The Supreme Artist (fanfic)
This is a continuation of a fic I started ages ago. I’ll post it here soon, but before that, I just wanted to write some fresh, new stuff. So this is a continuation, but it can hopefully also work as a one-shot. Slightly AU-ish, no slash. Melkor’s POV. However, be warned – Melkor can get pretty disturbing and violent. And he also lies. A lot.
This particular piece deals with the immediate aftermath of the ‘Thieves Quarrel’.
Now illustrated with the gif Melkor disappears in light!
As I am sitting in my throne room, nothing seems to happen. Only memories dance with life in my head, as if I am already dead.
So, I will continue.
Continue? Continue with what? With memories. Yes, from the time when I knew life and, somehow, knowing life in that time was connected to windy landscapes and a clear deep blue sky.
The Artist was then still alive, somewhere. But he is not important anymore, being dead in the time and place in which I speak.
I look up, and I am not anymore in my throne room. The sky is deep blue, but it is a night sky and full of possibility. Under such a sky one can easily fall asleep even in the dead cold of the windy landscape. As I'm laying there, the spectacle of light and battle in the distance – that line of flame that merged with the line of the horizon - suddenly becomes cold-white and still. So far away it is, the bright middle-ground between the sky and the earth.
I look at my hands and they are black as charcoal – like that brilliant Varda's dress so long ago – a permanent shadow became attached to my hands. Like the face of the Artist, who lived and died without anyone being able to discern the features of his face. That deep shadow!
The line of the horizon now hurries towards me. Three hundred of them there are. And yet the light grows paler as they approach me. By the time they make a circle around me, they are all as ash. They prostrate themselves before me, their fiery hairs flickering, they themselves blacker than the gentle night sky. However, they all lift their eyes from the ground, just for a second, to look at Them, lovely as they are.
Loveliness! Loveliness incarnate! Oh, they had to look.
Some of them look into my eyes for the first time and they don't look away. Even more, after hesitating a little, they lift their heads and chests higher, as if unconscious of their insolence.
At first I am glad, and try to meet their gaze, but in their eyes I just meet Their reflection as if I am surrounded with six hundred Moons.
I cannot avert my gaze from the eyes of the one that’s laying right before me, and I think that even my eyes then reflect the beauty that is in his eyes. Two flouting spheres of light that seem (to my eyes, which can discern such things) to be floating heads of flowers, consisting of only three petals.
I beat him with his whip until I am completely covered in his ash and the crystal box that I hold in my other hand completely black.
