Melkor: "You know, they say couples that kill together stay together. Why don't we put that to the test?"
Manwë: "As hot as that sounds, I don't think this realm would appreciate the only king going rogue with the biggest villain."
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Manwe and Melkor
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*Mairon and Melkor skipping stones on lake*
Mairon: It’s such a beautiful evening.
Melkor, whispering: Take that Ulmo! You fucking seaweed and dump fish brain!
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thinking about Him (the Dark Lord Morgoth)
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Very late entry for the scar touching prompt I got awhile back. This is Maedhros in Angband. Melkor is very very creepy!!!!
CW: In The Iron Hell blanket warnings (captivity/restraints/uh, Melkor is his own warning) plus biting
Sharp teeth sank into his neck and he gasped in pain and disgust, forcibly reminded of the occasion when the creature Thuringwethil had entered his cell when he had been too weak to fight. The Vala was not so concerned with consuming the blood that trickled from the bite however and quickly moved his attention elsewhere, holding the struggling elf still with both hands slowly applying pressure to his shoulder blades, the back of his neck. Soft laughter pricked at his skin as his pointed, notched ears were nipped hard enough to draw blood. With his breath caught in his throat and an unknown number of fingers gripping his jaw, pressing to his lips, threatening to invade his mouth, Maitimo couldn’t manage more than a strangled groan.
“I trust that our most recent lesson has not been so soon forgotten, Nelyafinwë.” The soft tone did not seem to come from where he was sure his tormentor’s mouth was. A spasm of fear at this lapse in reality as though he had misjudged where to place his feet while running. Maitimo felt rather than saw the glint of malicious pleasure on the ancient face as his body was manipulated like a children’s toy. He is once again reminded how fragile, small he is compared to his captor, even while the Vala is so reduced in form. It inspires a lulling fear he has not known since youth.
“Attempt to harm me such again and two months thou shall wear the device that has already marred thy face. After we have completed the additional discussed punishment, hmm?” The Vala’s voice was practically a purr as he tapped the barely visible lines from the metallic gag left on Maitimo’s jaw and cheeks. The elf clenched his teeth, fury burning in his eyes as the Dark Enemy smirked, returning his attention to his prize’s neck and throat. Pleased at how his words had, for the moment at least, tempered that frantic urge to fight and disobey. Slowly, He was warping Maitimo Nelyafinwë to the image He desired, distorted but never fully changed. His captive would always have a semblance of his old life, his old fire, (For Melkor enjoyed stoking the sparks in addition to snuffing them) if only so he could be lucid to everything he had lost. Everything that had been stolen.
A flickering, almost reptilian tongue touched a long stretch of discolored skin on the elf’s shoulder, the remnants of a burn scar that had never been properly healed. Maitimo’s body shifted almost convulsively at the odd sensation that did not cease but merely moved. Eyes closed shut, he had no wish to discover what parts of the demon are actually touching him, which are projected by mind or magic or other manipulations.
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Melkor befor his armys about to attack: Thu are nothing but sla-
Melkor pointing at the ground out of nowhere: That's a bug!
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okay there is *reportedly* news about a movie in development about the fall of Morgoth??
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My Dark!Namo AU ideas:
Melkor orders Namó to raise the Feanorians from the dead so that they can fight as part of Melkor’s army. This, Namó does eagerly, because of his dislike for the Feanorians.
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Yeah, whatever Amazon’s doing with LotR is cool and all, but you know what would be an even better project? A campy cartoon set in Goldolin where Idril, Tuor, and Maeglin solve mysteries
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With your void being Melkor’s mother, what of Manwë?
the way I had been imagining it, the Void is just Melkor’s mom, which I guess technically makes Melkor and Manwë only half-siblings.
the gist of what I’ve come up with so far is that originally, Eru and his female counterpart (tentatively calling her Áya) worked together in harmony, and conceived Melkor. As their son aged, they began to quarrel about the tendencies he showed-- Áya did not like the way Eru treated him for simply having a mind of his own and showing a great deal of curiosity and creative drive. Eventually they parted ways, leaving Melkor a bit abandoned, and Eru went on to create the subsequent Valar on his own. Manwë and the rest are much purer ‘pieces’ of Eru, whereas Melkor has his mother’s influence setting him apart and making him so drastically different than the others.
ofc, as Melkor aged, he began to go and visit Áya, unaware that she was his mother. He had become acutely aware that Eru favored the other Valar, particularly Manwë, and as such was lonely and despondent. Áya treated him kindly and entertained all his more out-of-the-box ideas, fostering his sense of camaraderie with her. Still, Melkor had no idea who she really was. He kept his meetings with her secret from Eru and the other Valar, sensing that he was doing something his father would disapprove of. It was also, ofc, Áya who told Melkor of the flame imperishable and encouraged him to seek it and bring it back to her.
the long and short of this is that Melkor is so ‘different’ not only because he was the firstborn and had the greatest share of Eru’s knowledge and power, but also because he had Áya teaching and instructing him behind the scenes. Manwë, while ofc also very powerful, simply did not have the same make-up that Melkor had and thus couldn’t comprehend many of the things Melkor had a grasp on.
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original by Nick Seluk
This is how it went, right?
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Mairon, addressing the squad: And if you have any suggestions feel free to put them in the suggestion box.
Melkor: But – that’s just a trash can.
Mairon: It sure is!
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Melkor, struggling to keep upright in his 1 inch heels: Yeah, I-I don’t really think heels are for me
Mairon, pointing at him and walking flawlessly in sparkly golden 6 inch heels: WEAK.
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Varda: Remember when you didn't try to solve all your problems with attempted murder?
Melkor: Stop romanticizing the past.
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hi!! so the time travel stuff you've been writing lately has got me thinking. so say morgoth gets himself yeeted back in time. i think there's really only one person he'd go after. not feanor, the Guy Who Died Five Minutes In Last Time. not fingon, not maedhros, not even fingolfin. question-who would you kill to ensure a child is never born? Their Mother. idril. she is his #1 target. no idril/no earendil/no valar last-minute rescue. so begins his hunt. (no pressure just love your writing!!!)
Okay, so, confession time: I initially misread this as Morgoth obsessed with killing Indis.
Which is a fun idea but it’s also a tricky one due to the nature of elves; killing Indis wouldn’t mean she couldn’t come back and have children later. It would have to be a repeated endeavor. A much more efficient way to keep her children from being born would be to stop her from marrying Finwe in the first place.
. . . Which would either lead to hilarious rom-com shenanigans as Morgoth tries to break her and Finwe up while promoting, I don’t know, some Maia he thinks he can control as an alternate candidate OR Morgoth acting as Miriel’s bodyguard to keep from dying in the first place.
This is the one AU where I can actually see Feanor and Morgoth on the same side. Huh. Was not expecting that.
In some ways, Idril would be easier! Idril will come back too, but there’s a relatively narrow window in which she can meet and have children with Tuor; killing her has a good chance of preventing the birth of Earendil.
The question is when? He does, to his advantage, now know where Gondolin is, but his timing would need to be really good because otherwise he’s going to end up sending his army to a random spot of wilderness where Gondolin will someday be or he’s going to arrive too late and Idril’s going to have that secret tunnel ready to go.
. . . Actually, you know what? Ulmo picked the spot; Ulmo warned them when time was up . . . but I don’t think Morgoth knows this. There is no good time for Morgoth to arrive, but he does not know this.
Tuor is, in some ways more feasible. He’s mortal! He’s not living in a secret city for most of his life!
On the other hand, he’s one mortal, and Morgoth does not have his movements pre-Gondolin memorized, if he was ever aware of them in the first place.
He might try to catch Huor instead of Hurin so he could curse his line instead? I feel like the main difference this would cause is Beleg living and Voronwe dying though, and while I don’t think Morgoth would object, that’s not really helpful, either.
He could kill Turgon or Elenwe back in Aman? That still leads to the same problem as killing Indis, though.
. . . You know, that’s kind of a story in and of itself. Morgoth attempts to prune the family tree and is blocked by difficulties on all sides. A different sort of approach to preserving the timeline (and the souls within it) than I took in my last “Morgoth attempts time travel” story.
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Title: Creative Fires (Chapter 6: Contact Metamorphism)
Word count: 28,415 so far
Characters: Melkor, Mairon, Curumo, Aulë, Eönwë, Manwë
Warnings: Melkor causing various problems, unhealthy interpersonal relationship dynamics
Summary: Mairon has always been loyal to Aulë. He prides himself on behaving with the utmost propriety. He rarely makes errors, in his work or otherwise.
When Curumo asks for his assistance in solving a problem without Aulë’s knowledge, Mairon sees no harm in helping him.Yet Mairon faltered once in the past, and he is about to make another mistake. When they encounter Melkor, the consequences seem small at first, but they will increase a thousandfold.
A story about artistic expression and bad choices.
Notes: I managed to finish a chapter in time for @aspecardaweek — featuring Melkor and Mairon in a tale of queerplatonic seduction. In the context of this fic, also, which is set prior to the First War with Melkor, they are spiritual beings without sexual desires.
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The shrill cry of a true gull can cause any of them to long for what lies beyond the great Sea without warning, for that strange country hidden even before the world changed forever; this they know. This is why they try to avoid the shoreline, those who wish to stay here, little though there seems to be for them to stay for, here where so much remains unfinished, inchoate, nothing truly complete or unmarred. This is why Círdan, in his long penance for some offence already lost to the slow crawl of time, knows no relief; this is why he has long stopped his ears with yellow beeswax, though he still sings through his grizzled beard while he works, an unidentifiable ancient little tune for no one in particular. He will not hear his own voice again until the last grey ship has left his weathered hands, until history ends for all of Eldalië and he is freed from his shallow grey harbor to drift out into the ocean’s vast blue embrace.
This is why the Singers of the Shore sing strange, overlapping songs, near-discordant, deaf to one another; though they row to the same rhythm, perfectly attuned; though they dance to the same song vibrating upwards through beaten wood beneath the soles of their bare feet, slapping the ship’s deck in tandem. When they wish for company beyond touch osanwë is the only way left for them in truth, unless one is ready to leave; and in this old haven strict boundaries between self and other have slowly eroded to a degree those not so close to the ever-changing Sea find disconcerting. Visitors to these strange cities tend to prefer Hwerme, an old sign-language, fallen mostly out of use with the advent of the palantír; thought-up when it was hard even to reach one’s allies on the other hill, separated usually by vast swathes of screaming, trumpetting armies on the run, though sharp sight might yet see the arms of a friend speaking.
The call to come home to the land beyond the world is shrill, and full of sorrow, with an edge of impatience to it; this they know. Some have wondered why such a vulgar beast should be the one to announce irresolvable longing to an immortal heart, if not set it ablaze itself. This mean, rude bird, fighting and squabbling on the sand, living often on half-spoiled, stolen fish, so often their sole message from otherwise silent Gods. They wonder, and do not know; though some suppose it is simply that old Ulmo speaks through their yellow beaks. Picking diminutive form as he likes to do when he fears frightening his disciples too greatly to be of use after, spreading himself thin until one might look him in any orange-ringed, cold grey eye. They do not wonder at there being hundreds of birds in the air at once, not one of them speaking with exactly the same voice; for are there not hundreds of waves emerging and dissolving all the time in the Sea, all and none of them the shape of their Lord?
But Ulmo does not speak through the birds. Ulmo does not speak through the birds, but to them; quite the other way around. If discordant song buries sharp hooks deep in tender elvish hearts, it is through familiarity, not novelty; through sorrow, not promised joy in land so far unseen. If the birds of the shore are a vulgar, squabbling bunch; well, might not the same be said for many of their own forebears, once one separates them from the dazzle of song? If there is an edge of impatience to their incessant, insistent announcement, there is also in their voices a simple, raw pain, unblemished by beauty; no nightingale promise of paradise lost before most of those who remain were born is what draws a heart away from home, but a voice like the cry of a soldier rent open on the battlefield, bleeding out his last alone.
The Sea is a net, the sky a hook, drawing them all in; hesitant Nandor and unwilling Avari, a sorrowful Noldo and his still vengeful King. A low conch-note sounds over the great water every time a lone fëa recalcitrant or simply afraid refuses Mandos’ heavy, Dooming call, saying; here you may stay and leave everything unfinished, unjudged; here you may dwell safely until the end of time, at a remove from any Gods other than I, both dark and light, away from any who would change or use you; who would speak your story and set the price you are to pay for it, or take and twist you until very little of what you were would remain in some fell beast, ravenous with hunger for what it can no longer bear to have. No. Here by the Sea, where the water shifts restlessly against the rocks it meets with the tides just the same in every century, you may stay just as you are, albeit caught in flesh of less repute to avoid suspicion. You may stray as far inland as you like, though you must ever watch for the Morgoth’s heavy fist, and are safer always by the water, where you might leave everything as inchoate, unfinished, threads hanging forever uncut from immense and changing tapestries, singing no song but the sharp mewing cry of the soul.
This is the shrill cry of a true gull which can cause any of them to long for what lies beyond the great Sea without warning; for it is the call of memory, and of loves lost, sometimes long before they crossed the sundering water, left behind in blessed regret.
And so it may be Fingolfin’s cool grey eyes that catch yours, one lonely evening on the empty pier by the lake, orange-ringed and without mercy for what he is about the inflict, which is after all only the song of himself; his heart’s cry caught in sharp-beaked tongue; all the memory of Aman distilled into the simple, wretched, longing call of a common seagull.
This story on AO3
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Another cropped twitter doodle, one day I'll draw them properly
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Dumb Melkor doodle cuz this is the only thing I have time for ="))
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How the orcs saw Glorfindel after his return from death:
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