The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

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The Council of the Ritual

The ritual to destroy the sun and moon takes shape.  One mildly sensual scene.

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33)  Council of the Ritual - Year of the Sun 457 Lairë (Summer)

 

Moran

News poured in from the north, all of it good.  The Siege of Angband was broken and the Noldor in full retreat.  Ardana glowed as she presented the latest updates from the Wars of Beleriand.  “They cannot stand against the might of our great father, Morgoth!”  Her black eyes were full of energy and her gown shimmered like starlight.  “He is the one, true hope for Middle Earth and we will be great again.  Our foes do not know the good that he brings,” she said with passion, her face animated and her hands gesticulating. “That he will make the heavens glow with the wonder of the stars again.  Only Morgoth can fix it.  Varda was in folly as were the Noldor and they will see the error of their ways and come back to us…or they will be ground into dust.”  She closed her fist and made a pounding motion.

Cheers resonated throughout the peak of the completed Citadel of Ardor, the High Council Chamber. The walls of the octagonal room were formed of polished black marble and a clear laen dome showed the stars of the night sky above.  Valmorgȗl waved his hand at a panel on the wall and eight pillars surrounding a central elevator descended into the floor as an octagonal table descended from the ceiling to take its place.  The table was twenty feet across and crafted of smooth, polished obsidian.  Twelve panels on the floor opened and twelve thrones rose up.  The thrones were also of black marble, with rich maroon upholstery, projecting fear, power and comfort to any who might see them.  At the stroke of midnight, Ardana raised her arms, and her octagonal brooch flashed green.  “Be seated, my councilors.”

The twelve members of the inner circle took their seats with Moran standing at the table in his black and crimson robes.  Since the incident at the Citadel courtyard, his appearance had become less neat, his black hair now unbrushed and his clothes wrinkled.  His hand and his lip twitched involuntarily, a tic that he had developed in recent years.

On one side, Gorthaur sat with Taurclax, the two lords of the Suit of Helms, as a sea blue panel of laen lowered in front of them.  The panels glowed, casting their faces in an eerie light.  They wore the black robes, trimmed in gold, of Morgoth’s priests.  Ardana had gone to great lengths to appease Gorthaur after the incident with Yavëkamba.  He needed to be controlled, but she could not afford to lose him.  Moran despised him for nearly sacrificing Yavë.  She was his caretaker and teacher as he grew up and she had never been anything but kind towards him.  He loved her, but he knew it could never be.  She continuously directed him to other women, Almarien, her assistant, or Elendur, the Lady of Swords.  He couldn’t deny that they were attractive, but Almarien was rather bland and Elendur was too intense and focused on displacing Suldȗn, the Lord of Swords.  His heart belonged to Yavë, but he buried it deep.  His feelings could only be used to hurt them all.  Deep down, he sensed that her heart belonged to another, but he could not determine who that was.

The vicious Fëatur, Lady of the Suit of Orbs sat with Ardȗval, her astrologer.  They wore plain brown robes, cut for ease of movement in the close quarters fighting that they were experts at.  She winked at Moran and then curled her lip up in in a sneer at Gorthaur.  Amber panels lowered in front of them that then glowed, casting them in earthy hues. Then, proud Rilia, Lady of the Suit of Staves, sat with Lesh-Y, a lesser demon of flame.  She wore a scarlet gown that was far too revealing with patterns of fire on the fabric that moved and flowed while Lesh-Y was bare chested with only a dark brown apron across his lower body.  Finally, Castolder, Lord of the Suit of Swords sat with Cambragol, a master of unarmed combat.  Castolder had fought in single combat against the hated Lyaan, neither able to kill the other.  Sky blue panels lowered before them and began to glow, giving them an airy appearance.

Moran moved to stand beside his mother, and he touched the octagonal brooch around his neck.  It seemed…weaker.  The energy in it that connected him to his father felt…diminished. Father was hurt.  He sensed it through the channel of power.  Did anyone else know?  He gripped the brooch more tightly and focused his energy into it.  

There was a flash in his mind as images formed.  An elf with silver armor and a sky blue surcoat.  A hammer crashing into the ground, throwing soil skywards.  A sword like a cold star.  His father shrieking in agony.  The claws of an eagle.  And then darkness.

His mother made it seem like everything had gone their way.  The armies of the Noldor lay crushed and helpless, demoralized and it would just be a matter of time before Morgoth would rule all of Middle Earth.  Why would she cover this up?  He took her hand like he always did.

Valmorgȗl, the Magician, stood from his throne and bowed with a flourish, sweeping his golden hair aside as he rose.  He favored sleeveless shirts that showed off his muscular frame.  “I have completed the cavern of the ritual, my lady,” he said, addressing Ardana.  He seemed to avoid Moran’s gaze and Ardana shook off her son’s hand.  “The altar of the ritual has been formed along with the pedestals for the gems of unlight.  I saw to this personally.”

Morthaur, the Lord, stood sharply, his face twisted in anger.  His finger shot out at the Magician like a dagger.  “Didn’t you mean that I completed the cavern?  Yet again, you take credit for my work!”  He swept his hand up, his formal black and silver robe snapping back with a pop.  His silver eyes blazed and bore into Valmorgȗl.    

The Magician strode toward Morthaur, his muscles and jaw taut, his chest puffed out.  He stood half a head above the other elf, looking down. He clenched a fist that began to glow green.  “Always jealous of my achievements, are we not?” he said in a voice dripping with disdain. “Perhaps one day you may do something notable on your own.”

The Lord’s eyes shimmered with a reddish hue.  “I’ve had enough of your smug superiority.  I see the way that you look at Ardana.  Would you supplant the King of the Earth?  I think not.”  He held up his hand and a translucent wall began to form between them.

Ardana shot up out of her throne and her gown radiated the light of the stars.  “Enough!  Sit back down!  Both of you. I’ll not have my court behaving like children.”  The two elves slunk away back to their seats.  “I thank you both for completing the cavern,” she continued in a more conciliatory tone.  “From Angband, Morthrog has informed me that the time for the ritual draws nigh.  We must be fully prepared.”

Moran touched her on the shoulder.  “What can I do to help?”

She avoided his gaze. “Nothing for now, my dear. Continue to train.  Your time will come.”  She then gestured to the heads of the suits.  “Tell me of your plans to win the south and complete the ritual.”

Fëatur was the first to rise, bold and full of confidence.  “The hold of Angkirya is complete and ready to serve, my lady, and I have created the groundwork of a new order called the Darin Tesarath.”

“What is that and how will it serve?” Ardana asked.

“It will be an order of spies and assassins.  All female and all in service to the Court.  The foundations have been laid for a college to train initiates.  I hope to have it completed in…say twenty years where I will personally oversee the trainee’s development.”  She held up a black, hooded robe.  “This will be the uniform of the initiates.  Once graduated, the members will be sworn to secrecy and will be let loose to infiltrate, disrupt and kill,” she said and then looked directly at Gorthaur, “any enemies of the Court.”  As much as Moran disliked Gorthaur, such an order concerned him, and he knew that Fëatur would use it freely against anyone who displeased her.

Rilia stood next, her wavy, flaming red hair blending with her gown.  She was a woman of stunning, fiery beauty, high cheekbones and a gently curved jawline to a strong chin.  Her amber eyes held a fire that would scorch any enemy.  She glided down from her throne in a feminine walk that belied her power and she bowed curtly to Ardana and Moran.  “Our hold of Naurlindol is finished, my lady…my lord,” she said sweetly.  “I invite the august crowd here to view it though a river of molten lava flows through the grand chamber so it may be too hot for some.”  She raised one hand and ball of fire enveloped it and then burst into a shower of sparks, causing gasps.  “But, worry not.  I have incantations that can shield you,” she said with a bold smirk.

Castolder then stood, an elf with rippling muscles and a square jaw, practically the image of Tulkas himself upon Middle Earth except for his black hair.  He closed a fist.  “I look forward to bringing you Lyaan and Chrys Menelrana’s heads,” he said, bowing low to Ardana and Moran.  “I have learned much since my battle with Lyaan and his mewling family.  I will not make the same mistake twice.”  He looked directly at Moran.  “And, son of the king, I thank you for teaching my son, Valkrist.  He thinks highly of you.”

Moran returned the bow. Teaching the young boy was a rare joy amid the horror of sacrifices to Morgoth.  “He learns quickly and it is my pleasure, Castolder.  He already rides like one much older and more advanced.” He had a soft spot for the young elf.

The big Noldo smiled warmly.  “I look forward to the day that he will get his own falcon at our hold of Tirgoroth.” The hold was also known as The Aerie, a castle on a mountaintop, above the clouds, overlooking the Koros Bay.  The cloud cover gave the illusion that the keep appeared to be floating on air and its white marble walls and gold leaf shingles gave it an otherworldly appearance.    

Gorthaur was next.  Moran stifled a sneer as the High Priest of Morgoth walked to the table.  If anything, the priest had grown more arrogant since the incident in the courtyard. He gave the room a smug expression, one side of his mouth curled upwards.  He gave a curt bow, avoiding Moran’s gaze.  “I thank the Lord and the Magician for completing the ritual chamber,” he said, addressing Morthaur and Valmorgȗl.  “We will need it soon as it will be I who completes the ritual that will achieve our goals,” he added, looking at Ardana.  He did not want her to forget it.  “I am keeping the Gems of Unlight in a safe place until then. We will bring darkness back to Middle Earth.”  It was a power move, one even Ardana couldn’t deny.  Nothing would happen without him.

The four heads of the suits returned to their seats behind their glowing panels and then Ardana rose and walked to the central table with Moran.  She scanned the room, her black eyes intense and focused.  “We have come far, my friends.  We are established here in the south and are a force to be reckoned with.  We, the Noldor, reign supreme as it was meant to be.  The lesser races bow down to us and know their place.  All is as it should be.  While we grow and prosper, the pathetic Luingon Alliance hides and falters.”  She waved her hand over the table, and it began to shimmer, a map of the area forming on its surface.  “We control three quarters of the south,” she said, areas of their control turning silver on the map.  “We must still find the locations of the Alliance’s holds.  If we can crush Chrys Menelrana, the Alliance will fall apart. We must ensure that the ritual can be completed without any interference.”

Moran looked at the map. Surely this would bring about peace and an end to the fighting and sacrifice.  He was determined to press through.  He would do what was needed.  Then, mother would be satisfied and maybe Yavë would see him for who he truly was.

Ardana continued, “And our King, great lord Melkor, is stronger than ever.  The High King of the Noldor, Fingolfin, was crushed into dust after an epic duel in which our King was triumphant.  He now stands tall over the north as his vassal, Sauron has captured Minas Tirith, driving Orodreth out.  It is now called Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of Werewolves.  His beloved, Thuringwethil, is creating an army of vampires.  The radical Noldor of the north will cower and bow before our King ere long.”  She gestured to the map again and it changed into a scene of the land before the Sun and Moon, bright, shining stars in the dark sky.  “And we will return to this…a land of peace and prosperity where the stars rule the heavens and guide our way.  It will be a golden age.”

She swept her hand around the room.  “And all of you…  Each one of you are critical to this effort.  Morthaur will prepare the gems.  Gorthaur will conduct the ceremony.  Valmorgȗl will oversee security.”  She looked at Gorthaur, still trying to soothe him for his loyalty to the cause. “Gorthaur, I trust that you will coordinate with Morthrog for the exact timing of the ceremony.”

He nodded curtly, the dark brown bowl cut of his hair barely moving under the oil that he used to style it.  “We are scrying the signs and portents, but I anticipate that the time of the right eclipse will occur in just over a century.  I urge patience until then and I shall keep you informed, my lady,” he said proudly, seeming to accept the bait of unity.  “We must accelerate the number of sacrifices, however, to ensure that our King has the power that we may channel to perform the ritual.”

Moran listened and furrowed his brows.  He knew that the channel between the Court and his father had gone mostly dark.  He knew that something had happened to his father, but no one here was talking about it.  Perhaps they didn’t even know.  He opened his mouth to speak, but Gorthaur continued.

“And I will need the boy to…assist in the ritual.  We cannot risk him until then.”

His mother looked away, but then nodded.  There was something in her expression that worried him, but he couldn’t place it. Was she afraid?  Was she just tired?  He couldn't be sure.  He nodded reluctantly to the High Priest.  “Of course.  Whatever I can to for mother and the Court.”  He got a strange feeling in his gut.  Why was he so important?  He wanted to fight for the cause as much as anyone.  He wanted to prove to mother that he was worthy…not just a coddled son. He looked around at all of the strong, powerful elves of the Court and he felt tiny.  He turned to Ardana.  “But mother, I can still fight.  I’m growing and learning.  I want to serve you and the Court.  I’m very careful,” he said, practically pleading.

Ardana flicked her fingers at him.  “I shall…think upon it.  Until I decide, Morfuin will be your bodyguard.  You do not go into the field without him.  Am I understood?”

He felt even smaller. “Yes mother.”

Gorthaur grinned, his teeth showing in an expression of victory.  “And I will need the boy to reside in Aurax-Dȗr with me.  We must have the privacy and time to prepare.”  Moran’s heart sank at the words and a cold shiver ran down his spine.  The very thought of being overseen by the High Priest made him nauseous, not to mention the thought of living in sunless hold of the Deepwater Darkness, a keep upon an underground lake.  He squeezed his mother’s shoulder, hoping that she would refuse.

Ardana pursed her lips for a moment in thought.  Then, she shook her head.  “That time will come, Gorthaur, but it is not now.  My son will remain with me for the time being.  I will tell you when the time is right.”  Moran let out the breath that he had been holding the entire time. He wanted to cry for joy.  Still, there would come a time when he would be under the thumb of the High Priest.  What he would do then, he could not guess.  He relaxed his grip.

Moran couldn’t help but shoot Gorthaur a look of satisfaction, which he immediately regretted. He wanted nothing more than to be in the field, helping the cause rather than being cooped up in the Citadel.  It just wasn’t fair.  And while he feared Gorthaur, his youthful rebelliousness had to take a stand at some point.  After all, what good was being the son of a Vala if you had no power?

Gorthaur merely raised an eyebrow, a veiled promise of retribution to come.  Moran would surely pay for his impulsiveness, but that time would be in the future.  Valmorgȗl waved his hand and the thrones and the table receded into the floor, replaced by the pillars and the elevator.  The doors to the elevator opened and a petite Silvan woman stepped out. She was attractive with light brown hair and a gossamer white robe.  She carried a black cloak to Gorthaur, who scowled at her and she winced.

She lowered her head, averting her eyes from him.  “Here is your cloak, High Priest and your carriage is ready,” she said in a demure, submissive tone.

He grabbed her hard by the cheek and squeezed, causing her to yelp.  “You’re late again, Isil.  When we return to Aurax-Dȗr, you will await my discipline.”  He cupped her breast with his other hand and then shoved her away. “You and your Silven brethren…worthless.”  Isil reached up and placed the cloak about his shoulders and attached the pin, her cheek red from his grip.  She looked like a beaten animal.

Moran shook his head. Gorthaur seemed to delight in causing humiliation to those less powerful, especially women.  It was likely that he chafed under the authority of Ardana and the power of Rilia and Fëatur.  His mother walked towards him and held out her hand, which Moran took, walking beside her to the elevator.  They stepped in, flanked by Rilia and Fëatur.  The Sorceress stood next to him, and he could smell her perfume, a fiery scent of cinnamon and spices.  She glanced at him with a sultry smile and he couldn’t help but gaze at her scarlet gown that barely covered her, and she seemed not to mind.

“You should come and visit me at Naurlindol,” she said brazenly.  “The heat would be good for you compared to the rain of the Citadel. I think it would be far better if you stayed there instead of that dreary hole at Aurax-Dȗr.  I cannot imagine a more lifeless place.  At Naurlindol, the molten lava just ignites my passions.”

“I…I will…consider it,” Moran replied, stunned by her forwardness.

The elevator stopped on the Fourth Floor and Ardana let Moran off.  Rilia and Fëatur bowed and continued downwards.  Yavëkamba greeted them on the landing with a slight bow and a warm smile.  She wore her deep blue velvet robes with long sleeves, and her dark brown hair was swept back and braided.  Moran’s heart leapt every time he saw that.  He held his breath for a moment to slow his breathing.  He wanted nothing more than to rush into her arms and hold her, but he was old enough to know better.

Ardana tilted her head down in greeting.  “Yavëkamba, I will be transferring you under the leadership of Fëatur soon and you will eventually relocate to her hold of Angkirya.  But that will be a future event.  I still need you here with me for the time being.”

“Yes, my lady,” she said. Moran lived for the sound of her sweet, melodic voice and for moments in her presence.  He grinned broadly, his perfect teeth showing.  The thought of her leaving one day was distressing, but he was here with her now.

Ardana smiled, her black eyes vacant like the void.  Speaking to her was always a challenge as her eyes rarely revealed anything.  “I shall retire to my quarters to meditate.  I will commune with Father Melkor later.” She waved her hand across her face and a door in the wall appeared and opened.  “Good day,” she said as she walked into her chambers and the door vanished.

Moran practically bounced now that they were alone.  “The members of the Court are departing, and we have the rest of the day.  What shall we do?” he asked, his voice rising an octave.

Her eyes twinkled. “I was going to play some music. Would you join me?”  He could still imagine her singing him to sleep as a boy, her voice soft and soothing.

He nodded enthusiastically. His childhood seemed so near and so distant at the same time.  She opened the door to one of the libraries where finely made shelves of books rose to the ceiling.  Rich wood paneling lined the room and incense burners gave off the aroma of sandalwood. On a table sat musical instruments of all types from lyres to harps to lutes along with a smattering of woodwinds, all expertly crafted by artisans serving the Court.  Yavë picked up a metal flute while Moran went to his lute, a stringed instrument with a large body.  It felt like a comfortable old blanket, and he knew every inch of it, the weight, the balance, just how much pressure to place on the strings.  This was a ritual they had done thousands of times, and no discussion was needed.  Yavë led right in, playing an introduction as her fingertips danced over the keys.  On cue, Moran began strumming the strings, his fingers moving expertly over the fretboard.  They were immediately in sync, playing The Gardens of Lórien, an instrumental from the days in the Undying Lands.

Moran quickly became lost in the chords and the notes as they wove a tapestry of music that brought their minds to the gardens, the great halls of Irmo, crafted by Aulë, where the mists of Avathar rolled in from the Shadowy Sea.  Labyrinths and mazes of yew and cedar wound about the feet of Telperion, full of the soothing scent of wood and Fumellar, the flower of dreams. Silver willows, fountains, pools and deep lakes adorned the landscape, carefully tended by Estë, who healed hurt and weariness.  Images of these moments flooded his mind along with the notes.  He could smell the cedar.  He could hear the songbirds.  He could see pale Estë, her expression sad but empathic.  Her hair was white, but she was as young as a fawn and as old as a mountain.  He gasped, but kept plucking at the strings of his lute.  The visions were narcotic.

The song came to an end, like all things.  The visions faded into memory and Moran let out a long sigh.  He shook for a moment, trying to recreate the images in his head, but he could not.  They danced just beyond his sight.  “Is this what you saw in Valinor?” he asked, his voice heavy with sadness and regret.

She smiled, that demure, motherly smile that he grew up with.  “Yes…I learned under Estë.  She taught me how to heal, how to tend to wounds both physical and emotional.”  A look of longing came over her and she put her finger to her lips as if thinking.  “You saw it, didn’t you, Moran?  Those were my memories that I shared.  That was the beauty of Valinor and the Gardens of Lórien.  All I have now are those memories for I can never return.” Her eyes misted up and she wiped her nose.

He set the lute down and went to her, holding her hand.  “Why not?  You are the most gentle…most caring person I have ever known.”

“It is the Doom of Mandos and the Exile of the Noldor.  We are the Etyañgoldi, the exiles who may never return to Valinor.  Our brethren slew the Teleri for their ships. Our kind were seduced by…I shouldn’t say it.”  She looked away, her cheeks flush.

“What?  What were you saying?”

She forced a smile and wiped her cheek.  “Nevermind. Forget I said anything.  I joined the Court ere that happened.  I was…swayed by your mother’s vision.  I can never go back.  I will die here one day and be forgotten,” she said, her voice laden with regret.

He squeezed her hand. “Don’t say that!  I will never forget you.”  He couldn’t stand it any longer.  He leaned in and kissed her.  His body felt like a surge of electricity flowed through it.  It was what he wanted for so long.  She didn’t pull away…at first.

After a lingering moment, Yavë gently pushed him back.  “Moran…I know how you feel, but it cannot be.  You are…you are…  No, I can’t. I’m sorry.”  There was something in her eyes that he could not decipher. Pain?  Regret?  Fear?

“Please Yavë.  You’re all I think about to escape the horror of the sacrifices.  I died inside, thinking I would lose you to Gorthaur.  I hate him for what he did to you.”  His body shuddered.  “The thought of you going away and me going with him…I want to die.”  He wanted to be a man, but he was the small boy again, wanting nothing more than to be in her arms, safe.

She stroked his cheek softly and put her finger on his nose like she did when he was a child.  “I will give you one night and then we must never speak of this again.  Await in your quarters.”

Moran could not believe what he was hearing.  Were his dreams finally coming to pass?  He nodded and then kissed her hand.  “I…I will await you,” he stammered and then left.  He had never been with a woman and paced in his chambers, unsure of what to expect.  He felt a crackle of energy in the room and a sense of peace came over his soul like a cool shower.  His twitch stopped and he breathed easier than he had in a long time.  He settled onto his bed and the magical lamps in his room dimmed as if someone else willed it so.  A fog creeped into his mind and his vision grew hazy, but it was pleasant. He heard the door open.  A woman glided in, wearing white gossamer robes. He blinked hard, trying to focus. The woman’s face was blurry, but he could see her body underneath the translucent clothes.  His heart quickened.

He started to speak, but the woman shushed him and lay him back on the bed, gently, lovingly.  She undid the laces to his pants and tugged them down.  For a moment, her features were wrong, similar, but wrong.  He thought the woman was Almarien, Yavë’s assistant, but then the face coalesced into that of the Healer’s.  He lay back as she straddled him and he inhaled deeply, her scent of Fumellar flowers filling his nostrils.  It was like a dream.  It was everything that he dreamt.

Then he lay, spent, covered in perspiration, breathing hard.  She leaned over and kissed him and then rolled off of the bed.  She touched his lips with her finger.  “Goodnight, Moran.”

As she turned to go, he reached for her hand.  “No, don’t go.  I can’t lose you.”  His hand passed through the ghostly outline of her arm.  The aroma of Fumellar engulfed his mind.

A smile graced her lips. “You will never lose me.  Dream well.”  She passed her hand over his face.  “Aiya lúmenn omentielvo, o aldaron,” she said in Quenya, and his eyelids became heavy, and he sighed contentedly.

Moran blinked hard, trying to keep his focus on her, but all became darkness.  For a moment, his mind played out the lack of a channel to his father.  There was a vision of Fingolfin stabbing Morgoth in the foot and then an eagle clawing Morgoth’s face.  Then, an image of the Vala, cowering on his iron throne, crying out in pain, weak, impotent…not the being of strength and power his mother portrayed.  More sacrifices would come, but he cared not at the moment as all of his dreams had been fulfilled.

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Chapter End Notes

I'm moving Moran's character arc along and showing more Court dynamics.