Gold Threads

misbehavingmaiar:

The Vala’s voice deepened in laughter. “And are you planning on slithering away from this unsuitable circumstance?” A membrane flicked sideways over his eyes in a reptilian wink. “I understand. I know my own reputation. I know what I am to you.” He allowed himself a sigh, short and disappointed. “Even the son of Arafinwë, wisest and most gentle, cannot stand in the shadow of the convicted without growing cold.”

How troublesome! How flighty are the Eldar! Every time he thought he’d coaxed one into conversation they soon skittered away in fear, or else turned their backs on him in cold disdain.
It came as no surprise, of course. He knew it was too soon to expect even the youngest elves, born in Aman, to be at ease in his presence. Spy on them, walk amongst them, pay them for their time on behalf of his “master”; but never converse with them— the time it took to plant the seed of some minor influence was often all the time he was granted. Not that it mattered….

I do not need their company. I have no desire to befriend the vermin that usurped my father’s love, and turned my kin against me! I only wish to gain their trust so I may learn how best to ruin them.

That thought had kept him warm for centuries— Revenge, vague and far-distant, made it possible to suffer the humiliation of his servitude to Tulkas, to share this over-bright island surrounded by enemies who hated and distrusted him, so far isolated from his works, his children; the servants and lovers he’d made his home with. It was the lie of his good behavior that had made it all bearable; but its comfort was wearing thin.

…I do not want their company… but theirs is the only company to be had on this contemptible rock, and I can’t have it! The flames around his shoulders leapt and crackled before he could restrain them.

The prince was easing away from him like a frightened deer, and he had nothing on hand to lure him back, save more words. Quickly the Vala went gliding down the steps ahead of him, a ribbon of black and gold that coiled and reshaped itself back to back with Findarato, feeling the brush of his proud mane just tickle him in the rush of displaced air.

“Serpents, too, prefer the warmth of light and safe surroundings… They are indeed wise creatures; the wisest of them live extraordinarily long lives, hidden away in the safety of their burrows. They take no risks.” He raised a pensive claw. “They are not known for their bravery, snakes… nor their daring. Not very heroic animals; perhaps that is why I do not see them emblazoned on more Noldor trinkets. Still, who are we to judge? The oldest of them we shall never see, twined about the roots of the earth, deathless and heedless of what we hot-blooded fools do above.” Melkor grinned over his shoulder, shark-toothed, watching the threads extending from the elf’s spirit quiver as if plucked. “You’d make an excellent snake, I think… but I wonder if the resemblance is only skin-deep? Time will tell, I suppose."

Findaráto hissed in a breath as the flames rose about the Vala and he could see them as if from a distance, huge and enveloping and destructive, a blight upon somewhere once good and green- but he blinked and they shrunk, entirely manageable if threatening in their own way. He could feel the heat of them on his face.

But then gone again, and this time utterly, as Melkor dissolved and disappeared, flashing by like a spot in one’s vision after gazing too long at something bright. Something not meant to be looked at all and he might have whirled around to watch him leave if he hadn’t sensed him, then, again, directly at his back. Findaráto held himself perfectly still, forgetting, for a moment, even to breath, though he couldn’t say what instinct it was that kept him so frozen. There was a great power at his back and by all rights he should be driven to move and indeed something in him cried out again in warning.

Do not let him get so close.

And he might have stepped away, despite his urge to keep still, might have whirled around and backed up, might have found any excuse to leave. Might have – if Melkor, he who held so many in awe and had once held so many in thrall, had not called him a coward. So sweetly and Findaráto could hear the smile in his voice, but he had grown up in court (grown up with Curufinwë) and he heard what was veiled in those words. His father had picked for himself and his house an animal unsuitable, Melkor said, one without the courage and innovation for which the House of Finwë and the Noldorin host were known. And he, the son of Arafinwë was heir to this legacy?

Well Melkor may be Vala, but he was wrong. There was strength in flexibility and Findaráto knew well how often it took courage to remain still and quiet when others demanded you act, act so often against your convictions. And his father, wisest indeed, knew it to be so.

(And yet – what were snakes, moored to the earth and frozen in the sun, next to blazing stars?)

No. Findaráto would not prove him right. If Melkor doubted his bravery, doubted the very heat of his blood, he would not flee his presence but stay where he was and turn to face him.

The elf and the Vala turned together at the same moment to face one another, and quite by accident Melkor found himself nose to nose with the scowling Arafinwëan prince.

He could taste the difference in the air as he took a breath, sucking the changed particles over the roof of his mouth; sweat dried and blood cooled, resolve crystalizing like tempered metal. It added a distinct ferrousness to the lingering scent of soft gold, making it less appetizing.

Melkor blinked first.

"Have I caused you offense?” His tone was sanguine. “I meant the comparison as a compliment. As I said– I’m quite fond of serpents."

Gold Threads

findaratoldyouso:

misbehavingmaiar:

“I was not aware that Arafinwë was a jewel smith…” He was not aware that Arafinwë was anything except alive, truth be told. “How exquisite.” Saying this, the Vala trapped Findarato’s hand in his claws gently and pulled it forward, almost as if he planned on kissing it as a courtier might.

Turning on the elf’s slender finger the ring glinted in the treelight, its glow reflected in the mirror of Melkor’s eyes. He leaned closer still, inhaling through his somewhat bat-like nose and flicking the air with a forked tongue, humming thoughtfully.

Not magical at all! Just a pretty trinket. And yet… there were the threads, curling loose now, but that someday would grow taught, and find their way into the tapestries of fate. How interesting… He’d remember that.

“This is very fine craftsmanship… the gold was hardly touched; fresh out of the earth from a source near the Pelorí Ridge, by the taste of it.” He lingered before releasing the elf’s hand, appreciating for a moment the fluttering pulse under royal skin.

Melkor tapped a claw against his lips with the air of one imparting a secret, flaming tendrils coiling like giddy serpents down his back. ”Gold was some of my best work, you know. Aulë would claim he wrought it himself, of course, but the truth is it was I who Sang the Notes of gold long ere he hammered the first atoms into place!” the Vala laughed, hard and gleaming. ”…Ah, but that’s all past; petty sibling rivalries… In any case, I remain inordinately fond of the material. Even the color alone pleases me.” He smiled, taking quick but appreciative assessment of the Noldo’s splendorous attire and his bright hair, the envy of any Vanya.

“Why serpents, do you think?” He asked, resting chin on knuckles.

Findaráto’s stomach turned at the first touch of Melkor’s claws to his skin and his neck felt hot again, and now his forehead, and now just above his upper lip. Sweating, he realized, and though there was no heat in the air, he felt burned. Smelled, for a moment, smoke and he concentrated his own breathing and increased heart rate to keep from wrenching his hand back. Somewhere, deep in his rolling stomach, was something hard and steady, a hatred and grudge he’d no reason to hold except that he knew he should.

It frightened him. This touch frightened him and when his hand was released, he held it close to himself protectively, as it if it had been stung by some insect. He rubbed his thumb over his ring as though to clean it and when the Vala smiled, the hatred flared into resentment.

And yet.

And yet. There was a power in that touch, however brief, that was beyond his comprehension and a strength in his words that was heady. There might be pride in this – why should a Vala come speak to him and not one of his uncles, his cousins, his own sister? Findaráto was not blind to his own talents; he knew he was a force in court and in song, he knew that when he spoke, people listened. He knew he was the eldest son of his house, a scion of kings, that people had whispered about the mingling of three bloods, but it was the Third House, he was of, and no one looked at his father the way they did Fëanáro or Nolofinwë.

But Melkor was here, asking about his ring, talking to him about craftsmanship, when everyone new it was Fëanáro and Curufinwë who were the grandest smiths in the family. So Findaráto held his back straight and his head high (showing off his hair when a part of him wanted to cover it; he’d caught that glance, he knew what the color of it meant) as he answered. “Serpents know when to extricate themselves from unsuitable circumstances.” Even be it their own skin and Findaráto took a step back so that Melkor could not mistake his meaning.

The Vala’s voice deepened in laughter. “And are you planning on slithering away from this unsuitable circumstance?” A membrane flicked sideways over his eyes in a reptilian wink. “I understand. I know my own reputation. I know what I am to you.” He allowed himself a sigh, short and disappointed. “Even the son of Arafinwë, wisest and most gentle, cannot stand in the shadow of the convicted without growing cold."

How troublesome! How flighty were the Eldar! Every time he thought he’d coaxed one into conversation they soon skittered away in fear, or else turned their backs on him in cold disdain.
It came as no surprise, of course. He knew it was too soon to expect even the youngest elves, born in Aman, to be at ease in his presence. Spy on them, walk amongst them, pay them for their time on behalf of his "master”; but never converse with them– the time it took to plant the seed of some minor influence was often all the time he was granted. Not that it mattered….

I do not need their company. I have no desire to befriend the vermin that usurped my father’s love, and turned my kin against me! I only wish to gain their trust so I may learn how best to ruin them.

That thought had kept him warm for centuries– Revenge, vague and far-distant, made it possible to suffer the humiliation of his servitude to Tulkas, to share this over-bright island surrounded by enemies who hated and distrusted him, so far isolated from his works, his children; the servants and lovers he’d made his home with. It was the lie of his good behavior that had made it all bearable; but its comfort was wearing thin.

…I do not want their company… but theirs is the only company to be had on this contemptible rock, and I can’t have it! The flames around his shoulders leapt and crackled before he could restrain them.

The prince was easing away from him like a frightened deer, and he had nothing on hand to lure him back, save more words. Quickly the Vala went gliding down the steps ahead of him, a ribbon of black and gold that coiled and reshaped itself back to back with Findarato, feeling the brush of his proud mane just tickle him in the rush of displaced air.

“Serpents, too, prefer the warmth of light and safe surroundings… They are indeed wise creatures; the wisest of them live extraordinarily long lives, hidden away in the safety of their burrows. They take no risks.” He raised a pensive claw. “They are not known for their bravery, snakes… nor their daring. Not very heroic animals; perhaps that is why I do not see them emblazoned on more Noldor trinkets. Still, who are we to judge? The oldest of them we shall never see, twined about the roots of the earth, deathless and heedless of what we hot-blooded fools do above.” Melkor grinned over his shoulder, shark-toothed, watching the threads extending from the elf’s spirit quiver as if plucked. “You’d make an excellent snake, I think… but wonder if the resemblance is only skin-deep? Time will tell, I suppose."

Gold Threads

findaratoldyouso:

misbehavingmaiar:

findaratoldyouso:

misbehavingmaiar:

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?"

Of course, his uncle, always his uncle, and what had Fëanáro to do with Melkor that he would pick up on his naming habits? And what had they discussed that he himself would come up in conversation? An uncomfortable sort of thrill shuddered its way down his spine and Findaráto looked away, down the steps, hoping that, perhaps, Turukáno had forgotten something, or maybe that some other friend would be making his way to the library.

But no one, in fact, looked overly familiar and the people he did see seemed somehow farther away than they ought to be. Something about them out of focus next to the Vala before him. The Vala before him who seemed somehow… changed, though he couldn’t identify exactly how. Somewhat diminished, perhaps, but he would be hesitant to assert it.

And it did nothing for the warning in his mind and in his heart. “Of course not,” he said quickly, because he was not so arrogant as to believe Melkor would have any reason to offer him offense in the first place. He stretched out his hand again (it would not be said that he hid it) so that he might see the ring. It was, after all, a lovely piece.

"My lord father crafted it,” he answered, and tilted his chin up just slightly. “It was his before it was mine."

Snakes are the wisest of animals, his father had told him once. They know when to change their circumstances, their homes, their own skin when it no longer fits them.

"I was not aware that Arafinwë was a jewel smith…” He was not aware that Arafinwë was anything except alive, truth be told. “How exquisite.” Saying this, the Vala trapped Findarato’s hand in his claws gently and pulled it forward, almost as if he planned on kissing it as a courtier might.

Turning on the elf’s slender finger the ring glinted in the treelight, its glow reflected in the mirror of Melkor’s eyes. He leaned closer still, inhaling through his somewhat bat-like nose and flicking the air with a forked tongue, humming thoughtfully.

Not magical at all! Just a pretty trinket. And yet… there were the threads, curling loose now, but that someday would grow taught, and find their way into the tapestries of fate. How interesting… He’d remember that.

“This is very fine craftsmanship… the gold was hardly touched; fresh out of the earth from a source near the Pelorí Ridge, by the taste of it.” He lingered before releasing the elf’s hand, appreciating for a moment the fluttering pulse under royal skin.

Melkor tapped a claw against his lips with the air of one imparting a secret, flaming tendrils coiling like giddy serpents down his back. "Gold was some of my best work, you know. Aulë would claim he wrought it himself, of course, but the truth is it was I who Sang the Notes of gold long ere he hammered the first atoms into place!“ the Vala laughed, hard and gleaming. ”…Ah, but that’s all past; petty sibling rivalries… In any case, I remain inordinately fond of the material. Even the color alone pleases me.“ He smiled, taking quick but appreciative assessment of the Noldo’s splendorous attire and his bright hair, the envy of any Vanya.

"Why serpents, do you think?” He asked, resting chin on knuckles.

Gold Threads

findaratoldyouso:

misbehavingmaiar:

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?"

Gold Threads

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?"