The One and True Dark Lord
Nothing; no matter how far and hard he stretched his consciousness, he sensed nothing but a vast emptiness.
Melkor floated aimlessly in the dark, surrounded by the endless void. Once more, the old anger awoke inside him. “Death and plague to the Valar and the Eldar and all they hold dear!” he spat. His curse echoed strangely into this realm, as if sound itself did not belong in it. He howled his rage but, as every time before, no one acknowledged his wrath; not even his existence. Defeated, his curses and cries were finally reduced to a low whimpering. “They took my jewels, they did…” With no witnesses around to laugh at his spite, Melkor felt free to whine at will.
Too deep in his sulking, he barely noticed another’s presence. At first, Melkor thought it to be a mere delusion of his wandering mind. The sense of danger, though, waxed stronger. No, this is not a figment of my imagination, he thought, as excitement overwhelmed him. Someone is here, behind me; or below me, who cares? As long as I am no longer alone.
Struggling to remain focused, Melkor voiced his curiosity. “Who goes there?”
The Exiled One sensed bewilderment in the newcomer, who replied to his inquiry after a moment of hesitation. “So, there is another soul trapped in this purgatory?”
The voice rang strange to Melkor’s ears; for some reason, the image of a monstrous reptile lashing its forked tongue appeared in his mind. “Purgatory? I know not this place you speak of, stranger. Still, you are correct in assuming that I am trapped here.” A vast, powerful mind reached and touched his conscience and Melkor strengthened his defenses. He could not help allowing his irritation to leak through, though. Distant sounds of chuckles reached him. Perfect, he thought bitterly. Somehow I believe that I will soon be missing my forlorn eternity.
The newcomer floated closer. “Do you, perhaps, have a name? Or have you been incarcerated in this void so long you have forgotten it?”
Melkor eyed the ethereal form haughtily. “You play with fire, stranger,” he warned him. “I am he who arises in might. I am known as Melkor, but those crushed beneath my heel called me Morgoth, the Black Foe of the World.” Deal with this, arrogant fool, he though. My name terrorised Arda aeons before you were born, whoever you are. “And who asks my name?”
Again, the image of a monstrous snake momentarily flashed before him. “I am Lord Voldemort. The wizarding world knows me as the Dark Lord and they all fear to speak my name,” replied the newcomer, pride colouring his eerie voice.
Melkor’s surprise prevented him from restraining his tongue. “You call yourself the Dark Lord?” With the last remnants of self control, he managed to keep his resentment silent. You are finished, fool! There can be only one Dark Lord, either in Arda or the Void or any place at all! Determined to rid himself of this impostor, Melkor kept his voice calm and inquired further, requesting additional information. “This wizarding world… this is where you came from?”
Amusement coloured Voldemort’s voice. “How long have you been here, Melkor? Weren’t wizards around during your time? Unless-” He never finished his sentence and Melkor sensed a change in his disposition. When Voldemort spoke again, there was a hint of repulsion in his tone. “Unless you are a Muggle.”
Melkor had never felt so irritated since that shameful incident with Tevildo and his pestering minions. Muggles? Wizards? What is he talking about? Could he be insane? He certainly sounds like a raving lunatic. However, he was no longer in Angband and senseless, bloody, delightful violence was hardly an option. He had to employ cunning for this one. “The meaning of the words you use, Dark Lord, escapes me,” he said, almost choking when he called the fool Dark Lord. “However, I once dwelled in a mighty fortress with countless dark legions under my command. Orcs, werewolves, dragons and all creatures enamoured of the dark would march to their death at a single wave of my hand.”
“Perhaps… perhaps then you are one of our ancestors,” said Voldemort, a hint of confusion in his voice. The account of Melkor’s might during the early years of Arda, however, seemed to convince him that Melkor was not a muggle; whatever that was. “I have never heard your name, though. You must be incarcerated here longer than I thought. So,” he continued, “how did you end up in here?”
Melkor sighed. “Ah, it is an old, bitter tale concerning some pretty jewels and a certain elf, along with his red-haired descendants.”
The newcomer seemed dumbfounded. “An elf? A house-elf caused your downfall?”
“A house-elf? No, one of the Noldor,” replied Melkor. He is mad, he though, no doubt about that. What’s a house-elf, anyway?
“Elves,” mumbled Voldemort. “I knew that the filthy creatures were up to no good. Rest assured, Melkor, that upon my return I will crush their useless lot.”
Melkor snickered. Thoughts of torturing and slaughtering Eldar always kept him warm inside during his exile. Perhaps the fool could prove to be useful, after all. Then it dawned on him. “You said - return? Are you saying that you can leave this accursed place?”
He sensed a sneer on Voldemort’s face. “Of course, I do. I came here to hide from those accursed Aurors.”
“Aurors?”
“The Ministry’s lackeys,” he spat.
Melkor was no less confused, but he continued his inquiries. “And why would they pursue you?”
“They found my methods somewhat… cruel,” he replied. “They refused to acknowledge me as their Lord and Liege.”
Melkor rolled his eyes. Of course, world domination. I really am shocked. “And what sent you into hiding, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Harry Potter,” he hissed.
“Excuse me?”
“A toddler, of all people, and his filthy mudblood mother,” Voldemort added, his voice dripping venom.
Melkor sighed. Amateur, he thought. It took the combined forces of the Eldar and the Valar to bring me down. He drowned a chuckle. And you call yourself the Dark Lord? Concealing his amusement, he pursued the issue further. “I suppose you plan your revenge now.”
“Indeed I do. I have followers who will assist me in restoring my corporeal form.”
“I would reconsider, if I were you,” Melkor warned him. “The corporeal body can be more of a burden sometimes.” His physical form had caused him enough trouble, especially with that Sindarin enchantress. Ah, Lúthien…
Voldemort’s voice pulled him out of his lewd thoughts. “…I have reached the conclusion that you must have been a great wizard of your time.” Now his voice dripped honey; venomous honey. “I wonder if you would consider sharing your arcane knowledge with me. Of course, in return I will do anything in my power to release you,” he added, somewhat hastily.
Of course you would, Melkor thought, but in the end he managed to keep his tone free of sarcasm. “I have little knowledge of your world,” he replied, “and I fear that I have little assistance to offer you.” Not that I would help you even if I could, usurper.
Voldemort persisted. “Any long lost artifacts of power you know of?”
Melkor scratched his head. “Sauron, my servant, had this fascination with rings, but I do not know what became of him. Then there were the Silmarils, but those too were lost, as Mandos was kind to inform me.” And gloat over me, no doubt.
“The Silmarils?”
“Yes, the great jewels, stones more precious and powerful than anything else on the face of creation,” Melkor replied, annoyed. Illiterate imbecile, he thought. No wonder a toddler defeated you.
“A stone, you say,” replied Voldemort, his voice full of excitement. “There is a certain stone that can assist my plans.”
“As long as it is not one of the Silmarils,” Melkor warned him. These are mine.”
“Whatever,” mumbled Voldemort, and wove a strange pattern in the air. “The Aurors must have lost my trail by now. I will hide in a deep forest, in the Balkans, most probably, until the stone comes within my reach. Farewell, Melkor,” he said. “Perhaps one day we will meet again so you might kneel before my dark throne.”
In a heartbeat, Lord Voldemort vanished and Melkor once more found himself all alone inside the void.
A sneer dawned on his face. Oh, we will meet again.
Only this time, you will be here to stay. Amateur! Imbecile! A child shall be your death!
There is only one true Dark Lord: Morgoth, the Black Foe of the World!
*******
Author’s notes:
He who arises in might: that’s what “Melkor” means.
Tevildo: According to the Unfinished Tales, the evil Prince of Cats.
Rowling tells us that after being ripped off his body during his first confrontation with Harry, Voldemort went into hiding in an Albanian forest. Under this light, this story does not follow canon in the strict sense of the word.
That shameful incident with Tevildo: reference to my other story Ailurophobia.
Nothing; no matter how far and hard he stretched his consciousness, he sensed nothing but a vast emptiness.
Melkor floated aimlessly in the dark, surrounded by the endless void. Once more, the old anger awoke inside him. “Death and plague to the Valar and the Eldar and all they hold dear!” he spat. His curse echoed strangely into this realm, as if sound itself did not belong in it. He howled his rage but, as every time before, no one acknowledged his wrath; not even his existence. Defeated, his curses and cries were finally reduced to a low whimpering. “They took my jewels, they did…” With no witnesses around to laugh at his spite, Melkor felt free to whine at will.
Too deep in his sulking, he barely noticed another’s presence. At first, Melkor thought it to be a mere delusion of his wandering mind. The sense of danger, though, waxed stronger. No, this is not a figment of my imagination, he thought, as excitement overwhelmed him. Someone is here, behind me; or below me, who cares? As long as I am no longer alone.
Struggling to remain focused, Melkor voiced his curiosity. “Who goes there?”
The Exiled One sensed bewilderment in the newcomer, who replied to his inquiry after a moment of hesitation. “So, there is another soul trapped in this purgatory?”
The voice rang strange to Melkor’s ears; for some reason, the image of a monstrous reptile lashing its forked tongue appeared in his mind. “Purgatory? I know not this place you speak of, stranger. Still, you are correct in assuming that I am trapped here.” A vast, powerful mind reached and touched his conscience and Melkor strengthened his defenses. He could not help allowing his irritation to leak through, though. Distant sounds of chuckles reached him. Perfect, he thought bitterly. Somehow I believe that I will soon be missing my forlorn eternity.
The newcomer floated closer. “Do you, perhaps, have a name? Or have you been incarcerated in this void so long you have forgotten it?”
Melkor eyed the ethereal form haughtily. “You play with fire, stranger,” he warned him. “I am he who arises in might. I am known as Melkor, but those crushed beneath my heel called me Morgoth, the Black Foe of the World.” Deal with this, arrogant fool, he though. My name terrorised Arda aeons before you were born, whoever you are. “And who asks my name?”
Again, the image of a monstrous snake momentarily flashed before him. “I am Lord Voldemort. The wizarding world knows me as the Dark Lord and they all fear to speak my name,” replied the newcomer, pride colouring his eerie voice.
Melkor’s surprise prevented him from restraining his tongue. “You call yourself the Dark Lord?” With the last remnants of self control, he managed to keep his resentment silent. You are finished, fool! There can be only one Dark Lord, either in Arda or the Void or any place at all! Determined to rid himself of this impostor, Melkor kept his voice calm and inquired further, requesting additional information. “This wizarding world… this is where you came from?”
Amusement coloured Voldemort’s voice. “How long have you been here, Melkor? Weren’t wizards around during your time? Unless-” He never finished his sentence and Melkor sensed a change in his disposition. When Voldemort spoke again, there was a hint of repulsion in his tone. “Unless you are a Muggle.”
Melkor had never felt so irritated since that shameful incident with Tevildo and his pestering minions. Muggles? Wizards? What is he talking about? Could he be insane? He certainly sounds like a raving lunatic. However, he was no longer in Angband and senseless, bloody, delightful violence was hardly an option. He had to employ cunning for this one. “The meaning of the words you use, Dark Lord, escapes me,” he said, almost choking when he called the fool Dark Lord. “However, I once dwelled in a mighty fortress with countless dark legions under my command. Orcs, werewolves, dragons and all creatures enamoured of the dark would march to their death at a single wave of my hand.”
“Perhaps… perhaps then you are one of our ancestors,” said Voldemort, a hint of confusion in his voice. The account of Melkor’s might during the early years of Arda, however, seemed to convince him that Melkor was not a muggle; whatever that was. “I have never heard your name, though. You must be incarcerated here longer than I thought. So,” he continued, “how did you end up in here?”
Melkor sighed. “Ah, it is an old, bitter tale concerning some pretty jewels and a certain elf, along with his red-haired descendants.”
The newcomer seemed dumbfounded. “An elf? A house-elf caused your downfall?”
“A house-elf? No, one of the Noldor,” replied Melkor. He is mad, he though, no doubt about that. What’s a house-elf, anyway?
“Elves,” mumbled Voldemort. “I knew that the filthy creatures were up to no good. Rest assured, Melkor, that upon my return I will crush their useless lot.”
Melkor snickered. Thoughts of torturing and slaughtering Eldar always kept him warm inside during his exile. Perhaps the fool could prove to be useful, after all. Then it dawned on him. “You said - return? Are you saying that you can leave this accursed place?”
He sensed a sneer on Voldemort’s face. “Of course, I do. I came here to hide from those accursed Aurors.”
“Aurors?”
“The Ministry’s lackeys,” he spat.
Melkor was no less confused, but he continued his inquiries. “And why would they pursue you?”
“They found my methods somewhat… cruel,” he replied. “They refused to acknowledge me as their Lord and Liege.”
Melkor rolled his eyes. Of course, world domination. I really am shocked. “And what sent you into hiding, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Harry Potter,” he hissed.
“Excuse me?”
“A toddler, of all people, and his filthy mudblood mother,” Voldemort added, his voice dripping venom.
Melkor sighed. Amateur, he thought. It took the combined forces of the Eldar and the Valar to bring me down. He drowned a chuckle. And you call yourself the Dark Lord? Concealing his amusement, he pursued the issue further. “I suppose you plan your revenge now.”
“Indeed I do. I have followers who will assist me in restoring my corporeal form.”
“I would reconsider, if I were you,” Melkor warned him. “The corporeal body can be more of a burden sometimes.” His physical form had caused him enough trouble, especially with that Sindarin enchantress. Ah, Lúthien…
Voldemort’s voice pulled him out of his lewd thoughts. “…I have reached the conclusion that you must have been a great wizard of your time.” Now his voice dripped honey; venomous honey. “I wonder if you would consider sharing your arcane knowledge with me. Of course, in return I will do anything in my power to release you,” he added, somewhat hastily.
Of course you would, Melkor thought, but in the end he managed to keep his tone free of sarcasm. “I have little knowledge of your world,” he replied, “and I fear that I have little assistance to offer you.” Not that I would help you even if I could, usurper.
Voldemort persisted. “Any long lost artifacts of power you know of?”
Melkor scratched his head. “Sauron, my servant, had this fascination with rings, but I do not know what became of him. Then there were the Silmarils, but those too were lost, as Mandos was kind to inform me.” And gloat over me, no doubt.
“The Silmarils?”
“Yes, the great jewels, stones more precious and powerful than anything else on the face of creation,” Melkor replied, annoyed. Illiterate imbecile, he thought. No wonder a toddler defeated you.
“A stone, you say,” replied Voldemort, his voice full of excitement. “There is a certain stone that can assist my plans.”
“As long as it is not one of the Silmarils,” Melkor warned him. These are mine.”
“Whatever,” mumbled Voldemort, and wove a strange pattern in the air. “The Aurors must have lost my trail by now. I will hide in a deep forest, in the Balkans, most probably, until the stone comes within my reach. Farewell, Melkor,” he said. “Perhaps one day we will meet again so you might kneel before my dark throne.”
In a heartbeat, Lord Voldemort vanished and Melkor once more found himself all alone inside the void.
A sneer dawned on his face. Oh, we will meet again.
Only this time, you will be here to stay. Amateur! Imbecile! A child shall be your death!
There is only one true Dark Lord: Morgoth, the Black Foe of the World!
*******
Author’s notes:
He who arises in might: that’s what “Melkor” means.
Tevildo: According to the Unfinished Tales, the evil Prince of Cats.
Rowling tells us that after being ripped off his body during his first confrontation with Harry, Voldemort went into hiding in an Albanian forest. Under this light, this story does not follow canon in the strict sense of the word.
That shameful incident with Tevildo: reference to my other story Ailurophobia.
Re: The One and True Dark Lord
