Part VI: All For One

Morgoth's head swung around, glaring first at Tulkas, and then swiveling about to look at Mandos. The Doomsman said nothing, but turned his own gaze to a figure very far below him. A man was advancing through the silent multitude of the Children of Eru and Aulë, as they parted like water to let him by.

The man who now strode through the throng was clad in simple attire, although a darkly-splendid sword hung at his hip. In his grey eyes lingered the memories of many things, all of them too dark to want remembering; the sorrow of numberless years was etched deep into his face. His cursed life had given him many names: Neithan, Mormegil, Agarwaen, and others, but he was known primarily as Túrin Turambar, the Master of Doom.

Everyone clearly saw Morgoth's face blanch; it was like watching milk being stirred into ink. The ex-Vala's eye widened in perceptible horror, and the Doomsman smiled quietly and grimly as Tulkas laughed. Túrin's gaze was cold and unwavering as he stared into the Dark Lord's face. After no more than a few fleeting seconds, Morgoth could not help but turn away.

"Get up and face me, Morgoth."

The words clipped icily and precisely from Túrin's tongue. His tone brooked no defiance; the Dark Lord had little choice but to obey, no matter how his own will challenged it. He struggled to rise, his whole body trembling, and only succeeded in raising his torso a few scant inches. He glared balefully over his shoulder at the stone-faced warrior beside him.

Túrin's expression never changed as he walked calmly around his rival's huddled, hairy body, so that he stood in-between Morgoth's tight-clenched left fist and his dangling right arm. The man craned his neck to gaze up into his enemy's single eye, which narrowed in loathing as Túrin drew his black sword with a sharp rasping sound.

What do you want of me? the ex-Vala demanded in a growl. Speak!

"I want many things from you," Túrin answered, in a chilling whisper. "But these things shall all be rectified if you would do me but one favor: join with me in single combat, one on one. I shall ask for no aid, and nor shall you. Agreed?"

Agreed, Morgoth nodded spitefully. Then let us begin.

Túrin nodded without any further words, and was the first one to strike, ducking between the looming black figure's arms, and lunging straight for his chest. Morgoth dragged the man out with the first two fingers of his good hand, throwing him almost carelessly aside. Túrin struck the ground hard, but was back on his feet in moments. He ducked and darted forward and back, striking like lightning and moving like the wind. The Dark Lord lashed out at him, as a horse would to a gnat, but his crippled strength was no match for Túrin's wholesome speed.

Morgoth's body twisted and writhed around like a wounded serpent, and under his breath he grunted and growled as he tried again and again to strike back at his foe. Túrin fought in grim silence, dodging sledgehammer blows from the ex-Vala's wildly flailing left arm, diving under his great belly and looking briefly upward – a patch of black sky was visible through a gaping, almost perfectly circular hole in Morgoth's abdomen. The man wasted not a moment in stabbing into the Dark Lord's stomach, and ignoring the resulting roar of agony and the violent upheaval of Morgoth's body, he swung himself deftly up and hung hazardously, upside-down, from his foe's belly.

Clutching his sword in his right hand, a hank of thick black hair in his left, and a second hank in-between his feet, Túrin drew his sword hand back. Through a choking cascade of ashes, he stabbed again, into the dark, torn flesh within Morgoth's body, beyond the edge of the circular wound.

He gripped more hair, higher up, and repeated those actions again. Repressing a strong urge to vomit, he then moved his head and most of his torso into the tunnel-like hole. In this way, he climbed skillfully through Morgoth's very body and onto his back. The Dark Lord clawed vainly at him, trying to stop him, but he only caused more hurt to himself by straining torn muscles and shredding the crusted flesh of his old injury.

Túrin ran up Morgoth's neck and onto the crown of his head, tumbling down his forehead and taking out the ex-Vala's remaining eye as he passed. The man skidded to a halt near the end of the blunt muzzle, and shouted into his enemy's blinded face: "For your sake, I hope you can smell as well as you once could see!"

And for your sake, Morgoth bellowed back, I hope you can jump as swiftly as you can speak!

He flung back his head, and Túrin leapt. He managed to grasp one of Morgoth's tapered, wolflike ears as he sailed past it, and dangled fifty feet above the earth. The ex-Vala's left paw-hand rose to snatch him away, but with this sudden motion, Morgoth's overbalanced body tipped dangerously to one side, and he rolled over onto his back. At the same time, Túrin let himself drop onto his foe's shoulder, raced across his collarbone and down onto his torso.

Morgoth gasped to pull in breath as he lay sprawled in the dust. His head swung this way and that way, blindly searching out Túrin, who stood steadily on the Dark Lord's massive chest. The man's black sword gleamed in the radiance of the Ainur all around him as he held it, point down, directly over Morgoth's heart. As everyone else observed in silence, the warrior spoke out loud, apparently to the weapon he held: "Now, Gurthang. Will you take Melkor Morgoth? Will you slay him swiftly?"

The sable-hued blade seemed to ring in reply, answering Túrin. I am parched, Turambar. Here I will gladly slake my thirst for blood; I would rather upon no other.

"Then," cried Túrin, raising Gurthang even higher in both hands, "if it is Eru's will, make his breast your chalice, and drink your fill!"

Morgoth's black lips moved mutely, forming a silent No! as a bizarre smile lit up Túrin's features. Gurthang hissed triumphantly through the air as it descended, and plunged right into the Dark Lord's huge black torso. Morgoth had not even the chance to cry out before great cracks began to spread out across his body, as though he were carven of stone; they originated from the wound in his chest, and poured forth darkness.

The ex-Vala coughed futilely for air, but there was no hindering the inevitable. A sobbing cry escaped him, and his entire body fell apart, hair and flesh and bone all disintegrating. Soon there was only Túrin, standing submerged to his hips in grey dust… the remains of the primal evil. And all around, the few of Morgoth's underlings who were still standing unwillingly followed their Lord's suit, bursting swiftly into ashes, and being blown away by the winds of Manwë.

Except for those whispering winds, a breathless silence reigned over the land of Valinor. Túrin stood stone-still, staring at Gurthang, which fell from his nerveless hands to land in the shrinking pile of Morgoth's ashes. The sword was mute now, a simple thing of steel.

Like a ripple of unexpected music in a quiet room, someone's bright laughter bubbled up. Heads turned all across the ash-strewn battleground, looking bewilderedly left and right, and then upward, to gaze in wonder at the last person anyone would have expected to see.

Nienna stood just as dumbstruck as anyone else, her hand partially obscuring her mouth – her mouth, which had, for some reason, allowed that strange, sweet sound to leave it. She could not recall the last time she had laughed (not at all, she was sure!); yet here she was, Fui Nienna, the Weeper, the first person to show mirth after the destruction of Evil. How things had changed!

And how, indeed, they were changing yet! Nienna's appearance and countenance were as good as turned upside-down – no more was she a raven-haired mourner with deep, teary eyes, clothed in indigo and ebony; now her hair glittered like spun threads of bronze, and her eyes shone a clear, summer-sky blue. Her raiment held the hue of blooming daffodils, ever cheery and vivid yellow.

A second laugh escaped her, this one far more nervous than the first. But, heartened much by the soft, quavery utterance which her throat had begotten, Nienna willingly let another of the same take confident flight on lilting wings. But just as soon, she gasped to discover herself folded in the strong embrace of Tulkas. The Wrestler was laughing aloud, and he twirled his kinswoman around as they both gave full vent to their mirth. Nienna had tears in her bright eyes, but they were tears of pure, pristine happiness.

Mandos approached the pair of them softly, addressing his sister with a smile. "You must have a new name from now on, it appears. You are no longer 'She-who-Weeps' – Nienna would not be a fitting title."

"Indeed," the Valië nodded pensively. "I am joyous now, and not melancholy. What then is my name?"

"Why not let your name be 'Joyous'?" Tulkas suggested. "The Eldar would then call you Alassëa in one tongue."

"Alassëa," she repeated, smiling as the name tumbled pleasingly from her tongue. "I will be Alassëa!"

"A good name, indeed," Mandos nodded. "Alassëa the Joyous… Nienna no more."

----

Arien roved through the ranks of victorious warriors, calling out for one she had become separated from. "Tilion, Tilion!"

The silver-clad Maia turned at the sound of his name, and hurried to answer the summons she had issued to him. In the unexpectedness of the moment, Tilion's old stutter returned when he spoke in answer. "A-Arien… what is it?"

"I have not thanked you appropriately for what you did for me," the female Maia replied, her voice low and gentle. "I am in your debt henceforth."

Tilion felt his cheeks flush with heat, though whether it was due to a blush, or because of Arien's sudden increase in closeness to him, he didn't know. He stared at her uncertainly, unable to tear his gaze away from her fiery eyes. He longed to close the slim gap between them, to turn and flee, to do a hundred different senseless things whose motives he could not explain. She was closer still, and speaking again.

"I know that you have pursued me day and night for many Ages, since first we carried the Sun and Moon across the heavens," she said softly. "And even when I had rejected you a hundred times, still you were resolute. You would not succumb to failure, even if it meant greater pain to your own body and heart. But now that I have seen what you were entirely willing to suffer for my sake – the rage of the Dark Lord himself! – I am willing to…"

She faltered, dropping her gaze for a moment. Tilion smiled gently and lifted her chin, so they were looking at each other again. The hunter-Maia felt what was in his kinswoman's heart, and she felt what lay in his. In a moment of pure, perfect understanding, they came together, fusing mouth with mouth and spirit with spirit in a loving kiss of body and soul.

----

Túrin looked up hurriedly as a hand found his shoulder. Manwë was smiling down at him from a much lesser height than he had had before; the Vala was now just about seven feet tall, as compared to his previous elevation of a hundred feet. The Wind-lord gave the man a benign nod, and lifted him up again when he laid facedown on the ground in reverence.

"You need no longer bow to me, or any of my kindred," he said kindly. "We are all equal in the sight of Eru."

Túrin nodded slowly, unaccustomed to this new revelation – not to bow before the Valar! But he stood obediently tall, gazing up into Manwë's pale blue eyes and starting to speak quietly. "What other duty would you have me do, my l—"

Manwë's smile widened a bit as he pressed a soft forefinger to Túrin's lips, gently cutting him off. "I would have you refrain from calling me 'lord'. My own name will suffice."

Túrin almost forgot not to bow. "As you wish… Manwë."

The Wind-lord nodded once in satisfaction, and drew the man fondly, almost lovingly, to his side with four words: "Please sing with me, Túrin." It was a request, not a command, but Túrin knew better than to decline, although he did not know just what he was to sing.

Without pause, Manwë parted his lips, allowing a stream of pure, sweet music to flow out from his throat. It was no voice of the Children of Arda he used, no tongue of Elves, Men or Dwarfs. The song that poured from the Vala's soul to the listener's ears was like to the sound of a golden harp strummed by a thousand winds; yet they understood its meaning with no effort. Hail to Ilúvatar, the Lord above Lords! All glory be to Him alone, for He alone is worthy!

Túrin echoed the words of praise in his own tongue, and felt his heart flooded with a joy for which there was no phrase. The Song was composed of purest bliss, thanksgiving and worship to the One Most High, the Father of All.

All at once there came a brilliant Light to blaze out through the great darkness, a Light so glorious that Varda herself was dim in comparison, like a winking firefly striving to let its tiny glow be seen against the radiance of the Sun. This new Light held all the hues of the rainbow, and in its center there was a figure with a shining white face, who wore a crown of gold on his brow. This was Eru Ilúvatar, unveiled in His beauty; this was He to whom all praise and honor was due. He smiled upon the ranks of people who cast themselves at His feet, and was well pleased.

At the sight of their one true Lord, the whole host had fallen reverently silent, in the hope of heeding whatever tidings He would bring them. Eru lifted His right hand, and spoke in a voice that held power, wisdom and love, all rolled into one. He spoke of triumph, of the banishment of all Darkness, and of never-ending joy and peace, in a world wrought anew – a world wrought by Music.

Yes, came the replying call from the reverent host, yes, Lord, we will do as You say! Tell us what we shall sing!

Eru beamed, and gave them His answer.

Again the rippling song of a harp rose up from Manwë as he climbed to his feet, and Eru stood and listened to him for awhile, before nodding to another of the host. Varda's voice was heard, sounding just like a flute; she was soon joined by Ulmo, then Yavanna, then Aulë, and all the other Valar in their due order. Then the Maiar sang out with their kind, until it appeared that a mighty orchestra was playing: woodwinds, stringed instruments, percussion, and other melodious layers were sweetly added.

That was only the beginning. The Eldar then lifted high their voices in their own tongues: Quenya, Noldorin, Sindarin. They were hard-put to translate their love into simple words. Their melody was coupled with that of the Men and Halflings, rejoicing in the languages of their own; and the Dwarfs, praising Eru as well, felt that it was even more natural than to revere Aulë, their own Maker. So the One listened, and smiled, and said to Himself, It is good.

The Singers were all on their feet, pouring forth praise as Eru poured back His goodness. Tears of elation flowed unnoticed and unhindered from every eye; they wanted to praise Him forever, they wanted the Song to flood and fill infinity… but they still had their task to finish.

So, still singing, they dispersed at Eru's bidding to reach all the corners of the Old World, and to craft it new and undying, for His mighty reign would never end. There would be no more ends… there would be only a million new beginnings.

The Beginning