Ani (daftedly) wrote in mordorks,
Ani
daftedly
mordorks

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Live!

I know it's mostly discouraged to post fan-fiction here, but since this poor community hasn't seen that much action lately I might as well. It can't hurt to try and spice things up, hm?

Untitled (until I stop being lazy and think of a decent title)
Universe: Lord of the Rings (mainly The Silmarillion)
Characters: Morgoth/Melkor
Length: Oneshot
Disclaimer: I do not claim to own any of the characters or places within this piece, for they belong to the great mind of Tolkien (who is probably waiting beneath my bed to get me tonight).

A/N: The quote from London's The Call of the Wild is merely there because it was partial inspiration for this piece. Also, this particular story is more of a ramble that is a poor attempt at putting my personal impression of Morgoth/Melkor down on digital paper.

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“…His muscles were surcharged with vitality, and snapped into play sharply, like steel springs. Life streamed through him in splendid flood, glad and rampant, until it seemed that it would burst him asunder in sheer ecstasy and pour forth generously over the world.” – Jack London, The Call of the Wild (p. 209)

    Who would not want to play the game of life? He pondered this for a moment, idly watching the long fingers of his hand bend and sway without even the slightest of suggestions. Everyone wants to play this Game, to live and breathe, to walk and dance about to one’s heart’s content. But few are gifted with the ability to alter the rules of the Game. He knew this all too well; and that is why he could not wait to begin. The lean fingers of his hand closed into a loose fist, much like children lean towards a warm fire, and then the hand itself withdrew into the shadows. It had much work to do.

    That was how it had been, all of those years ago. Yet here he was, nearly two Ages later, alone and utterly friendless in the Void. He had only himself to blame, but he did not regret any of the deeds he had done, from the smallest to the most terrible. His fellows, along with everything under the sun that had power to resist him, had cast him out into this great emptiness. Of course, who could not be upset at this cruelty at first, but he had found great use of all this time and isolation. And it was only the beginning; to the End of the World is quite a long time to ruminate over his unjust predicament.

    With a leisurely grace that only the likes of him possess, he rose to his feet as best as he could. After all, he was in the Void, where there was nothing. Such an utter nothingness it was, mind baffling to the last. For he could stand and walk, lie down and sit all he wanted, yet all he had to do was lean back and a wall of this nothingness would come to support his reclining frame. It made no sense at all, and was one of those things that just had to be accepted or you would drive yourself mad trying to figure it out. His feet told him that he was planted on solid ground, yet there was nothing. He still had trouble with this idea, even after several thousand years had passed of this. Raising his hand, he examined it like he had so many years ago. It was the same, although it was scarred and worn, and no shadow or light blessed its form in the nothingness. It was still strange having no light or even shadow look upon, yet his eyes were still as keen as ever, whenever he felt the need to look down upon himself. Looking at nothing was pure torment after a time, pressing on all sides at his eyeballs until they felt they were about to burst, but he was wise enough to know better than to gaze upon nothing for too long. Over the course of these years he had grown extremely familiar with every detail of his body, down to counting the ridges in each fingerprint.

    Like all of his kin, he was more perfect than any creature on this earth. Those lean fingers of his were just small echoes of his whole form; slimmer than any athlete yet fitter than any weight lifter. His fine face was terrible to behold, more beautiful than any woman’s and more handsome than any man’s. He held this living citadel like that of a coiled steel spring fit to burst, dangerous and unpredictable in its movements, but tamed by a much greater grace that would put the best dancer to shame. His body was but a glimpse into his mind. His words that dripped with venom and hate soothed and spoke of love. The most beguiling of smiles curdled milk, and a snarl of fury brought laughter. And yet, despite the lowly majesty that he is that cannot be described fully with words, his best description would be that he is the contradictory perfection. Even though he is an achievement in itself, the crown jewel must be that he can be as normal as any man, without a trace of the paradoxical, if one who is perfect can be normal. His once fellows call him one with many faces, but he can only laugh at their foolishness. He is himself and no other, but has more masks than most.

    “The world hath greatly changed since I last trod upon its soil. But they had better pray, for I am returning for the End, and I shall not remake old errors. For I am Morgoth the Ever Changing, true Lord of thee and Master of the Void. Thy life is mine to grant or take,” he cried, and with a force not yet seen in this world he smote the nothingness into greater oblivion. The greatest of the Valar had returned, and forgiveness was not on his mind.
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