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Snow makes little drops fall slowly on Valinor.
Melkor watches them, astute eyes piercing through the details of each snowflake, taking in the difference in shape, in size, in beauty even. Though each of them are beautiful, for they are made by his hands, and so imperfect in this that they answer his own version of perfection.
He does not move, does not blink, does not speak.
Hear no evil, or so they say…
Instead, he sits. He sits, as silent as can be, and as still as his ever trembling fana allows him. He feels them in an abstract way, as if distanced of it, the shakes which bloom from his legs only to die in his fingertips. His hands suffer the worst of the shaking: for they are cursed never to rest, never to stay still enough for delicate work, never to be at ease. A curse of his own making maybe - but mostly of Varda’s spite and envy.
At the thought, finally he moves. A slight nod, downward - for his eyes to look at the hands. There is no pain, fortunately – but it does nothing to chase away the darkness of his thoughts. They circle around one another as if sullen clouds in the sky, darkened by the proximity to their neighbour, flying away only to be caught once more in his grasp. They feed of each other also: a vicious circle which has no end. A thought beckons another, and another in his stead, who then calls forth the first.
And so, Melkor - Morgoth once, in another world, in another life where he had not awoken to some time travelling feat, where he had lost and been thrown in the Void - looks upon himself, and sighs.
He rests his chin on his knees, wrapping his arms around his legs, and still says nothing, only gazing at the world.
It seems so dull, despite the brightness of the snow.
“I wish only that you had not made it so cold,” comes a voice in the blizzard - a small moment of surprise before someone plops next to him; with a smile hiding undying cheer. Estë juts forward a hand to chase away a wet strand of black hair, tucking it back behind his ear. The touch is warmer than he would expect, considering the weather. “But can we blame it, when it comes with such beauty?”
Melkor glances away from her. He is not– He wishes not for Estë nor Irmo to be here, no matter how dear they are to him. He wishes to be alone. “I am no great conversationalist today,” he says from the tip of his lips.
“It is alright,” says Estë. She has wrapped some great furs around herself, only the tip of her nose and dark hair peeking out of it. She smiles again, and it seems she has as many of them as there are stars in the galaxy - for this one is fond but not overwhelming, discreet, and endearing. “I can either do the conversation for two, or stay as silent as you wish for me to be.”
To this, he shrugs only. What is there to say?
The snow continues to fall around them, inexorable and dusting the world in white. Melkor feels the biting cold of his own creation, feels the flesh pinking and reddening, feels all the way from which his fana is reacting, all the signs that he is affected. This, at least, brings a tiny, bitter smile to his features. There - at least for today, Valinor suffers not from stasis. Everyone is affected by the cold, elves, ainur, creatures, and even trees. Everyone will feel it bite their noses, fingers, ears - everyone will know something else than eternal spring.
“Dearheart’s butterflies have undertaken other fanar,” Estë suddenly says. She has sunken her fingers in the powdery snow, and watches it fall from between the creaks of her flesh. “They were delighted. Some have chosen to don feline attires, some have gone as bats to catch the snowflakes; and some even have decided to turn into more resilient entomofauna as to investigate within the trunk of trees, in the crevices of nature - where the impact of the cold bites deeper.”
He is surprised. “I thought Irmo would be displeased by this turn of events.”
“Dearheart could hardly be displeased with you.” Her answer is so natural and instinctive that it causes some of the blue thoughts he arbors to colour a brighter colour. “He is otherwise too busy dancing in the snow to find it distasteful.”
“He should not. He will catch a cold, and be insufferable when sick. It will attack his constitution. He might have a fever for some days. Your Maiar have little experience on treating those symptoms.”
Estë reaches out to him to touch his cheek, lightly. “He would be in good care, I promise. But he has dressed accordingly.” A little pause. “Thank you for the worry, dearheart.”
“I do not worry,” he immediately denies. Melkor has a curt laugh. “I am merely warning you.”
“Then thank you for warning me,” she says. A little smile graces her features. “You do not share in the festivities.”
“Festivities?”
“Yes,” Estë says. She turns her gaze towards the forest, now. “Our small island is celebrating the arrival of the snow. Your snow. We have made a bonfire, and there were crushed grapes being warmed with sugar for a drink. For many, it is the first time they see snow. It called for a celebration, shared joy.”
Melkor turns his eyes to her, sharp, incredulous. “Shared joy…?” he repeats, slowly.
Now, she has another of her smiles: laughing - but shared laughter, not at his expense - and so kind that it burns something in his chest.
“Shared joy,” Estë confirms. “Do you not think it is a joy?”
He scoffs at that. “What I think is hardly important. I made it. Its purpose was not joy.”
“But it made some all the same,” she says, kind, and soft. “Does it bother you?”
Does it bother him? Melkor looks again at his hands. “No.” Silence. “Yes. Perhaps. I do not know. It was not its first purpose.”
“Then, what was it?”
“War,” he says, immediately. Melkor laughs - loud, and so deeply unhappy. “It was a revenge. It was to show I too could bite. To show I too could ruin what my brother wanted. I too could - or maybe I only - overrun the stasis. It was to snarl; it was to be so imperfect, It was to show him I had power over his realm too. It was spite.”
Estë says nothing to this at first. It is when he is done that she lets some of the snow fall from between her fingers.
“I wanted him to see that he could do nothing,” Melkor adds, spiteful. “I wanted him to see that I still had influence - that he couldn’t stop me completely from being a part of this kingdom.”
She turns her face up to the sky, letting the snowflakes dust her face. “And did he see it?”
“Did he–” Melkor stops himself, and grits his teeth. “He– He did not. But he was angry,” he adds. He grins at that, feral and bitter. “He was angry and it made me feel such joy .”
“Joy,” Estë softly says. “Or–” and now she looks at him. “Sorrow.”
“Sorrow?” he laughs. Scoffs even. “I hardly think so. I just told you its contrary. They are literally the opposite.”
Estë hums. She picks up another handful of snow, shaping it roughly in what would be a squirrel. Passes it wordlessly to him so he would lend a hand in making the tail. Melkor complies, with no thought at all of saying no. He applies himself to the task. Even makes strips for the tail–
“There,” he says.
In a second she has lent, pressed a kiss on his cheek, lips cold. “Thank you, dearheart,” Estë whispers. “Do you not think sorrow is very close to joy? Emotions heightened. Tell me, what is sorrow? Sorrow - is it not a pain in your heart, an ache in your chest? Have you never been so happy that your stomach complains, that your heart beats fast, fast, fast? Sorrow is joy. Sorrow is pernicious as such- that you think it to be joy, but it is hardly. Sorrow likes to don masks, dearheart, just as joy does. Sorrow feeds on anger, and anger feeds on sorrow – and both so like to say to have merged into joy. But it is never joy, Mbelekhoruz, and it remains always anger laced with sorrow.”
Melkor says nothing at first. “But it was joy.”
“Or was it?” she whispers, softly. “Was it joy, truly? Was it a joy so bright your lips hurt, was it a joy so great that your fëa sang, a joy so soft that you felt peaceful, that you were at ease? Or was it another joy, a louder one. Was it a joy that made your blood boil, that made your hands clench, that made your thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm? Was it the kind of joy that leaves a shadow behind, a lingering taste of bitterness you can’t quite explain? Tell me, dearheart, which joy was it? For not all joy is pure, and not all joy is kind."
Melkor's gaze darkens, his lips pressed into a thin line. "It was mine," he says, defiant. "And if it was joy to me, then it was joy, no matter what name you would give it."
Estë’s expression softens, the lines of her face smoothing like a still pond after a storm. She laces her fingers with him - so that together they could reach out to the snow. It brings a tiny smile to Melkor’s lips. Ah, what is she doing now?
“I am not here to antagonise you,” Estë murmurs. “Nor to say you can not call with your terms what you feel. I am there - because I find you feeling lonely on a day of mirth, and I would like to understand why you should feel so.”
“Not everything had to be understood by you.”
“No indeed,” she agrees.
He grits his teeth. “Yet you ask it of me all the same.”
"I ask, dearheart, not to pry but to offer you a place to rest. Even the strongest fëa must unburden itself now and then. Or do you think yourself above such needs?"
Melkor snorts, the sound derisive but lacking his usual venom. "Rest is for those who tire."
"And you never tire?" she counters, arching a delicate brow. "You, who wars with the very fabric of Arda, who shapes and twists and bends to your will what was once sung in harmony? Do you truly believe you can bear the weight of your choices forever, unbent, unbroken?"
For a moment, Melkor's gaze flickers, a fleeting shadow crossing his features. "If I do not, who will?"
“Us,” she says, smiling. “Us, dearheart. It is the joy of having others caring for you - and we do care for you. I say so for myself, for I know my own desires most: and I say so for Irmo, for I know his desires second only to myself! Us, we will be there - and we will bear it, if only you would allow us to step forward.”
Melkor’s expression hardens, as though her words are an affront. He pulls back, as if her kindness is a weapon aimed at his core. “You speak of bearing burdens as though they are feathers to be scattered on the wind. Do you think what I carry can be shared so lightly? Do you think you, or Irmo, or any of your kind, could understand what it is to hold the weight of creation and see it bend and crack beneath your will?”
Estë shakes her head, her smile soft but resolute. “No, I do not think it light, dearheart. And I do not presume to understand the depth of your burden. But what I know, and what I will always believe, is that even the greatest of burdens can be shared. Not to lighten it, perhaps, but to make it less lonely.”
He stares at her, his fiery gaze searching hers for mockery, for condescension. He finds none.
Her voice softens further, a whisper against the cold. “You bear it all, Mbelekhoruz, because you think you must. Because you have convinced yourself that no one else can, or should. But you are not alone. You never have been. And if you would only see us—not as rivals, not as obstacles, but as those who love you—you might understand that we are not here to take from you, but to stand with you.”
“But who,” he whispers – and there is a laugh in his voice which is not a laugh at all. “could ever learn to love a beast?”
Estë’s heart aches at his words, but she does not flinch. Instead, she steps closer, her gaze unwavering, her voice as soft as the snow that falls between them.
“A beast?” she repeats, tilting her head. “Is that how you see yourself, dearheart? As something monstrous, something beyond the reach of love?”
Melkor does not look at her, his eyes fixed on some distant horizon. His laugh comes again, hollow and sharp. “Do I not inspire fear? Do I not sow destruction wherever I tread? I am no shining jewel of the Valar. I am shadow. I am fire. I am the storm that tears the earth asunder. Who could love that?”
She listens, letting the silence settle before she answers. Her words come slowly, deliberately, like the turning of a page. “Do you think love is given only to what is easy to love? To what is gentle and fair? If that were so, dearheart, the world would be a barren place, for love would find no roots to grow in.” She pauses. “And there is one, is it not..? There is one who has pledged his love to you.” Estë smiles. “If one dares, why could others not follow? I do not shy from my love to you. Dearheart does not either. It would cause me great sorrow if you were not to know how dear you are to us.”
Melkor says nothing, but his grip on her hand tightens ever so slightly. He does not turn to face her, his gaze still fixed on the snow, but there is a tension in him—a hesitation, as though her words have struck a chord he cannot bring himself to acknowledge.
Estë leans into him, her head resting gently against his shoulder, her presence warm and grounding. From the side where they sit, she wraps herself softly around the edges of his storm, her voice barely more than a breath. “If only you would look at yourself how we do. See what we see, dearheart. Not the storm, not the shadow, but the light that burns within. The creator, the dreamer, the one who shapes.”
Melkor remains silent, his jaw set, his expression unreadable. Yet he does not pull away.
She lifts her gaze to the snow as it falls around them, the quiet hush of its descent filling the spaces between their words. Her hand tightens gently in his. “But in the meantime,” she continues, her voice tender, “can we not agree on the beauty of what you have made?”
Together, they watch the snow, its pristine white blanketing the earth, softening the jagged edges of the world. It catches the light as it falls, a thousand tiny crystals spinning and gleaming in the still air.
“It is beautiful,” she whispers after a long moment, her words a gentle offering. “And it is yours.”
Melkor’s gaze follows the swirling flakes, his grip on her hand unrelenting. Perhaps he does not speak because he cannot, or perhaps because, in this moment, he does not need to.
And in his heart, the world seems a little less dull.
And the thoughts, a little less cruel.