Rhûn Darkmoon
The night is late and the moon is low upon the horizon when at last Aulë Talka Marda makes his way to his chambers deep in the Halls of Mandos. His heavy footfalls betray a weariness that is more than mere tiredness of the body. Unbeknownst to him his brow is furrowed as he walks, for deep thoughts trouble him this night, as indeed they have troubled him for many a long day since that dreadful opening of Melkor's cell.
He opens the door of his rooms, the hinges swinging soundlessly as he enters. For once he does not smile his usual satisfaction when such simple things work well. Tonight he does not even notice. Supper is laid out on a small side table, a cold repast he had requested earlier that day, so that he may refresh himself at the end of his long labours without the need for any to wait upon his return. He had grown irritable of late at the fussing of his faithful Maiar over his long days passed in that dark cell of equally dark magic. Far easier it seemed to him now, to simply come and go as he pleased, with none to note the lateness of the hour of his return.
He pauses a moment and considers the meal, before dismissing it, the thought of food turning his stomach. He moves instead to his desk by the fire where the day's correspondence awaits for him. With a deep sigh of weariness he lowers his powerful frame into the seat before the desk, and begins to sort through the missives that have awaited there for his attention.
He spies the seal of Yavanna on one item and sets it aside to savour later, when he is at leisure. Efficiently he works his way though the rest of the correspondence, dashing off his replies with an economic use of words that nonetheless makes his thoughts very clear to the recipients. If his words are a little more abrupt and sharp than is his usual manner, he does not notice. Finally he lifts the last missive. Turning it over in his hands he raises his eyebrows as he recognises the Great Seal of Manwë Sulímo, Lord of the Breath of Creation and King of the West.
He eases his aching body a little on the hard chair and mutters softly to himself as he contemplates the letter. 'I have yet to see the appeal of the physical body when it is such a weak thing. A decent day's work and it is as full of complaints as any wife!' It does not occur to him to wonder at his words, even though he is married to one of fair and sweet disposition, and they are, indeed, extraordinary words to fall from his lips. Neither does he question the strange weariness of mind and spirit that has dogged him day and night since first he began the long labour of cleansing Melkor's cell.
He sits for a while, apparently lost in thought as he again turns the letter over in his hand as though he would divine somehow the words it carried. In the end with an almost impatient gesture, he splits the Seal with his thumbnail and begins to read, his lips silently forming the words of this missive as he does so.
At first his brow rises in surprise as he reads the command to cease any further cleansing the the cell and recording of the spells therein, only for them to grow lower and yet lower still as he reads aloud, "Prepare yourself, further, my Lord, to receive in all haste, chosen by my Lord Manwë, those such as he appoints to make record of such writings of Melkor and who shall return to my Sovereign Lord to give unto him such advice and information as he may desire."
Incredulous, he re-reads Manwë's instructions, the tone of his voice become more disbelieving, his words more strident as he does so. 'By Melkor's twisted heart, what means he by this!' he cries as he tosses the letter upon his desk, thereby sending his other correspondence scattering. For a long moment he glares at it, his nostrils flared and white-rimmed as he clenches his jaw against further outburst. Too agitated to remain seated he springs to his feet, unheeding of the crash behind him as his chair tumbles over.
"Does he think me as weak as a child that he sends another to do my work?" His voice crackles with anger as he paces the length of his chamber and back again. 'Does he not realise that I am the most able to deal with this dark magic! Does he doubt me still after all this time because I, in my fervor and passion, made the Dwarves? " His powerful hands are clenched tightly, the knuckles white from the force of his grip as he strides too and fro, the earlier weariness forgotten as anger and dismay ride him. "So brother Manwë would treat me as a dolt, sending me to the sweet Noldor like a child who is too young yet for war must go with the women!
> Next
He opens the door of his rooms, the hinges swinging soundlessly as he enters. For once he does not smile his usual satisfaction when such simple things work well. Tonight he does not even notice. Supper is laid out on a small side table, a cold repast he had requested earlier that day, so that he may refresh himself at the end of his long labours without the need for any to wait upon his return. He had grown irritable of late at the fussing of his faithful Maiar over his long days passed in that dark cell of equally dark magic. Far easier it seemed to him now, to simply come and go as he pleased, with none to note the lateness of the hour of his return.
He pauses a moment and considers the meal, before dismissing it, the thought of food turning his stomach. He moves instead to his desk by the fire where the day's correspondence awaits for him. With a deep sigh of weariness he lowers his powerful frame into the seat before the desk, and begins to sort through the missives that have awaited there for his attention.
He spies the seal of Yavanna on one item and sets it aside to savour later, when he is at leisure. Efficiently he works his way though the rest of the correspondence, dashing off his replies with an economic use of words that nonetheless makes his thoughts very clear to the recipients. If his words are a little more abrupt and sharp than is his usual manner, he does not notice. Finally he lifts the last missive. Turning it over in his hands he raises his eyebrows as he recognises the Great Seal of Manwë Sulímo, Lord of the Breath of Creation and King of the West.
He eases his aching body a little on the hard chair and mutters softly to himself as he contemplates the letter. 'I have yet to see the appeal of the physical body when it is such a weak thing. A decent day's work and it is as full of complaints as any wife!' It does not occur to him to wonder at his words, even though he is married to one of fair and sweet disposition, and they are, indeed, extraordinary words to fall from his lips. Neither does he question the strange weariness of mind and spirit that has dogged him day and night since first he began the long labour of cleansing Melkor's cell.
He sits for a while, apparently lost in thought as he again turns the letter over in his hand as though he would divine somehow the words it carried. In the end with an almost impatient gesture, he splits the Seal with his thumbnail and begins to read, his lips silently forming the words of this missive as he does so.
At first his brow rises in surprise as he reads the command to cease any further cleansing the the cell and recording of the spells therein, only for them to grow lower and yet lower still as he reads aloud, "Prepare yourself, further, my Lord, to receive in all haste, chosen by my Lord Manwë, those such as he appoints to make record of such writings of Melkor and who shall return to my Sovereign Lord to give unto him such advice and information as he may desire."
Incredulous, he re-reads Manwë's instructions, the tone of his voice become more disbelieving, his words more strident as he does so. 'By Melkor's twisted heart, what means he by this!' he cries as he tosses the letter upon his desk, thereby sending his other correspondence scattering. For a long moment he glares at it, his nostrils flared and white-rimmed as he clenches his jaw against further outburst. Too agitated to remain seated he springs to his feet, unheeding of the crash behind him as his chair tumbles over.
"Does he think me as weak as a child that he sends another to do my work?" His voice crackles with anger as he paces the length of his chamber and back again. 'Does he not realise that I am the most able to deal with this dark magic! Does he doubt me still after all this time because I, in my fervor and passion, made the Dwarves? " His powerful hands are clenched tightly, the knuckles white from the force of his grip as he strides too and fro, the earlier weariness forgotten as anger and dismay ride him. "So brother Manwë would treat me as a dolt, sending me to the sweet Noldor like a child who is too young yet for war must go with the women!
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