“Great Hells…” he swore, turning over the note quickly to see if it bore a signature, or any indication as to who had left it. Finding it as blank as the box was empty, he heaved a sigh and got down on all fours to better see under tables and the dark spaces beneath the forge. Why did this keep happening??
Whatever it was, he hoped it wasn’t infant dragons again… or worse, geese.
An incredibly feeble-looking orc arrives on the southernmost isle, wheezing and coughing sporadically as he produces a scroll case and begins to read:
My Dearest Madam,
Forgive me if I doubt your sincerity. I would have less trouble believing a brainless stomach with teeth was capable of sympathy than you. I suspect any pain you’re feeling right now might be due to the largely indigestible bitumen and combustable gasses that balrogs are composed of, and should not be mistaken for sentiment.
You didn’t have to mention the scar tissue, but you did, because you are Very Rude– and in doing so you reveal the only genuine worry you possess: that my tender metaphysical flesh is becoming less appetizing with each passing century, and you wish to cut your losses now and devour me before I get any worse.
The peace you offer me would be found in the bottomless reaches of your internal Void, which I have NO interest in experiencing.
GOOD DAY TO YOU.
The Elder King, Rightful Heir of Arda, The Mighty Arising,
~Melkor
P.S. This messenger has been coated in asbestos. Yes, write that down too, Langon, I want her to know–
“– wait, I’ve been coated in WHAT?”
Accompanying this image, in a nearly illegible scrawl:
“look…im tired. and honestly i don’t give a flying fuck about whether u keep feener’s rocks BUT! i have it on authority i make the best marshmallows this side of the sundering seas, so here’s the question, Melkor: How Many Marshmallow Until Chill?”
(this “letter” almost certainly was not intended to be sent. it may have been found crumpled amongst some loot from a recent raid or stuck to the bottom of somebody’s foot, miraculously intact. why was it written? a joke? desperation? substance abuse? who knows.)
Pictures! Oh, he loved it when there were pictures, they were so much easier to decipher than all that scribbly stuff…
Melkor pinched the rumpled parchment between two claw-tips and held it up to his enormous eye. …Something, something, marshmallows? Someone kneeling very politely in obeisance while a giant bird attacked from above? Yes, yes little face, you are right to cry! Birds are horrible. And this one was holding some kind of weapon, so it was extra dangerous. Melkor shuddered.
A scribe arrived to dictate his reply, which was left approximately where the letter had been found, mysteriously but unmistakably addressed to the Dark Lord– in a trash heap outside of Tol Sirion, now under the command of Sauron.
“Dear Hat Slave,
You ask a very good question: Why ARE birds? We just don’t know.
I accept your bricks, or feener-rocks, or marshmallows, whatever they are; please don’t be sad. Have you tried throwing one of the bricks at the bird? That might make it go away.
You drew my crown very big. You are good at drawing. If you want to draw me again, I would like that.
I do not know how many small squares you need to stack like that until they are cold. Maybe I can help you, I’m good at making cold things, like ice, which I invented. (Do you need them to be cold so that your harp does not catch fire? Is that why it is enclosed inside a fence of marshmallows? I do not understand this part of your message.)
Please be careful around birds, you seem nice.
Fondest Regards,
The Elder King, Rightful Heir of Arda, The Mighty Arising,
~Melkor
To heck with it, I need a break from my projects.
–Send me a letter, question, threat, proposal, or a subject line from any (canon, Tolkien) character to Melkor or Sauron, and receive an in-character response.
Mitsalaumë,
You made your feelings quite clear when you destroyed the gifts I gave you. This was within your right, they were yours to do with as you please after all– but the message it sent was unambiguous.
That you wish to sever ties with me brings me no pleasure, but neither does it surprise me. You are a child of the Sea; I have known Ossë since the beginning of creation, and the nature of our relationship has ever been one of contention and vacillation, like the tide. This parting was inevitable, as much as it grieves me.
You need not ask my pardon, just as I need not ask for yours. You lost a friend– but he was not your friend only. Celebrimbor and I could have built something truly magnificent together; I am not proud of what was done, but regrets are something one must shoulder in pursuit of a higher goal. I have never lost sight of mine, nor should you– though kinder, easier paths may rise to tempt you off your road.
~S
Dear Lin,
You’re welcome I love you too.
Kiss kiss,
~Thû
OOoOh! Now here’s a language I CAN read!
My dear godchild,
I thank you for the materials, and the challenge you cleverly set me. I do regret to inform you that the crab was dead on arrival, and furthermore, your messenger appears to have eaten most of him. I have made do with what remains, and provided a replacement crab.
Not being especially keen on “shell art”, I have opted to create something closer to my realm of mastery: the sand you sent was melted into glass, and the seashells reduced to calcium carbonate and used as flux.
As you can see, your new crustacean has been upgraded with a shell of vastly improved durability which is also, if I may say so, quite pretty. I hope this meets with your approval.
Your Obedient Servant,
~Uncle Thû
postscriptum: If Lin is there, tell her the crab threat in Barad-dûr has been neutralized.
Sweet Cousin–
I am well as can be expected, the weather and ongoing siege being, as you astutely mentioned, dreadful.
You know my Master and I would be delighted to see you. We so seldom have welcome visitors of our own kind anymore, and the pitter patter of incandescent little feet do so brighten mood of this dreary fortress.
Alas, as much as I would appreciate a famulus to assist me, I have precious little time to train an apprentice in my craft. You deserve my full attention as an instructor, little flame. However, if you wish to observe me in my forge and act as my shadow, you may do so with my blessing– provided you are not underfoot.
Your Obedient Servant,
~Forgemaster Sauron
postscriptum: You know very well I left the name of ‘Mairon’ behind when I withdrew from Aulë’s service. My new name(s) suit me just fine for the time being. Perhaps one day I will adopt a name of my own choosing, just as I have chosen my current Master; I am merely awaiting the proper inspiration.
“Dear brother,
What on earth are you playing at? What sort of smith makes a sheath in absence of a sword? You are going about this all backwards, how did you even begin this endeavor without first having measurements for–”
This first part of the note is crossed out heavily. It continues farther down the page.
“You were being facetious. I see the joke now. My apologies.
I could use a respite. I’ve been working too long, it makes me over-literal, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.
Please infer the appropriate amount of double-entendre and salacious humor – Something something Well-Oiled Blade, something something Pounding something something Tightly Fitted, etc. etc.
I’ll be there at a quarter to ten, my minx. Could you find it in your heart to tuck your claws in and give me a shoulder rub? My ‘girthy blade’ and I would be much obliged.
Yours in exhaustion,
~Thû
Dearest Lady Sath, your sources betray you.
It is -wolves- I am historically fond of, not hounds; though I have found the company of certain beasts agreeable. This is a recent development (domesticated animals, as a phenomenon, are a recent development by my reckoning). Dogs are part of the world of Men, and it was not until I joined their company that I made favorable acquaintance with any. They were bred largely to hunt and guard against intruders; a set of abilities usually pitted against me and mine– as you well know, given your last question. I cannot decide if its tone is impertinent or naively generous; ought I be flattered by the assumption that I *let* the hound of Oromë win? Or is this mockery? I shall give you the benefit of the doubt.
I could waste a great deal of paper expounding on the nature of Maiar’s abilities (for Huan is indeed a Maia), and predestination, and the circumstances of our battle– but I will spare you the long treatise and simply say that continuing to fight would have been deeply disadvantageous to me. Tol Sirion was an important holding in North Beleriand and its loss was grievous, but not so much so that I was willing to stake my physical body on the chance of its recapture. In short, it was not a hill I was ready to die on. So, I fled. I did not throw the fight; Fate itself was against me, and if two of the Valar bowed to Luthien’s charms, a Maia like myself need not feel shame forever over such a defeat. Besides, Huan is dead, his houseless spirit fled back to his master in Aman, while I remain.
After all that, I fear I did not answer your question, Lady Sath. I’m partial to the aloof energy of the larger Spitzes; Shepherds I admire for their intelligence and loyalty; and a Molosser is a grand, imposing companion for a lord to keep at his side.
I hope I have satisfied your curiosity on this matter. Should you wish to make further inquiries, you should find me at the University of Umbar.
Yours,
The Emperor of the Eastern Kingdoms, Lord of Mordor and its Vassal States, Zîgur of the Temple of Freedom
~Ar-Anaškad Thû (Sauron)
P.S. Cats are lovely too.
Another unsigned note! A secret admirer? Perhaps. But more importantly, it means someone is sneaking around in the fortress without his knowledge. He tears off a square of parchment and leaves it in letter’s place.
To our flatterer: No need to thank me– their sight is free, and my gift to all. Meet me at the eastern gatehouse an hour past sunset, if you’d like a closer look at them.
~S
The note is not signed, and though Melkor speaks fluent frownyface, it seems there is not much to respond to even if he knew who’d sent it. The dark lord picks his nose with the paper and tosses it into a brazier. At least it was useful.
–or a note, a secret missive, a message of any sort that can be responded to, and they will send their reply. Be sure to include who the message is intended for, and the manner of its delivery.
MisbehavingMaiar: Tumblr Archive 