Oct 19, 2017 11:22 PM
A mad god's creation
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Blues in Candy Arda
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...

He starts laughing.

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"Oh, darling! The Valar think you're unobjectionable! What a terrible insult!"

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"I," he giggles, "don't know whether to be delighted with their bizarre metric of judgement or ashamed that I somehow pass it! Both! I am both! What is this! Do I need to start blaspheming in front of it for it to count?"

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"One wonders!" Hug. Kiss.

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Kiss!

"There's that delightful blasphemy out of the way, thank you beloved, let me finish up the list. Yes, pretty gem, I did just kiss a man, and you should see what he's going to do with me later! Eru is a madman! The Valar are beaten in intellect by most species of moss! Valinor is horribly tacky." Boop. No burn! He cackles.

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He laughs. "Well, well, isn't that something."

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"It is, isn't it!" He smiles slyly at Sauron. "Why? Do you have something in mind, beloved?"

(Damn. Damn. He knows that look, of course Sauron has something in mind, damn damn damn -

No, away, onto the shelf with you. He's busy.)

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"You should petition our lord for permission to play with the shinies. Figure out how to break things with them."

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There it is. That didn't take long at all. Sauron would like to use it to break things. What a surprise. He is shocked.

(He's not angry, he's just disappointed.)

"Me? Break things? Why, I'm not sure I'd know where to begin!" But he has long learned that 'no' should not be in his vocabulary. "But I suppose I could make the effort to learn."

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"Would you, dearest? It'd mean so much to me."

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"I would hate to disappoint you if I don't have the talent for it, or if the pretty jewels are just pretty. But I will make the attempt."

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"I am very sure you won't disappoint me." He bites down lightly on his ear. "You so rarely do."

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"I do try ever so hard to impress you," he agrees, lightly, pretending that wasn't at all a subtle threat. His heart rate doesn't have to be dependent on his emotional state if he doesn't want it to be, he can just neatly unhook that and pretend everything's fine. Everything is absolutely fine.

(Moved to threatening early, didn't he?)

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"This really matters to me." Kiss.

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Kiss. "It does? Why, you were so subtle about it, I had no idea."

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"You really matter to me. And you know you're very clever. Figure it out."

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"Flattery will get you everywhere. Very well."

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He beams at him. "You'll have so much fun, you know you will."

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(Ah, yes, and then what will Sauron ask him to do?)

"Oh, most likely. It does look like an interesting problem."

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"And you liiiike them."

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"And I like them!" he agrees, laughing.

He clears his throat. "My lord! May I have leave to study the Silmarils?"

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Permission is granted to study one of them, for a Year, and to report in great detail on progress at that time so Melkor can consider the wisdom of continued study.

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He is ever so excited to play with the shinies.

(Somewhere in the back of his mind, where it safely cannot upset the precarious knife's edge upon which he balances, something in him screams.)

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Calassúrë is starting to become strangely accustomed to darkness. Before, it had been rather like living in a waking nightmare. Like the whole world had been submerged in ink. There had been darkness in Valinor before - indoors, in the shade of trees - but never like this. Never everywhere. She'd looked upon the darkened world and thought that there would be no way anyone could become used to this. The way it slowed everything down, made everything more difficult.

But without the Light of the Trees, she can see the stars, twinkling in the sky. Their beauty could never really compare in a direct contest to the Light from the Trees, but Calassúrë decides she likes them. While they are cold and distant, there's something very solid about them. Something quietly comforting. Maybe there's something to be gained from such a tragedy as the Darkening, like there is something to be gained from silence instead of a symphony. The symphony is prettier, more well put together, but in the silence you can really pick out the details of something. Hum a tune all your own, and compose something new, now that the symphony is out of the way.

She takes to songwriting under starlight, for the practicality of having light to work by, and because it's pleasant. There's something poetic about it. Humming stray bars of an unwritten song to the stars. It's peaceful. Peaceful and comforting.

It's about the only comforting thing around, really.

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Fëanor surely isn't. He does inquire about the project to relight the world - expected to take about five Years, and to serve as a beacon of hope to the world and provide an opening to the forces fighting the Enemy. "So it's not a reason to stay here, but rather a reason to be sure we're there by then. Not that I am willing to spend five years waiting."

Food is gathered. Swords are forged. People are having nightmares - long, lingering, astonishingly clear ones they nonetheless cannot relay to anyone else.

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