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Their operation, whatever it was, needed funding. All the gold and silver and diamonds in the world; every Noldor relic they could find, to buy as much steel they could force. Swords with hilts of diamond and obsidian; armour made from Fëanorian titanium. And funding it would get, through whatever means necessary: those had been his orders, and those were the orders that he would enforce, no matter what it took. Mairon knew how to get what he wanted.
The famed Witch-King of Angmar, however, was a surprisingly easy toy to play with.
He would do anything he wanted. Anything to make you happy, master, he'd said, anything at all for you. Mairon had felt a strange turn in his chest at that: excitement. Angmar was the one person he never had to worry about calculating around, he would do anything he said, like some lovesick puppy.
But this might be too much even for him.
"You want me to cooperate with those—" he stayed himself, ever respectful, ever careful not to overstep— "those women."
"I simply said that I wanted you to organise them. Nothing more is required of you. They're a powerful thieving guild; there are few that rival them."
The Witch-King knelt before him. "Then let me find those few instead. There will be others—"
"No." He shut up.
"Forgive me, master, I spoke out of turn."
Mairon felt a wave of regret—poisonous guilt—over the outburst. He didn't want to rule with cruelty, he had promised himself so long ago, but it kept rising to the surface from his mouth, through his actions. Under his breath, he cursed that he had ever made himself a servant to anyone other than himself. "You are forgiven." He slipped a hand under Angmar's chin and tilted his head up so that their eyes met. In them, he saw something that burned—a hunger, a passion that he barely kept stayed.
"Thank you, master." Those words dripped with longing; it diffused into every syllable, contorted their meaning.
The way Angmar looked at him with that expression of complete and utter adoration, as if he was a child staring at the moon for the first time, looking up and seeing the stars above, or the Aurora Borealis—it was intoxicating.
He was considering all of the things he'd do to cultivate and grow such adoration when a knock came at the door.
He pulled away, annoyed. Angmar seemed to slump a little, almost in disappointment.
"Enter."
A tall woman with bronze skin and honey-brown curls strode in, dressed in a shimmering gold dress and adorned in sparkling rubies. When she smiled, her teeth reflected the light.
"Ah, Khônithil." The leader of the guild. She bowed her head before him. The woman had quite the record; a legendary con artist who had managed to trick the old King of Númenor into siring a child upon her, forcing the man, with all his honour and lofty allusions, to shower her and the little girl (named for herself) in all the riches they wanted.
Angmar tensed as she entered.
"Master," she sunk to the ground next to him. Mairon could see in way his eyes burned how much he hated her. Getting them to work alongside each other was to be quite the challenge. But he would make it work. "I come with a proposal."
"What of?"
"My daughter. To strengthen our contract, I shall offer her to be married to whomever you please, the highest honour, of course, being yourself."
Angmar's head snapped up to meet Mairon's eyes. He would be lying if he hadn't noticed his servant's possessive streak, and he'd be lying even more if he said that it wasn't something that he had taken complete advantage of. Angmar was his, and his alone; there would be no question about that, and all he needed to do to keep him was to let him play at ownership and, well, it wasn't as if he wasn't
"You imply that you need more than what I have already offered you," he said, carefully.
Khônithil paused. She was a clever woman. She was a strategist, too, of her own kind. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't wanted to see how she'd react to rejection. "My lord, truly, I was afraid it was you who needed more." Her tone somehow managed to convey both dismay and amazement. "I meant no offence."
Khônithil wanted power, and Angmar wanted love. It was as clear as day. It was only a shame that they both wanted it from him, and not each other. He could only grant one of them their desire. For now. The idea came to him as he looked back to the Witch-King.
He made his choice. "Go now, Khônithil, and don't speak to me of marriage alliances again."
She hid her annoyance well as she swept out of the room.
Angmar looked up at him in wonder. "Master—"
"Khamûl can order them," Mairon said, twisting his mouth into the barest smile. "You were right, you should seek her rivals and bring them here and, at my command, she will marry her daughter to their leader. Everyone gets their way."
"Very clever, master."
"And I get to have you in a better mood." He traced a finger over his servant's cheekbone, drawing him up from the ground.
"Yes, master," he breathed.
The game that he played worked well; he got his alliances, he kept them running; his allies got their deepest, most intimate desire. Their most desperate need. Angmar needed him and, well, it wasn't as if the pleasures they could take in each other didn't benefit the both of them. Mairon leaned in.