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It is in Almaren that he first hears of it.
Fair Almaren where the sun is always golden and the wind is cool upon his skin. Glorious Almaren where life is blissful and the water is clear and sweet. Perfect Almaren where the grass is soft and the wine is delicious.
Almaren, where the enemy prowls.
Mairon is at rest in this moment, laid upon the branch of the tree with fruit that is always ripe in the summer that never ends. His own, private garden. Marvelously hidden and perfect for meetings that shouldn’t be.
“Why have you come,” he asks lazily. “If you have no use for information?”
He’s grown accustomed to these visits. To the shadow that weaves itself over the floor of his forge and whispers a greeting. To the one who grins and asks questions that some days Mairon is only too happy to answer.
He is dangerous, Mairon knows, the enemy of the Valar and yet perhaps not as black as the words have painted him. Not as much of a fool and a braggart as his first impressions led him to believe.
“I have a riddle for you.”
He’s joking, Mairon thinks as he takes a bit of the fruit in his hand and watches as the Vala turns to regard him with those eyes that hold a night sky. He has a sense of humor, this Melkor. More like a maia with his quick jests and easy laughter, than the Valar who so often hold themselves high and proud and stern.
He finishes the fruit and drops from the tree with a reply on his lips that dies when he sees Melkor’s face. Serious and studying and holding unseen thoughts in his piercing, brown eyes. No jest here, only intrigue and a challenge that Mairon cannot pass up.
“What is the riddle?”
Melkor smiles.
“A breath for that which does not need to breathe. A gift for he who does not seek. A drop of gold in a sea of silver. Sung in song, and muted in fear.”
Mairon frowns, waits for Melkor to explain, and shakes his head when the Vala only meets his unspoken question with a grin.
“That is not a riddle.”
“It is. You simply do not have the knowledge nor experience to answer it.”
The words are a sting. An insult to one who has learned so much, who has created so grand works.
“What does that mean?”
“In time, Mairon. In time.”
He is called then. Ordered to come by a voice that booms like a hammer blow, and Melkor’s smile grows wider.
“In time,” he whispers again.
And is gone.
“I see why you wished to have me.”
Mairon presses his hand to the amour, dances his fingertips across the cool, black design, and lays waste with a flick of his hand.
“Your smiths are lacking.”
The shock in Melkor’s face is hid too late and Mairon laughs.
“I have come now,” he says, laying a hand on his new lord’s arm. “You need not worry.”
“What of the rest?” Melkor asks.
It is far removed from the island. A fortress of black, with too sharp points and tunnels that delve far into the earth. A maze of creatures Mairon has not dreamed of, and a land made bleak from a lack of fair light.
And yet …
It is in the night that Melkor seems to rejoice. In the calls of creatures that speak of cool shadows and swift steps under trees. Plants that grow in the corners and hang from the ceiling and glow and swing and curl into beautiful designs. A world that has not heard of the light of the Valar, nor does it care to.
“It is beautiful,” Mairon says. “I would make it more so.”
Melkor chuckles, leads Mairon down steps and through dark halls. Pushes open a door and reveals fires ready to burn and metal ready to shape.
“I would have it so,” Melkor tells him as he places a hammer in Mairon’s hand. “The sound of your work will reach my throne and in time your creations will be placed before me.”
Mairon falters for a moment, frowns at this all too familiar routine. A little servant placing treasure in the hands of those who set upon their high seats.
Melkor laughs then and the tension dissolves.
“Nay, Mairon. I would that you would give me leave to watch your work, to teach and be taught.”
“You should sing.”
Melkor’s voice cuts into his thoughts, into the silent words that shape the gold and twist it to his desire. Singing? Has he not heard him?
“I am singing.”
Melkor shakes his head, takes the latest trinket from his hands and turns it about.
“You sing the song of Aulë, your assigned part in his greater.”
Jealously. Is that it?
But whose?
“So you desire that I sing your theme?”
Melkor grins.
“Mairon, you have sung for another for so long you have forgotten your own music. I give you no such bonds here.”
He bends the trinket in his hands, shapes it without hammer or forge and Mairon is handed an idea from years ago. One that his former master had spoken of with judgement.
“I would release you from your work had I ever placed it upon you. Mairon, you are free to craft to your heart’s desire. Think not on my halls, but on your own.”
He leaves then, vanishes down the hall and seems to take the sounds of the fortress with him.
Mairon lingers by the side of his forge, opens his mouth to call out a reply and finds he has none.
His own song.
He takes the hammer in his hand, holds the unshaped gold before him and strikes without thought.
His own song.
The words are dim at first, a child learning his voice, as he strikes and tries to remember his first moments before the voice of Aulë had reached him. Tries to remember the desires of his heart before they had been weighed down by answers of ‘no’ and orders of another sword, another crown.
The gold shapes itself before him, a echo of the words his soul hums and the shaping of his imagination.
It drops from his hands at the last. Bounces across the floor and hides itself under the work table covered with half finished concepts and ideas long put away.
His own song, thinks Mairon.
He will learn to sing it.
The silver is warm as Mairon dips his fingers into it, scribes flowing words over the cup in his hand and hands it to Melkor.
“A gift,” he says in answer to Melkor’s unspoken question. “Wine should not be drained from a blackened cup.”
“And maiar should not so freely mock their masters.”
The words hold no scorn, no hate nor anger. Merely jests as has become all too common in the time spent by each others sides as Mairon crafts and Melkor watches.
“Hold the chest piece now,” Mairon says as he reaches for his tools. “It is almost complete.”
Melkor rises to his feet, grips the amour in hands that fear no blow, and watches as Mairon finishes the craft that has so occupied his mind for days upon end.
“I fear,” Mairon says, as he wipes the stray sparks from his face. “It will no longer fit. You have been too indulgent with your stomach as of late.”
“I fear,” Melkor says as he hooks Mairon’s hand for a moment in a petty act of revenge. “I will find it covered in the hair of your wolves before ever I have a chance to wear it. You have been far too indulgent in where you allow them.”
It has become a common routine, these jests. Sharp words traded in blow after blow as they work before the fire and wander the halls of their fortress.
“I shall have to make a matching weapon,” Mairon says as he inscribes the hidden runes. “You will look upon yourself and toss Grond away with disgust when you see how poorly it compares.”
“Nay Mairon. I shall wear this with pride and know that all your talent was poured into it although alas, it did not match my hammer.”
Mairon rolls his eyes, lets the fire flare too high and laughs when Melkor has to jerk his head back from the flames.
“A child,” Melkor says. “You are worse than one of Nessa’s maiar. It is a great wonder that when you bathe in the lava it does not flood and blanket my halls.”
“A welcome difference it would be,” Mairon replies. “To the icy sheets that too often linger upon the walls.”
More words are exchanged, more laughter is raised, and the piece is completed.
“It is perfection,” Melkor breathes when he wears it upon himself and Mairon sets the helm upon his head.
“Did you expect less?”
A light flickers in Melkor’s eyes and his his face becomes for a moment more serious.
“No.”
No jokes now, simply pride and astonishment and joy.
And perhaps, thinks Mairon, love.
“How is the Blessed Realm?”
Thuringwethil shrugs.
“Much the same as always. The Valar do not believe in change.”
Mairon laughs.
“That I well know.”
He turns away, prepares to reach for another grape and then her words halt his hand.
“They say you were seduced.”
The words are a sting. A blow to his pride and a hurt to any former memories.
“Seduced?”
“Led astray,” Thuringwethil says. “Melkor wove his web around you and you were dragged to his side with a paralyzing poison of sweet words.”
Is that what they think of him?
Too weak to fight his own battles? Too blind to read the intentions of others?
“They will say the same of me, I am sure,” she says. “But I care little.”
He wants to reply, wants to tell her he feels the same but the fire threatens to rise and he struggles to hold himself in check lest he makes their words true.
“Tell me more.”
Thuringwethil raises an eyebrow, regards him with curiosity.
“The same they say of all the maiar. Too dumb to know better, fed a bitter drink and dangled from his fingers like the puppets of Vairë. You are perhaps one of the saddest. That such a talented, gifted maia would give up his freedom for service to -”
It is too much for Mairon.
He rises to his feet, disappears from the room and finds himself in a run towards his forge.
The flames roar at a wave of his hand. The smoke rises to blot out the light.
And Mairon throws himself into his work with a song that Valinor will never hear.
“Who is the child now?”
Melkor grins, takes another step forward and places the toe of his boot just inches from the bubbling lava.
“Melkor,” Mairon warns, his hands flickering with flames as he tries to set the bath ablaze, tries to prevent what is coming.
“Mairon,” Melkor replies, lowering his foot and smiling with glee as white strands of ice curl from his foot and begin to spread across the surface.
Mairon sinks towards the flow of lava, hides himself behind the sheet of red and speaks to Melkor in a hiss.
“Melkor.”
“Mairon.”
“You really are the worst.”
The tables are turned only a few hours later. When Melkor spreads himself over his throne, settles himself into a moment of lack of care, and leaves Mairon a perfect opportunity.
“My Lord,” he says, producing a ball of gold. “A gift.”
Melkor takes the object, moves it about in the palm of his hand.
“What is it?”
Mairon grins.
Melkor’s thumb finds the trap then, presses down too heavy and ignites the contents into flames that leap forward in a blaze of light. No harm done but the look on Melkor’s face is golden and Mairon can hardly contain his laughter.
“Equal?” he asks as Melkor redoes the black strands of his hair.
“Equal,” Melkor agrees with a smirk. “For now.”
The crown glitters as Mairon lifts it from its stand. Casts dancing, fiery, shadows over the walls as he pauses to admire it. Roars into a red flame as he sets it upon his head.
A crown of his own, Mairon thinks. What would they say in Valinor?
He moves through the halls, watches from the corner of his eye as the maiar step to the side and bow. Grins as they speak his name, announce his title, regard him with awe.
Mairon ascends the steps of the throne, nods his head as Melkor opens his eyes to greet him.
“Lieutenant,” Melkor says, smiles at him from under the black crown upon his head. The one that is a reflection of Mairon’s own.
“My Lord” Mairon replies and he cannot help but laugh at this image, this moment. This -
“I know the answer,” he says suddenly and Melkor regards him with question.
Mairon understands.
“A breath for that which does not need to breathe. A gift for he who does not seek. A drop of gold in a sea of silver. Sung in song, and muted in fear.”
The breath that he exhales when his latest project is complete and marvellous in his hands.
The gift of the forge and the title of leader and the great power that he has been given.
The golden shine of his hair as he walks without bonds or limits or as one voice among a din of many.
The joy of this new life, greater and more wonderful than any he could have dreamed of.
“Freedom.”
Melkor laughs.
“It took you long enough.”
“Certainly, for I was much occupied in the building of your palace.”
There is a moment of understanding then. A reflection of the past, a pleasure in the present, and a joy in thoughts of the future. Melkor has given him freedom, given him his song, given him a gift.
And it is the greatest Mairon has ever known.