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I am master of the mountain.
A man is only victorious if he finds a hundred ways to tell of his triumph. I could recount it in the vistas I have perceived from every angle. I could count it in the cunning, intricate paths I have ordered made, by which I may descend with greater quickness than those I force to climb more unforgiving roads. I could count it in the blood I have taken, from those who have refused me—and I could count it in this cold-creeping air, which has no power to take my fire from me.
Do you understand me now, Feanor son of Finwe? Your hideous head was brought to me, with maggots already at the eyes, and I made it clean. Your beautiful son was brought to me, and I made him new. Your father, whose glib tongue I hated, was shattered before me. Your son’s glib tongue fast honed the skill of begging, when I had him by the throat.
Now your craft, too, I count as my own. Victory indeed! No creature that I have ever preserved in brine or amber, no plant I have tended, no body I have felt quivering beneath me, produces in me the perfect joy promised by shapely metalwork. No, not even the diamond I wear in place of your flesh-rotting heart can stir in me such joie de vivre.
Your son, Feanor! Your precious, fire-bright boy. I have reduced him to coals that ache and glow for my purposes, and I have winnowed the chaff from his soul. Give me your bibles and your blasphemies, all! I shall build us a new Jerusalem.
The East is its own cancer. My brother, a man dying by his own hand; that is his kingdom. I have taken this land—and this mountain—and this hungry boy—and I made a fortress of us all.
Guns. I speak and think of guns, now.
You are not yet weary, though the way is long. You traveled a while underground, past even the cell where Maitimo once huddled against you, his fever making of him an almost-friend. Out into the crisp November sunshine, with your fur-trimmed collar and your sleek walking boots—a gift from Manwe, upon your departure—
And here from this eagle vantage, you see the speck of a runner, far below.
“Master Bauglir,” Maeglin pants. There is blood and dust scraped over one olive cheek. His hair and eyes are wild. He looks, truly, half-mad. “Master Bauglir, he has done it. He has done it all!”
What will you—fucking—do—to me?
“He made a gun,” Maeglin cries, paler by the second, beneath the grime on his face. “He made a gun, I knew he was making something, I was watching, I was going to tell you I swear, sir, I swear I was, but—but—”
“He has a gun?”
“He has a gun, and d-devices, also.” Maeglin’s dark eyes wrench from side to side, looking anywhere but forwards. “The smithy burns.”
Melkor Bauglir has killed children; not as often as he has killed men, for want of opportunity. He could place his hands on either side of this child’s neck, lift him from the ground, and squeeze until bones snapped and pierced.
He does not. This boy may still be useful. He is not like Feanor’s son. Not like the mapmaker’s daughter.
A fortress for one man’s life, the boy mocked, as radiant as any sun-god, even bruised and ragged-haired. What fool would bargain it?
Kill me, coward, he slurred, even when his back was rivered in blood.
That boy—lives.
“Maeglin, go back down. Ahead of me, if you please. I must know if it is quite safe to proceed—if all the devices, as you say, are expended.”
How many words he finds himself capable of speaking! Words, without the savor of their usual purpose.
Maeglin dashes a dirty hand at his eyes and turns to hop down the path again like a broken-winged bird. Melkor Bauglir does not keep his word—he despises to do so—yet still…still, he will not do the deed himself, as he promised. He will instead let Maedhros kill this child, upon his ignominious return, that the burden may fall heavier even than a thousand blows would lay it.
Uses. Uses. Do not forget their uses.
You are—you are going black around the corners of your eyes. You would crush his delicate nose and the arches of his cheeks beneath your boot, if you had him at your knees. You would stamp his skull to a pulp, the traitor. The rat. The twisted failure of a creature—the waste—
“He rode,” Mairon says, and lifts a bristling shoulder. Amongst the furs hang new and gleaming trophies. Mairon is unblemished; as much as he can be, with those coal-smoldered eyes.
Melkor’s hands tighten—tighten.
“Whence?”
“Hence.” A flicked, bone-thin finger. Away from the smoke-billowing entrance, which Melkor has not approached. Mairon promises, “I shall wait him out.”
“See that you do, sir. See that you do. And then—Annatar, bring him to me, with no new scars.” The blackness of Mairon’s furs, of the tree-shadows, of Maeglin’s filthy hair, of the day inverted…the blackness. “I shall want him to die at no hands but my own.”
“You will kill him?” Mairon hisses, passionate for the flare of a moment.
Tip back your head, howl. Howl, and grind
his fucking
soul
into the ground.
“I will open his ruined breast and tear his heart out with my hands.”
I am master of the mountain, and I will not be scorned by a whipped whelp, by a shattered son! I am master of the mountain, and its roots run deep and far. You may run while you can, Maedhros-Maitimo. You are mine to kill, and I will have you by sunset.
You watch, not even breathing, as Mairon sets off through the forest at a low, animal run.