Rhûn Darkmoon
The snowcapped peaks of the distant Pelori Mountains were wreathed in rosy hues as the sun rose the next morning. So great was their height that at this early hour the sun had still to win its battle to light the realms to their west. Dark fingers of shadow stretched out across the land and lay heavy upon the Halls of Mandos.
To the one who stood upon his balcony watching those distant heights it seemed as though the shadows reached into his very heart and soul; such was the bleakness in Aulë Talka Marda that morning. He shivered in the cold wind that whipped about him or perhaps there was still some small, distant part of himself who felt the shadow and recognised it for what it was.
Shaking his head impatiently at such fanciful imaginings for one normally so practical, he ran his fingers though his tumbled hair. His sleep this last night past had been plagued by dark images and darker thoughts as, in truth, it had been plagued every night since first he stepped foot into Melkor's cell. He lifted the goblet of wine he held to his lips and took a long draught. His loyal Maiar had risen early and cleared away the untouched meal from the night before, leaving behind a tempting array of fresh fruits and newly-baked cinnamon bread, yet Aulë had found himself without appetite. Rather he had sought out the carafe of wine that had accompanied the meal in the hope it may dim some of the dreams that lingered still in his head.
As he swirled the wine upon his palate, too preoccupied to notice its crisp freshness, he thought back to that day when so much had not been as he had expected. He had been shocked to discover the dark writings on the cell walls. He himself had been there when Melkor had been freed from his long years of captivity, for it was he and he alone that could release the shackles of Angainor that had held the Dark Enemy fast all that time.
Now as he thought back to the day he had returned to the cell, he rubbed his brow and muttered to himself, 'I was there! By Manwë's beard, I was there! I saw with my own eyes there was nothing writ upon those walls. I sealed the cell with my own hands so none could wander by chance into so dark and desolate a place. So from whence then did they come, those dark and potent things? And why?'
Again a shiver ran down his spine and he shook his head as though to clear his thoughts of the questions that had no answers. With a deep sigh he drew his cloak more firmly about him and turned indoors, shutting out the early morning chill. As he entered his rooms his eye fell again upon his writing desk. The letter from Manwë lay where he had tossed it among his scattered correspondence the night before. He walked over to the desk and lifted the parchment, looking down at it for long moments lost in thought. Again his brow darkened as he re-read the words written there.
With a snort he tossed it back to the desk, further scattering the other papers as he does so, the unopened letter from Yavanna falling unnoticed to the floor where it would lie forgotten and unread. As he stood there scrowling darkly at the offensive missive, he folded his arms and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed the more he thought upon Manwë's words.
'And what if, brother Manwë dear, there are no writings left for your precious 'others' to record? If I, by supreme effort, do finish this task before they arrive, there will be nothing for them to record, and you, you will see that I'm no puling babe that must be coddled and jollied along. 'Go to the Noldor?' Indeed, I think not, brother! Aulë Talka Marda will show you of what he is made. I need no nursemaids to assist me. I am The Maker! By Shelob's foul breath, what is made I can unmake!'
Turning on his heel Aulë strode from his rooms, his steps determined as he made his way yet again to that dark cell, the cell of deep magic and black arts, the cell that unbeknownst to him called to him like the siren's call to the ill-fated seamen.
It was not long after his departure that one of the Maiar who assisted at the Halls of Mandos entered his rooms to tidy them and collect the remains of his morning meal. He paused in confusion as he saw the disarray before him. The scattered letters, the goblet fallen unheeded to the floor, its contents splattered upon the tiles, the upturned chair. Swiftly he worked, righting the chair, tidying the papers and cleaning up the spilled wine. As he collected the untouched meal, his brow creased in concern. The Lord Aulë was usually so meticulous in all he did, so careful, so thorough. This morning's disarray was so unlike him. He shook his head sorrowfully, "My Lord Aulë, you work too hard." he muttered to himself. Pausing at the door he looked back into the room as though sensing something lingering there. But there was nothing there. Nothing but the shadows.
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To the one who stood upon his balcony watching those distant heights it seemed as though the shadows reached into his very heart and soul; such was the bleakness in Aulë Talka Marda that morning. He shivered in the cold wind that whipped about him or perhaps there was still some small, distant part of himself who felt the shadow and recognised it for what it was.
Shaking his head impatiently at such fanciful imaginings for one normally so practical, he ran his fingers though his tumbled hair. His sleep this last night past had been plagued by dark images and darker thoughts as, in truth, it had been plagued every night since first he stepped foot into Melkor's cell. He lifted the goblet of wine he held to his lips and took a long draught. His loyal Maiar had risen early and cleared away the untouched meal from the night before, leaving behind a tempting array of fresh fruits and newly-baked cinnamon bread, yet Aulë had found himself without appetite. Rather he had sought out the carafe of wine that had accompanied the meal in the hope it may dim some of the dreams that lingered still in his head.
As he swirled the wine upon his palate, too preoccupied to notice its crisp freshness, he thought back to that day when so much had not been as he had expected. He had been shocked to discover the dark writings on the cell walls. He himself had been there when Melkor had been freed from his long years of captivity, for it was he and he alone that could release the shackles of Angainor that had held the Dark Enemy fast all that time.
Now as he thought back to the day he had returned to the cell, he rubbed his brow and muttered to himself, 'I was there! By Manwë's beard, I was there! I saw with my own eyes there was nothing writ upon those walls. I sealed the cell with my own hands so none could wander by chance into so dark and desolate a place. So from whence then did they come, those dark and potent things? And why?'
Again a shiver ran down his spine and he shook his head as though to clear his thoughts of the questions that had no answers. With a deep sigh he drew his cloak more firmly about him and turned indoors, shutting out the early morning chill. As he entered his rooms his eye fell again upon his writing desk. The letter from Manwë lay where he had tossed it among his scattered correspondence the night before. He walked over to the desk and lifted the parchment, looking down at it for long moments lost in thought. Again his brow darkened as he re-read the words written there.
With a snort he tossed it back to the desk, further scattering the other papers as he does so, the unopened letter from Yavanna falling unnoticed to the floor where it would lie forgotten and unread. As he stood there scrowling darkly at the offensive missive, he folded his arms and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed the more he thought upon Manwë's words.
'And what if, brother Manwë dear, there are no writings left for your precious 'others' to record? If I, by supreme effort, do finish this task before they arrive, there will be nothing for them to record, and you, you will see that I'm no puling babe that must be coddled and jollied along. 'Go to the Noldor?' Indeed, I think not, brother! Aulë Talka Marda will show you of what he is made. I need no nursemaids to assist me. I am The Maker! By Shelob's foul breath, what is made I can unmake!'
Turning on his heel Aulë strode from his rooms, his steps determined as he made his way yet again to that dark cell, the cell of deep magic and black arts, the cell that unbeknownst to him called to him like the siren's call to the ill-fated seamen.
It was not long after his departure that one of the Maiar who assisted at the Halls of Mandos entered his rooms to tidy them and collect the remains of his morning meal. He paused in confusion as he saw the disarray before him. The scattered letters, the goblet fallen unheeded to the floor, its contents splattered upon the tiles, the upturned chair. Swiftly he worked, righting the chair, tidying the papers and cleaning up the spilled wine. As he collected the untouched meal, his brow creased in concern. The Lord Aulë was usually so meticulous in all he did, so careful, so thorough. This morning's disarray was so unlike him. He shook his head sorrowfully, "My Lord Aulë, you work too hard." he muttered to himself. Pausing at the door he looked back into the room as though sensing something lingering there. But there was nothing there. Nothing but the shadows.
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