stone.

She froze, her thoughts faltering as they struggled to bridge the chasm between what she saw and where she was. This wasn’t home. It was an illusion, a distortion, a grotesque charade meant to unsettle her, to unmoor her from reality.

Her eyes darted feverishly around the room once again. From the lit fireplace to the wardrobe, to the familiar door that led to what she knew would be her bathroom - it was all there, as if her life in Valinor had been uprooted and transplanted into this twisted place.

But the more she looked, the more another realization began to take root - a darker, more insidious truth she couldn’t ignore.

This had been planned.

Her abduction, her imprisonment - it hadn’t been a moment of chaotic opportunity. 

Melkor must have orchestrated it with meticulous precision, over a number of years. This room, this grotesque imitation of her life in Valinor, hadn’t been built on a whim. 

It must have taken years to create. Years of watching her. Of studying every corner of her life, every intimate detail, until even the smallest, most personal fragments of her existence had been cataloged and stolen.

Her gaze fell on the mirror, and the realization struck her. 

Melkor had hidden it in her chambers to spy on her, and she had known.  She had known and lived with the knowledge for years, and he had confirmed it to her. 

But never - never - had she imagined this.

Never had she conceived that the surveillance was not just a tool of intimidation but the groundwork for an obsession so profound, so invasive, that it had consumed years of his thought. She had lived her life as though she were untouchable, believing that Melkor’s games were just that - games. He had proved her wrong on that account already. But every detail of this room spoke of a far older fixation, something that went beyond curiosity or control. It was more twisted, more vile. 

How many moments of privacy had been stolen from her? How much of her had he taken without her even realizing? 

The thought sickened her. 

Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, pale and trembling, as though it, too, could not reconcile what it saw. “How is this possible?” she whispered. The question wasn’t really directed at Mairon, and Mairon did not answer immediately.

He stepped inside, his movements unhurried, exuding an air of ownership, as if this place belonged to him - and technically, it did. His fingers trailed idly along the edge of her desk -her desk, though no diary rested upon it now.  

The dissonance was unbearable. 

To stand in a place identical to her home, yet undeniably not her home. And then there was him, standing so casually in the room - her room, yet not her room. Seeing him there seemed to short-circuit her thoughts. 

It was as though her mind struggled to process what her eyes were witnessing. The more she tried to tried to, the more the threads of logic frayed and unraveled.

And perhaps, she thought bitterly, that was exactly why it had been done. 

“My Lord leaves nothing to chance,” he said finally, his tone soft, almost reverent. Artanis caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction, a subtle but undeniable pleasure - in her unease, most probably. “I trust it is adequate, Elf.”

Adequate.

Artanis turned to him, her gaze icy with barely contained fury. “Why?" she demanded, "Why would he do this?”  

Mairon shrugged, a faint, almost lazy smile ghosting across his lips. “Perhaps you underestimate his benevolence.”

Ha, benevolence. Another entirely unfitting word.

It curdled in her mind. Melkor did not possess an ounce of benevolence.  

A shiver ran through her, the chill in the room seeping into her skin and settling deep in her bones. But it wasn’t the cold that made her tremble. It was the realization - the certainty -that she had never stood a chance.

Any thought of deying him had been futile from the start. After all, he had promised that she would seem him again, "whether you wish it or not".

And yet, there was some small, bitter comfort in that realization. If she had never had a chance, then it wasn’t her failure - it was inevitability. But that faint solace was drowned beneath a far greater wave of anguish, confusion, and fury.

And now she was here, trapped in a grotesque parody of her home, surrounded by objects that should have brought her comfort but instead filled her with dread.

“What now?” she asked, her voice brittle, barely audible, as she turned to face Mairon. It was a fragile question, one that betrayed the weight of her confusion.

He tilted his head slightly, leaning one arm on the desk with an air of casual indifference. “My orders were to bring you here" he said, and once again she could not sense any deception in his voice, "You are free to move about this level. No one but me is permitted access".

He paused, his gaze briefly sweeping the room before returning to her. “However,” he added, his tone sharpening ever so slightly, “you are forbidden from venturing above or below. Should you attempt it, know that I will know. And I would not recommend it, anyway.”

He paused, before adding "Beyond these halls lie things you are better off not witnessing. And should you stray too far, you will encounter creatures in this fortress who do not discriminate when it comes to their prey.” 

There was no malice in his tone, but neither was there any kindness.

He straightened then, turning toward the doorway. Without looking back, he added, “Food will be brought to you. There is a dining hall a few rooms away. And trust me, when my Master will want to see you, you will know.”

And just like that, he was gone, the heavy door closing softly behind him, leaving her alone, a million questions forming in her mind and remaning unanswered.

Her eyes lingered on the door for a moment, as if willing it to reopen, as if Mairon’s departure might have been a trick and she wasn’t truly alone. But the door remained closed, the silence unbroken. 

And she simply stood there, for hours, taking in the contours of the cage that had been built just for her. 

Confused. Disoriented. And utterly, inescapably, alone. 

Chapter Text

The light of the Trees poured over the hills of Tirion, golden and silver in its fullness. Dewdrops clung to the grass beneath her bare feet like scattered pearls, and Artanis felt her toes sinking into the soft green carpet, its green strands brushing against her ankles, as she shifted her weight.

In her hands, she cradled a small piece of parchment, which she was stubbornly trying to transform into something. She could see the shape clearly in her mind - the swans she had once watched by the shores of Eldamar, their long necks and graceful forms gliding across the water as if they were weightless. She understood why her kin by the sea had been inspired by those creatures to design their ships. She had watched those same ships with devotion the last time her mother had taken her to Alqualondë, committing every curve and detail to memory, determined to preserve them in her mind forever. 

But  translating that vision into reality proved to be a more complex task than she had anticipated. Finding the right angle for each fold, ensuring the parchment held the correct tension, required precision and focus - focus that the shouts around her incessantly sought to disrupt.

In the background, she could hear her cousins' joyful shrieks as they were playing hide-and-seek, their tumbling laughter ringing out against the rocks and trees, echoing through the glade. Earlier, they had crowded around her, curiosity mixed with mischief, clearly skeptical of her ability to actually succeed in the task she had set for herself. They doubted she could imbue the paper with the swans' miraculous ability. Yet their teasing had quickly turned to boredom, and they had moved on to other pastimes. If only they could occupy themselves more quietly...

"Is it finished yet?"

Celegorm’s voice from behind her startled her, cutting through her focus. Evidently, even the schemes he and the others had devised to pass the time had lost their charm. 

Artanis exhaled softly, her fingers making the final fold.  Feeling challenged, she rose to her feet. 

She silently hoped she wasn’t about to make a fool of herself in front of her cousins, giving them reason to gloat. She hated losing and could already picture Celegorm and Curufin’s smirking faces if her paper creation failed to perform its task.

"Even you can’t possibly believe that scrap will float," Curufin added, watching her head toward the riverbank of the Túna, her precious creation clutched in her hands.

But Artanis was nothing if not stubborn, and she had faith in her abilities. Her paper swan would soon ride the waves, strong and unyielding, just like the ships of her kin.

"It’s not going to float," she declared, her voice steady as she knelt by the edge of the water. "It’s going to sail."

She placed the swan gently on the surface, murmuring a silent prayer that it wouldn’t sink, dragging her pride and confidence down with it. But her faith was not misplaced. Slowly, as the current took hold, her paper creation came alive. The elegant neck of her swan rose proudly, and with an unmistakable grace, it began gliding across the water.

A triumphant smile broke across her face as she turned to her cousins, savoring their disappointment. Her swan was beautiful - strong, steady even against the gentle tug of the current. For a moment, Artanis felt invincible.

But her joy was short-lived. 

A sudden thud broke the serene surface, sending ripples outward, and her heart stopped as she watched a stone collide with her swan, tipping it dangerously. Her parchment creature wavered, and Artanis’s triumph turned to horror.

“No!” she cried. She whirled around in time to see Celegorm smirking, another stone already in his hand.

“Stop! Don’t!” she shouted, her voice trembling with fury and desperation.

From the opposite bank of the river, she was powerless to stop them. One by one, her cousins joined in, turning her triumph into a new game: destroy the fruits of her labor.

Artanis leapt to her feet, running along the riverbank, searching for the spot where the two shores drew closest. She had to stop them, she would stop them.

She reached the crossing and bounded through the shallow water in long, splashing strides. When she reached Curufin, she tackled him with all the force her small frame could muster, sending them both sprawling into the grass.

But it was too late.

Gasping for breath, she lifted her head and looked toward the river. Her swan was gone. A handful of stones bobbed where it had been, and beneath the water’s surface lay the shredded remains of her paper creation.

Artanis sat frozen, staring at the wreckage in silence. 

Her chest burned, not from the run but from the unbearable weight of her fury and heartbreak. 

How could anyone find joy in destroying something made with so much care? How could they laugh at the ruin of something she had poured her heart into?

Behind her, Celegorm's smug voice shattered the silence. “I told you it wouldn’t float.”

When she turned, she recognized the same expression on all her cousins’ faces - a sly, malicious grin stretched across their lips. They stared at her with a mix of pity and cunning, as though they found her childish pursuits laughable and pathetic.

But it was Celegorm’s voice that broke her.

Before she could summon her mother’s words, her brothers’ wisdom - before she could find any justification for mercy - she launched herself at him.

They tumbled to the ground, rolling over the grass until they came to a halt, Artanis perched above him, her small fist clenched and trembling, her breath ragged with fury. She didn’t stop to think; she didn’t hesitate.

And she struck.

Blow after blow, her tiny hands met his flesh, her knuckles turning raw and bruised as blood welled where they struck Celegorm’s cheeks.

No, this is not what happened.

The world around her had vanished, the laughter of her cousins fading into screams. 

They fled, their gleeful mischief replaced by panic, unwilling to meet the same fate. But Artanis didn’t care. Celegorm had been cruel - needlessly cruel - and in her mind, there was no place for such senseless malice. She was only balacing the scales.

No, Finrod stopped me.

She didn’t know how many times her fist had fallen before Celegorm passed out. She hadn’t even realized he’d gone limp beneath her until her arms began to ache. When she finally stilled, she was smiling - a wide, triumphant grin as she had gotten her vengeance, baring all her teeth as she looked down at him, his small, battered form sprawled beneath her.

No!

Artanis hadn’t even realized she had fallen asleep.

She had fought it for as long as she could, unable - as always - to determine how much time had passed. She had just managed to teach herself to read the stars, to find clues in their pattern of movement to mark the end of one day and the beginning of another. But here, she was forced to start over, lost again in the timeless void.

She had no idea how long it had been since Mairon had left her.

At first, she had stood perfectly still in the center of the room, unmoving, her mind whirring with too many thoughts to settle on any one of them.

At some point, her legs must have given out, because she found herself kneeling on the cold wooden floor, her hands pressed against the boards for stability. Her gaze was distant, unfocused, fixed on the fire that crackled quietly across the room.

It was no ordinary fire, she had realized that soon enough. It didn’t need wood to burn, its flames steady and unchanging in their intensity. It offered her no clue, no way to measure time’s passage, no anchor to reality.

And yet, despite her resistance, sleep must have overtaken her. 

She woke from a nightmare, her forehead damp with sweat, her travel-worn, threadbare clothing clinging uncomfortably to her skin. She was curled in on herself, knees tucked close to her chest, lying on the cold floor of her room.

No - not a room. A cell.

This was not her room. She could not allow herself to think of it as her room, not even for a moment. To do so would be to fall into the trap Melkor had laid for her.

----------------------------------

The first days of her captivity passed in complete silence.

Artanis refused to engage with the space around her. 

She hadn’t explored the high-ceilinged room, hadn’t bathed, hadn’t done anything at all. 

On one hand, she felt suspended in the familiar but oppressive sense of incompleteness that gripped her when she left a task unresolved; on the other, she was trapped in complete denial of her situation. She hadn’t eaten, hadn’t drunk, hadn’t even dared to open the wardrobe to see what it contained. Instead, she remained locked within her own mind, weaving and unraveling a web of circular thoughts that served no purpose other than to partially fill the gaping void in her stomach.

She expected that, at any moment, she would be summoned to stand before Melkor. Perhaps it would be better if he found her repugnant - after all, she felt repugnant. She wore the same travel-stained clothing she had arrived in, her skin pale from hunger, her will to act drained completely. Every faint sound beyond the door - no matter how small, or if real at all  - made her heart race with the certainty, this is the moment.

But there was only so much sophistication her mental fortress could offer before it began to crumble under the weight of monotony. Only so many alloy compositions she could recite - copper folded into bronze, silver strengthened with nickel. Only so many formulas for quenching and hardening metals she could recall - oil for flexibility, water for brittleness, air for balance. Only so many Elvish songs to recite, ancient scrolls to recall, plants to catalog in her memory.  

She resorted to running through the proportions of carbon in steel, the melting points of tin and lead, the chemical balance of steel to retain both shine and pliability. She even recited the process of shaping a blade, from casting the ingot to sharpening the edge, as though by recalling the steps, she might feel herself back in the safety of her father’s forge.

But at some point - had it been a week? a month? who could say? - she surrendered to the necessity of doing something.

When she moved, her body ached from the stillness, a dull throb in muscles long denied motion. When she finally forced herself to rise, her limbs protested, stiff from disuse. 

She slipped the bag from her shoulders, stashing it under the bed - so much like her bed, yet not her bed - but kept her dagger safely strapped to her side.

And so, with hesitant, uneven steps, she gave in to the need to move, to explore every corner of this insidious imitation of Valinor that Melkor had crafted for her. 

The accuracy was staggering. The room was a near-perfect mirror of the sanctuaries she had known. Even the fabrics bore textures and weights that felt achingly familiar - the puffiness of her pillows, the delicate patterns etched into the woodwork of her desk.

When her hands had touched every inch of her room (no, her cell) she finally turned to the wardrobe. A cold weight settled in her stomach as her gaze fell on the handle, hesitating to pull it open, a knot tightening in her throat.

What cruel jest had Melkor devised for her now?

She resolved to open it slowly, braced for humiliation. But inside, she found garments that left her both disappointed and strangely relieved. The clothing was remarkably similar to what she had worn in Valinor. Some pieces were elaborate, with intricate embroidery that glittered even in the firelight, their embellishment painstakingly detailed. Others were simpler, understated - tunics and dresses in the styles she herself had favored in her daily activities.

And yet, as her fingers brushed the folds of fabric, recognizing the patterns and the cuts, she realized - he had never worn them in Melkor’s presence. 

She paused, her breath shallow, and rifled through the wardrobe further.

To her surprise, among the dresses and ceremonial attire, there were also practical garments: riding shirts, sturdy trousers, clothing meant for labor and travel. She froze for a moment, caught off guard by this unexpected addition. Whatever his purpose, whatever his reasoning, Melkor had at least spared her the humiliation of mocking her in this particular way.

For a time, these explorations occupied her thoughts. But even this brief distraction soon lost its hold. Days blurred together into a fog of hunger and mental exhaustion, her will dulled by the unrelenting quiteness.

And after weeks, fasting held more power over her than grief.

Once again defeated by her mortality, Artanis stepped outside her cell, surrendering to the necessity of exploring her prison. 

Hesitantly, she approached the wooden door through which Mairon had disappeared, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the knob. She hesitated a moment longer before finally turning it.

Beyond the door, her curiosity was the only thing keeping her heart from pounding out of her chest.

She took a few tentative steps in the direction they had come from, preferring to retrace their previous path rather than venture into unfamiliar territory.

The same halls she had mentally marked as less threatening now unsettled her, their emptiness pressing down on her. Most were bare, save for the occasional bench or table. The walls were stark and unadorned, unlike the carved inscriptions and intricate designs she had seen elsewhere in Angband. Smooth, dark columns rose to meet the shadowed ceilings, their surfaces devoid of the artistry of the others.

When she reached the point from which they had descended, the distant echoes of labor drifted up from the lower floors. The clatter of tools and guttural murmurs suggested activity, though she could not see its source. There was no way down from here. Wherever the access to the lower floors lay, it must have been in the opposite direction.

Resolving herself, she crossed the corridor beyond her own door and found herself in a room that was markedly different. This space had been decorated - or at least, an effort had been made. A massive, unlit fireplace dominated the far wall, flanked by a heavy sofa, an armchair, and a small bench. Empty bookshelves stretched up the side walls, barren of scrolls or tomes, their void as striking as the library itself.

On the other side, she glimpsed what she supposed was the dining room Mairon had mentioned.

Inside, there was a long, dark wooden table, flanked by sturdy chairs on either side. The wood was smooth and undecorated, its surface polished but unused. At the far end, a smaller, unlit fireplace sat cold, its hearth as lifeless as the rest of the room. On the walls, lit scorces similar to the ones that adorned the whole fortress.

To one side, a pantry-like shelf caught her attention. 

Simple in construction, it resembled dark oak, its sagging shelves lined with dishes and supplies. A woven basket rested in the middle, overflowing with unfamiliar fruits - some pale and waxy, others dark with a glossy sheen. Beside it, a platter held what appeared to be dried meat, while a loaf of bread sat nearby, its crust pierced by a simple knife left embedded in its surface.

At one end of the credence, a tall pitcher, likely filled with wine, stood alongside a few cups. A small bowl of dried fruit completed the strange spread. Her hand moved instinctively to inspect the food more closely.

Her stomach growled audibly, twisting in protest at the sight of sustenance. 

Yet, even as hunger clawed at her, she couldn’t silence the thought that all of it might be a trap. To take this food, to accept even this small offering, felt like the first step toward surrender. And surrender, she knew, was what Melkor wanted.

Accepting the enemy’s provisions was always the first step, wasn’t it? She knew the path it would lead her down.

Today, it would be the food. Tomorrow, the necessity of bathing. Then, she would wear the clothes Melkor had chosen for her, letting herself be dressed like a doll for his amusement. She would sleep in the bed that had been prepared for her, surrounded by the softness of heavy blankets and soft, feather-filled pillows.

"I thought we’d moved past the idea that I’d resort to poisoning your food," came a voice from across the room.

She jumped, startled, and nearly dropped the bowl she held.

It had been days - how many, she couldn’t tell - since she had heard another voice besides her own.

Mairon sat at the far end of the table, relaxed and unbothered, studying her with a faint, unimpressed look. He was no longer dressed in his traveling gear. Instead, he wore a simple, dark gray ensemble, devoid of any mantle or heavy adornment. His hair was tied back neatly at the nape of his neck, falling in a low, sleek tail.

Something about his appearance caught her off guard. She didn’t know why, but she hadn’t expected him to look so... normal. He wasn’t dressed like Melkor, who favored heavy, draped fabrics and elaborate, intricate details.

"You took your time," Mairon remarked when she didn’t respond, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back. 

Artanis swallowed hard, forcing herself to regain composure. She put back the bowl in her hand, forcing herself to answer, although finding her voice after so long took some effort. "I wouldn't put it past you" she retorted to his previous comment.

He smiled at that, standing up and coming closer to her. He reached out lazily and plucked a cup from the paintry, filling it with the pitcher and swirling its contents. The liquid within - dark and opaque - caught the light of the sconces briefly before he took a slow sip.

“There,” he said, setting the cup back down on the table as he took his place again. “See? Perfectly harmless.”

Artanis said nothing, her eyes fixed on him, still not entirely persuaded.

Not that she thought the food or the drink would be poisoned. After all, it was true that the food he had provided her before wasn't, so why would would it be now? But still, the idea of moving past her defiance and surrendering to eating did not fill her with joy whatsoever. He resorted to gesturing casually toward the spread of food.

“Eat, or don’t. Starve yourself if you’d like. It makes no difference to me, although I do not relish the idea of having to force-feed you if my Master finds out you are letting yourself starve to death.” His tone was light, almost bored. “But I’d suggest you don’t waste the wine and the fruit. It takes some effort to find them, I can't tell when you will get another chance.”

She hesitated, torn between the gnawing ache of hunger and the fear of giving him the satisfaction of seeing her accept anything from him. She forced herself to meet his gaze. "And do you expect me to thank you or him for this... effort?". 

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, consindering her. "I've long since stopped expecting such courtesies from you, don't worry. But a little cooperation wouldn't hurt."

"Oh, I'm sorry, have I fallen short of your expectations for a good prisoner?" she asked, incredulous, her indignation sharpened - as it always did when she was hungry.

He spread his hands, feining innocence. “It’s a simple arrangement. You’re here. I’m here. You make your time easier for yourself - or harder. The choice, as always, is yours.”

Artanis’s jaw tightened, her nails digging into her palms as she fought the urge to lash out at that. "Sure, my choice. I suppose your Master finds these little game of yours amusing, doesn't it?"

Mairon’s expression darkened slightly at the mention of Melkor. His smirk faltered for just a heartbeat before returning in full force. "My Master" he said carefully, "has entrusted me with your... care. What I find amusing is entirely my own concern."

Her lips pressed tightly into a thin line, trying to keep any more words from escaping her mouth. At this point, she didn’t trust herself to respond without betraying the storm of emotions roiling inside her - anger, fear, exhaustion. Instead, she turned her back to him, refusing to engage further, moving towards the direction she had came from.

But before she could leave, his voice stopped her once again, softer this time, almost coaxing. “Wait.”

She paused, her hand resting lightly on the edge of the wall, but she did not turn in his direction.

“You might despise me and this entire situation,” he continued, his tone informal now, as if they were old acquaintances. “But institing on making yourself suffer won't change that. It will only break you faster.”

Her breath faltered, his words slithering into the cracks of her resolve.

She refused to turn back, afraid that even the slightest flicker of doubt might show in her eyes. Instead, she forced her posture to remain dignified, standing tall with as much resolve as she could muster.

“I will endure,” she replied simply, her voice cold, and walked out without another word.

----------------------------------------------

Artanis was meticulously working on a necklace she had been crafting for some time. The chain was already complete - she had drawn the threads, shaped the links, and soldered them together to ensure they could hold the pendant without fail. But the pendant itself was proving troublesome. Setting the stones demanded precision and patience, the kind of patience she often struggled to summon.

Artanis was known for many virtues, but patience was not one of them. The thin metal frame meant to cradle the stones refused to hold its shape. She huffed in frustration, wrestling with the pliers in her hands as her mind swirled with irritation.

“Artanis, a word?”

The voice startled her. Fëanor’s voice. She hadn’t noticed his return to the workshop, so absorbed was she in her task. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder as he commanded her attention.

Nodding, she pulled off her gloves and tucked them into the pocket of her work apron, which was weighed down with tools and fraying cloths. Around her, Fëanor’s other apprentices were absorbed in their tasks, their quiet concentration filling the room. Fëanor gestured for her to follow, leading her to another part of the workshop without explanation.

Curiosity stirred within her, though she asked no questions. Could this be it? After weeks of work under his instruction, had the moment finally come when he would share his latest creation, perhaps even ask for her input?

When they stepped into the courtyard outside his workshop, Fëanor turned to her, his expression uncharacteristically hesitant. Artanis expected him to speak in his usual, measured way - offering a polite preamble to whatever request he had in mind. Instead, he surprised her by looking at her directly, his sharp features softened by something that resembled... supplication.

“I have come to realize,” he began, arms clasped behind his back, as they moved towards the courtyard of the workshop “that my work is missing something. A vital component, one I believe only you can provide.”

Artanis’s eyes lit up with hope. Was he finally recognizing her skill then, her knowledge? Perhaps, at last, her uncle had seen her as an equal in the craft. She straightened her back, excitement warming her chest.

“Tell me,” she said eagerly, “what do you need?”

But Fëanor’s next words froze her in place.

“I am here to ask for a strand of your hair.”

She stopped mid-step, her chest tightening as disappointment surged within her. Of course. It wasn’t her skill, her wisdom, or her eye for beauty he sought - it was the light of her hair, her endlessly admired hair, that he desired. How foolish of her to believe it otherwise.

“I know I have no right to ask this-”

“That’s not stopping you from doing it though, is it?” Her voice was tense as she struggled to mask the sting of her disillusionment.

“No,” he admitted, meeting her gaze with surprising honesty. “You are right.”

For a long moment, she studied him, her chest swelling with indignation. How dare he? 

But then she exhaled slowly, her shoulders softening as she looked at Fëanor. Against every instinct, she forced herself to pause, to think beyond her immediate anger and indignation.

Her pride urged her to deny him outright, to refuse to give even a single strand of herself to someone who sought something so fragile as her beauty rather than her mind. But after all, she was no stranger to his ambition, and to some degree, she understood it. What would denying him accomplish beyond a fleeting satisfaction of her pride?

Perhaps, she thought, it was possible to surrender a piece of herself - not in defeat, but in purpose. Her pride would not be diminished by this act; rather, it would be transformed, elevated. If she could give him this gift, if she could be the missing piece that brought his work to life, perhaps she could create more than a momentary victory for herself. Perhaps she could give away a little bit of her indignation in the purpose of forging something greater: understanding, unity. 

And so, with a long, steady breath, she let the fortress of her pride lower. It felt like stepping beyond a boundary she had drawn long ago to protect herself. 

No. This is not what happened.

From the pocket of her apron, she drew a small, dull blade. Her hand reached for a hidden lock of hair, tucked away in the thick waves at the back of her head, one that would go unnoticed by others. With one clean, decisive motion, she cut it free and held it out to him, the golden strands gleaming softly in the light.

"Take it," she said simply.

Fëanor looked utterly astonished. For a moment, his face was frozen in disbelief. Then, slowly, that astonishment melted into something more primal - a wild, unrestrained joy that seemed to radiate from him. His eyes shone with an intensity that took Artanis aback, a brilliance so fierce it seemed as if the light of Arien herself burned within them. It was the kind of wild gleam that might belong to a star, bright and untouchable.

“Artanis, I... I don’t know how to thank you.” His voice trembled slightly, and as he stepped closer, his hands left the safety of his back to rest gently, almost reverently, on her shoulders. “Thank you, my niece. Truly.”

As his words faded, visions began to unfold before her, vivid and strange, as if she were peering into another world:

Fëanor teaching her the secrets of the griffin setting, a technique stronger and simpler than the one she had struggled with. Fëanor emerging from the halls of King Finwe’s palace, radiant with pride, holding aloft breathtaking jewels reminiscent of Artanis’s hair. Before their gathered family, he embraced her in an uncharacteristic display of affection, declaring that it was her gift that had perfected his creation.

Years passed in front of her, and Artanis herself became a legend among her people - a master smith whose name was spoken alongside Fëanor and his son Curufin. Together, they had transformed the art of smithing, teaching others and pushing the craft to heights previously unimaginable.

She saw Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finarfin standing united before the Valar, accusing Lord Melkor of spreading discord among their family. She saw her brothers returning home with news: Lord Melkor had been returned to Mandos, his deceit unmasked before all of Aman before he could do any real damage.

She saw King Finwe hosting a grand feast with Manwe, a celebration of peace and prosperity spreading across Valinor like the light of the Trees itself.

And at the center of it all was Fëanor, no longer consumed by the brilliance of his own creation, but sharing it - cherishing it - not as his alone, but as a gift.

When Artanis woke, her back was pressed against the door of her cell, and her cheek was wet with a single, silent tear. The intensity of her dream overwhelmed her completely, leaving her breathless as she blinked into the dim light of the room. She hadn’t cried - not once - since she had arrived in Angband.

But that single tear felt as though it had broken a dam within her.

Before she could stop herself, her body was wracked with sobs, and the sound of her cries filled the empty room, echoing off the stone walls. The pain in her chest was so sharp, so all-encompassing, it felt as though it might tear her apart from the inside. She clutched at her heart as if the pressure there might kill her, the grief threatening to swallow her whole.

She had kept herself from thinking about her family, from letting her mind wander to her brothers, her parents, even her uncle and cousins.

Were they mourning her now, assuming she was dead? Or had someone seen her being dragged from Formenos against her will, taken into these forsaken lands? Had anyone dared even consider following Melkor, challenging him, to save her?

But it wasn’t just thoughts of her family that opened the wound in her heart, that tore at her so mercilessly in this wretched hour.

It was also the future she had glimpsed - the future she had stopped from existing. A future made possible by her actions in the dream. Or rather, by her failure to act in life.

If only, that day, she hadn’t pushed Fëanor away. If only she hadn’t screamed at him, letting her fury loose in words so cruel they had burned the fragile bridge between them. If only, instead of storming back to Tirion in defiance, she had stayed. If she had chosen compassion over pride, understanding over indignation. If she had shown him gratitude, rather than scorn.

But she hadn’t.

And her uncle, brilliant and proud, had unraveled over the years and the decades, consumed by his unrelenting fire and the weight of his own ambition. He had fought a constant battle within himself, wrestling between what was right and what his heart craved, and she had left him to fight it alone. She had set him in the perfect position for Melkor to take advantage of him.

Her failure to act had set everything in motion - she could see it clearly now. The fracture of their family, the strife, the heartbreak that now seemed to echo in her own chest, reverberating through time. 

As she sat there on the cold floor, the tears continued to fall, pouring out of her as if they might drown the ache within. But no amount of weeping could take away the truth.

She had chosen pride over connection. Short-term indignation against the long-term greater good. And the cost had been everything.

The same indignation that now kept her rooted to the ground, weighed down by hunger, seemed to mock her resolve. She could feel the sharp contours of her cheeks pulling against her cheekbones, her skin stretched thin over her face. When her gaze occasionally caught the mirror, she saw nothing but a pale shadow of what she once was - a specter, hollow and unrecognizable.

But letting herself die served no purpose.

Mairon was right.

Enduring for the sake of enduring would not set her free. And indignation often carried a cost that was not worth bearing, the dream had reminded her of that. It was not for herself that she needed to survive. Perhaps survival itself could be a means to an end, an act of rebellion - not surrender.

And so, more than a month after her arrival in Angband, Artanis rose unsteadily to her feet, and made her way to the dining hall. There, she resolved to accept what she had resisted for so long, taking the food that sat waiting for her.

-------------------------------------------------

After that day in the dining hall, Mairon did not come to see her for a long time.

For a while, she even questioned whether he was still in Angband. Not that she longed for his company, specifically. But no matter how accustomed Artanis was to solitude, even she was not impervious to the wear of going entire weeks without speaking to another being. It chipped away at her, piece by piece, in ways she hated to acknowledge.

Resigned to the thought that Melkor - wherever he was, in whatever condition -was clearly in no rush, comfortable in the knowledge that he had all eternity to torment her, Artanis eventually gave in. Mairon, too, seemed content to remain absent, and with no one else to break the oppressive silence, she surrendered, step by step, to the space she had been given. The prison never felt less of a cage but she accepted that it was a gilded one, at that.

Bathing for the first time was nothing short of paradise. After countless days spent lying against cold stone floors, wooden boards, or rough walls, staring into nothingness, the sensation of warm water on her skin felt almost divine. She had sat in the bath until her fingertips pruned, her body soaking in the heat that melted away the ache in her muscles.

Dressing in clean, comfortable clothes was another small but undeniable relief. She could no longer justify putting on her old, tattered garments, sticky with sweat and filth, so she threw them into the fire. Watching the flames consume them, she felt a strange mix of disgust and catharsis.

And the bed. Oh, the bed.

The first time she allowed herself to collapse onto its soft mattress, a sound escaped her lips - a low, involuntary moan of pleasure that she instantly hated herself for. It was disgraceful, shameful even, but she couldn’t deny the sheer, overwhelming relief of sinking into its comfort.

Eru, forgive me, she thought bitterly, her cheeks flushing as if the Valar themselves had witnessed her weakness.

But despite these small transgressions, these tiny pockets of pleasure, her mind showed no signs of progress. The darkness within her thoughts grew heavier with each passing day, like shadows creeping steadily closer, wrapping tighter around her. Her dreams followed suit, becoming darker, stranger, until they felt less like rest and more like torment.

In her dreams, it was as though her inner turmoil bled through the edges, staining everything she saw.

Some dreams replayed memories of her past life, moments she had once cherished, but even those began to lose their brilliance. The oppressive gray of the fortress seemed to seep into them, dulling their vibrant colors, blurring their once-clear outlines. What had once been vivid recollections— warm afternoon in Tirion, long walks by the riverbanks of the Túna - were now washed in lifeless monotones. The gardens of her youth, bright with flowers, wilted in her dreams, swallowed by an endless fog. The laughter of her brothers, her parents’ voices, even the brilliance of Yavanna's pastures - all of it faded under the weight of her subconscious despair.

The boundaries between her memories and the suffocating reality of Angband began to fray. It became harder and harder to separate what had been from where she was now. And with each dream, she felt herself slipping further into a place where even her most precious moments couldn’t offer solace.

She began waking up more exhausted than when she had slept, her chest heavy, her mind churning with a deep, aching unrest. The fortress was not content to imprison her body, it seemed - it had begun to encroach upon her soul.

And even when she was awake, there remained the question of how to occupy her time.

The hours stretched endlessly, each one bleeding into the next with no discernible change, no markers to measure their passing. The silence broken only by the occasional distant sound of movement elsewhere in the fortress - sounds she couldn’t place and didn’t yet want to investigate.

She tried to fill the void in small ways, though each effort felt hollow. 

Sometimes she rearranged the items in her cell, though their number was so limited that the task lasted mere moments. Other times, she tried to recall Elvish songs, humming under her breath, but the melodies sounded wrong here, their joyfulness crushed under the weight of the stone walls.

Reading would have been a refuge, but the empty bookshelves lining the walls outside her cell seemed to mock her (and perhaps that was on purpose too). The fortress seemed designed not only to confine her body but to starve her mind.

And so, much of her time was spent in restless pacing, tracing the same paths through her cell, her steps wearing invisible grooves into the floor. When she grew too tired to pace, she would sit by the unlit fire, staring into its cold hearth, her fingers absently tracing patterns on her knees.

One day, she decided she had enough.

She unsheathed her brother’s knife, the familiar sensation of holding it in her hand reassuring her to some degree, and made her way toward one of the rougher halls at the far end of her floor. The room was sparsely furnished, its purpose unclear, but what caught her attention was a wooden and unremarkable bench, sitting against one of the walls.

Artanis had never been particularly fond of woodwork. But wood would have to suffice. It wasn’t about love for the craft - it was about passing the time. About occupying her restless hands before her mind unraveled completely.

With methodical precision, she set to work.

She began by dismantling the bench, one piece at a time. First, she removed the legs, slicing through the joints where the wood had been joined.

Once the legs were separated, she turned her attention to the bench’s body. The plank of wood that had once served as its seat was wide and thick, offering her options for what it could become. She split it down the middle, her knife carving through it in clean, sharp strokes. The sound of the wood yielding to her blade was satisfying, the shavings curling at her feet like fallen leaves.

By the time she set her mind, the bench was nothing more than splinters and scraps. She had chosen a smooth, solid piece of wood from the pile, to start.

The comb was a simple idea.

After all, it was a necessity as well, for she had not been given one. It was with great satisfaction that Artanis had made note of all the small things Melkor hadn't think of. And it was a low-hanging fuit as well, a small thing she was sure she could make that would restore both some semblace of order to her appearance and her sense of self.

The teeth of the comb were the hardest part. She used the tip of the knife to carve narrow slits into the wood, careful not to press too hard and risk snapping the delicate tines.

Once the comb was completed, it provided her with a new, equally useless pastime: testing different hairstyles. It was a ridiculous, utterly meaningless activity, but it kept her hands occupied, her mind focused - if only because some of the braiding patterns were intricate enough to demand concentration.

Still, distraction was never enough.

So she returned to the scene of the crime, determined to embark on a more ambitious project.

A sheath for a dagger.

This task proved far more difficult than carving a simple comb.

She had to experiment with different techniques - testing, adjusting, failing. More benches met their untimely end in her pursuit of the right method, their wood splintered and discarded in frustration. But over time, she began to understand the craft, her hands learning the feel of the material, the way it needed to be shaped to hold a blade securely.

Now, seated on the floor of the main hall, the dagger resting against her palm, she was refining its wooden sheath. The exterior had to be smooth, every imperfection sanded away so that she could begin carving the details into its surface.

“What offense did that poor bench commit to deserve such a fate?"

From the entrance to the hall, Mairon stood watching her, arms crossed over his chest. His voice carried the same wry edge it always did, but this time, it didn’t make her flinch.

She didn’t look up immediately, the knife still poised in her hand as she finished polishing the sheat. For some reason, she had known he would appear. 

It was a strange, inexplicable feeling, a kind of foreboding that had settled over her as she began working that day.

“I am sure it won’t be missed,” she said evenly, her tone almost indifferent. “I have simply put it to better use.”

Her knife made a final pass over the wood, smoothing the last stubborn rough edge. She placed the sheath beside her and finally turned her head to meet Mairon’s gaze. 

He was leaning casually against the doorframe now, one eyebrow arched as his eyes studied her work. This time, it was clear that wherever he had come from, he had been playing the role of a Lieutenant. He wasn’t wearing armor - not exactly - but his attire was unmistakably reinforced. The fabric of his tunic was thick, layered in places with subtle padding, and his shoulders were adorned with pauldrons, giving him a commanding presence.

Mairon carried himself differently, too: as he moved, she realized his posture more rigid, his usual ease replaced by a more containted expression. 

He didn’t quite sit beside her, but lowered himself onto his knees, his gaze fixed on her work. He reached out a hand - not to take, merely hovering just above the wooden sheath. “May I?”

Artanis eyed him warily, certain that this was nothing more than another opportunity to mock her. But, irritated by her own hesitation, she obliged him anyway. Without a word, she placed the sheath into his outstretched hand.

Mairon stood as he turned it over in his grip, inspecting the craftsmanship with an expression that gave little away. With a flick of his free hand, the fire at the heart of the room flared to life, casting shifting light over the carved wood. He studied it in silence for a few minutes before handing it back.

“Mmh. Not too bad, I’d say.”

Artanis exhaled sharply through her nose and pushed herself to her feet, resigned to the fact that she had been interrupted. 

And what was she supposed to do now, anyway?

The absurdity of the situation struck her, a bitter laugh turning in her mind. The idea that she might, in some ludicrous twist of civility, offer Mairon a seat, as if she were still the lady of a great house entertaining a guest, was almost too much to bear. It seemed that a Noldorin noblewoman could be taken from her court, but the manners of the court could never quite be taken from her.

"How have you been?", she asked instead.

That was the most stupid question she could ask.

The moment the words left her mouth, she realized how utterly stupid they were. Of all the things she could have said, that was what she chose? She rapidly became acutely aware of how out of practice she was when it came to interacting with others. She almost wished she could take it back, but it was too late. The words hung between them, ridiculous and irretrievable. 

Mairon looked equally caught off guard. His lips parted slightly, his tongue darting out to wet them - an unconscious gesture that, had it been anyone else, Artanis might have taken for embarrassment. She heard him exhale, a quiet sigh that carried something between amusement and disbelief.

"Gods, have things gotten that dire? If you’re making polite conversation with me, you must truly be at your wit’s end."

Mairon’s lips curled but his eyes remained searching, as if assessing just how deeply solitude had unraveled her. Artanis exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers into the wooden sheath still clutched in her hand. She had walked straight into this, and she knew it.

“Well,” she said, her voice dry, “I could ask what brings you here, but I suspect you wouldn’t dignify me with an honest answer right away.”

“Perceptive as always,” Mairon mused. He took a step forward, sitting in the armchair as if he were humorously indulging her attempt at civility. “But I will say, had known you’d be so civil, I might have returned sooner - perhaps even brought a bottle of wine. Proper hospitality, you know.”

Artanis tilted her head slightly, weighing his words. I might have returned sooner.

So he had been gone, she was right. It was as she had suspected.

And now he had returned dressed for war. 

She let the silence linger between them for a moment before saying, “You weren’t here.”

Mairon’s expression didn’t change but it was clear that he had let the information slip in his hurry to tease her.

“And if I wasn’t?” he asked, clearly daring her to press further.

“Then it means this isn’t where you spend all your time.”

He exhaled, clearly finding something funny in what she said. “Did you imagine I sat outside your door these past weeks, waiting for you to make conversation?”

“No,” she admitted, slightly embarassed at the suggestion, "But even now, I suspect you are not here just to check on my well-being, or offer conversation or inquire whether I need more wood for my carving endeavors".

Mairon glanced down at the scattered remains of the dismantled bench. "If nothing else, you seem to be making yourself quite at home. Shall I have more furniture delivered for you to repurpose?”

The remark, regardless of how light it had been delivered, still struck something raw.

It touched an exposed nerve - a wound of pride, of resentment, of the quiet shame that came with finding ways to exist in this place. But she had decided, many weeks prior, that she would not punish herself for the simple act of survival.

So she lifted her chin, meeting his gaze without flinching, a bit of exasperation rising in her throat. “Why are you here, Mairon?”

If Mairon had expected her to bristle, to deny or defend herself, he masked his disappointment well. Instead, his amusement shifted into something more contemplative.

"I have been instructed to bring you this."

Mairon’s tone didn't change but something in the way he withdrew a wooden case from his tunic made Artanis uneasy. He didn’t present it to her immediately. Instead, he took his time, turning it over in his hands for a moment, his fingers gliding over the surface as if weighing the moment before unveiling its contents.

Then, with a flick of the latch, he opened it.

Inside, nestled against dark velvet, lay a circlet of metal so polished it gleamed like liquid silver. Artanis could tell immediately - it had only just been made. The surface was untouched, the edges precise, the luster of the metal still carrying that unnaturally pristine quality that belonged to something freshly shaped, freshly tempered. It was not a not a thing of history. It was new.

And it was perfect.

Her knowing eye took in the details instinctively - the seamless curves, the balance of weight, the almost unnatural smoothness of the metal. It bore no unnecessary embellishments, no engravings to soften its stark beauty. 

But something about it unsettled her.

It wasn’t until Mairon shifted the case slightly, angling it toward the firelight, that she saw it.

The circlet was empty. 

Three empty spaces were carved into it.

Because it was meant to hold three gems that Mairon did not have - nor could he ever touch.

Her breath stilled. The weight of understanding sank into her. And it felt as if his cold fingers had find their way to her throat, even from a distance. 

Without thinking, she took a step back.

Mairon barely seemed to notice - or perhaps, he had expected it. He exhaled, tilting his head slightly as if gauging how long it would take for her to speak. When she didn’t, he simply continued. "My orders are to bring you before Lord Melkor tomorrow, and he expects you to wear this. And, well, the Silmarils. Setting them shouldn’t be a complicated process - all it takes is lifting the prongs and-”

“The setting will need adjustment, eventually” Artanis interrupted, her voice cold and matter-of-fact, as though discussing an impersonal commission at her uncle's forge in Tirion. “If the mounts were cast in advance, the tension will be uneven. The metal will have hardened differently at each point of pressure, and if I simply lift the prongs without annealing them first, the structure will be compromis-”

She stopped abruptly. The words had been a reflex. Mechanical. Automatic.

And the response had been too quick, too detached, as if it had bypassed thought entirely. It was only when she heard herself speak that she realized what had happened.

She was dissociating.

Panic had buried itself somewhere deep inside her, manifesting not in trembling hands or breathless gasps, but in a chilling, detached technicalities. Her mind had taken the path of least resistance - retreating into the cold, calculated focus of a craft she understood in order to make sense of what she could't.

The circlet in the box. The metal. The setting. The work.

Only then did she register Mairon’s face - a puzzled expression passing over his face, as though she had answered a question he hadn’t actually asked. As if, despite all his calculations, this had not been factored in.

For a heartbeat, he seemed stalled. Then, just as quickly, he recomposed himself, and with an almost imperceptible sigh, he closed the box with a quiet click.

“Well, for now, it will have to do,” he concluded.

Artanis forced herself to breathe evenly but said nothing. He hadn’t expected this reaction from her, clearly. Nor did she. 

Mairon tilted his head slightly once again before raising, leaving the box on the armchair for her. He seemed to consider her for a moment longer before leaving the room.

“One day, I will ask you how exactly you knew all of that.”

But not today, clearly. Today, it seemed, he had other matters to attend to. And it didn't sound like a threat. 

He took a step toward the door, before adding over his shoulder “When it's time, I will return to fetch you".

And with that, he turned and left.

To where, Artanis didn’t know.

--------------------------------------

**

Artanis stood in the center of the room.

Her eyes moved over the destruction around her - a bookshelf completely shattered, shards of glass scattered across the floor, a desk now resembling little more than a pile of firewood, entire pages torn from their bindings and strewn in disarray.

In the distance, the murmur of celebration still echoed from the halls of King Finwë’s palace, from where she had come, following him as he escaped the halls to recover from the sight of Fëanor's jewels.

Before her, Melkor watched her, his gaze severe, burning. His body flickered at the edges, caught between shadow and substance.

“Do you think your pitiful goodness could soothe me, or hold back the fury that consumes me?” he asked, and his voice was raw, jagged, dangerous. He took a step forward.

And then, before she could answer, before she could even move, he struck.

Not with a blow, but with his body.

Melkor did not move like a Elf. He did not move like any creation of Eru Ilùvatar.

The force of him sent her crashing against the wall in an instant. 

Artanis’s breath stilled, caught between the icy press of stone at her back and the unnatural heat of him - heat and power that pressed flush against her, solid where he had only moments ago been shifting shadow. She had no time to resist, no space to retreat.

His hands weren’t on her - not yet - but she could feel the weight of his restraint, the controlled violence coiled beneath the surface of him, the fury that did not seek to harm but to consume.

The wreckage of the room around them blurred, forgotten. 

For a moment, there was only this. The fire in his eyes, the heat between them, the inevitability of his desire.

She should have been afraid.

Instead, her breath came faster, her pulse thrumming in her throat, something deep inside her tightening like a wire pulled taut.

He was there, and then he was closer, the sharp planes of his face all she could see, the gleam of his teeth showing behind sligtly parted lips. It was as if the space between them had simply ceased to exist.

And in his eyes - Eru above.

There was something bottomless in them, not fire but something deeper, something hungrier, as though they could devour the very light that had dared to meet them.

"You, you do soothe me," he confessed sweetly, his voice too low in her ear. His breath ghosted over her cheek, close enough that her pulse quickened before she could stop it. "And perhaps, you are right, I could let something other than fury consume me. Is that why you are here, Artanis?"

Artanis swallowed hard at his words, forcing stillness into her limbs. Her hands pressed against the hard plane of his chest, but it was like pushing against stone.

"No," she bit out, knowing it was a lie.

It's not a lie.

His lips curved - not a smile, not really, something else, something that made the air around her feel thin, drained.

"No?"

The movement was so slow, so inevitable, that she did not register it until it was already happening - his fingers, cold at first and then burning, pressing lightly beneath her chin, tilting her head back, guiding her into his gaze.

"You deny it," he murmured, almost contemplative, his thumb dragging the faintest path over her pulse as he moved down her throat. "Yet your body sings a different song for me."

That's not true. 

A tremor - small, so small she could have sworn it wasn’t hers - ran through her limbs. And Melkor purred, long and slow, his lips tilting as if he was savoring a battle he had already won.

He dipped his head, the space between them dwindling to nothing, and Artanis barely had a moment to inhale before his lips brushed her throat.

A shadow of contact, a thing felt more than touched, and yet it sent a deep, terrible shudder through her, something primal and unwilling rising beneath her skin, between her legs. A terrible sound, a small moan, escaped her lips.

Then, slowly, his other hand moved.

Not to her face, not to her jaw, but lower - trailing the length of her arm before ghosting over the curve of her waist.

No. This did not happen. It did not go this way.

His fingers traced the edge of her hip, his palm smoothing over the fabric of her dress, then-

Lower. 

And lower.

He did not stop.

Slowly, inexorably, his hand slipped beneath the heavy folds of fabric, fingertips grazing the bare skin of her thigh, dragging upward in a slow ascent. 

The heat of his palm seared into her skin where he touched, his knuckles skimming closer - closer - to where she ached for him, but still, he held back. 

It was unbearable how lightly he did it. How he let the moment stretch, swell, until she was trembling under the weight of everything he wasn’t doing.

His breath ghosted over her throat again, lips so close to hers she could almost taste them, his presence an unbearable gravity that threatened to pull her under.

But he did not take. He did not force.

He waited.

He let her feel it, the deliberate patience of a predator savoring the moment before the inevitable.

And then, it was too much.

With a shuddering breath, Artanis snapped.

Her hands fisted in his tunic as she crashed against him, pressing herself into his body, tilting her head up, seeking, demanding. Her lips found his with the force of something long denied, something ravenous, her breath breaking against his mouth in something between a sigh and a gasp.

It didn't go this way.

And yet - it felt real.

And he kissed her back.

His lips felt like sin, like something she should have recoiled from, something forbidden, but they held her in place. There was no hesitation in the way he kissed her, no testing of boundaries. 

He took. He devoured. And yet, it was not brutal. The way his mouth moved against hers felt like he knew her, like he had always known how she would yield beneath him.

The hand on her throat moved, fingers dragging along her skin before they curled behind her head, threading through her hair. Not holding her still, but merely supporting her. 

It was not a demand. He expected no resistance, as everything he needed had already been given.

And then - his tongue.

His lips parted against hers in a slow, starving drag, his tongue slipping past the seam of her mouth to taste her, sending fire coiling through her spine. 

He tasted like glory, like ruin, like something too vast to name. 

And worse - she felt like she belonged there. With him.

As her body responded, his grip tightened in kind, fingers flexing against her skin, dragging her closer, pressing her into the hard line of his body as he deepened the kiss, as he swallowed every breath she tried to take, every thought she might have formed.

His mouth was relentless, drawing her into something darker, until the space between them was gone entirely and there was nothing left but their bodies and the slow, intoxicating give and take of lips and breath and hunger.

This did not happen, came a voice in the back of her head. Her own voice.

She felt divine.

No - in that moment, she was divine.

He kissed her like she was something meant to be worshipped and ruined in the same breath. Like a holy thing desecrated at its own altar and yet worthy of his devotion. And Eru help her, her body arched against him, as if she had always been waiting for this moment. 

For him.

No.

He kissed her like she was his, in a rythm designed to keep her aching - not to break, not to steal, but because she always had been. 

No, this is not real.

And yet, her body did not listen.

His fingers continued their slow ascent, dragging fire over her skin, traced the sensitive curve of her inner thigh, dangerously close to where the heat between her legs was betraying her. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, her mind splitting in two - one part feeling everything, the other screaming at her to stop.

The voice at the back of her mind, the one that had been whispering in protest, now grew louder. No. Stop this. Stop him.

And then, as his fingers finally reached the point where she could feel herself pooling - where her need throbbed with a desperate, aching pulse - the thought finally willed itself into existence.

"No!"

The single word tore through the haze of heat and want, piercing the veil that had clouded her mind, her voice finally finding shape.

And with a sudden, desperate surge, she wrenched herself free, hands shoving hard against his chest, breaking the hold he had over her.

The illusion shattered.

The chamber around them twisted, warped, like something cracking inward, and for a moment, it felt as if she might wake... But Melkor did not disappear.

Melkor only staggered back, not in anger, but in something worse. His eyes blazing with a satisfaction that twisted her insides,

And then - he laughed.

A quiet, dark chuckle, low in his throat, dripping with a dark kind of amusement.

"Oh, Artanis, right at the best part," he murmured, his voice slow, indulgent. And with finality, he declared: "Your passion is bound to me, little flame. We are fated. "

**

And it struck her - that this was not a figment of her imagination.

This was not the Melkor of her memories. Not the one consumed by fury, by the madness that had seized him the first time he had laid eyes upon the Silmarils.

This was Melkor victorious.

Not the one of her past. Not the one of her fears. 

And before she could react, before she could hurl herself at him, before she could claw at his face, before she could tear herself free...

A knock at the door.

The sound ripped through the last tendrils of the dream, dragging her violently back into her body. She gasped awake, heart hammering against her ribs, her skin damp with sweat.

And she knew.

The Melkor who had just haunted her dreams was the same Melkor she was about to be brought before.

The one who was waiting.

Chapter Text

It would have been understandable if Artanis had been afraid.

If she had been consumed by despair. If he had found her paralyzed by anguish, her face streaked with tears - a wretched, diminished thing, like a creature caught in a hunter’s snare, fully aware that it was being led to slaughter. Even if, as had become increasingly and irritatingly evident, she was not meant to be slaughtered. At least, not immediately, and not in the literal sense.

But when the wooden door groaned open, he found no broken, trembling thing awaiting him.

No. Before Mairon stood a flame.

It burned wild and terrible, flickering with raw, untamed wrath.

He could see it even in the Unseen World - the outline of her spirit seething, igniting the very air around her. A blaze so fierce that, for a fleeting instant, he almost believed it might consume her from within, burn her to cinders by the sheer force of its heat. Her eyes burned like a fever dream, her pupils dilated, wild with something perilously close to madness. Her expression was twisted, but not with pain, not with fear, as he might have expected. It was a silent snarl, her lips curled back over clenched teeth.

She looked feral. Disheveled. Wild.

Had he not been absolutely certain that neither Orcs nor wolves had prowled these halls, he might have thought she had fought them off with her bare hands.

For her hair was tangled, falling in unruly waves down her back, framing the sharp planes of her face, strands clinging inelegantly to her damp skin. Her cheeks were flushed but not with embarrassment, nor even exertion, but with something deeper, as if something within her were overheating and burning itself from the inside out.

She looked... Well, she looked exactly as someone might after a fight. Except she was not dressed properly for combat.

In fact, she was not dressed properly at all.

When she had flung open the door at his summons, he had assumed she had been waiting. It would not have been unthinkable - that in her anguish, she had been unable to sleep, that she had remained upright on the edge of the bed, rigid and watchful, prepared to answer the moment he called.

Instead, it was now abundantly clear that she had been sleeping, because now she stood before him in a nightgown.

And not just any nightgown. A thing of barely-there fabric, one that clung in all the wrong ways, one that left entirely too little to the imagination. Entirely unsuitable not only for their impending destination but, as far as he could discern, for any practical purpose whatsoever. Except, presumably, for sleep. And, naturally - of course, just as he had expected - neither the circlet nor the Silmarils were anywhere in sight.

Mairon exhaled slowly. He gestured toward her, lazily drawing an invisible line from the crown of her head to her bare feet, forcing his gaze to hover over her form only as much as necessary, before he began to ask, "Is there any particular reason-"

"Hold your tongue."

Her voice was raw, hoarse, as though she had spent the last hour screaming into the walls. Which, had she done so, he would have known. Mairon knew everything that happened within Angband.

"I will not indulge your nonsense."

Ah. So the fury was genuine.

Ordinarily, despite her defiance, the Elf tolerated him.

He had wondered at the reason for it and found no single answer. Perhaps, trapped as she was in the corner where Melkor had driven her, even a lesser cruelty like his might seem like mercy by comparison.

And if his impulse to provoke her had first arisen from a tangle of emotions - disdain, irritation, boredom - it had, in time, become something else entirely, something overall harmless. Because he had come to understand this much: the creature before him would never grant him the satisfaction of breaking in anger. She bristled, yes - her spirit flared at every slight, every provocation - but she did not crack, did not lash out in the way he had once anticipated. Instead, she endured. And worse, she endured with the kind of composure that turned his efforts hollow, as if every taunt, every slight, was nothing more than a pebble cast into an abyss.

It was not resignation - never that. She fought him, always. But she fought him from the unshaken height of the high horse she seemed perfectly at ease riding, refusing to descend to his level. And the more he tried, the more he came to realize that she would never grant him the satisfaction of lowering herself for the sake of wounding him in return.

And yet, now... What, in the Void’s name, could have reduced her to this?

A few hours ago, she had been fine. Not well, of course - that would have been impossible under the circumstances. That had been the design, after all. But well enough.

This was not the same Artanis he had left behind, restlessly tormenting a perfectly serviceable bench to stave off the boredom of captivity. Something had clearly happened. And though Mairon had a general idea of what it might have been, this - this was not the reaction he had anticipated.

"You have come to take me to your Master, haven’t you?" she snapped, breaking the silence his scrutiny had stretched between them. She took a step forward. "Then let’s go. Let’s be done with it."

She didn’t reach for a cloak. Didn’t put on shoes. Didn’t make the slightest move to correct anything about her utterly inappropriate state.

She simply crossed the threshold. Or at least, she tried.

Mairon did not move aside. On the contrary, he shifted, planting himself in her path until the doorway was entirely blocked. And that was when he saw it, the almost imperceptible twitch of the vein at her temple, pulsing with sharp irritation. She was restraining herself, quite visibly.

"Slow down, Princess," he instructed, impassive in the face of the storm raging before him. "First, I don't see you wearing the circlet, as requested. Second, you are in no state to present yourself before-"

"You were sent to bring me to him, were you not?" she cut in, voice clipped. "Here I am. Take me to him."

She lifted her chin, blue eyes as cold as tempered steel. And then, she added, "It’s nothing your Master hasn’t seen before."

At those words, Mairon stilled, one brow arched in silent inquiry.

He could have taken the remark at face value, dismissed it as nothing more than brazen recklessness, the kind of empty bravado born from a madness that did not concern him. In most circumstances, he would have. He had no patience for dissecting the whims of lesser minds, not when their answers so rarely warranted the effort. But this clawed at him immediately.

Because Mairon was a creature of calculation, of patterns, of understanding things. And inconsistencies - especially ones as glaring as this - unnerved him.

He revised the facts.

Artanis had vehemently rejected his previous insinuations about her and Melkor. She had lashed out at him - just as she did now - denying the implication, recoiling from his suggestions about the nature of the relationship between them. The sheer force of her indignation, the expression on her face - like the very idea repulsed her to her core - had been so fierce that even Mairon had been forced to believe her.

Not that it should have mattered to him. It was not his concern. It should never have been his concern. What he and Melkor shared was beyond such trivialities - beyond pettiness, beyond anything as small as possession or rivalry. And yet... Somewhere deep within him, in a place wretched and insignificant, he had felt something almost akin to relief when she had dismissed it outright. When he had been able to push the thought aside, relegate her to irrelevance, dispel the notion altogether.

But what she had just said... And not it was not only what she had said, but how she had said it. Her tone was flat, cold. Dismissive even. As if that was a mere detail of little consequence.

The same prudish Elf who had once blushed to the roots of her hair at the mere prospect of riding beside him, who had stiffened at the vaguest mention of proximity, now marched practically half-naked to stand before Melkor as if that did not matter. Ignoring, or perhaps simply not caring - so utterly consumed by her fury that it no longer even registered - that Mairon, and all of Angband, would see her as well.

That was… a contradiction. And Mairon despised contradictions. His frown was faint, but it was there.

After all, he knew his master. Intimately. 

He understood Melkor’s appetites, the way his impulses coiled and struck, his insatiable need to take, to claim, to consume all that he desired. Because that was what Melkor did. He took.

It was an art, truly. A balance of subtlety and brute force: the way he ensnared what he wanted, threading himself through it until his will had already reshaped the world around him long before anyone realized they had yielded.

And yet, Artanis did not lie. That, Mairon had come to understand about her. She was bound - burdened, really - by an insufferable sense of right and wrong. A compass she carried lodged deep in her chest, guiding her every word, every action. For a creature such as her, lying was not merely distasteful; it was wrong and inconceivable. And if there was one thing he could - despite himself - respect, perhaps even admire, it was a mind rigidly bound to a precise order of how things should or should not be. Even if that order was naïve and short-sighted. Primitive. Even if it was wrong.

But then something did not add up. Had he miscalculated?

His mind swept through the variables, rearranging the pieces of the puzzle, searching for coherence within the chaos. He was on the verge of unraveling it, of tracing the hidden implications buried in her words-

When Artanis moved. Fast. Faster than he expected. And with more strength than any Elf of her frame had the right to possess. She shoved him aside, hurling herself into the corridor, a creature of pure, burning determination... Only to halt, so suddenly it was almost graceless, as the reality of her situation caught up with her.

Because she had no idea where she was going.

Mairon saw the realization flash across her face in real time. Impulsive, he noted. Duly filed away.

He exhaled slowly and followed. Measured steps, unhurried, in sharp contrast to the frantic heat of her actions, to the way she had tried to seize control of the moment and had found herself floundering in the wake of its failure. He did not reach for her, did not force her to stop - he had no need. Instead, he let the silence stretch, watching - waiting - to see what she would do.

She did not turn. She did not even acknowledge him.

Most would have. Most would have felt the weight of his scrutiny, the unsettling press of his presence, and would have turned to face him. Or, at the very least, they would have hesitated, stiffened, cast their eyes downward. A lesser creature would have felt shame. Would have faltered, mumbled an excuse, fumbled for some pathetic, futile attempt to correct their misstep.

But not her, not this odd Elf. Instead, she straightened.

Her shoulders pulled back, her chin lifted. It was a posture he had seen before, in warriors who knew they would not leave the battlefield alive but stood unbroken all the same.

"I said, take me to your Master".

Not a request. Not a plea. An order.

And in the way she said it, Mairon recognized something.

Something that had not been there the day before. Something that had not been there in all the days before that, too. This was not the voice of someone unraveling into submission, not the voice of a thing so worn down by fear and suffering that it would finally collapse under its own weight, crushed beneath inevitability.

No, while she stood on the precipice of breaking, it was not into surrender. If anything, it was the opposite.

There were those who, when cornered - when stripped of everything that had once made them whole - folded inward, brittle and spent, reduced to pleading, to compromise, to the pitiful refuge of resignation. And then there were those who, standing amid the wreckage of all they had been, did not yield, but turned instead to the only thing left to them: force.

And that, all of this, was what he saw before him now - a final, brutal attempt at exerting control. Because if she could not dictate the outcome, she could still dictate the manner in which she met it. If she was powerless to alter the course set before her - as Melkor had ensured she would be - then at the very least, she would not meet it with her head bowed. And that was what he heard in her voice now. And that, more than anything, arrested him.

She had turned, not to surrender, but to command.

Not because she expected obedience, but because there was nothing else left. Because something within her must have fractured - something vital, something delicate in a way she had likely never acknowledged until she felt the empty space it had left behind. And in that emptiness, in that sudden, gaping absence where once there had been certainty, she had to reach for a tool sharp enough to fill the void.

Mairon knew that impulse. Not the pain itself, not anymore. But he could see its shape, trace its outline, perceive it from a distance - but he could no longer remember what it felt like. Had not felt such things in longer than he could recall, had long since abandoned the weakness that came with suffering. That part of him had been seared away by the long centuries at Melkor’s side, eroded by the choices he had made, by the things he had cast aside in the pursuit of something greater.

But the response… Oh, that, he knew. The instinct to meet helplessness with force. The urge to seize command when the world threatened to slip from one’s grasp, to assert will not because it would change the inevitable, but because the alternative - admitting powerlessness - was unthinkable. And that, more than the fire in her eyes, more than the steel in her voice, was what held his attention now.

And so, even as he smirked, even as he tilted his head in mock indulgence, even as he gestured lazily for her to follow, playing the part of one who found her struggle entertaining rather than worthy of analysis - a sliver of something new slithered beneath his skin.

Something unfamiliar. Something nameless. Something that had no right to be there at all.

------------------------------------

Mairon did not need to tell her that they had arrived at Melkor’s throne room. The moment Artanis crossed the threshold, she knew.

The first thought that struck her, upon stepping inside, was that the deepest hall of Angband did not resemble a hall chamber at all - it was a temple.

Carved into the very bones of the mountain, vast beyond reason, its enormity defied all sense of proportion, stretching so far and high that it seemed less a construction than a wound torn into the earth itself.

The chamber was illuminated by the ceaseless glow of fire, flames roaring within immense pits carved along the edges of the hall, their light spilling over every surface - glinting off the smooth, marble-like sheen of the floors, catching in the carved recesses of the walls, highlighting with dreadful clarity details Artanis would have preferred were kept hidden in darkness. For lining the periphery of the room, there was an array of instruments. She did not need to inspect them closely to understand their purpose.

Torture devices, for the most part. Racks fitted with jagged gears, iron cages lined with spikes suspended by heavy chains, massive anvils stained with dark, rusted blotches that had unmistakably once been blood. Hooks hung from the ceiling, swaying faintly in the heat-heavy currents of air, their purpose evident. Her only comfort, if it could be called that, was that, at a glance, they seemed to be empty.

And yet, for all that the chamber reeked of suffering and ruin, it was not abandoned.

Figures stood along the perimeter, creatures similar to those she had seen elsewhere in Angband, and yet distinctly different in stature and bearing. Where the others had been hunched and toil-worn, these stood imperious, poised, clad in true armor and armed with weapons of war. It was a confirmation of what she had suspected. These creatures had their own will, they perceived the world around them.

Some watched her approach with cautious curiosity. Others, upon catching sight of Mairon, responded with crisp, disciplined salutes. And still others, at the mere sight of her, tightened their grip upon their weapons.

Artanis forced herself to keep walking ahead of Mairon. She was a prisoner, but she would not let him drag her inside like one.

And then - the throne came into view. And despite the unchecked fury roiling within her, her breath hitched at the sight of it.

Set beneath a towering column that seemed to anchor the entire hall, the throne itself was a grotesque work of iron and stone, blackened as though scorched by fire, its great backrest adorned with a macabre collection of skulls - arranged with meticulous precision, hollow sockets staring sightlessly over the chamber. Elven, for the most part. Her stomach twisted with revulsion. But not only Elven. Smaller forms, less distinguishable, were nestled among them. And stationed at either side, standing in unwavering guard, two creatures flanked the seat, each gripping a long, gleaming spear.

Artanis perceived him before she even saw him.

She had seen Melkor many times before. But never like this.

The aura that radiated from him now was utterly unlike the one she had felt in Valinor. Here, in the depths of Angband, he was in his element, enthroned within the dominion he had carved for himself. Here, he was not merely a God - he was the only God, a sovereign presiding over the subjects who lived and died at his command. His presence alone saturated the air with power.

He lounged upon the vast throne, one hand draped carelessly over the armrest while the other tapped idly against the iron surface, fingers encased in leather and metal. He had retained the form he had worn when she last saw him - when he had faced Ungoliant – immense and imperious. And yet, if in Valinor his garments had been a careful deception, woven finery and gilded adornments, befitting a figure of presumed elegance and wisdom in the court of the Noldor, here in Angband he was clad in open menace.

Over a base of dark velvet, he was wearing in a lightweight but imposing armor, the breastplate massive and intricately etched with elaborate patterns. A cloak, long as shadow itself, spilled over his massive shoulders, its heavy drape amplifying his already dominating presence. His hair, black as the wing of a raven, fell in thick, unbound waves beyond the edge of the cloak, partially veiling his armored shoulders.

To see him thus - enthroned in a sovereignty that would have inspired awe in anyone - only made it more astounding that the Valar had ever believed in the sincerity of his repentance.

How foolish they had been. How utterly blind to think that a being who had once commanded such power would ever accept a life of humility, that he would ever willingly walk in peace among those who had stripped him of his dominion.

They had barely set foot in the hall when Melkor’s gaze fell upon them.

She felt it before she met it: its oppressive, inescapable weight, as though his eyes alone could reach across the space between them and peel away the thin, fragile layers of her composure, stripping her down to the raw and trembling core beneath. That was why she no longer cared for pretense, why she had come as she was, half-clothed in her nightgown. He would look at her like this no matter what she wore, would lay her bare with that disgusting force, leaving her naked whether in body or in soul. Beneath its hunger, it was a gaze meant to reduce her, to remind her of her insignificance beneath its vast and all-consuming force. But if anything, it only stoked the fire in her blood.

She did not flinch beneath it. She did not slow. She moved faster. 

Her stride lengthened, fueled by something restless, reckless. Something burning so fiercely inside her that it felt as though the very stone beneath her feet had turned to embers, as though lingering even a moment longer would mean conceding something to him, something she refused to give. She felt no hesitation, because there was nothing left to lose beyond her own life.

Yes, she had expected torment at Melkor’s hands.

But this indignation - oh, this - was something more, something that burned through her veins like acid, something that curled at the base of her throat and forced bile to rise, something that made her nerves pulse beneath her skin as though they would burst from the sheer force of it. She could feel it within her, this electric, unbearable impulse, something vast and untenable unfolding inside her, an all-consuming feeling so immense that she felt the urgent, desperate need to expel it, to rid herself of it before it devoured her whole.

It was the agony of a wounded soul. A soul that had been stripped of everything it had, yes. But worse, still, a soul that had been denied something it had never possessed. And that was the cruelest theft of all. Because to lose what one had known, to be robbed of what had been held and cherished - there was grief in that, but there was also memory, the bitter comfort of knowing what had been taken.

But this, this was something else. This was absence made permanent, the irreversible loss of something unclaimed. He had stolen the shape of something that had not yet existed. It was the brutal fact that a piece of her story had been written without her consent, that a moment which should have been hers - should have belonged to no will but her own - had been taken before it had ever come to pass.

And even if she were to find it again, somewhere in the distant future, it would never be what it should have been.

It would never be first.

And as she forced herself to keep looking up, she saw the thief descending from the throne with the languid ease of a God who had never feared a reckoning, moving to meet her.

With every heartbeat, with every slow blink of her eyes, his form seemed to shift, returning to the form he held in Valinor. A form of power and terrible beauty, a presence designed to be believed, trusted, revered - a face that had once spoken with such exquisite wisdom that the sheer cadence of his voice could mask the stench of the corruption from which it was born.

And now, standing at the edge of the dais that separated the throne from the rest of the hall, he looked almost the same as he had then. If not for the crude severity of his war garments, he could have been the same figure who had once stood among her family beneath the light of the Trees, weaving truths and untruths so seamlessly that even the wisest among them had listened. There - at the base of the podium - that was where she should have stopped.

That was where anyone else would have stopped. Where Mairon - just beside her now, his presence a silent shadow at the periphery of her vision - had already lowered himself to his knees in reverence.

But she crossed the threshold without ceremony, without hesitation, stepping over the final barrier as though it were nothing, moving toward the dark god before her like an arrow loosed from the string.

And the hall responded to her transgression immediately.

The creatures flanking the throne stirred as one, a rippling movement of grotesque bodies coiling in anticipation, hands tightening around the hilts of weapons, limbs tensing with the barely restrained impulse to lunge, to tear, to rip apart the intruder who had dared violate the sanctity of their master's presence. She heard it, the grating of metal as spears lifted in unison, the scrape of iron-clad feet shifting against stone, the sharp, eager hiss of breath drawn between fanged maws. But the violence never came.

Because Melkor lifted a single finger, and in an instant, the hall stilled. Weapons were lowered. The creatures froze in perfect obedience, just mere moments from striking.

Not that it mattered, really. Because Artanis was still moving.

She perceived Mairon shiftinh behind her, felt the flicker of hesitation in his presence, the half-formed breath of warning barely beginning to escape his lips before it was already too late.

She was already upon him.

She lifted her hand, her fingers locking with rigidity, longing to tear rather than simply point. And yet, it was the only weapon she had, the only blade she could drive toward him, and so she thrust it forward, her arm cutting the air between them, her fingertip striking toward the center of his chest with the force of a dagger driven straight into a heart that she knew did not beat.

Anyone looking at her in that moment - anyone who did not already know the immutable, merciless laws of this world - might have believed that she thought it possible. That if she only reached deep enough, if she only willed it hard enough, if she only summoned something greater than herself, she could call forth the Music and unmake him where he stood. Her face was a portrait of unchained wrath, her features contorted with an intensity that could have been mistaken for madness if not for the clarity in her eyes.

"You-" she spat, her voice trembling with something deeper than furor, something so raw that it bled from her very breath. "You wretched, vile, loathsome creature-"

The words tore from her like a wound splitting open, like something being forcibly excavated from the marrow of her bones. They reeked of humiliation, of defilement. Of a violation so complete, so all-consuming, that it had left something missing inside her.

And at each syllable, she came closer to him. Closer than she had realized, closer than she had meant to be. Close enough to feel his breath against her skin. Close enough that when he laughed - because of course, of course he laughed - she felt it break against her fingers before she even saw it form on his lips. It was a sound that should not have existed in the face of what she had just given him. A cruel sound, born from what she knew was the amusement of someone who had never once, in all the eternity of his being, feared the wrath of a lesser creature.

"Artanis, Artanis," he intoned, taunting, utterly delighted by the sight before him, as though it was a thing to be savored. The way his eyes hesitated on her body nauseated her. "Is this how you greet an old friend, after so long?"

"YOU ARE NOT MY FRIEND," she snarled, the pounding in her ears so deafening it nearly drowned out her own voice, so consuming that even though she was close to shouting, it still did not seem enough.

"No," he exhaled, satisfied. "I am much more."

As she spoke, her finger struck against him again, again, as if it were a weapon, as if the sheer force of her accusation could pierce him where blades could not. The tip of her finger rebounded off the surface of his armor, then lifted again, this time toward his face, her hand trembling not with sheer force of what had been done to her.

"No, no!, you are a plague," she hissed. "A stain. An affliction, a—"

"Tsk-tsk-tsk," he tutted, shaking his head just slightly, not even a bit disappointed as his tone would have suggested.

And before she could retreat, before she even realized the trap had been laid, his gloved fingers closed effortlessly around her wrist. He had seized her hand, the one that had pointed at him as though it alone could drive her hatred into him. Without effort, without concern for her indignation or the eyes upon them, he lifted her hand to his lips.

"We both know the truth, child," he murmured against her knuckles, the words slithering lower now, shifting like a whisper pulled from the depths of the dream she had only just escaped.

Upon hearing them she flinched. The sound of his voice was different now, closer to the one that had wrapped around her in the darkness. A voice that had seeped into the corners of her mind, a voice that did not speak but coiled, tightening, waiting for its moment to strike. It was the hiss of a serpent winding itself around its prey.

"I am nothing but a hunger you refuse to name, a truth you dare not recognize," he mused, his lips brushing feather-light against her skin, an obscene parody of reverence, a mockery of devotion, "And the offer I made you in Tirion still stands, if only-"

The touch burned. Not with heat, but with something darker, winding through her ribs, clenching her from the inside out, making her own body retreat in instinctual revulsion.

 "No."

She did not hesitate nor she did allow herself the indulgence of shock. Not this time. She won't let pain turn into disgust, let disgust turn into distraction. She would not allow him to make her forget the depth of the wound beneath the rage.

"You are wrong."

She wrenched her hand back. Not enough to break his grip, obviously, but enough that he would feel the resistance, enough that he would know she was not retreating.

"I abhor you, Melkor."

And though the Vala gave no visible sign of reaction, though his expression did not waver, though his lips still hovered against the back of her hand in that imitation of fealty, she felt it. For less than a fraction of a second, he stopped.

"Yes, you may break me," she went on, locking her eyes into his, refusing to allow him the luxury of shaking her, refusing to flinch away. She spoke with the weight of a prophet carving truth into the very fabric of existence. "You may exploit and shatter my body, strip me of my strength, bend me beneath your will."

And then, slowly, she moved closer of her own volition. Because if there was one thing she had gained from her nightmare, it was this: she did not fear the intoxicating weight of his proximity anymore.

"You may haunt my dreams," she continued, as she drew nearer still, so near that the words passed between them like an oath, "Shape them as you please, twist even my own body against me until it betrays me."

She could feel the heat of him now, feel the pull of something ancient and relentless, the force of a being that had bent stars and darkened the sky.

 "You may take what you wish, force my hands to obey you, make my lips form words I do not believe." She was a breath away now, a sliver of space between them. She exhaled, slow and even, making sure each syllable struck its mark. "But you will never possess me, I will never be yours."

She let the words fall, one by one, like stones sinking into the depths of a vast and silent sea, vanishing into the places where even his dominion could not reach.

"Not in the way that matters. Not in my fëa. Not in my heart. Not in my spirit."

She wanted this truth to stand in the open, unchallenged, declared at least once before all who bore witness, at least once before Eru himself.

"Not in this world, not in this life, and not in any other. Because I have at least the comfort of knowing that one day, my spirit will be carried away by a wind you cannot follow."

A ray of something cold passed through Melkor’s gaze.

"Because I could never belong to someone like you. Because the only thing I have ever felt for you-"

Her breath did not falter. Her voice did not break.

 "-is pity."

This was her truth.

Because after everything - after the suffering, after the wounds that carved themselves into the foundation of her being, after the unmaking, the breaking, the long, slow erasure of things that should have been hers - there was nothing left for such a ruined, lost, and irredeemable creature but disgust and pity.

His lips, still pressed against her hand, stilled.

A moment passed. A moment in which Artanis allowed herself to explore every possible path his reaction might take. Because for all his delusions of superiority, for all his pretenses of being untouched by the world, she knew Melkor to be proud. And she knew that pride to be a fragile thing. He would never - never - accept the idea that she, a mere Elf, a prisoner, a lesser being in his eyes, could afford to pity him. That she could stand before him and look down.

Would he hurt her for it? Would he kill her outright, string her from the chains that lined these walls, let his creatures mock her as she gasped her final breath?

No, no, it would not be so simple. Because Melkor had eternity to make her regret those words. And worse still - to try to prove her wrong and change her mind. That was the burden of those who believed themselves to be the sole arbiters of truth: surrendering to the idea that their truth would go unrecognized, that it would be denied to them by those too blind to accept it, was a pain they could not bear.

And so, at last, Melkor reacted.

It was small at first, so minuscule it could have been overlooked, a slight shift in his fingers where they still encased her wrist, a nearly imperceptible tightening of his grip, the barest contraction of his hold. Until it became manifest. Pain bloomed suddenly, abruptly, not a gradual tightening but an immediate, sharp bite, a vice of pressure closing around her bones, an iron grip compressing down until it sent a searing, white-hot burst of agony shooting through her arm. For an instant, it seemed as though he might crush her hand entirely and grind it to dust beneath the full weight of his displeasure. She saw white. And it took everything she had not to let the cry of pain burst from her lips, not to give him that single, damning satisfaction.

But then, as quickly as it had come, it vanished. When Artanis blinked, the mask had already returned to his face.

The grip loosened, the pressure lifted, and then, without ceremony, without even looking at her, he let her go entirely. And when he spoke at last, his words were not for her. His attention had already shifted - past her, beyond her. He turned his gaze toward the one figure that had remained so motionless, so silent, so utterly still that Artanis had nearly forgotten he was even there.

And so, for the first time since she had stepped into this cursed hall, Artanis turned. And she looked at Mairon.

She had not allowed herself to do so before. She had not wanted to.

Despite everything, despite the brutal reality of it, some part of her had refused to think of him as Lieutenant.

Oh, she knew it to be true - he had made it impossible to deny - but she had not let it shape the way she looked at him, had not let it claim him completely in her mind. While she had always known him to be an extension of Melkor’s will, a shadow cast by his master’s vast and terrible presence, a being whose role had long been established - as enforcer, as something insidious and dangerous in its own right - he had, despite all of that, remained something else as well. For all his sins, for all the ways in which he had tormented and needled and played his games, for all that he was a creature of Melkor’s making, he had still been something other than Melkor himself. And for all that it was infinitesimal, for all that it had never been spoken aloud, that distinction had been a comfort.

A thin, fragile, desperate comfort.

To acknowledge him here, in this place, before that throne, beneath the gaze of his god, at the very center of this theater of power and submission, would be to tear away the last, fragile illusion to which she had clung. But in the end, she had no choice. And when she did look - when she finally allowed herself to see him clearly - she felt it like a mourning, as if something inside her had died.

The truth she had chosen to ignore.

The truth that had always been there, waiting for her to stop lying to herself.

That there had never been a distinction. That Mairon had always belonged to Melkor. And that he always would.

She had known it, in the abstract. Not just of his obedience, but of his devotion - after all, he himself had spoken of it. He had never denied it. But hearing of it had not prepared her for seeing it. She had not been prepared for this.

He was kneeling.

No, not merely kneeling, but offered - wholly, absolutely, in complete and undisturbed loyalty, a figure of unshaken reverence. And every fiber of his being - every line of his face - was consumed, transfixed even, by the presence before him. Gone was the sharp cunning she had grown accustomed to, the faint traces of humor that had disarmed her in their journey, or even the occasional glimpses of humanity that she thought - hoped? - still lingered within him.

What she saw now before her eyes was raw, unfiltered worship.

And when his eyes finally broke away from Melkor’s and found hers, when at last their gazes met across the burning void that stretched between them, Artanis saw something else - something unexpected, yet at the same time, something that should not have surprised her at all.

She had known, in some small, infinitesimal way, that she had succeeded - if only fleetingly, if only by the most negligible of margins - in unsettling Melkor. It was the most she could have hoped for, given the circumstances, and it was a victory she would take, however minor, however insubstantial, because to return to him even the smallest fraction of the scorn he had forced her to endure, that she could stand before him and not collapse into the dust... That, at least, was something.

But Mairon...

Mairon was furious.

Not visibly, not in a way that anyone else would have noticed, not in a way that could be seen or pointed to, but she knew it, felt it, in the fine, barely perceptible crease that had formed at the corner of his gilded eyes the moment they locked onto hers, in the way his lips pressed together with a force that was too controlled, too measured, too rigid, as though he was forcibly holding himself still, forcing himself to remain composed. But she knew.

She knew because that was the nature of rage, because that was the nature of control. When it could not carve through the world with destructive force, it became something else, became this, a silent and glacial kind of anger that burned all the hotter for being contained. And it was not Melkor who had kindled it. It was her.

Because Artanis had dared to stand before the God he served - not kneeling, not cowering, as though Melkor were something beneath awe, beneath respect, beneath fear itself. She had done the unthinkable. She had spoken to him as one might speak to a thing that could be confronted, that could be challenged, had not only denied him but insulted him, had rejected him outright. And any devoted priest would deem it unacceptable so see his own God defied.

Because if Mairon was an extension of Melkor, if he had shaped himself to be the instrument of his will, then did it not follow that in some way, Melkor was also an extension of him? Did it not follow that an affront against Melkor was, by its very nature, an affront against him?

She could almost hear his thoughts, could almost see the shape of them forming behind his face, could almost taste the depth of the indignation that must have been coiling through him in that moment. And yet, the thought of his fury did not fill her with fear. It only made her burn hotter.

How dare he? How dare he resent her? How dare he lay claim to rage, when he was the one who stood in power, when he was the one whose will remained unbroken, when he was the one who had chosen this servitude? How dare he, when it was she who had been stripped of everything, when it was she who had been humiliated and wronged and forced to stand here alone, without weapon, without power, without recourse, with nothing but the force of her voice to wield against the unshakable presence of his God? How dare he presume to feel anything when it was she - she alone - who had suffered, who had lost, who had endured?

And then, confirmation came.

The voice of Melkor, drifting lazily beside her, though she barely heard it, because she was not listening to him. She was still watching Mairon. And she saw the moment it happened, when the silent fury unraveled, dissipating as though it had never been, vanishing beneath the weight of something softer, something quieter, something reverent.

The return of the servant to his master.

"It seems you were right about her, Lieutenant."

At those words, Artanis’s gaze on him changed, turning to him with an unspoken question, a demand left hanging in the space between them. But he was not looking at her anymore.

“No matter the threat, no matter the cost" Melkor continued, his voice satisfied, seemingly savoring the confirmation of something he had suspected, "She would not yield for her own sake alone."

It was not a question. It was a verdict, spoken not with frustration, not even with disappointment, but with the quiet, effortless confidence of a certainty now made manifest. And before Artanis could react - before she could grasp the full meaning of his words, before she could even begin to process what they implied, before the sharp sting of indignation could once more flare hot and bright in her chest - Melkor’s gaze shifted again, settling instead upon the creatures that stood like silent sentinels at the edges of the hall. They had remained motionless until now, waiting.

And with that same unhurried ease, with the same measured, effortless finality, Melkor gave his command.

"Fetch one."

The words rang through the chamber with the weight of an axe striking wood, with the same inevitability of gravity, and the creatures moved.

Artanis barely had time to register it. The sudden shift of their armor, the sound of obedience rippling through them. With rehearsed efficiency, several of them turned and vanished beyond the towering doors at the far end of the hall, leaving behind only the lingering echoes of their footfalls, the faint, rhythmic clatter of steel on stone.

For a long, unbearable moment - Artanis did not understand.

Fetch what? What had Mairon been right about?

She had been careful. So careful.

Despite every temptation to do otherwise, she had not given him anything of value. Nothing that could have been used against her, nothing that could have mattered. Their last exchanges had been dry, clipped, stripped to necessity alone, devoid of anything that could carry weight, that could linger in the spaces between words.

Her gaze was fixed upon the doors where the creatures had disappeared, her breath held tight in her chest, every muscle in her body coiled against the growing sense of inevitability that crawled through her veins. And then, before she could fully grasp what it was, before her mind could catch up with the sinking feeling that had already taken hold in her stomach, the doors opened once more.

They returned. But they did not return alone.

Their march was slow, measured, synchronized, and they carried something between them. No, not something. Someone.

Artanis did not recognize the Elf they had brought before Melkor.

A slender figure, frail in appearance, limbs yielding beneath the cruel hands that held him, his feet barely brushing the frozen stone, as though he no longer had the strength to stand on his own. His head lolled slightly, silver hair catching the dim firelight, woven into three long braids that framed his face.

One of them. The same Elves who had attacked them at the lake. The same warriors who had raised their bows, their spears, their swords against them. Not the one she saved, exactly, but recognizably one belonging to the same kin. The fabric of his tunic bore the same delicate embroidery, the interwoven motif of tree branches and tiny leaves, the same sigil she had seen traced into the armor of those who had fought against them, the same pattern stitched into the saddle of Dúven.

And in that instant, she caught the implication and her blood froze.

"What are you doing?"

She tore her gaze from the young Elf and threw it at Melkor, searching – pleading - for reason, for anything that might tell her she had misunderstood, that she had leapt to the wrong conclusion, that this was not - that this was not what it seemed to be. That he would not do what she knew he would do.

But in his eyes, there was nothing. Nothing at all.

Only a quiet indulgence that made it painfully clear to her that he had never, not for one moment, considered this anything but a formality, a predetermined outcome he had only been waiting for her to accept. It was a game to him, a match played in a language only he understood, a dance whose steps had been written before she had even set foot in this wretched hall, and every desperate act of resistance, every ragged breath she forced into her lungs, only served to confirm that she was helpless to stop what was coming, that no matter how she fought, no matter how fiercely she burned, the moment would arrive just the same.

And then, another flick of his fingers. Barely a gesture. A casual motion. And the creatures moved once more. They pinned the Elf down, keeping him in front of her and Melkor, in the space next to Mairon.

Her body moved before thought could catch up. This time, she threw herself at Melkor with nothing but raw, feral instinct, the kind of desperation that had no shape, no strategy, only need.

To stop this. To stop him.

She slammed against him with all the strength she had, palms colliding with the solid weight of his chest, shoving - not striking, not clawing, but shoving, open-handed, frenzied, the movement wild, erratic, a creature fighting not for pride, not for principle, but for something more basic, more vital.

"No." The word was strangled, choked. "No, no, please-"

Another blow. Harder this time. But it was like striking stone.

He did not move. Did not stumble. Did not even tense. The force of her desperation, the sheer, reckless violence behind her attempt to move him, meant nothing.

Melkor only watched her. He was studying her.

Another strike. Useless.

Another. Another.

Another.

And still, he did not react.

He let her rage against him, let her pour every drop of her futile resistance into each motion, let her drive herself into exhaustion against the unmoving wall of his being. He let her strike and strike and strike, let her rage until her blows faltered, until her breath came ragged and thin, until the wild, reckless energy of her resistance drained into something weaker, something he had been waiting for. A sense of defeat.

Only when he saw the moment, only when he knew she had reached the edge of it, when the storm had burned itself out and all that remained was the ruin left behind… Only then did he move. His hands closed around her wrists. Not rough. Not cruel. But final.

It was his time to sound like a prophet, his voice so stony it resembled the Doomsman himself:

"For every day you defy me, a life shall be claimed." And Artanis broke. Her lips parted in horror, no no no, her head shaking before she could speak, before she could even force sound past her throat.

"This is the first day," he continued, unmoved by the fracture in her expression, by the way her entire body flinched against his hold. "And the first life claimed-"

"No!" She did not recognize the sound of her own voice. "No-there is no need-I’ll do what you ask, I promise, I’ll do-"

Melkor spoke over her. "-But it will not be the last. Unless you yield."

Her breath stopped. "Now, turn around, Artanis. There is no point in resisting."

But she couldn’t.

She clenched her eyes shut, shaking her head, twisting away, curling inward, as though she could make herself small enough to disappear, as though she could fold herself into nothing, as though if she did not look, then it would not be.

Melkor sighed. A soft sound. " Ah, little flame, no. You cannot turn away from what is yours to bear. The path was laid before you, and the instructions were clear."

And the hands on her wrists twisted her within his hold, guiding her like a marionette whose strings had always been his to pull, turning her, pressing, adjusting, repositioning, until she had nowhere left to look but forward.

Until she had nowhere left to look but at him.

At the Elf.

At the terror frozen in his face, at the unspoken plea that would never find its way past his lips, at the knowledge in his eyes, the terrible, unbearable knowledge of what was about to happen.

Melkor inclined his head, just slightly.

And Mairon, silent until now, reverent in his stillness, devoted in his obedience, rose from his kneeling position with a single, fluid motion, stepped forward, and without hesitation-

Placed his hands upon the Elf’s neck.

And broke it.

A

single

crack.

The sound rang out, striking the vaulted ceilings of the throne hall, crashing against the walls, rippling through the vast emptiness of the chamber in waves that stretched and rebounded, until it was no longer only a sound, but something felt.

It was the last thing she saw before her vision blurred, before the hot sting of tears clouded her sight, before her knees, fragile beneath the weight of it, gave way.

She did not even realize she was falling. Only that suddenly the world tilted, that the ground was rushing up to meet her, that her body no longer had the strength to hold itself upright, that her breath was a shallow, shuddering thing, barely passing her lips, that she had curled in on herself without meaning to, that her hands had risen to her face of their own accord, as if by shielding her eyes she could shut out the reality that had been seared into them.

She had barely noticed the moment Melkor released her, barely felt the absence of his grip, barely noticed when his attention left her entirely, as though she were already dealt with, already settled. But she heard him.

"Starting tomorrow, and for as long as I deem necessary, you will spend part of each day in this hall with me."

She could not breathe.

"You will wear my jewels."

A tremor passed through her, sharp and violent, her fingers clenching against her skin.

"You will obey without question."

Her nails bit into her palms, the sharp sting of striking blood barely registering.

"And there will be no more objections."

The sound of his footsteps receded, his presence expanded once more, filling the space above her, reclaiming the vastness of himself as he ascended toward the throne, as though nothing of consequence had just occurred, as though the silence he left in his wake was not heavy with the echo of the life he had taken.

And then-

"For the remainder of your time here, you will work alongside my Lieutenant. There is a task I require of you both."

The Lieutenant.

Artanis did not have the strength to put into words the depth of loathing that twisted within her at the sight of her Lieutenant.

The agony was too raw, too fresh, too all-consuming, but beneath the haze of grief, past the burning sting in her swollen, tear-brimmed eyes, there was something else - something colder, something darker, something that coiled in the pit of her being like a great and hollow void, feeding on the remnants of her shattered composure and giving back only hatred.

A deep, yawning chasm of contempt had opened within her, and she drank from it, let it sustain her, let it shape the way her gaze settled on him now, let it fill the silence between them with something seething, something that no words could encompass.

Had this been his idea? And if it had, was it just this, or had it been everything?

Had it been Mairon who had first suggested the precise nature of the dreams that should be twisted and remade, had it been his counsel that shaped the slow, insidious corruption of her nights, his voice that had guided which memories should be unraveled, which fears should be preyed upon, which whispers should be woven into the fabric of her sleep until she could no longer discern what had happened from what might have happened?

Had it been him who had made it clear that she would never, under any circumstance, accept the finery she was offered for its own sake, that she would rather starve than be fattened like an animal in a golden cage, that she would rather freeze than wear the silks of a conqueror?

Had it been his voice that had suggested, insidiously, that if she would never take for herself, then perhaps - perhaps - she could be convinced to take if she believed it was for another?

Being seen by Melkor had been its own horror, yes, it had been a violation.

But it had been the inevitable result of a system that had shaped itself around him, an inevitability that had been in motion long before she had ever stepped into his presence.

But being seen by Mairon... She did not have time to grieve what had just been taken away from her. And so, she did not mourn.

Instead, she looked at him. And in that gaze, there was no sorrow, no grief, no lingering trace of anything that could be mistaken for sentiment, no vestige of the wary, begrudging familiarity that had once existed between them. Whatever had resided in that space before - whatever complex, fragile thing had stood between them, neither alliance nor enmity, neither trust nor hatred - was gone, hollowed out and left to rot, replaced by something vast and seething and final.

Hatred. Cold and pure and absolute.

Mairon did not react to her gaze. Or rather, he did not react in the way she had expected.

He did not smirk. He did not sneer. He did not meet her loathing with mockery, did not twist her fury into something amusing for his own entertainment, did not wear that insufferable, condescending air of someone who already knew how this would end, of someone utterly in control.

He did nothing. Save for the smallest, almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. But whether it was a response to her, or to the words his master had just spoken, was impossible to say.

Because for the first time that night, Mairon finally spoke. "A task, my lord?"

His tone was carefully respectful, his words precisely measured, yet for all his caution, it was impossible to miss the skepticism that lurked beneath them, a quiet but undeniable edge of scrutiny, as though the command itself warranted closer inspection. Melkor merely inclined his head in a small, effortless nod, as though the answer should have been self-evident.

"Yes. I desire a crown of my own—one worthy of the light of the Silmarils."

For the briefest of moments, Mairon’s composure faltered. The way his posture stiffened, the way his eyes shifted toward her, not with the carefully managed indifference of one accustomed to his master’s whims, but with something else entirely. A mixture of disbelief and something bordering dangerously close to disapproval.

"My Lord," he began "that will not be necessary. I can complete the task alone. I see no reason-"

“Do not make the mistake of underestimating our guest, Mairon.” Melkor’s interruption was unhurried, the slow, imperious motion of a single raised finger enough to silence further argument, to snuff out the beginnings of protest before they could gain purchase. "After all, she too was once a pupil of Aulë."

Artanis felt the air leave her lungs.

She too?

The words did not make sense. She was feeling too much to make any sense of them.

Her gaze locked with Mairon’s once again then, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them. His expression, usually inscrutable, cracked under the weight of the revelation too.

First, disbelief fluttered across his face, followed by confusion, and then, something harder to identify.

What is indignation? Discomfort? Betrayal?

The name escaped his lips in a breath, barely audible, but still enough for her to hear. "Aulë?"

The incredulity in his voice was unmistakable, not cutting but staggered, as if the very thought was something impossible.

Artanis had no answer for him.

Her mind was a storm, a cacophony of thoughts colliding too quickly for her to grasp onto any single one, a flood of questions, of doubts, of memories she had never before had cause to reconsider, and through it all, something pressed too close to bone, something she could not name.

And Melkor, Melkor, ever attuned to the havoc he had unleashed, ever delighted by the fractures he created, ever watching, smiled. A creeping smirk, curling at the edges of his mouth, spreading with the quiet, indulgent satisfaction of a creature who had not foreseen this particular development, yet was more than willing to savor its unfolding.

"Oh, Artanis" he murmured, "I didn’t realize you were so… private about your identity. Famed for your pride, you Noldor, and yet you failed to mention this? Truly, I am surprised."

Her blood boiled.

How dare he-How dare he speak of her kin, how dare he utter their name after what he had done to them, after what he had taken, after all the ruin he had left in his wake—

Her jaw clenched so tightly it ached, but she forced herself into silence, though her nails pressed hard into her palms where they rested against the cold floor, though the breath in her chest came sharp and seething, though every nerve in her body screamed for violence.

Artanis could see the muscles flex beneath Mairon’s skin, the faintest crack in his composure. His discontent was clear, his discomfort carved into the sharpness of his expression. But it was nothing. A flicker. A shadow of a feeling. Whatever he felt - whatever unease - would never compare to what he had just taken from her. And she would never care. Not now. Not ever.

Melkor watched them both for a time, letting the silence stretch, thick with unspoken thoughts. But finally, his patience wore thin.

With a slow exhale, as though burdened by their very presence, he lifted a hand and flicked his fingers in a lazy gesture of dismissal.

"Now, take her away. We will continue this tomorrow, Artanis" he said, his voice distant now but still commanding.

Then, after the barest pause-

"And, Lieutenant? Return to me when you are finished. We have much to discuss."

And as Mairon moved toward her, Artanis swore her own terrible oath - by the Valar, by the stars, by the very breath in her lungs.

That if Eru Ilúvatar let her survive this, she would dedicate this life, its every moment, every heartbeat, to vengeance.

To justice.

To making them pay.

Chapter Text

"You cannot truly expect this of me-"

"It is for the best", his voice was steeled, prepared to weather every protest she might summon - for he knew she would summon many,"you have always trusted me. Why should this be any different?"

She had not ceased pacing, not once. 

For two relentless hours, she had walked in ceaseless circles, the soles of her boots wearing thin against the wooden floor. Her hands moved before her, gesturing wildly, as if in some intricate sequence of motions lay the secret to persuading him, to undo his resolve.

"I do trust you," she said, her voice tight with anguish. "But at the same time, I cannot believe that you would truly forbid me from following you. Why should I remain here, alone, consumed by dread when-" Her breath hitched, breaking into something perilously close to a sob as she refused to name her fears.

"I swear to you, my love, we will be together again, one day", and he put his hand on his heart, to seal that promise. "Is that not enough?"

Finrod’s voice was gentle, each word imbued with a quiet certainty. 

To any other, his presence would seem as composed as ever. And yet, despite the calm he projected, he knew that Amarië could see that sorrow had weighed upon him for weeks now.

She knew him. Knew him as one who had chosen her, though no binding vow had ever been spoken, no formal elven union consecrated their unconsummated bond. And yet, she was woven into his soul in a way that made pretence impossible. No mask of serenity could truly veil him from her. It was no wonder, then, that she raged at the thought of being left behind.

"Finrod," she said, voice steadier now, though no less insistent, "There is something you are withholding from me. I can feel it."

A long sigh escaped him. 

Gently, he reached for her hands, enfolding them in his own, as though he might pass some measure of his composure into her through touch alone.

"Oh, my radiant one," he murmured, his lips curving into a pleading, almost boyish smile - an expression meant to coax mercy from the storm within her. "Can you not trust in my words without demanding that I unravel them further?"

She did not pull away. But her gaze, once pleading, sharpened, her fingers tightening ever so slightly within his. "Then I am right," she said. "You have had another vision. You have seen into the Unseen World."

Finrod hesitated. Not in confirmation - for she needed none - but in the way a man hesitates before laying bare a wound.

"You know the nature of the gift," he said at last. "It does not grant me clarity, only glimpses. Fragments. Shadows that shift and reshape even as I reach for them."

"Perhaps," she allowed. "But if you ask this of me - if you expect me to stand by while you follow that band of reckless fools, while you walk willingly into the jaws of that demon, into his forsaken lands - then the least you owe me is a thread of explanation."

His fingers slipped from hers then, his warmth retreating. 

A heavy silence settled. Not an absence of words, but the quiet search for the right ones.

Turning away, he stepped toward the great window of the hall, clasping his hands behind his back, holding himself together against what he would have to tell her. 

Outside, the city stretched before him, stirring.

There was agitation among the Noldor, palpable agitation. Even from a distance, he could see how the city had become restless, its ordered rhythm giving away to something frantic. Torches were flickering and swaying in the streets below them, darting from one place to another like fireflies caught in a storm.

It had been this way for weeks now.

Ever since Fëanor had reappeared as if conjured from the very air, summoning all the Noldor to him as a king might call his court.

That day, the rumor had spread like sand cast upon the wind, and within mere hours, it was known across the city: he would speak at the farthest edge of Túna.

A violation, without question. 

For on that fateful day in the Ring of Doom, not once - not in all the words spoken by the Valar - had there been even the faintest whisper of amnesty for the Prince. No one had expected Fëanor to slink back to Formenos with his pride broken; they had known well enough that he would not be so easily cast aside. But to return to Tirion in full splendor, to summon his kin as though he were already their rightful king - that was something else entirely.

And yet, Finrod found himself thinking that perhaps Fëanor no longer cared for the judgment of the Valar at all. Once, he had at least maintained a semblance of obedience, a thin veneer of deference. Perhaps that had been for the sake of King Finwë - for the quiet gravity of his presence, for his steadfast devotion to the order of things. But Finwë was gone now. And whether it was right or wrong, Fëanor, in the eyes of many, was indeed his true successor.

Finrod had arrived at the hill with his brothers and their families, and their father at their side.

Finarfin had been inconsolable. For weeks. Since he had learned that Artanis had been taken, his grief had known no respite. As a result, his family had been divided in their anguish: one half of their sorrow was spent on the daughter of the Golden House, the light of their family that was stolen away, and the other on their own Prince.

For what father could bear to know his daughter held captive in the hands of one so vile? What comfort could there be, when the fate of his child lay in the grasp of an enemy more terrible than words could name? No solace could be found, no comfort offered, no words in any tongue could soften such suffering.

And yet, in the end, as it had always been with him, duty prevailed.

It did not ease his pain. It did not lessen the weight in his chest. But it was a pillar to lean upon, a foundation to keep him standing when grief threatened to shatter him. And so, that day he set his sorrow aside, mastered as best he could for the sake of them all.

When at last they reached the place Fëanor had chosen for his gathering, they had to press through the throng to catch sight of him, so great was the tumult. The Noldor were torn, desperate to hear what path lay before them. From above, the assembled crowd looked like a sea of wrathful stars, their torches a field of fire stretching across the hillside.

And when at last they reached the crest and laid eyes upon him, Fëanor himself seemed devoured by anguish, no less so than his youngest brother. 

He bore the aspect of a man consumed, who neither ate nor slept, who lived only upon the fire of his own madness. He was a man hollowed out by loss, by obsession, by grief. And around him, his sons stood like wraiths, rigid and spectral, as though bound to his fate as much as by their own blood. 

Finrod’s heart clenched at the sight of his cousins, reduced to such a state. Regardless of what had come to pass, regardless of the accusations that had hurled between them, regardless of what was yet to come, he could not avoid feeling a deep sorrow for them all. 

Once, they had been children together. Once, they had been bound by something greater than pride or vengeance - by kinship, by love, by the simple joy of what it was to be young and unburdened. And now, here they stood, shadows of what they had been, their faces drawn, their shoulders stiff, their hands hovering over their swords.

Looking at his own family, de did not know if they saw what he saw - that they were already changed, that even before they had taken a single step beyond Aman, something had been lost already. He did not know if they felt the weight of it.

But he did it, and it grieved him more than he could say.

When at last Fëanor spoke, his voice did not merely silence the murmurs - it stilled the very air, swallowed the shifting of feet, seemed, for a single breath, to hush even the wind itself. And for a brief second, he resembled one of the Ainur, his stature magnified not by mere presence but by the unshakable certainty in his words - by the blind conviction that what he spoke was an untouchable truth, and he alone had been chosen to lay it bare before his people.

"Why, my fellow people, should we remain here as servants to the Valar? They, who claim wisdom, yet could not even protect their own realm from their Enemy?"

A wave of assent rippled through the gathered host, rising in scattered voices - some loud, some half-swallowed by fervor - but all restless, fevered. 

"Morgoth, yes, he is our foe, but is he not of their kin? Are they not bound by blood and old oaths? If they could not keep him from killing our King, from taking all that was most dear, why should we bow to them still?"

As he spoke, the air around them grew taut with an almost electric energy, a charge that crackled in the torchlight. And yet, Finrod only felt his unease grow. He could not tear his gaze away from his uncle, from the blind wrath that had carved him out, stripping reason from his eyes, leaving only the glint of a madness too vast to be contained.

Fëanor raised his arms, his face ablaze, fierce.

"Vengeance calls me - but even if it did not, I would never share land with those who bear the blood of my father’s killer, nor with the thief of my greatest work! Are you not also proud, Noldor? Have we not all lost our King? And what else have we lost, trapped between mountains and sea?"

Turning to his fellow Noldor, Finrod saw anger, sorrow, loss in their eyes. And he understood - yes, he understood those feelings. How could he not? The ache of grief was familiar, the hollow space left by something stolen too well known. But while they transmuted their pain into fervor, forging it into the hunger for vengeance that burned so brightly in Fëanor’s words, Finrod’s sorrow did not take that shape.

He had lost something just as dear - dearer, he thought bitterly, than even the Silmarils to their maker. He had lost his sister, torn from their home, left to some unknown and unspeakable fate. 

And he missed her, terribly. 

Not in the abstract way one mourned the dead, nor with the bitter thirst for retribution that clouded the eyes of so many around him, but with a ceaseless need. He longed to know where she was, to know she was safe. He longed for the certainty that had been stripped from him, for the quiet assurance that he would hear her voice again, that she was not lost beyond all reach.

But that need, that grief, did not turn to force within him. It did not burn; it did not rage. It was a thirst that did not demand blood to soothe it. But he did not begrudge them their anger, nor could he fault them for it. But standing among them, watching the fever rise in their faces, he felt it like a tide drawing them toward a precipice.

Fëanor’s voice dropped, growing lower, more insidious - the voice of a masterful orator, of a merchant closing a deal already half-made.

"Once, this land shone with light, yet the Valar hoarded it, refusing to share its radiance with Middle-earth. And now, all is cast into darkness. Shall we linger here, idle, shedding useless tears into the sea? Or shall we return to the lands that were first ours? In Cuiviénen, the rivers ran clear beneath unclouded stars, and the world stretched wide before us - a land for the free. It still waits for us, abandoned in our folly! Let the cowards remain in this lifeless city!"

His final words were swalloed by the echoes of the Quendi.

The crowd around them ignited, their torches thrust skyward, as though they would set fire to the very heavens in their fervor. Some clutched their hands to their chests in solemn devotion, others pounded their fists against their hearts, a beat of war already resounding in their blood.

Finrod turned to his father then, as he always did when looking for council. 

But Finarfin, too, was silent, exchanging troubled glances with Fingolfin, who stood not far away. Neither spoke - not aloud, at least - but it was clear in their stiff postures, in the tightness of their expressions, that neither took any joy in the sight before them. 

This was no mere gathering - it was a declaration of war. 

Still, Fëanor pressed on, speaking at lenght of love and vengeance with equal fervor, binding them together as if they were one and the same.

"A fate awaits us, not yet manifest, beyond the sea. Lands wide and open, waiting for our coming, where we may build something new - something of our own. The Valar have caged us upon this cursed island, keeping us from the land of our birth, from the lands to which we are destined to return. They have imprisoned us, so that the Secondborn of Ilúvatar may one day reap what is rightfully ours."

At that, the crowd’s fervor twisted into something darker - no longer elation, but unease. A murmur of confusion rose as many voices cried out at once, demanding explanation. For not all had yet heard of the Atani, the Aftercomers.

Fëanor, of course, was more than willing to enlighten them.

He spoke of Men, of how the Valar had concealed their existence, keeping them a secret so that the Eldar would remain tame in their so-called Blessed Realm - a realm that, as Fëanor painted it, was anything but blessed. Not for the Eldar. Not for those who would truly be free.

Finrod listened, but his apprehension deepened by the second.

He had long known of the Secondborn. Had he not, in quiet wonder, pondered what their coming might mean? He had imagined them as a people young and untested, different from the Eldar in ways he could not yet fathom, but bearing within them something new, something shaped by the touch of time itself. He had thought of them with curiosity.

And yet, hearing their existence twisted now into a tool of manipulation in Fëanor’s hands, left a bitter taste in his mouth.

This was not revelation. This was not knowledge shared in good faith, nor wisdom meant to prepare them for the days ahead. This was fearmongering. 

A deliberate choice to sow distrust, to turn an unknown future into something ominous, to bind the Noldor closer to his cause not by vision but by dread. Fëanor had found a shadow to cast over the path behind them, ensuring that none would wish to turn back. And was that not Morgoth’s design all along?

Artanis had warned him, had warned them all, really. She had spoken of Melkor’s design, how it was never as simple as destruction, never as crude as outright conquest. No, his skill lay in corruption, in the slow poisoning of all that was good and in turning noble intentions into ruinous obsessions.

"He does not need to make war upon us to win, I see it clearly as I see you" she had told Finrod that day, after Fëanor had drawn his sword on Fingolfin, after Melkor had ambushed her in their home. Her voice had been low and heavy with foreboding. "He will simply hand us the means to destroy ourselves."

And here it was. Finrod could see it now with painful clarity.

He had set this in motion long ago. It had probably never been about the Silmarils alone. That was only a means to an end. Melkor had wanted more than jewels; he had wanted to sow discord so deep that it could not be undone. And what better way than through Fëanor, allegedly the brightest of them, the most gifted, the most driven? He had played the long game, and now, even in his absence, he was winning.

And Finrod - Finrod, who saw it all now, too late - could do nothing to stop it. He stood in the midst of his people, watching as his uncle's words reshaped them, watching as doubt and resentment and anger twisted into something else entirely.

He wanted to cry out, to seize them by the shoulders and shake them free of the spell they had already cast upon themselves. But what could he say? What words could he offer that would make reason shine bright enough to dispel the endless night around them? 

And so Finrod stood, powerless, watching his uncle complete the work that Morgoth had begun.

“I will not lie to you, the road ahead will be long, and it will be hard,” he declared. “But at its end, there is greatness! Say goodbye to servitude, but also to comfort! Say goodbye to the weak! Say goodbye to what you leave behind - your treasures, your homes. We will make greater ones! Travel light, but do not forget your swords! We will go further than Oromë, endure more than Tulkas! We will never stop, never turn back! Morgoth will not escape us. War awaits him, and our hatred will never die. And when we have won, when we have reclaimed the Silmarils, we will be the true lords of the Light, the masters of Arda’s beauty and bliss! No one will take what is ours!”

How bitterly ironic it was, Finrod thought, that these words, these promises of new lands and new beginnings, should come from Fëanor’s lips.

Once, he had heard such dreams spoken by Artanis. 

His sister had whispered them in moments of stolen vulnerability, in whispered conversations where the weight of Aman’s perfection pressed heavy upon her. She had named distant shores in her imaginings, had wondered aloud what lay beyond the Sundering Seas - not as a place of conquest, nor as an escape from perceived bondage, but as a place where they might build something truly their own. A land unshaped, where they might weave new songs into the fabric of Arda as if they were Ainur themselves.

And now, here was Fëanor, speaking of the same faraway lands - but his vision was a parody of hers, warped and twisted. He did not care for dreams of crafting but only of reclaiming what he believed had been stolen, of marching across the world as if it were a prize already half-won.

This was no expedition of discovery, no eager search for knowledge or home. It was a war march, spurred not by hope but by vengeance. And Fëanor - the brilliant, terrible Fëanor - was leading them toward a future none of them yet understood.

But Finrod understood this much: whatever awaited them across the sea, it would not be what Fëanor promised.

Finrod’s foresight had grown at the same pace as his sorrow, ever since the kidnapping. 

It was as if, in his yearning to reach his sister, to bridge the terrible gulf that separated them, his spirit had extended further into the Unseen World, grasping at threads that wove through fate itself. And what he found there - what he saw, even now, as he stood among his kin, listening to Fëanor’s fire-lit words - was ruin.

He felt it, more than he saw it.

A weight pressing against him, locking itself in the middle of his chest. Something unsaid, clinging to the air around him. The firelight flickering across the faces around them, casting them in strange, shifting patterns - as though the shapes before him were not those of elves, but of specters already half-faded from the world.

He closed his eyes but the darkness behind them did not bring him any solace.

Instead, it unfurled before him in scattered glimpses. A tide of shadow rolling forward. A march across bitter, frozen wastes, where the wind howled like a living thing and ate away the flesh from the bones of the weary. The gleam of steel catching starlight, only to be darkened by black blood. The clash of swords, the cries of the fallen. Fire on the edge of sea, and the sea itself turning against them in rage. And deeper still, beyond the veil of the present moment, he saw them - figures he could not name. A city of stone, its towers blackened with fire. A fortress choked in darkness. Faces he loved, contorted in pain.

And blood.

Blood upon the snow. Blood upon the grass. Blood staining the hands of those who, even now, raised their torches in fervor.

His breath came sharp as he opened his eyes.

Around him, the world had not changed. 

The Noldor still stood before Fëanor, enthralled. The endless night’s air still crackled with with the promise - or the threat? - of something vast and terrible looming just beyond the edge of sight. But Finrod knew, deep down in his soul, that they had already set foot upon a path from which there would be no turning back.

Where they were headed, there would be very little of the triumph his uncle was mentioning. There would mostly be death, and despair.

But Fëanor’s voice reached him once more, no longer alone - this time, it was echoed by his sons. He took a step forward, rising his own sword to the sky. In the glow of the torches around him, it looked like a beacon.

“I swear this oath,” he declared, word falling heavy into the night.

Around him his sons - Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Curufin, Caranthir, Amrod, and Amras - moved as one, stepping to his side, their own swords drawn as well. Their faces were set with a grim resolve, their eyes burning, as they echoed their father’s words. 

“We swear by Ilúvatar himself,” they proclaimed, with a single breath, “and call upon the Everlasting Dark to claim us if we break this vow! We swear by Manwë and Varda, by the holy heights of Taniquetil! We will hunt and destroy any who take, hold, or keep a Silmaril from our possession - Vala, Demon, Elf, Man, or any being yet unborn, no matter how great or small, good or evil. We will pursue them to the ends of the world!”

Upon hearing the oath, a hush fell upon the crowd. 

Finrod knew it was a moment beyond mere speech. It was doom, spoken into existence. An unbreakable chain of fate forget by their own hands, put on their own necks.

Many others alongside him shuddered at the weight of those words, for such an oath, once spoken, bound not only those who swore it, but all who stood witness. 

It could not be undone. It would haunt them all, forever, and they could feel it.

At last, silent until that moment, Fingolfin stepped forward towards his brother, his jaw clenched, his eyes filled with fury. “This is madness!” he spat. “You swear vengeance with no thought of the ruin it will bring! You let rage blind you to reason, brother, again! Have you not learned? Will you not see? Morgoth’s hand is upon this, upon you! He has sown this fire in your heart, and you would have us all burn in it!"

He turned, sweeping his gaze over the gathered Noldor. “Do you not hear yourselves? You call for war, for blood, for pursuit to the ends of the world - against whom? Against all who might come between you and these cursed jewels? Do you not see how this ends?”

He gestured toward Fëanor and his sons, "This is no vow of honor. Turn back now, Fëanor. You do not know what you have done.”

Fëanor turned to him in turn, his lip curling. “You are free to stay behind,” he said, voice dripping with disdain. “Cower here in your golden city while the rest of us carve our own fate! Stay, if you must, beneath the gaze of those who think themselves our masters. Stay, and watch us reclaim what is ours while you sit in Tirion, safe and forgotten, you coward!”

Another voice rang out then. "You speak of cowardice, Fëanor, but it is not my father who has let fear take hold of his heart. It is you who are afraid. ”

From where he stood, Finrod felt something ease within him, a breath he had not realized he was holding. He had always cared dearly for Turgon, and seeing him step forward now, defying Fëanor, speaking aloud the very thoughts that had been burning within Finrod’s own heart - it was like a crack of light in a night that had only darkened.

Turgon stepped forward as he spoke, unable to stop himself at the sight of his father insulted. “You do not seek justice, uncle. You do not seek freedom. You said it yourself - you seek only vengeance. And one cannot satisfy thirst by drinking sea water."

Without thinking, Finrod raised a hand, a silent gesture of solidarity, his fingers curling briefly into a fist before loosening again. A small thing, but enough. He, too, believed these words. He, too, saw the madness in this course. And though his voice did not yet join Turgon’s, his presence stood beside him, enough to give the clear signal to the host that not all the Noldor would accept Fëanor’s words as they were.

And Finrod noticed the way Fëanor’s hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword, his fingers tightening around it. 

He was not alone in that. All around him, among those who had sworn themselves to him, movement stirred, hands strayed to weapon, waiting for the single breath that would tip them into violence. 

Would he do it again? Would he draw steel against his own brother, against his family, once more?

But a new voice cut through it all, saying: "Enough."

Finarfin, ever the peacemaker - even now, even in his grief - pushing past armored shoulders and fevered murmurs until he stepped between his brothers. He raised both hands, palms outward, bidding them for calm. 

“Is this how you would begin? With swords drawn against one another before ever we set foot beyond these shores?” he asked, both to his brothers and his people. 

Then, turning fully to Fëanor, his voice gentled, “But I too ask you to think, Fëanor. Think before you bind yourself, before you bind all of us, to a path from which there is no return.” Around him other members of their family nodded, echoing his plea.

For a long moment, nothing moved. But then Fëanor laughed - a bitter bark of sound, filled not with mirth, but with scorn. 

“Enough?” he repeated, as he took a step closer to his brother. “Shall we all speak in whispers, then? Shall we temper our fury and lower our heads, just as you have done, time and time again?"

His eyes showed nothing but disdain as he locked gaze with his youngest brother.

"Tell me, Finarfin, must we bow to our grief as you do? Must we weep and wait, wring our hands and entreat the mercy of the Valar?", and his words were dripping with so much derision that Finrod almost surrender to the need to step in, to shield his father from them.

"Where was their mercy when our father was struck down like a dog? Where was their wisdom when our Enemy walked freely beneath their very gaze - and stole your own daughter?”

His father held firm, but Finrod could see his throat work, his hand lowering slightly, his eyes all but betraying his unspoken anguish. 

Fëanor saw it too. He struck. “You speak of caution, yet your own daughter is gone. Stolen, you say. And still, you put yourself between us and our vengeance? Between me and the only path that remains to set this right?"

His voice dropped, and he might have well stabbed Finarfin as he added: "Do you hold her fate, her honor, in such little regard?”

Finrod could not believe his words.

For all of Fëanor’s audacity, for all the sharp edges of his personality, Finrod had not thought even he would go so far. To wield Artanis’s fate as a banner, to strike at their father’s deepest wound with such deliberate cruelty... it was unthinkable.

He instinctively moved closer to where they were standing. 

Finarfin paled, his breath catching, as though Fëanor had truly struck him. 

His hands, which had been raised in a plea for reason, trembled and slowly curled into fists. The torchlight played cruel tricks upon his face, accentuating the lines carved by sleepless nights spent in silent torment.

Finrod believed he might pass out again, as he nearly did when he had first heard of his sister's capture. But instead, he surged forward, teeth clenched, fury flashing white-hot behind his eyes. But before he could reach Fëanor, before he could do something that could never be undone, a hand caught his arm, gripping tightly.

“Grandfather.”

Orodreth’s voice was quiet as he urged him to stop.

The younger elf had stepped between them, his grasp steadily grasping him before he could something that he would inevitabily regret. “Not like this,” he murmured, and though his voice did not tremble, there was something pleading in his tone.

At first, the Prince did not move. Then slowly, reluctantly - to everybody’s relief - Finarfin exhaled and stepped back. Orodreth did not let go until he was sure the moment had passed and Finrod was glad for his nephew's reason.

The debate raged on, for hours.

For a time, some still cried out against Fëanor’s path, urging caution, pleading for reason. Others hesitated, uncertain, their conviction wavering between love of kin and the fire of vengeance.

Among them, he saw Fingon staying silent, his brow furrowed in thought. He had not raised his voice in oath, nor had he spoken against it. Finrod knew he did not harbour any love for Fëanor - he never had - but he also knew he shared his sister's fantasies about a life beyond Aman, the call of the distant lands. 

And right beside him stood his own brothers, Angrod and Aegnor, a little apart from the heart of all the fervor, their expressions likewise lost in thought. They had always been his friends, closer to him than many others of their house, and yet now they held their silence, restrained in a way that unsettled Finrod.

He knew they were considering it. Torn between their duty to their father and their duty to their sister.

Artanis.

If she had been there, what would she have done? Would she have tried to dissuade them? Or would she have been among those already preparing to leave?

Finrod had little doubt of the answer. 

But what was he to do?