Chapter Text
From the beginning, Melkor had been difficult. When Námo had first encountered him, he had sensed the discontent within the other, but had made no move to try to further approach the discordant one. Why would he? If Iluvatar himself could not help, it would have been beyond arrogance for him to try.
Perhaps though, if he had tried, reached out even once before the Discord introduced into the Great Music, Námo would not now be facing the bound Vala, the aura of death and corruption rolling from the broken form with such palpably as to easily be mistaken as an entity of its own accord.
Surely the others were blind if they thought a mere three ages would even begin to be enough to save one already so befouled by the weight of actions so vile to be so far beyond the comprehension of beings with nought but goodness within. Manwë couldn't even feel the seething hatred directed towards him that practicality fizzled in the air whenever his brother was near.
He must, though, have felt something, to lock the three of them away, so far from life and light.
Vairë scuttled though, occasionally, her many limbs working at weaving patterns in stilted movements only she could yet understand, her many eyes unheeding of her surroundings but seeing something, certainly, that drove her bizarre dance. She never spoke and rarely acknowledged his existence, though in a brief moment of lucidity not so long ago had locked all her eyes on his and stitched a small, deliberate smile into a stretch of papery skin on her face roughly where a mouth could fit, in what Námo feared to be her attempt at bonding with him.
He too, was always smiling, or so he was told. The grey flesh clinging to his form never quite seemed substantial enough to fully cover the framework beneath as it did with the others, drawing too tightly across his face to display the solid plating of bone beneath wherever an opening allowed it to.
No wonder they were kept down here, out of sight and mind, where not even his name was spoken for the shame wrought from their kinship to the--
Námo jerked and mentally hit out at the grasping tendrils at the edge of his consciousness, turning to glare at the figure chained in the corner to the extent that he was able. The grin shot back at him was far too predatory to begin to convey the intended look of innocence.
Námo turned on his heel, shuddering at the ease of which Melkor had took control of his train of thought. A visit to his brother was certainly in order to discuss the best course of action following this disturbing new development. Irmo was always better at dealing with matters of the mind. Something told him that Manwë wouldn't take his fears seriously.
He hoped that something wasn't currently chained to the wall behind him with teeth bared in a rictus of a grin.
It was going to be a long confinement for both of them.