Danse Macabre

Summary: At the hour of his death, Finwe makes a deal with the Devil.

Finwe is not a fighting man, and as such resolves to hold his hands up in a manner of surrender. He dances with the mass of darkness that ebbs towards him, giving it full viewing and possession (if it wants) of his son’s terrible creations that sit idly in the middle of the room.

(Because Finwe loves his son, more than life itself. And he is willing to die for the boy, but not for something as ridiculous as jewelry).

The darkness considers the offer, outstretches a wispy hand above the creations--halting just before fingers form to touch them. It’s too easy, and he knows this. Finwe knows this, and all but shudders as pale eyes meet his.

Behind him, his great grandson balls fists into the fabric of his robes. The boy is terrified. Finwe is too, and he thinks a wordless apology to the small child, because they will be varying degrees of terrified with what Finwe plans to do next.

“They are yours, my Lord Melkor.”

The darkness jerks its form towards the elf, body still hunched over the box. Only when the title and name register, does the mass begin to rear its true form. The darkness falls from the form like water and settles into robes, leaving a gaunt, pale face coupled with coal dark eyes, and pitch black hair.

There is something unsettling about him. And Finwe has seen all that can be unsettling.

At least he thought so. He had seen death. Yet Melkor seems to surpass this. He is unnatural.

Yet frightening as he may be, the man is tall and regal like any Vala, and Finwe fights the urge to bend a knee.

This is not King Manwe, for all the similarities, it is not. And Finwe will be damned if he puts himself below this creature. A creature who has tormented his family beyond repair.

Still, to have Melkor appear before him is unsettling. And Telperinquar is in tears behind him.

“What trick is there to this, elf?” He spits venom in his words, and the King of the Noldor does not miss the lack of title. Yet he lets no dismay show on his face, and stares ahead impassively.

“There is none.” He straightens up, “Only an offer, My Lord.”

“And you think yourself in such a place to make an off--”

“If such an offer may benefit us both, I see no reason as to why you should not listen, at least.” He gestures to a chair beside the table.

The Vala sneers, clearly infuriated at being silenced mid sentence. Finwe inwardly groans. He wants to give the impression that they are on the same level, not disrespect him. His body is positively trembling now, and not because of him. The boy behind him is wracked in shivers, no doubt picking up on Melkor’s anger.

“If such an offer may benefit us both, I see no reason as to why you should not listen, at least.” He gestures to a chair beside the table, “Please sit--Telperinquar go fetch some wine.”

Telperinquar takes his chance and darts, a mess of tears and sobs as he does so. In his heart of hearts, Finwe knows that the child will not return. Melkor figures this too, and flashes a toothy grin as his eyes glance over the Silmarils.

“Was it your intention to send your grandson away so he will not have to witness your body mutilated when I kill you?”

“It was my intention to make you comfortable, my Lord.” Finwe counters, once again, impassively. He knows better than to take a seat beside the Vala, not if he wants to make this deal, and instead hovers beside the table.

“I do have every intention of negotiating with you.”

Silence hangs between them, and momentarily there is a challenge amongst gazes, to which Finwe reluctantly loses. He has his word and wit, that is all.

“I propose an alliance. My people and you.” He states calmly, “We have gone for too long under the unjust rule of the Valar. However, we are not important enough to be heard by them, and if necessary, nowhere near powerful enough to force their hand.”

Melkor says nothing, though his expression tells Finwe he is listening. Because for all his destruction and hate of good things, he is still a ruler, a War Lord, and an analytical genius. He may hate the elves, but if they can prove of use, then they may live to fight another day.

“The elves will fight regardless of whether you join us or not, and such bloodshed will be led by my son. The devastation will be unparalleled,” the old King gulps, his dreams resurfacing in his thoughts, “we will never be able to recover.”

“And what am I in this plan, other than your glorified protector. I care little for you or your people, and would love nothing more than to see you kill each other. It makes my job easier. Why should I help you?”

“Because my son will kill you.” And it is fact known by many, save for the Prince himself, “And you will be the first victim of his carnage.”

True as it may be, the Vala is egotistical, and takes ill to being told what he has feared for ages. And as a result, his hand is around the elf’s neck in an instant, lifting the smaller form from the ground as his anger shakes the fortress.

“Watch your tongue. Do you think I won’t kill you, that boy hiding in the kitchen, and your son in an instant. You underestimate me, King. I will murder you and your kin--”

“My...grandson...will...come...for...you…” He gasps, “I...have...se..n..it...we...can..change...it.”

He falls unceremoniously, in a jumble of coughs and gasps.

“You insult me, and continue to do so, and expect me to work with you?” Behind the anger, there is amusement (and there is also fear-because he knows just how powerful Finwe’s line is--just how bloodthirsty). That, or Finwe was just incredibly light headed. With great effort, the King draws himself back to full height.

“It’s not an insult, My Lord Melkor. It is a fact. Just as it was a fact that you would kill me, as I have seen it.” His voice is hoarse, but he powers through, “But we can change this all. My family will not chase you, and you will not chase us. Become our ally. Our power will be yours, and yours will be ours.”

“And the Silmarils?” “They are yours, a token of my friendship.” He adds, then considers his next word. With a silent, Forgive me, Miriel, he speaks, “but would you rather not be the creator of such beauty?”

Now Melkor does his amusement show, and it is a chuckle that sounds so much like King Manwe’s.

“Now this, I want to hear. Your son who wants to kill me, and has made me his personal enemy, you offer to me? And how will this arrangement fall? I would have to force him into my workshop.”

“He will do what I tell him to do.” Finwe states plain and simple, “You needn’t worry. And where he goes, the others will follow.”

Melkor considers, pale eyes swirling in silence. Ever cautious with his words, Finwe butters the deal.

“He is powerful, and so are you.” He reaffirms, “Unite with him--unite with us--and no one shall preside over us again. All that is ours will be yours, and--”

“All that is mine shall be yours.” He finishes, hesitantly. Melkor knows that the elf is right, knows that allying with elves of all creatures will be his way to success. The ageless part of his mind, the Iru Iluvatar within begs him to take heed, to accept what the King of the Noldor has put on the table. For it will be worth far more than those priceless jewels that tempt him on the table.

And even in time they will have a price. But Melkor is reluctant to pay it.

All he wants is individuality, to make his own music. He shouldn’t have to be harmed for that.

“Then take those--” He gestures to the Silmaril, the greed in him gnawing at his innards as he turns away, “If i am to have your son, then allow those jewels to serve as a token on my behalf. Those, and your life.”

“Then we are agreed, Lord Melkor?”

“We are, King Finwe.” He responds with respect, meeting the elf’s eye evenly. There is no malice. No trust either. But the anger and fury are gone. There is room to build.

The Vala stands to full height, arms crossed behind his back as he surveys the surroundings.

“Where is that boy with the wine. I am parched.” and with that, the Valar makes his exit, grumbling and mumbling to himself as he searches for the kitchen. All at once Finwe collapses to the ground, the tremors overtaking his body as he realizes that magnitude of what he just did.

Numbly he brings a hand to his neck, brushing against the raw skin that has bruised under his collar.

What has he done? And what has he given?

Goodness, his son will kill him. But if that child got him into this mess, then as his father and his King, it is up to him to get everyone out. He prays silently that he has done the right thing.