That being said, he thinks he prefers the elven form. Not exclusively, too long spent in a single form and something starts itching at the back of his mind, but he thinks he likes it more than the dwarves. The design has Eru all over it, all expertly crafted and beautiful functions and layers and layers of perfect intricacy pulled into utterly bizarre directions. Like a master painter picked up a brush and painted a gorgeous, glittering vista, but with the perspective drawn at just enough of a skew to grate on the nerves of the viewer, even as they admired the craftsmanship. Maddening.
So of course he prefers it to the dwarven form.
The dwarves themselves were like their biochemistry; efficient, straightforward, practical. He could respect it, certainly, but it made wandering their streets unchecked a bit tricky. Also a bit boring, once he'd figured out the trick of it. Dwarves were many admirable things, and he'd be the last (well, second to last; after Aulë himself) to name them anything but a fine species, but they were so - so themselves. He'd never wish for them to be anything but, it clearly worked beautifully for them. Even so, after a while one gets very bored of bartering mutually beneficial trade agreements, properly worded contracts, and sound investments. There's only so much a Maia can poke at for personal amusement.
He's run out of options, he thinks. As delightful as their reaction to the singing mushrooms was, he can guess what would happen to anything else he threw their way. There's only so much sensible cataloging and pricing in tonal sets of singing mushrooms that he can stand, before he starts to feel less like the playful trickster deity and more like the slightly bizarre business venture deity. He adds another set of singing mushrooms in very marketable colors and tones in a nearby side cave, as a sort of acknowledgement of their skill in besting him, and then he takes his leave.
In the form of a local species of hawk, he soars above the continent, and wonders what he'll do next.
And is abruptly knocked out of the sky by something plummeting down on him as a much bigger hawk; before they both hit the ground he changes forms into an Elf, tall and glossy-haired and giggling like a small child. Sánedel! Sánedel, guess what, guess what -
This does however put Sánedel quite pinned under Sauron, not that he minds. Ah, but how can I accurately guess when I've been given no hints? The Valar have become overly preoccupied with the morality in the growth of a rather colorful plant, Eru has grown bored and torn us all from the tapestry of fate and wandered off to write terrible tragedies, Mandos fell asleep and Melkor and all the dead are free to wander about as they like -
Laughter. Such delighted laughter. He kisses him.
They let Melkor go.
... What, really? Flat disbelief coloring the tone of his thoughts.
Yep! Free and clear! He's streetsweeping in some shiny Elf city. ...probably Tirion, I don't see Valimar suiting him, but he did not actually say - may not know yet - he won't even speak their language yet -
No, he wouldn't, would he. Streetsweeping. They have him streetsweeping - was that your idea or his, or are they just bereft of good janitors?
His idea! He wanted to prove that he'd learned his place, I think he told them. The streets don't even need sweeping, they could set it up with magic.
What's next, personally apologizing to everyone? Perhaps send out tasteful cards?
I expect so! And flowers, probably, people appreciate apology flowers. He could design a few new species.
He pulls Sánedel's head into his lap and starts unbraiding his hair.
Excellent idea. They should be in bright, tacky colors. Neon green, fluorescent orange...
The Elves' eyes would bleed! They'd accuse Melkor of reverting to his old terrible tortures! Excessively ornate flowers in vaguely metallic designs, that's the vogue in Tirion.
You could go torment the Elves with tacky flowers, dear. It'd be hilarious.
Is that smugness? That's definitely smugness.
Ooooooooh. ...magic songs?
I have been resignedly assuming I slip your mind for a century here or there. It's all right. Happens to all of us. He kisses the top of his head.
He grows out claws; they sink into Sánedel's skin, just slightly. A single moment in all the Ages of Arda is too long. I shall have to be more memorable.
Yes, he would like to stop thinking about how Melkor is free, this is definitely the fastest way to not at all think about that.
Having shared his news he is content to be distracting indeed.
That is the most satisfying part! That and claws, claws are extraordinarily satisfying.
Do you plan to go to Valinor, then? he wonders, after they have quite proven the many ways in which a Maia can be reduced to adoring and slightly whimpery puddle form.
Oh, definitely. Come with me?