#adaron

Each time Adar awoke, he lined up thirteen pebbles. That morning, or day, or night (it was impossible to tell this far beneath the earth), was no different. He arranged them in order of size, from smallest to largest, left to right. They clacked against each other as he worked. He did his best to replicate the same volume and tone with each pebble. It always took some time to get it just right. A particular pattern of markings needed to be lined up correctly across the pebbles. These rules were self-imposed but critically important, though, he could not recall why.

Once the pebbles were satisfactorily laid out, he tapped each one against the stone floor. For each pebble, he spoke a name. For each name, he pictured a face. The last name and face was his own. He then repeated the process thirteen times. Adar could not remember who the other names and faces belonged to. They were spectres of a past life, tangled in the frayed edges of his mind. It had been this way for quite some time, but through this ritual, he grasped onto the scraps of what had been.

On this occasion, something was amiss. The names felt strange in his mouth. Each vowel was sticky against his tongue, and the faces were not quite right. Even his own name sounded strange to his ears, and he was sure his eyes had not always been quite so far apart. He wondered if this change, this disruption, could be an ill omen, or was he jumping at shadows again? Someone used to tease him for his superstitions. Their laughter rang in his ears. Soft and bright, like tinkling bells.

Adar stood up and moved over to the jagged mirror shard that hung on the wall. The light in his quarters was dim, but his eyes were well used to the gloom. Tarnished dark splotches obscured his reflection, but he could make out a face, his face. It was as he remembered it. Wasn’t it? There were his grey eyes, his scarred cheeks, his sullen brow. For a few minutes, he stared at his features, waiting to catch them shifting. But they held firm. He sighed and ran a comb through his hair thirteen times, reciting the names with each stroke, until it was slicked back and tucked behind his ears. With a deep breath, he told himself that all was well, then dressed. 

He wore a long black robe with voluminous sleeves that gathered at cuffs of a deep shade of red, embroidered with silver flames. A matching band ran around the garment’s waist. Each time he went to sleep he folded the robe away in a chest. Each time he awoke he found it draped over the end of his bed. Many times he tried to stay awake to see who it was that moved it, but heavy slumber always descended upon him before he had the chance. Eventually, he gave up trying. Though he continued to put the robe in the chest each night. He would not let his routine be disrupted by mysterious forces. 

As he fastened his dagger belt around his hips, a flash of red moved in his peripheral vision. His eyes darted to the entrance. His quarters had no door, those were reserved for servants of higher rank. All he saw was the carved archway and the empty corridor beyond. His fingers tightened around the jewel-encrusted hilt of his dagger. Another flash of red caught his eye. He looked down at his sleeve cuff. Red. That must have been it. He held his breath, counted thirteen heartbeats, then exhaled. With his nerves settled, he stepped out into the corridor.

Adar skulked through Angband. Cold flames cast gyrating shadows against the high stone walls. His footsteps echoed around him, cutting through the heavy silence. It gave the illusion that he walked among many others. While he was certain it had not always been the case, Angband was now deserted. Adar would not abandon his duty, however. Melkor rescued him from unspeakable horrors so he would wait patiently for his master’s return. Perhaps when the Dark Lord returned, he would be rewarded for his loyalty. How long had it been now? Adar could not be sure. The passing of time was strange in Angband. Years slipped through his fingers like smoke. 

The sprawling subterranean fortress was far too large to cover even one level in a single day. He tried it once but passed out on the cold stone floor and awoke in his bed. He supposed he could have walked back in his sleep, but the possibility that he had been carried deterred him from straying too far. It was dangerous to show weakness here, even if he had not seen another living soul in quite some time.

Sometimes there would be a sudden blistering heat or frigid chill as he passed through the corridors. Each time it occurred, he checked the walls and floors for gaps through which a draught could blow. Even if he did manage to find a hole, the temperature difference was never enough to explain the phenomenon. Still, he would always go and collect rubble to fill in the cracks. 

Occasionally he witnessed streaks of greyish-green colours that hung in the air. They twisted off into the distance or sprang towards him. Sometimes he thought he could make out faces. There was a familiarity to them that caused an uncomfortable tugging sensation at his sternum. It was as if they were messengers from beyond, ghosts of a forgotten past, or portents of doom.

Adar came to the throne room. It was a colossal chamber with a ceiling so high it could not be made out through the darkness. Large obsidian pillars were evenly spaced throughout. At the far end of the chamber was an enormous throne of ornately carved stone that sat atop a high dias. A smaller throne sat to the left of the larger. It was made from intricate gilded metalwork. Adar could not recall who it belonged to, but for a moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of a figure sitting upon it. He tapped his forefinger against his thumb thirteen times, muttering the names and recalling the faces, then surveyed the throne room. It was vacant. All was still.

“Adar,” a voice rang out sweetly. Strangely, it did not echo.

“Hello?” Adar’s reply bounced up the walls and disappeared into the gloom.

He could not remember the last time he heard a voice that was not his own. He remained still, ears keenly listening for any sound of movement. All he heard was the thumping of his heart. He took thirteen careful steps forward, then stopped again to listen.

“Adar,” this time the voice came as a whisper inside his skull.

A sharp pain stabbed at his eyes. He winced and blinked it away. His vision blurred into a gloomy swirl of dark stone and torchlight, then coalesced into a beautiful face. 

The being’s visage was so bright, it burned to look upon them, but Adar endured. He could not bear to shut his eyes and deny himself the sight. So he stood there, frozen in awe, as the being reached out a hand and tilted up his chin. The touch sent a shiver through Adar as he looked up into eyes that glowed like embers. 

“Do you remember me?” the being asked.

“No,” Adar breathed. He could not imagine being acquainted with a being of such sublimity. 

“A pity,” the being replied with a sigh. “No matter, I have come to rescue you from your torment.”

“I-,” Adar stammered, “I do not require rescue.” 

 “Is that so?” the being’s full lips twisted into a smirk, “Look around you, Adar, does nothing seem amiss?”

Adar’s eyes darted about the throne room. “Where is everyone?” he asked in a low voice.

“That is not the question you should ask,” the being replied. 

It did not take Adar long to think of a response. He had a wealth of questions and a dearth of answers.

“Where am I?” he asked again, louder this time.

“Well done,” the being praised, brushing their thumb against Adar’s cheek, “You are trapped. Not quite here, not quite gone. It is in my power to free you, but I require something in return.”