Summary: Manwë visits Melkor in the Void, and finds pity for the former enemy in his heart. Sometimes, there are shades of grey between white and black...

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: Just Retelling Reuel's Tales

Beta reader: Cairistiona

This story was written for Lirulin-yirth, for catching the 10.000th hit on my deviantart page. He wanted a story inspired by his character, so here it is. It is not about those characters, for I wanted to avoid the danger of making them something they aren't, but it is inspired by them and their personalities.

Shades of Grey

It was cold here, upon Taniquetil. The air was thin, and the snow on the peak never melted. The wind didn't blow. It was peaceful, serene – a white silence stretching through the halls of Ilmarin. There, high above all, Manwë sat on his throne, and his sight was directed to the east. The threat to Middle-earth has been destroyed. The One Ring has been melted in the fires of Orodruin, and a new age began. Change could be felt all over the world. And yet the expression of the Elder King was not one of joy. His all-seeing eyes were half-closed, focused not on the happening in the world, but something else. A memory, maybe. Then he turned his face away from the east, and looked to the west. And in his eyes, there was regret.

-oOo-

The Door of Night cracked. A thin strip of light appeared for a moment, then disappeared again. Steps in the silence. A gust of fresh breeze in the nothingness. For ages there had been no sound. Until now. Steps and echoes.

The hunched figure, barely noticeable among the shadows, made no movement.

The steps neared, then hesitated. Silence stretched immeasurably, almost like before. Yet it was a different kind of silence. Not the cold nothingness, but a mute silence struggling for the right words.

"Melkor."

For a few moments the silence returned, heavy and absolute. Then the dark head lifted just a few inches, and black eyes glistened behind the veil of falling hair. It was just a second before they dimmed again, and a voice hoarse from disuse whispered: "What more do you want?"

Manwë averted his eyes, and looked at the heavy door behind him as his resolution to stay wavered. But then his gaze returned, drawn back to the one who was once the Dark Enemy of the World, and he knelt beside him, regarding the picture he saw.

Before him was the one who was once the most powerful of the Valar. Now he knelt in the shadows, bent under the weight of chains. Manwë remembered the dark armour and a cruel face behind the mask of iron. Now he looked into that face again, and he saw only pain. It was pale and worn out, with dark circles beneath the dull eyes.

Manwë's heart clenched when he remembered the moment when Melkor knelt before him, begging for mercy. The proud black crown he wore has been beaten into a collar for his neck. Defeated and humbled he knelt, and yet Manwë had no mercy for him then. He was the darkness, the discord in harmony. The destroyer. What he touched was tainted by his dark spirit. What he desired was more and more power over the world shaped to the image of his dark thoughts, built in blood and tears of his slaves. A world without hope where the stars do not shine. But now...

"I think I understand now," Manwë said quietly.

A bitter chuckle escaped the pale lips. "You do?"

Again Manwë's sight wandered to the Door of Night, torn between the desire to know the truth, and fear of the possible consequences. He called to Ilúvatar in his mind, but there was no answer. He took a deep breath.

"It was love," he said slowly, "not hate. You loved Arda." He looked into the black eyes for refusal or confirmation. Something flickered in them again, piercing the dullness of lonely ages. Such was the pain in them that Manwë longed to reach his hand and offer little comfort he could with his touch. But he did not. "So you did," he whispered.

A sad smile. "Yes."

For some time they remained side by side in silence – the victor and the defeated enemy.

"I did not understand," Manwë sighed. "Until now."

"What made you understand?" There was just a little shade of interest in the question.

"The Ring," Manwë replied, but immediately realized that Melkor knew nothing of the recent war. He seated himself more comfortably, trying to not think about the nothingness around him. It tugged painfully at something deep within him, but he ignored the feeling. "Sauron put a part of his power into it. He was defeated when the Ring was destroyed."

Melkor winced when he heard about the end of his trusted servant, but said nothing.

"Middle-earth is your Ring, am I right? You bound yourself to her, put a part of your own essence into her, accepted a body from her matter... We always thought that you did it to mar her, to control her, but..."

"...but I did it out of love for her," Melkor finished the thought quietly.

Manwë closed his eyes, thinking about his own love to the world they sang into being together. Was it strong enough to sacrifice a part of himself for it? Was it strong enough to bind himself to it like Melkor did? He did not know.

"Then why?" he asked suddenly with a bitter tone.

"Why did I try to destroy her?"

Manwë nodded mutely.

"I did not."

"But..."

"I did not want to destroy her. Yes, I hurt her. She was so beautiful in pain. You wanted to tame her, to lull her spirit into stagnation. No change, no movement... But she was wild. Passion and darkness and the glory of chaos..."

"It was in your Song..." Manwë nodded slightly, fascinated against his own will.

"Yes, but you didn't listen."

"I did. But did not understand..."

For some time they sat in silence again, but Manwë was growing uneasy, and his gaze wandered to the Door ever more often.

Melkor followed him from beneath half-closed eyelids. "Go," he said finally. "After the ages you are bound to her more than you would think. She calls to you..."

Manwë looked at him in surprise when he realized that this was indeed the painful tug at his very essence that he felt, the aching of an empty place in him like an itch on a place that one cannot scratch. And in that moment he realized what torment it must be for Melkor, whose essence was connected to her much more deeply, who had a body of flesh not just as a raiment but a part of his very being. He did not leave.

"Oh brother..." Guided by his heart, not mind, Manwë's hand reached to Melkor... brushed away the loose strands of hair... touched his cheek lightly...

Melkor tensed under the touch at first, but then leaned into it, like dry, scorched land savours the first rain in many years. Manwë could feel him trembling slightly, and when a hot drop fell on his finger, he knew it is a tear from someone he hadn't thought capable of weeping.

But the moment passed, and Melkor leaned back harshly, as far as the chains allowed him.

"Go," he said hoarsely. "You are just making it harder..."

Manwë sighed, and let his hand sink back to his side.

"You had a chance," he said bitterly. "Why didn't you take it?"

Melkor averted his face. "A chance for what? To become what you wanted me to be and lose what I really was?"

"And because of that you destroyed what was most pure and beautiful?" There was a shade of anger in Manwë's voice now. The anger and despair at the loss. Anger at Melkor, at Ungoliant, at himself for allowing something like that to happen in the heart of his own realm... He wanted Melkor to defend himself, to say something that would break the dam of that anger so it could pour out.

But the Dark Vala didn't say anything. "I'm sorry..." he sighed.

Manwë froze. "You are... what?"

"I'm sorry for the Trees," Melkor repeated quietly. "I shouldn't have let it go so far. I was bitter and angry at you for keeping me in chains for three ages. You know, maybe I would take the chance you spoke of if you had just sent me to Mandos. It was peaceful there, almost soothing. I think I would have been able to enjoy that peace. But you bound me, and that my free spirit couldn't stand. I pretended I changed to be released from the chains..." his gaze unconsciously travelled to the chain binding him now – the same chain, Angainor, made of tilkal by Aulë himself - but he forced himself to look back at Manwë and continued: "...I pretended I changed, and plotted revenge. But I shouldn't have gone to her."

"Ungoliant." Manwë nodded darkly, spitting the word like a curse.

"Yes," Melkor sighed. "When I realized that, it was too late. I barely managed to save the Silmarils from her Unlight. I barely managed to escape myself."

"The Silmarils you stole," Manwë said dryly.

Melkor winced as though hit by a blow. He was quiet for a moment, struggling with the words. "I realized then what I had just done..." he said finally. "I just wanted a memory of the Light. I... I had none of my own left..." Melkor whispered regretfully, and shuddered at the memory of the hungry spider that the talk woke. "I saved them from her..." He looked at his hands burned by the holy jewels. It was an ever-present pain, a wound that never healed. Yet it was almost nothing besides the pain of his separation from Arda.

Suddenly the pain of his burns eased. A cool hand took his, and soothed his wounds. He looked up, and met Manwë's sight. Tears were the eyes of the Lord of Winds. The light of the Silmarils... It was the only light Melkor has left at the end, and even that they have taken away from him. "How can I know you are telling the truth? How can I believe you?"

"You can't," he answered quietly. "I am Morgoth, the Dark Enemy of the World, remember?"

"But you are also my brother..." Manwë closed his eyes. He called to Ilúvatar again, begged for advice, anything... But the One did not answer. Silence, as deep as the nothingness around him. He was alone in his decision and its consequences. As alone as his brother was for the ages in the Void.

With a loud jangle the heavy chain Angainor suddenly fell from Melkor's body. He staggered as the weight lifted, and looked at Manwë with total astonishment. "What... What are you doing?"

"I don't know," Manwë answered hoarsely, and embraced his brother, supporting him when he almost fell, too weak from the torment of having his essence torn between Arda and the Void for so long. But he also sought some support in the embrace, terrified by the gravity of what he has just done.

Long did they remain so, two former enemies, two brothers, until the first shock passed for both of them.

"Oh brother, what have you done?" Melkor asked again, when he found his voice. "What will become of us?"

"I do not know," Manwë whispered, and gently wiped the hot tears that fell from Melkor's eyes. "Come, we will find out." He lifted Melkor to his feet, and together they slowly walked to the Door of Night.

-oOo-

The Door separating Arda from the Void opened, and two figures walked into the light of the world, one supporting the other. Then the darker figure fell to his knees, and dug his fingers into the soil, weeping with joy and relief.

And when the light of Eärendil, the bearer of the last Silmaril fell on them, their clothes, black and blue-white once, both seemed grey in the twilight.