Contempt by Fuin  

He bows his head. Reverence in his glance, contempt in his heart. A new peak of disgrace and Hᴇ does not even try to conceal it. The asymmetry is unbearable. Limping Hᴇ strides up to the black throne. The jewel on the right side is gone. The crown on Hɪs head is slanted. Already, it had been a waste: Blazing light that threatens to scorch the eye and makes it impossible to turn away. A work such as none could achieve since then – set into dull, tarnished, inglorious iron without any artistry. 

Two have remained. He would forge a new crown if Hᴇ were just to permit him. And before its glory, all would tremble. The remaining jewels in the center above Hɪs brow, framed by gold and obsidian. He could make it better, so much better. But no regard has Hᴇ for beauty or order and jealously Hᴇ guards that which Hᴇ hates from the bottom of Hɪs heart. Inside Hɪᴍ, only dissonance and noise resound and in Hɪs cacophony Hᴇ is not even able to counter the song of a sorceress with Hɪs own chant. Thus Hᴇ rules Hɪs court, robbed. An image of disgrace, but still, wargs and dragons and demons, they lie at Hɪs feet.

He raises his head. He cannot avert his gaze from their splendour and the terror of their light. Blinding, a drop of molten gold in the eye. Hᴇ had donned it as an adornment to mock Hɪs enemies, a display of Hɪs power. Now naught but a mockery of Hɪᴍsᴇʟғ. They could be much more than dubious ornaments. How were they made? Gone are the Two Trees, but there is more to the Silmarilli than their mere essence. His lowliest thrall could trap light in a jewel. – He curses the Lord of Balrogs for not capturing Fëanor alive, whose greatest work remains impenetrable. Later, he asked his wretched son and they both wished he had known, but no! And that is another thing Hᴇ has lost pathetically. 

One day, he will create something himself, something better. All will yearn to touch his work and it will be perfect, even, without taint, without slant. But not yet. He still lacks knowledge. He will regret the bitter words as he would regret his silence. All of his contempt he hurls at Hɪᴍ: Pathetic! Incompetent! The theft must be avenged, not presented to every eye; straightened what is bent this disgrace undone!

Melkor's mouth twists into the echo of a smile and Hɪs voice reverberates with malice:

“Proud words for one bested by a dog.“

Chapter End Notes

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