Work Text:
(Poem by Isra Al-Thibeh)
and if you are to love,
love as the moon loves:
it does not steal the night-
it only unveils the beauty
of the dark.
***
All the earth was silent as they reclined on their bed of crumpled silks and thick furs, bestrewn with the damp decay of browning leaves and cushioned by a mattress of moss. A fine silver mist beaded with pearl dew-droplets strung like necklaces between the branches that were still clustered with jade leaves, and these jeweled boughs formed the rib vault of their temple. Pomegranate fruit hung dark crimson above them, hidden garnets within an emerald canopy.
There was no light amidst all the earth, as none escaped from the jagged mountain-peaks in the West where the Valar hid. But even in this eternal twilight the tree’s branches flourished in all stages of life: scarlet flowers to scarlet fruit that was liberated from its stem as an offering to those below. Forever it bowed downwards in reverence to the Flame that scintillated below its fruit, the Flame that nourished it as High Gold once did ere it fell and shattered the world into its slow-moving plates.
But the Flame now rested, his hair but tranquil cinders, pulsing in-and-out of intensity such as a fire does when left smouldering. Fine ashes fell from his locks and smudged his skin that was veined with aurum, simmering with exhausted pleasure and sparking with ease. He lay to the side, his back a sensual arch, his body slotted perfectly to fit next the other within the sanctuary so that the long lines of one leg tangled between the other’s and his flaming head was thoughtfully cushioned by the angle of an arm, pressed close to the bared and pale chest of his espoused.
Gold-painted nails filed to rounded points lightly traced the strong chistle of pectorals, trailing along until playfully he stroked one nipple, already bitten and lavished from earlier in the perpetual night. Mairon smiled impishly, the subtle cunning curve of his lips not unnoticed to Melkor, who let out a soft moan at the touch, His sensitive skin still frosted with sweat and decorated with bruises from this insatiable Flame’s earlier attentions.
Gently Melkor reached for his busy hand that teased Him still and brought it to His reddened lips to kiss one-by-one, each finger and all of its hard-earned callouses. Mairon looked up, watching the thin line of His lips press and leave warm thrills of pressure on his fingertips, and when He finished, adoringly followed His jaw until he could turn and trace along the column of His throat to splay his hand over His chest where there he felt the sturdy beat of a Vala’s Fëa, and where Melkor returned His hand over his.
The tree above them strained, and the leaves fluttered like waves of green with the slight change in the capering light of their sun that rested below. There was no sound, no breath that escaped their lips, but song flowed freely in their minds as their sensations blurred physical barrier. Sight became touch and the lack of sound became taste and smell, and their senses attuned to one another so that, with the fading electricity of Melkor’s kisses to His Maia’s hand, Mairon felt not only that lingering touch, but could hear the sound of His Discord in their press. And Mairon's Fána could no longer discern if the kisses had happened only moments ago or if by some trick of the mind he fancied to imagine that that he could still feel them against his skin, even hours later.
And as the endless night continued to a crawl they moved but slowly in each other’s arms, reluctant for any change. Yet a thought formed from within the Maia, as he lay content within the Dark Vala’s arms, and he let it drift freely between them as ever he did with his thoughts, and the Dark Vala heard as if the Flame had leaned up and whispered it into His ear.
“I hath been long curious of something, my Lord,” he spoke.
“Thou hath long known that I would tell thee anything,” came His easy answer.
Mairon smiled faintly, and the glow under his skin flared brighter but for a moment as his hand slipped from under Melkor’s and fit over the Vala’s hand rather than under it, and he clasped it there against His pale chest. For long moments they did not make movements or efforts to move, and it seemed the question was forgotten to the remnants of time, but just as it seemed to bleed into distant memory, Mairon at last spoke again.
“Away in the Void, so long ago, what was it that thou searched for?”
The tree above them paused it its waving, and again the earth grew silent. Melkor shifted slightly His wrist to better grip the Flame-spirit’s slim fingers, folding over them and squeezing firmly. In this touch there was a foretoken of His words, and Mairon understood before He said them- as always he did.
“I wast searching long for that which the One keeps close.”
Mairon did not miss the meaning of His words, or the comfort He drew from their nearness, and their eyes met from within their minds, though their bodies did not move. Within the black vaulted firmament of Melkor’s eyes, that which contained the elusive sparkling of galaxies, could be seen a pain long smothered under a smog of false pride and burning rage. But this pain did not die no matter how deep it was covered, and it flowered within the ruins of His peace-of-mind.
“Thou wished to create with It,” Mairon stated, knowing with that glance that he was right. “But not only to create was thine desire for It.”
Grimly, Melkor nodded, and He interwove their fingers and let His Maia’s burning eyes raze His fears and sift through the ashes of His paranoia, for it was all true- He had not desired the Flame Imperishable only for Its ability to create. He had thought, in the cold isolation of the Void, that perhaps this Flame could give Him what always He sought. Perhaps this Flame could translate the music within His very soul, could make it so the other Ainur (--so that Father--) could understand its melody and love it for what it truly was. Perhaps He could have His own music and be loved for its contrast: could be accepted for its uniqueness.
He had been a fool.
“Yes,” He said with a sigh, and the leaves above them quivered. Yes I wished to use It for such a purpose. And Mairon kissed Him then, pressing his lips to the readily available skin of Melkor’s chest, nuzzled there tenderly. Melkor gathered him closer against Him, pressed a kiss to the undulating curls at the top of his head and to Mairon, such a kiss and its meaning was not lost to him, for it translated to him without effort:
I am not searching any longer: I do not need it.