Shadow and Flame

      Malekith savoured the feel of the wind against his face, loosening the reins of his steed – urging the already swift horse to move even faster.       As though challenging the air itself, daring to defy Manwë himself, two figures, two riders, streaked forward, their forms blurred even to the sharp eyes of the Firstborn. Two beings – so alike, yet so different. Both tall and proud, with dark hair. Yet one had grey eyes and broad shoulders, his high, open forehead crowned with a diadem that burned with cold fire. His hair was braided, and a calm, dignified smile occasionally flickered across his face, breaking through the usual concentration that rarely left the features of a king. His garments shimmered with the blue of the sea and the silver of Aulë's mines, while his powerful white steed resembled the morning mist under Telperion's radiance.       The other rider was like a shadow of the night, unwilling to dissolve in the light of the Trees. The rider's head leaned close to the neck of his black steed, a slender and lighter horse than its counterpart. The wind played with the rider's hair, forming a stream of black flames trailing behind him. His attire blazed with crimson fire and cold starlight, framed in darkness. His golden eyes burned with an unquenchable fire, betraying emotions he did not attempt to hide: sheer enjoyment of the ride, the thrill of competition, and the anticipation of victory. Beneath these emotions lay thoughts, dormant for now, temporarily replaced by the simple pleasure of the moment but ready to surface at their master's will. Yet, in one respect, the gaze of the golden eyes mirrored that of the grey – they both radiated an unshakeable confidence and a readiness to achieve their goals.       The horses' hooves, which had recently echoed on the stone-paved roads, now left marks on dew-drenched earth. The excited animals galloped south-west until the dark rider, slightly ahead, reached a hill first – one of the slopes marking the foothills of the Pelóri. Reining his steed sharply, causing it to rear, the golden-eyed elf turned back and waved to the rider of the white horse, who was a little behind.       ‘Excellent. Very well done!’ Finwë, gently patting his steaming, breath-catching steed, allowed the animal to halt beside the second rider. ‘The student has surpassed the master. To think… not so many years ago, you struggled to lift my spear, which was three times your height, and were just learning to sit astride – not on a horse, but a pony. And now, mounted on your Indraugnîr, you win three races out of five against me. Well done,’ the King of the Ñoldor said, squeezing the younger elf's shoulder.       ‘I am merely my father's son, Ata,’ Curufinwë inclined his head respectfully, hiding the ironic gleam in his golden eyes. His father's son… He had always been that. Yet there was no need to tell the king that only part of his soul considered him a father and truly rejoiced in such praise.       ‘Kurvo, don't be so modest,’ Finwë shook his head. ‘You are my son, true. But many of your talents were not inherited from me–they were with you from the start. Not every Firstborn becomes a pupil of Mahtan, and not every one of his students is invited to the Halls of Aulë. I have no doubt you will pass the test with honour. Not merely surpass other Aulendur, no–’ the king tossed his thick black braid over his shoulder–‘you will create masterpieces that even the Valar would envy. And not only as a smith, trust me. One day, you and I will discuss the future of our people. Not as father and son, but as ruler and heir.’       Warmth blossomed in the chest of the ‘younger half’ of the soul of the former Witch King, a sensation almost tangible. Malekith inwardly rolled his eyes.       At times, Fëanáro's emotions clashed with the elder and colder intellect, despite their growing accord in other matters. Such had been the case when the house of Finwë began receiving frequent visits from the future stepmother – ostensibly to visit, to get to know the son of her betrothed, and so on. The future chief concubine (both halves of the soul agreed on this designation, if not something cruder) irritated them both. Everything about her grated – from her empty chatter about love for Finwë and her attempts to ingratiate herself with the household to the blatantly pragmatic interests of the Vanyar as a whole, and her father in particular. His hands were clearly pushing this vapid woman towards a marriage with the King of the Ñoldor, who seemed oblivious to her true intentions: influence, wealth, and power in the arms of a strong man.       Malekith had known women of that kind before, from Ulthuan to his own bedchamber. He understood all too well that for Curufinwë, as the son of the deceased first queen, there would be only a little room at the family table in this idyllic union if he behaved well – and the role of family bogeyman if he did not. Thus, clinging to his father's coattails was futile. No, they needed their own sky, political influence, and authority, which would eventually draw the Eldar to their banner.       Well, at least he could thank the unknown force that had cast him here at this moment – when the Ñoldor were still young. When personal deeds and charisma could secure a place in the pantheon of heroes and lay the foundations of a House, a Clan. As Aenarion, Caledor, and Malekith himself had done once. It would have been far worse to be born as Fëanáro in a realm like the declining Ulthuan, where influence was long since divided among the noble families, and alliances were as fixed as they were labyrinthine. Except for rare exceptions like Teclis or Imrik of Caledor, of course. But such exceptions merely proved the rule.       This, perhaps, was the chief reason the Ñoldo now set out for Mahtan, distancing himself from the slowly gathering preparations for the wedding. To get out of his father's shadow, lay the foundation of his future House, and forge his Name. And also to make a statement – not as a boy but as a man. As a Master. And here came the opportunity: a wedding gift for what was to be the most grandiose celebration of recent years. Splendid, radiant – and drenched in sugar-sweet politics. An event to be attended by much of Aman, including the Valar. Among them, Aulë, who awaited proof of mastery from his potential student.       For Malekith, it was a chance to showcase his talents and gain entry to the greatest teacher in Valinor… and more. For Curufinwë, it was also a chance to catch his father's attention, to make him either admire or hear the silent reproach the younger had long harboured while eagerly hanging on his father's every word, defying the frigid wastes of Naggaroth and their lessons.       For instance, now. A simple compliment. Merely an acknowledgment of merit and a fleeting mention that Finwë still considered his eldest son the heir – and Fëanáro, despite the wisdom and experience imparted by the Witch King, was once again ready to believe every word his father said. And Malekith could hardly blame him. He himself had struggled to believe in Morathi's betrayal, when she had fallen under the cursed sword’s influence and deluded herself into seeing her ‘beloved nephew’ as the reborn Aenarion.       But that did not change one thing – a key matter on which the Witch King and the young prince of the Ñoldor disagreed. Though only for now. Other heirs had not yet appeared, and Indis had not begun her songs about ‘the welfare of children and the people.’ Finwë had not yet sworn by the name of Eru or called the Valar to witness. Without such vows… An elf who had ruled Naggaroth for six thousand years knew that promises made on the shore were tested in the first storm. And in the fifth. And in the tenth. And there was always a chance that even after the hundredth something could still go wrong.       As for ‘the future of the people’…       ‘Ata, turn around,’ commanded the lord of the dark elves and master of the black towers, placing a firm hand on his father's shoulder and guiding him to face the north-east. Toward the pass between the mountains where the capital, Tirion, lay. And further still – beyond where the rippling glow of Telperion faintly illuminated the shimmering water, barely visible from here, fading into the horizon yet no less enticing for it. ‘If we were a little closer, you could hear the gulls. Look out there, as far as your eyes can see! That is what could lie ahead for the Ñoldor.’       ‘The gulls?’ Finwë, glancing where his son directed, turned back to Fëanáro in cheerful amazement. ‘You wish to bind our people's lives to the sea, as the Teleri have? To learn shipbuilding after your time with Aulë and establish yet another harbour? I must admit, I'm surprised! Have I chosen the right Vala for you to study under?’       ‘No, though a fleet will eventually be needed,’ Fëanáro's molten-gold eyes gleamed with the anticipation of triumph. Their triumph – both halves of his soul were entirely in agreement now. ‘But I speak of something else – of what lies beyond the horizon. That is the future I desire for our people, Ata. Beyond that sea lies our homeland. Vast, untamed… waiting for the hour when its children return home, beneath the stars you first beheld when you awoke from slumber.’ Malekith tightened his grip on Indraugnîr's reins. ‘I want to be the first of the Ñoldor to set foot on the shores of Middle-earth after an entire age has passed. To walk the paths of that world, to know it – and to witness the towers of our cities rise on that land. After all, Eru gifted that land to us. So why have we confined ourselves to this edge of the world, beautiful though it may be, instead of exploring and mastering the whole of it?’       And to rule it – as the elves of Ulthuan once ruled the entire Old World before the Sundering. The Witch King inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring like a predator catching the scent of prey. Here, such divisions could be avoided! An empire. Unified. Whole. Indivisible. His empire, his creation! Even if he would formally need to obey the ‘father’ and the Valar – it did not matter! As countless ages had proven, the gods were in no hurry to leave their abode in the West to govern Arda.       There, beyond the Sea, his hands would be far less tied. There, he could transform the idle denizens of Tirion into true masters of this world. Strong and unyielding, proud and authoritative. Those who would subjugate some peoples and forge alliances with others. And this new empire Chaos would not engulf, even if it came again. Not this time!       Finwë grew serious, listening anew with profound thoughtfulness to his son's words. A crease formed on the king's brow, and his grey eyes, shadowed with a restrained sadness, turned toward the dark rider.       ‘Rion, your words are comprehensible and lofty, but they seem born more of youth than foresight.’ The king shook his head. ‘You speak passionately of the lands from whence we came, and I see you chafe at the confines of blessed Aman, but remember this: I was one of those who first awoke by the Waters of Awakening and saw the stars. I spoke with Oromë and later led our kin here. Yes, you are right – the stars shine brightly there. But those lands are wild, untamed, and perilous. From the Black Rider, who stole our kin to twist them into hideous mockeries, to the remnants of Melkor's ancient armies. And the most important question is,’ the elf took Fëanáro's hand, ‘why? What purpose would such a venture serve? When I led our people to Valinor, we sought a better life. And our people found it. They gained their stars – here, in the Blessed Realm, beneath the light of the Trees. Why should the Ñoldor cross the Sea, forsaking the grace of Aman and the Valar?’       ‘Ata, first answer me this: if a fire broke out in your home, destroying part of it, would you not attempt to restore it?’ The Witch King's smile turned slightly sly. He had often rehearsed this conversation in his mind, though he had thought it would occur later. But now was the time to sow the first seeds, to plant the dragon's teeth. ‘Or would you leave things as they are and live in a single room, however beautiful and richly furnished? The whole of Arda is our home. And now much of it is abandoned and ruined. But we have the power to change that. We can bring the light of Valinor to Middle-earth – on the edges of our blades. We can make all of Endórë as glorious as Aman. As for the Valar – did not some of them, led by Ulmo, wish for us to remain in our homeland, aiding in its healing?’       ‘There is a grain of truth in your words,’ the king conceded, though doubt lingered in his voice. ‘But will the Eldar follow such words, even if they are true? Remember, no king can command a people who do not wish to obey. When I led the Ñoldor to Valinor, they followed not because I was their master, but because they desired it themselves. I am king not because I appointed myself their ruler, but because others recognised my right to lead them.’       ‘Believe me, Ata, I understand this,’ Malekith replied with a trace of ironic amusement. Indeed, the former ruler of the dark elves understood this all too well. Even in Naggaroth, where Malekith's rule was nearly absolute, many had to be swayed not by fear but by persuasion and gifts. More often, by deceit, weaving a web of intrigue that subtly compelled one ruler or another to act as needed. As for the current situation, with a centralised monarchy still only beginning to form – there was nothing more to say. Yet this also presented opportunities, ones he could seize by building his personal authority. ‘But surely you don't think I am the only one with such thoughts, do you? A new generation is growing up in Tirion, and soon they, too, may find their homeland too small. Many of them will want homes and cities of their own. Achievements, wealth, and glory of their own. Lands of their own – for Aman cannot hold them all.’       Nor would all Ñoldor accept the rising dominance of the Vanyar or the de facto vassalage to them. Many would seek to free themselves from the ever-singing hosts, and perhaps even from their lords. To live by their own wisdom. The Witch King knew what he was thinking. Not all parents of his peers had taken the king's remarriage peacefully or graciously.       In such a case, a Flight would be the best solution. The only solution, assuming war within Valinor itself was to be avoided – a prospect the gods were unlikely to permit in their own land. It would happen–with or without Malekith at the forefront. He only needed to ensure it would happen with him.       ‘And what if, Ata, the things I speak of now begin to be discussed openly in the squares?’       Finwë hesitated but finally nodded, acknowledging his son's perspective. ‘In that, you are right. If that should happen, we will return to this conversation,’ he said, clasping Malekith's hand in a firm handshake. ‘For now, I wish you success. You will… attend the festival, won't you?’       ‘Don't worry,’ the Witch King returned his father's earnest smile, mentally silencing the snarky Fëanáro. ‘I am old enough not to act recklessly. I will come – and with gifts.’       But in one thing, Finwë was right. In something Malekith had long pondered. To achieve his plans, it would not suffice to merely meet the people's desires and build authority among them. Such liberty was utterly unsatisfactory. No, he would also need the truly loyal. Those who would follow their lord unquestioningly through fire and water, who would carry out any command, no matter how harsh. Elves like his veterans of the conquest of the Old World and the Northern Campaign, those who later bore him, burned and lifeless, to his mother for healing, and who, in Naggaroth, became the first of the Black Guard. What he needed was a Clan.       And speaking of a time before the wars, when there were no veterans to be had… Malekith knew a way to gain elves as loyal as that. And, truth be told, the solution to this problem amused him greatly.

***

      ‘Damn it,’ came a sharp, irritated hiss from above, like a forest cat snapping a claw. ‘It broke – almost ruined all the work. Pass me the spare chisel, will you?’       Without turning, Malekith took an enchanted tool from the workbench and handed it upwards. A slender, youthful hand swiftly took it from him. He resumed his own task, carefully chiselling the hem of the stone dress with deliberate precision, peeling away fine layers of rock. The runes etched into the chisel glowed softly, allowing the enchanted blade to cut and shape the otherwise unyielding stone with the ease of carving softwood. Still, this white granite, quarried from the northern reaches of Aman, was notoriously difficult to work with.       ‘We should have chosen the white marble from the coastal cliffs – the same used to face Alqualondë,’ said the redhead standing on the top rung of a tall ladder. She added the final touches to the delicate, slender neck of the statue, preparing it for the upcoming phases of grinding and polishing.       In some respects, Nerdanel, who was now using her second chisel, had a point. This stone seemed more suited for building fortresses than sculpting statues. However, the result promised to justify the effort. When polished, granite from the northern mountains absorbed the light of Telperion and Laurelin, softly glowing in its own right as if imbued with their radiance.       ‘If we were trying to impress Ulmo or present a wedding gift to Olwë,’ the former Witch-King remarked, a trace of sarcasm in his tone as he continued to work, ‘you'd be right. But we're aspiring to become students of another Vala. I doubt marble, long famous for building harbours, would appeal to him more than a piece crafted from an untouched stone. Still, if you're afraid of a challenge, I can finish this alone.’       ‘Afraid? I started learning to work with stone when I was a little girl sitting on my father's knee,’ came a chuckle from above. A moment later, the daughter and first pupil of Mahtan descended, leaning lightly on the gallant hand her companion offered. She cast an almost imperceptible glance at the elf before turning her gaze back to their work. Malekith smirked inwardly but maintained his composure. ‘I'm nearly finished with the upper section. Only the face and hair remain before we can polish and decorate it.’       It had somehow happened naturally: the two apprentices of Urundil and potential students of Aulë began their ‘graduation project’ – a wedding gift for the king and queen – as partners. They had been apprenticed to the same teacher and working on joint projects increasingly often of late. Malekith found the partnership entirely agreeable. Nerdanel was competent, stimulating to converse with, and receptive to innovative ideas, even when her criticisms were, like now, occasionally unwarranted. Yet she was wise enough to acknowledge the merit of an idea superior to her experience. In short, she was an ideal partner – and more. There was no denying that the young Fëanáro was fond of her.       Malekith folded his arms across his chest, scrutinising their handiwork with satisfaction. Even in its unfinished state, the five-metre-tall figure was breathtakingly elegant and… alive, somehow. Yes, that was the word. The stone figure of Indis, poised gracefully at the monumental base of Telperion with her legs tucked beneath her, seemed ready to draw breath. The folds of her dress appeared to ripple like flowing silk. Her head tilted slightly, one hand rested on the hem of her gown, and the other lay over her heart.       The perfect decorative doll. Beautiful, tender – and hollow, like a goblet without wine. Such had been the real Indis. Yet, carved from polished northern granite and adorned with ivy that would wind through near-invisible apertures to mimic the patterns of her dress, she would at least serve a noble purpose. What better way to signal that the elder son bore no ill will than to present a splendid statue of his revered stepmother? And what could attract the attention of Aulë and Yavanna more effectively than the harmonious union of their domains crafted in such beauty?       On the other hand…       ‘Look here,’ the former Witch-King gestured to the design from which they had sculpted. ‘We'll start on the hair next. But let's change the style – no twin braids at the front and a third at the back. Let it fall freely over her shoulders.’       ‘And once it's polished, we'll adorn it with simbelmynë,’ Nerdanel nodded thoughtfully, casting her gaze towards Finwë's son. ‘But Indis doesn't wear her hair loose. She styles it in the fashion of the Vanyar.’       ‘She's now queen of the Ñoldor, so we’ll style it in our fashion. And simbelmynë is a flower of the Ñoldor, beloved by many of our women,’ Malekith said, his amusement evident as he studied the statue. This creation was not only his gateway to the royal couple of the Valar but also a statement–a subtle one, shared with that part of his soul that still bore the young prince's essence. No angry glares or curses directed at Finwë's consort. Yet those who knew would understand. His ‘father’ would feel the quiet reproach from Fëanáro: “Yes, I've accepted it, but do not think I've forgotten my true mother.” After all, her hairstyle and her favourite flowers adorned the sculpture.       As for the discontented Ñoldor who resented the new queen, they would discern the Witch-King's message: the true heir sympathised with their displeasure but was prudent enough to avoid recklessness, even verbal confrontation.       And then, there was the statue's pose, conveying total submission to a male's will and readiness for use – a childish mockery from the dark elf who had witnessed the libertine mores of Naggaroth. Yet this immaturity resonated fully with the other half of his soul. Pity none of the locals would catch the insinuation.       Meanwhile, Nerdanel's widened eyes suggested she had grasped at least part of the message. She stepped forward gently, her slender fingers brushing the elf's shoulder.       ‘I'm sorry – I didn't mean to offend. I should have understood sooner. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea to make the statue resemble her,’ she said with sincere regret, her voice tinged with… concern?       ‘Think nothing of it,’ the former ruler of Naggaroth replied gently, removing her hand and giving it a brief squeeze before she stepped back, realising she had stood too close. Their eyes met, and though Nerdanel flushed slightly, she held his gaze. Her delicate fingers brushed her coppery-red hair, adjusting it almost nervously.       Malekith allowed himself a subtle internal chuckle, outwardly nodding with measured dignity and smiling at his companion. The look in her eyes told him what he needed to know. The former Witch-King, no stranger to women, saw her furtive glances toward the prince and first suitor of Tirion for what they were. Yet there was no coquettishness, no vain attempts to draw attention to her appearance, nor the overzealous bravado of women striving to match men.       No, Nerdanel knew her worth, her skills, and carried herself with quiet pride. Her occasional sharp banter did not count. But at the same time, at the right moment (as she thought, of course) she showed her innate wisdom in her perceptive understanding and gentle support. Such a woman could, in case of anything, cover his back. It was a rare combination – just right for becoming the future queen. She was, in short, a gem awaiting refinement – give her the necessary experience, get rid of excessive idealism. Perfect material for the first member of his House.       Blood ties though powerful might falter, especially when brothers vied for a throne. Personal loyalty, rooted in affection, was equally potent. Together, they formed an unyielding bond. And Nerdanel could bring not only herself but, if guided astutely, her father – the finest Ñoldorin smith in Aulë's favour – into his fold. Perhaps, in time, even their offspring. Children personally reared by him, devoted beyond question – his generals, his closest allies, his first Black Guard.       Immortality afforded one such opportunities. Raising loyal followers could prove simpler than winning them through intrigue and promises. But that was for the future. For now…       ‘By the way,’ Malekith broke the uneasy pause, turning to the workbench to fetch a scroll from a tube. As if that long shared gaze had never happened, he spread the parchment with a practised hand. ‘You asked yesterday if I had ideas for a gift for the king, now that the queen's present is clear. Well, I don't just have ideas – I have a design. This gift will be a blacksmith's work. Want to see?’       ‘Of course,’ relieved at the change of topic, Nerdanel followed him eagerly, peering over his shoulder as he unrolled the blueprint. ‘What is it?’       ‘A bow… of sorts. Only much more practical. Just as light, but you don't need to hold the string with your hands. You can shoot at will, even while lying in ambush, hunting. Or release multiple arrows at once. See, here's the mechanism…’       Malekith explained with quiet pride, showing the knowledgeable smith his plans for a Druchii multi-shot crossbow – a weapon he had refined from dwarven designs during his rule. Enhanced, lightened, and perfected, these deadly devices had become the signature of his loyalist armies, rivalling, even surpassing, the famed bows of Ulthuan in rate of fire, ease of use, and piercing power.       The harbinger of his legions' eventual return, Malekith would arm the Ñoldor with these beauties. At first, only those loyal to him, but eventually, when he seized power, the entire people. Moreover, it would serve as a significant point in his favour when the examiner evaluated him.       Nerdanel, meanwhile, continued to ask clarifying questions about the design with interest. The project seemed to captivate the red-haired elf no less – and perhaps far more – than the statue had. Yet, the more questions she asked, the more thoughtful her gaze became. When it became clear that the bolts of this new bow could pierce much tougher hides than that of a deer, she looked at Fëanáro in a new light. Gradually, her eyes began to shine with comprehension – and this understanding seemed to unnerve her.       ‘A powerful weapon,’ she murmured softly, her slender fingers tensing slightly with clear unease. ‘Powerful and deadly. While the ability to preload an arrow and shoot from any position is hard to overrate… isn't it excessive? Such a bolt could pierce steel. I can only pity the poor deer.’       ‘The bolts can be made to suit any purpose; they don't have to pierce armour. But who knows? Perhaps one day, even those will find their target,’ Malekith replied, scrutinising his partner again. ‘If that day comes, I would rather the Ñoldor possess such bows than not.’       ‘I'd rather we never encounter foes that require such bolts,’ Nerdanel said, hugging herself gently. ‘They seem… out of place. Not meant for these lands. Not for peaceful Valinor. At least, I hope so.’       ‘You're right,’ the Sorcerer agreed with an inward smirk, choosing not to argue this time. The girl had understood perfectly again. Yet, unlike Finwë, she hadn't outright objected. She was carefully testing the waters – a promising sign. Convincing her of his perspective would be much easier. With time. ‘No, they're not for these lands, nor for local game. The lands beyond the Blessed Realm are wild and untamed. But they, too, are part of our world – a part of the home Ilúvatar gave us, a realm governed by the Valar. And when a part of your home lies in dust and spiders take residence there,’ Malekith tapped the design with his fingers, ‘you need a broom of appropriate size.’

***

      The future was ever in motion. Too much depended on the free choices of mortals and immortals alike, on too many small details that could shift the larger picture. Yet, certain pivotal milestones remained nearly immutable – key points, junctions that ultimately led to the most probable outcomes. Who better to know this than Námo, the Keeper of the Halls of Mandos?       The first such point of no return was crossed the moment the first trial of Melkor took place, following the destruction of Utumno and the capture of the rebellious Vala. Most of the Ainur, from Ulmo to Tulkas, had placed no stock in the Enemy's false repentance. If, at that moment, Melkor had been sentenced to eternal imprisonment, many of Arda's sorrows could have been averted. But this did not happen. Manwë had shown qualities – mercy and trust – that a ruler of the entire world ought to exhibit sparingly, if at all, toward a former foe. The result? Melkor received a sentence of mere three Ages. And Námo knew that when the rebel stood trial a second time, he would be released. Released despite all reason and foresight, placing the first, weighty stone on the scale of Arda's worst fate.       The second misstep, propelling their world ever closer to the distant Dagor Dagorath, occurred when most of the Valar, led by Manwë, decided to summon the Elves to Valinor. Instead of allowing them to develop independently, to heal and tame Arda's wounds, they brought them closer to themselves. Only three opposed this decision: Mandos himself, Ulmo, and Oromë. Alas, the minority carried no sway. The titular Ruler of Arda remained deaf to warnings, enchanted by the Firstborn and wishing to draw them nearer – just as most of the Ainur did.       And now, the Keeper of the Halls of Mandos observed with growing disquiet that his counsel remained as unheeded as before. The third pivotal moment in history was unfolding along the worst possible path: the marriage of Finwë and Indis. A union that, while it would bring forth the greatness of Ñolofinwë, the valour of Findekáno, and the nobility of Findaráto, would ultimately lead to countless woes – a division and three kinslayings instead of a unified Flight, where the Ñoldor might have struck at Melkor's forces as one. This marriage, too, led inexorably to dire consequences for the world, ensuring that the Eldar could not hold the Enemy at bay.       And all this could have been avoided – if only Manwë had made a different judgement about Finwë's first marriage. If only he hadn't sought to spread the ‘beneficent’ influence of the ever-singing Vanyar among the Ñoldor.       The Judge pulled his black, mithril-embroidered hood deeper over his head, gazing wearily at Súlimo congratulating the newly-weds. Then his gaze shifted to the king's eldest son, standing proudly as he prepared to present his gifts. Fëanáro's lips curved in a faint smile, his golden eyes glinting with ironic amusement at the ceremony. Yet there was no anger in his gaze, as one might have expected, knowing what was to come.       Golden eyes – not grey. Námo allowed himself a small, private smile.       Years ago, the future had once more begun to shift, weaving a new pattern. Many old possibilities had faded, losing significance, yielding to new ones. Some were horrifying, others incomprehensible, and still others – promising. Much time had been spent analysing each. Námo had observed, pondered, waited for these nascent futures to manifest.       Today, he received his first confirmations: the seeds of change had begun to sprout. Gifts that were beautiful on the surface yet filled with subtle hints within. Polite civility instead of rage and a refusal to attend the wedding. A deadly ‘toy’ that could eventually become something far greater. The Shadow, cold, calculating, adept at intrigue, had entwined with the Flame, tempering its fury. Instead of making errors, Finwë's son had turned this celebration to his advantage. How it had come to pass, why two souls – one clearly not of this world – had united in a single body, slowly merging, remained a mystery. But the fact was undeniable.       New paths for the future had become tangible. Some old ones were closed forever. And now, the Judge faced a choice: to intervene or let this new destiny take root.       The Judge could have put an end to this. Even now, it was within his power. At his word or prophecy, the interloper inhabiting Fëanáro's body would be imprisoned in the Halls of Mandos. But then what? The former son of Finwë could not be brought back. The heirs would be Indis'children, who would not so much as consider resisting the influence of the Vanyar upon their people. Those who might have opposed it would remain leaderless and divided. In the end, Manwë's design would have succeeded fully – he and Varda would have gained another tribe of eternal singers. Blissful, harmonious… and utterly useless when the time came to draw swords.       Such would never set out to tame Arda. They would not become the shield to hold back the Black Foe, thinning and draining his armies, forcing him to expend ever more of his strength maintaining his hordes. Instead, the rebel Vala would claim the entire world, crushing scattered seeds of resistance and subjugating the Secondborn completely.       Not to mention that the Silmarils – seeds that could have birthed new Trees – would never come to be. Melkor's victory would be even more absolute. Ultimately, such an outcome would be worse than if Finwë's firstborn had remained unchanged, irreparably clashing with his half-brothers and fracturing the Ñoldor.       Námo shook his head slightly, watching as the Shadow cloaked in Curufinwë's guise instructed his father in the use of the mechanical bow. Judging by the intrigued gleam in Aulë's eyes, the young Elf was likely to become an Aulendur. Unless he withdrew at the last moment, of course – but the odds of that were so slim they could be disregarded.       Thus, the Judge faced futures in which this nascent… Prince of Darkness would continue his work.       The Silmarils? If they were to exist, it would be in a greatly altered form. Such a one would not waste his efforts on the mere beauty of a creation. He would be drawn to… the beauty of efficiency, not of contemplation. Mandos acknowledged and bore no objection to such an approach.       A division among the Ñoldor? Still possible, though now far less likely. Excellent.       The Flight? Certain and already inevitable. Splendid. Allying with Melkor, forging a pact with him? Unthinkable. His subjects would never accept such a thing, and neither, likely, would he. Two leopards cannot share one den, nor can two contenders for dominion over Arda coexist in one world. An alliance with a Third Power – neither Light nor Dark – that one day will arise in the East, sheltering the True Avari who remained by the Waters of Awakening? The possibilities diverged…       The most significant point, however, was this: under such circumstances, the Ñoldor themselves would change. They would become harder. Stronger. More deadly. They would transform from a scattered assembly of princedoms into a power capable of seizing Middle-earth in an iron grip, conquering some peoples and trading with those they could not subdue. Such would not be cowed by Orcs, Trolls, or even Dragons. Such would not flee Westward in search of aid. In this form, the Ñoldor might become a true shield for this world – and for Valinor. If only because they would refuse to share dominion over Endórë with any other invaders. A shield against Melkor, against Gorthaur, who would follow his master, or against some new calamity, one far more dreadful than even the rebellious Vala – one that might enter Arda by the same path that brought the Shadow now mingled with Fëanáro. And such a possibility also existed.       The Judge's lips curled into a grim smile.       Yes. Such Ñoldor would certainly be capable of imposing order upon Arda. And the cost – that this order would likely be unpalatable to the benevolent Manwë – was hardly too high, especially when the alternative was Melkor's dominion over all existence. Or something worse. Between those who sought to rule Arda, albeit sternly (and would, if need be, defend it), and those who wished only to warp and consume it, the Lord of the Halls of Mandos knew his choice without hesitation.       And if this displeased Súlimo? He should have thought better before releasing his brother back into the world. And that he would do so – of this, Námo had no doubts.