It was not often he had the opportunity to travel unattended through the cities of the Eldar; less often still that he had no errand set for him while he was there. A Vala, even diminished and in chains as he was, would find it difficult to go unnoticed about the Eruhini, and so, on this rare afternoon where he had been given leave to wander (for recent good behavior had won him a long leash), Melkor shed his golden flesh and walked unclad amidst the populace of Tirion. Free to slip unseen and unheard amidst the Noldor, he savored the chance to spy and collect news and gossip that were not meant for his ears.
Delicious…
It felt extraordinary to be unfettered again after so long! And yet, even now, there was a part of his spirit that felt as though it were lost at sea, missing an anchor, keenly desiring sensations to ground it… This worried Melkor, but it was not a matter he had time to spare attention to that day. Blissfully spreading himself over and through the unaware populace, he sampled the conversations of a hundred or more merchants and scholars and craftsmen, sifting through their various emotions and unguarded thoughts, panning for any gleaming nuggets of scandal or discontentment.
He reconvened himself, disgruntled. Only dull, trivial indiscretions, minor acts of selfishness. How boring…
The cloud of Melkor readied himself to take a plunge back into the crowd, when a shiver ran through his incorporeal spirit, like a plucked strand of spider-silk that makes the whole web tremble. Below (so to speak, for he was everywhere), sitting on the mighty steps of the Great Library of Tirion, were to young men in heavy discussion. One fair, one dark and tall. Both sons of sons of Finwë, he scented— and something… something more. A thread ran between the two of them, and alarmingly, through him; the Vala disincarnate and the elven princes. From his vantage point, Melkor could see that the thread ran far, far into the future of that Age. There was a darkness at the end of it.
He found himself afraid, unwilling to come closer. He did not wish to come nearer to the youths, even to spy on them… And yet— was this not exactly the sort of thing he ought to investigate?
The darker, taller elf moved off, bidding his friend farewell. Turgon the Vala heard, and of the one left sunning himself on the library steps, Ingoldo. So— now two more branches of the mighty Finwëan tree had faces as well as names…
His fear lifted somewhat… the blond one smelled of mixed bloodlines, rich and strong, seasalt and iron and gold. The Doom that hung about this one had not yet spun itself from fibers of potential to a single thread… at least, not one that pierced him through the core. Certainly, he was the most interesting opportunity the day had presented yet.
Melkor unfurled himself just out of sight, farther up the marble stairs. With a subtle chime of metal shackles and a flutter of dark cloth, he approached, clearing his throat softly.
“Greetings, Artafindë. Pardon me, but I can’t help but notice what a lovely ring you’re wearing. I’m very fond of serpents myself, but I don’t see them much depicted in Noldor craft. May I see it more closely?"
It was just after his cousin had left (and earlier than he said he would, the dolt) that Findaráto felt some sort agitation at the back of his neck, no, deeper, as if his spirit might itch. An irritation of some sort and uncomfortable warm one and he set his palm to the nape of his neck as he looked about. It had been long since he had felt that, what his sister had once described to be, so seriously for her age and her words so foreboding for one who was barely old enough to sit on a horse, as a warning. A warning of something he couldn’t quite comprehend.
But there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen and he didn’t wish to become a sight himself by twisting around in search so he slipped a slim book of poetry from his sleeve and shifted so that the warmth of Laurelin’s light might overcome the agitated heat.
It worked for a moment, or so. It was Amarië’s poetry he was reading and if he could not concentrate on the words, his thoughts strayed only to what she might have looked at composing it. After all, there was no Turukáno to tease him, call him lovesick, so perhaps there was some gain to his loss.
But it was only a moment. He felt something behind him before heard the voice, felt something heavy as if even from a distance it might cross his shoulders and bend his back. And while even in the Blessed Realm Findaráto had known fear, a dread that had visited at night and in kennels, it had never settled over until now with such form. He turned around and drew himself to his feet just as the Vala greeted him.
He wanted to run.
Of course, he did not. Whatever tales of Cuivienen his cousins and friends told around campfires in the woods, tales of horrors and disappearances and devourings, it was not for him to question the judgement (mercy) of the Valar. Compassionate Nienna had made her plea and here was the result. Findaráto would not do his family shame, neither by showing fear nor insult. He was a prince of the Third House and a grandson of kings; he would not quake.
Still, he wondered, what was the etiquette here? By what honorific should he call this power, how deeply should he bow – if at all? He settled on a deep one but no title, nor name, at all. Something in him balked at calling this one ‘lord.’
"If I may,” he said quietly as he rose, his voice steady even with his nerves (and meeting his eyes was as difficult as touching flame), “it is Findaráto.” Only his lord uncle Fëanáro called him that, with what Findaráto had to expect was some sort of spite, if not aimed exactly at he himself, and at times Curufinwë when he wished to throw barbs. Why Melkor should say his name thus, he did not know and he drew his hand closer to himself at the question, as if to protect it.
But to refuse might be to insult and so he held his hand out, slowly, gingerly, but steadily so. He was a prince of the Third House and a grandson of kings; he would not quake. There was no power, Findaráto felt, suddenly and fiercely, not even within Melkor, that might convince him to hand over his ring.
It was not to be offered to him.
“Ah, forgive me. I have only heard the name spoken by others… High Prince Fëanáro, for one.”
He slid the name easily into the conversation as though placing a card onto a gaming table.
“Lord Findaráto it is then– and I do apologize if I have disturbed you…” slit pupils followed the hesitation and withdrawal of the prince’s hand. He could almost hear the bristling of hairs on the elf’s neck, smell the first hot sheen of sweat blooming on his skin. This conversation (and his chance to scrutinize) would not last long, if the prince were given cause to bolt.
Melkor exhaled a laugh, and tucked a curling hair behind his ear. The gesture provided a small distraction while he willed himself imperceptibly shorter, softer around the edges; he withdrew the thorns he favored to nubs, reduced the gleam of his red eyes to something closer to dark amber, less startling to the senses. Full lips became a shield, disguising the tugging hiss of shark-ridged teeth. Long sleeves draped to cover the signs of his imprisonment.
“I meant no offense. I was only curious. I often find myself curious about beautiful things… There are so many these days, all of them new to me. A feast for starving eyes!” He raised a hand, close palmed, almost shyly close to his chest. “If you will not show the ring to me, perhaps you could tell me who made it, that I may offer my compliments?"
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