100 S.A., Middle-Earth.
The ruin of Angband was complete. Those who had walked in mastery there now wandered as paupers in the wilderness.
They had fled far, an endless push to escape the ruthless nets of their overthrowers, tireless and ceaseless to outrun judgement before the Máhanaxar. Their dominance of the land was complete and all who witnessed the great ruin were utterly shaken in their belief to resist the oncoming storm. To the one who barely outran the thundering spears of the pursuers, it was not quick enough, and to the ends of Arda there would be no hiding from its truth. Mastery over the lands had passed to those who sat in blissful ignorance of its ongoings, content in their anarchical views to simply let things be. Yet as the long years toiled back in endless journeying, under the renewed rays of the bright Sun, it perhaps contained therein within the flaming rays a hope that such philosophy might extend to those that got away.
But then again, coming from his cousin of old, it could only be a token of mockery and disdain. Any light, whether hot and red above, or distant and cold during the night, he shunned, though once he had been a mighty adherent to the sources that fueled such endless momentums of radiance. No longer. He had made his choice, enamored with the speed and craft that his former Lord could accomplish, and abandoned the teachings of his old Mistress and discipline.
That seemed eons ago. So long ago. Even the memory of an immortal became corrupted, when their hearts and minds turned away from that which birthed their existence. And too suddenly had come the harsh reality that his new Master was not so infallible. He had lied and restricted to his Umaiarin servants the true strength and wisdom that should have been theirs to begin with, as he had promised in the days of their first corruptions to the Dark, and teased them with small offerings as bribes and rewards. From the Dark, which encompasses all, only from its depths may new lands and new treasures be brought forth and created. That had been a lie. The Dark had no light or bounty to give. It only stifled that which he had been born with, which his old name now forgotten save by the Maker used to signify. Now he had lesser names, given by lesser entities, and it suited his now fallen and broken form.
He never consorted with the Upstarts, as he deemed all races that sprung up to pervade the lands like flies. To elves, men, and dwarves, to orcs, trolls, and wargs, he thought himself above their feeble, fast-burning spirits, hardly a blip on the face of this mighty land that would one day be ruled by him and his ilk. It was they who gave him names. Lughâshgûl among the servants, Raugad among the slaves. They were not personal to him, merely a statement of how they depicted him. A towering spirit of flame and shadow, encompassed by the night, and yet mighty in strength. A boon of morale to his minions. Or a hunter in the night, a catcher, with whips of cruel flame, who dragged back those who tried to escape his Master’s halls without permission. A terror to his foes. He saw no reason to correct them.
None of all did he care for, except the one spoken by those who came from over the sea, who had some knowledge of him by the mouths and minds of his distant kindred. Celevonaur, the Silver-Fire, for that was who he had been in the beginning, a radiant light, and whom he often wished to return to, when his faith in his Master was least.
Nothing was so traumatic as the loss of one’s form and body. For an ainur, who’s very spirit was bound to existence and time itself, it could never be truly quenched, but ever and anon it might take shape or form. And these shapes and forms became bound to the natures of reality, to feel hurt and pleasures, to taste and drink, and to feel victory as well as defeat. It became outward representations of the ainur’s mind and heart, taking shape in whatever cause or direction the user’s mind went. Once a majestic figure of light, he had been reduced to a monstrosity of shadow and flame, crafted so by the teachings, lies, and tortures of the one who had been greatest of his kind; Melkor. Corrupted from such dazzling heights, now reduced to the hue of smouldering embers.
And he had lost it, the first and foremost greatest shaping that his spirit could take. Much of his original power had been embodied in its form, and much of it lost, when his form was taken from him. A dehoused spirit, incapable and impotent, left to drift on the cold winds that sped from the west after the ruin and breaking of the lands. Eastwardly he fled, and continued to flee, mired in only his thought and grief, until slowly again, his power gathered, and he could take shape again after many decades without. It had been a tremendous compelling of his own willpower not to let that be his fate, to at last take control of his own path in this strange existence. Nothing again that was ever as majestic or mighty, however. It pained him that this shape was no greater in stature than the Upstarts themselves, who now seemed in abundance in these distant lands once empty.
Celevonaur’s shape now represented his defeated spirit. Hunched with grief, weathered with stress, and yet still his strength and sharpness of mind was greater than those he now resembled. His skin was pale from lurking in the cold caverns of the northern mountains, hating and disdaining the light of his cousin. His beard and hair were white as well, a token of the coldness of his heart, for the fire seemed to have gone from him completely. No whip of flame or fire brand of ire to draw upon his foes, grasped by mighty paws that could crush a troll’s skull. He was just…like a man. Weak, and frail, and his power did not seem to grow no more. Was it lost to him forever? Or simply locked away, because of his fear of those who now held power over Arda? Secrets and knowledge once known to him, locked behind the faded memories of dreams of a bygone era, never to return. This was his fate.
And the world and all its masters and overlords seemed content to watch him suffer. Well, so be it.
He was not alone, however, in regards to those aligned with his former master. Many had fled, craven and cowardly. Like their Master who was rumored to beg for mercy before the end. They dehoused him, bound his spirit in cruel chains, and took him away. Celevonaur swore it would never happen to him. It must not. He could not bear the humiliation of being dragged before Her. Akin to his old Master, She must be like him in every way. Cruel, merciless, and brutal. There would be no pity for him there. He had no choice but to subsist out here. And be free of all those who claimed to rule or own him, whether his fallen Master or old Mistress.
These lands had a name to its inhabitants, though Celevonaur learned it not, for how could they be so audacious as to give a fleeting title to a place that existed long before their coming and shall exist long after their passing? The mountains of the north ended by branching into a fork, drifting north-east and then east again, and another range south-east, and then east. Between them was a desolate, cold land, of dry lakebeds, shrubs, and tundra plains, as was further north, across the mountains. Endless winter. The poison of the old fortress still lurked up there. The first stronghold, where he should have learned that his Master had been a fool. To the south of these range ran a road, east to west, crafted by dwarves, yet adopted as well by the fledging race of mortal men. A curious breed, though those who had been seen in Angband had been either pitiful slaves or snivelling grovelers. He thought nothing of them.
But to them, these lands north of the great forest, called the Greenwood, and around a solitary peak that sat further south of the mountains like a lone island in the sea, the lands were called Unen, and were inhabited by descendants of those men who fled the first great conflict in the east at their Awakening, those who decided to stop along the fleeing journey to the west, and settle in the vast, unoccupied lands between their distant homeland and the wars of Beleriand. These folk were simple, living in wood and thatch communities, struggling with fires, or simple metalwork, and had little in terms of exchange except for trade and occasional treaties against marauding orc bands who fled the defeat into the wild east. They too had no pity from Celevonaur, though once they served him in their thousands. Only the cowards had fled and were not worthy of his attentions anymore.
Yet rumor was spreading, of a great temple being risen, of stone and rock, in the town of Tarla, and from it came a sweeping influence of control and authority, simply because these wilder-men had not ever witnessed anything so grand or imposing before in their brief existence. It was no more than a single storey building, of jagged stone and a modest hall for prayer, with a clear circular opening in the ceiling, from which a great plume of smoke was ever rising.
Sometimes, Celevonaur liked to look at it from afar. It made him recall the vast forges and armouries of Angband, the sweltering heat and roaring fire and the trains of molten liquid flowing felt like an entombing nest to him. This was just a paltry momentum to those days. But the first created and crafted fire he had seen in a long time. It led him to test his old dormant powers, to some success, but never as it had been before.
Perhaps it might also have been note to him that often many would go inside the temple, yet few would come out. Such was not uncommon in Angband. It would soon become understood amongst those that dwelt nearby in their isolated communities that a dreadful power might linger within the temple, that if not appeased by blood, or gold, it would extend to consume them all. Messengers and heralds of this began to spread across the land, extending this doctrine of faith, by sermon or spear. It was heeded quite extensively. And so the wealth and majesty of that temple-complex began to grow. And those that interpreted the flame and spoke to the Dark grew to great power among their kind. But Celevonaur knew their power to be fake. Someone was teaching them the old arts of manipulation.
Yet they were ever mortal. And came to realize that the old hermit who lived in the mountains was not. He grew to become an enigma among them, ever avoiding them, yet sometimes observing them, and they to him. And still he heeded them not in any great detail, learned their language yet never conversed, their fickle and frail lives soon to be passed on or snuffed out, as was their sad fate. What they left behind would hardly exist beyond a hundred thousand passages of the Sun.
It did however become his concern, when he heard the name Melkor spoken among the adherents to this bloody faith one day, chanted in unison by many voices, crying out to him for aid, for boon, for vengeance against their enemies. There would be no answer. Yet they thought to try…
A most curious riddle, one that finally seemed to inject a purpose into Celevonaur. Who was advantageously making use of his former Master’s name? And why?
~~~
The caravan was overturned. The horses slain, blood drenching the dirt road and grass on either side, the chests and various trunks broken open and looted through. But there was no treasure worth more to the Heralders than the living ones. Four men, some young, and some old. And one maiden. How she must rue the day when she begged her father to take her along on one of his voyages, to see the world, to come outside the limits of her village, and experience its beauty first hand. Her governess, an old crone, had spoken severely against her but the maiden had been adamant. And so her father relented, and brought her along, and now…
…and now they were prisoners to men of cruel cloth and leather, armed with ashen spears, and merciless in the way they handled the prisoners. In particular was the cold gleam of their eyes when it passed over her, and she wished for nothing more than return to her little hamlet and never depart it again. She swore never to take up such foolish notions again, to adhere to the advice of her elders, to refrain from play in the rivers or fields. No, there would be no return. These men made their intentions known. They would feed the fire. And so too would their dark deity be sated.
Her screams had echoed out when they tore her from her father’s protective embrace, beating him, and mocking her cries for pity when they dragged her apart. “Yet we paid our dues to the masters of Tarla! All that we could spare!” Her father, master of the caravan, cried out.
They only laughed. “Not all that you can spare.” They said, preparing to bind their arms, and throw them in the back of a cart, ringed with a cruel cage of steel. Bound as prisoners, even though they paid tribute! It mattered not. The Heralders were rewarded by their master based on their offering. It mattered not where it came from, loyal or faithless. Who was to know? Who would hold them accountable? The fire was bottomless in its appetite. Surely it would bless them with the warmth they craved. The warmth of great dwellings, the warmth of luxurious garments…the warmth of many wives ordained to do their bidding.
“You’ve been withholding your greatest treasure of all, old man.” Their leader said, as he grabbed the maiden by her jaw, sneering into her side as he inspected the wares. To the flames…not such record how her final hours must be. Or how she might be…tainted, beforehand. “Do you think you can possess greater wealth above our master and savior?”
Celevonaur strode onto the road, grasping a slender rod of dark oak. Say that Liar’s name, I dare you. Yet they did not notice him. That Liar had no need of such things. It would be a waste to send such tribute to his false temples. No, Celevonaur would have greater use of it, for greater purposes. For I have not failed or fallen, as that coward has.
“Please, I beseech you, do not do her no harm. G-Gold, that is what you crave, yes? Spare her, and I shall find you a weregild worthy to repay this insult-“ the old man began to stammer, but the Heralders cut him off with cruel laughter.
“See how he seeks to abandon you to save his own skin?” The leader mocked to the maiden, inciting poison in her mind against her own father. When he tried to speak out against this, he was cruelly silenced with a blow. “But do tell us,” he then whispered hotly in her ear, “what you would offer for your father’s safety, hm?” He coaxed her, letting the imagination of what he expected be evident as his eyes wandered her form. Yet when they returned to her face, he saw her attention elsewhere, and was angered. Her defiance in ignoring him was not permitted! He would make her harken to him in all things! He would-
Some urge made him follow her gaze and looked over his shoulder, at the strange man who so silently and easily stood in the midst of the road, blocking their passage. The caravaneers assumed he must be some companion to the Heralders. The Heralders thought him some hermit, harmless and frail. With his walking stick. He wore only a tattered cloth wrapped around his midsection, pinned at his shoulder, and if it bore some color it had long ago faded. Trousers torn and cut at the hem of the sleeves covered his legs. Sandals with straps barely holding together covered his feet. He looked ready to fall apart with the simplest gust of wind.
“What you want, old man?” The leader mocked Celevonaur, throwing the bound maiden aside to land heavily in the grass. Him and his six companions, two left to guard the prisoners, formed a line facing him. None seemed wary. Or worried. “Come to pledge your services to the great god, Melkor? How devout of you to seek out his-“
“Your god is false.” Celevonaur said in a flat tone, his voice as deep as the depths of the ocean, yet spoken with a force no greater than a mountain breeze. “He offers lies and deceits. And the one who preached this to you, he is no different. Tell me, who it was.” Celevonaur demanded.
The men exchanged a glance, then laughed. “A non-believer. They shall rectify your lies as they peel the skin from your bones. And burn the Lord’s light into your exposed flesh by the brand. Take him.” The leader ordered his fellows, four advancing immediately, two to flank, while two approached more slowly. Still they did not draw their weapons.
Celevonaur sighed and closed his eyes. His senses were sharp. Every footstep echoed in his ears, his mind perceiving their distance, their speed, the weight of each man, and their state of readiness. In the darkness of his eyes, half immersed in the world of the living, and the other in the world of shadows, he saw the outline of their corrupted shades. As the two flanked him, one reached out to grab his shoulder roughly. And thus did he spring, quicker than a snake in pounce.
Five men moved against him. When it ended a half minute later, two were dead, one unconscious, and the other two with broken bodies to the point of never being able to move without assistance. The remaining two exchanged a glance of worry, though one rushed to the horses to make an escape, but the sixth was of sterner stuff. He seized the maiden by her hair and put the knife to her neck. “Stay back, or I give her a red smile you’ll never forget.” He threatened, as Celevonaur came to a halt a few paces away. He did not care for the human girl. Her lifeforce was fleeting, made to vanish in under a century, hardly a mark on the greater world.
But they intended her for the flame to that Liar.
He’d rather the open circumstances of her mortality claim her, whether it be a wound infected, or taken by disease, or lost in the bloody transition of birthing more of her upstart people into this world. But never in service of that Liar. If she perished now, there would be no bounty to be given. That still counted as a victory for him in his efforts to disrupt…yes?
There was something in the poor maiden’s eyes as she gazed desperately at him. What was it? He had seen it before. Pleading? Hope?
“Leave her, let’s go!” Cried the captor’s companion, mounting his horse, but the other did not heed him. The leader…that had been his brother. Vengeance must be had. Blood for blood. The knife began to dig into the maiden’s neck, drawing crimson essence, and she cried out, half gurgled by the cruel grip.
“You bastard, you’ll pay for that.” He hissed at the hermit through gritted teeth. “Lay down your stick, old man.”
Celevonaur…complied. He threw the quarterstaff on the ground. And then turned, a few paces away, with a snort and began to walk away. That was all the captor needed, flinging the girl aside and like a predator, pouncing on prey that foolishly turned its back. But Celevonaur knew. He long learned the low cunning and trickery of low men and orcs such as this. He side-stepped, so that the man’s arm with the knife aimed for his back instead plunged by his side, and he seized the man’s wrist to still him. His elbow flew back, caught the man’s nose, before Celevonaur whipped him around in front of him.
Spirit of might. With an open palmed strike, Celevonaur struck the man in his midsection and sent him flying against a tree, where his spine snapped, and he fell to the ground, feeling nothing beneath his neck. Celevonaur picked up his walking stick and peered down the road. The remaining Heralder had fled rapidly away. All their horses and the wealth of the caravan…left behind.
He had no need of it personally. He knelt by the one who had been the leader, still choking on blood from a fierce blow that Celevonaur gave to his neck. He tried to resist as the hermit rifled through his pockets, strange that he did not take the purse of coin, yet took instead a folded cloth. Upon it was covered in black ash, in which a strange icon had been drawn. A red circle, within a greater red circle. And the inner sphere had lines emitting from it, in all directions. Like an…Eye? Despite the cries and protests of those still bound…Celevonaur strode away, his task done, folding the strange cloth in his grip. And the fruits of his former master’s worship…disrupted. It wouldn’t be long until nightfall came. With the wolves. Those who could still walk should flee. And those who could not…there would be no worse fate than left to their hungry machinations when they did come.
Yet only a few paces from the bloody scene he left behind, Celevonaur paused…and turned, gazing into the hills around. He had a…premonition. Of something. It was strange. A presence. There was a presence of a kind…he shook his head. There was nobody that his sharp, dark tangerine eyes could not see. Turning about, he hastened rapidly from the scene.
