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Mairon carries the Song.
This is a Song of darkness, of ruin and thunder; of tides ungraceful that sweep you under.
Higher, higher, he carries the Song. With all the might of the ainur he sings, every word and syllable conjuring half-images on the walls, sensations and sounds. The Maia calls upon the earth: it rumbles and crackles and crumbles to dust, leaving nothing behind but barren land. He beckons the wind and it heeds his call: from a gust grows a breeze, the lashing flurry of a storm. He whispers to the water, a coax that turns into a claim, and ocean spatters and sprays and rushes to his aid, drowning the room with the sweep of his hand. And from that water rises fire, evaporates it, turns into a scalding steam, a roaring flame. Bright it burns, hot as the sun, until it scorches even itself and the world falls into shadow.
Thus Sings Mairon for Fair Felagund. And although the Song sways, the smokes clear, the thunder fades and flames quell, he does not falter, for this Music draws power from the Discord itself, from the Vala who alone sang louder than the rest of the ainur.
Let them come, Mairon tells his prisoners as he tosses them into the abyss, let my enemies do their worst.
He is sure of his victory.
*
Of all the creatures Mairon has bred, he loves his wolves the most.
Dragons have always been Melkor’s children – wild and dangerous, destructive and untamable. Vampires, then, although creatures of Mairon, are harsh and unpredictable, often giving in to their bloodlust and their base desires. Hedonistic creatures they are, much like Mairon himself, but lacking a control and discipline that his wolves possess. They bear the best qualities of them all: although they can be brutal and bloodthirsty as well, they are completely loyal to their master, executing his every command with cruel precision. They do not rebel or surrender to their whims – they simply obey, both out of fear and love.
In them, Mairon sees himself.
During lonely days in Tol-in-Gaurhoth Mairon seeks the company of his wolves, often taking the form of one, leading them on their hunts and feasting on the same prey. On cold nights he invites them to his bed to keep him warm, or curls up together with them under a starry sky. He knows each of his beasts by name, by smell and sound, and he loves them all as a father would.
One by one he watches his children die, sent forth by him and slaughtered by Huan. Mairon’s mirth switches to sadness and then to anger. No more.
He must save them.
He crafts himself a new shape, a shape unlike any one before. Instead of allowing his hate to consume him, he coalesces it into this new form. His fingers grow sharp claws. His red hair turns into dark fur. Only the blaze of his eyes remains the same, as he crosses the bridge littered by the bodies of his children.
Huan waits for him there, his fangs still dripping blood from his last kill.
Enough, Mairon barks at him.
At last you come, foul sorcerer, Huan barks back. It is time that I end your dominion of torment.
Mairon growls at him. You may try.
He attacks.
Tooth meets tooth, claw meets claw. He hacks and bites and slashes, Huan howls and growls and whimpers. He claws back at him, open-jawed, pinning him to the ground with his paw. Beneath him Mairon writhes, escaping his grasp, lifting his tail and ruffling his fur. He attacks again, Huan evades, and so their dance continues, as they somersault together in these deadly motions.
But Mairon can only keep up for so long. Unlike Huan who is a hound by birth, this is not Mairon’s true form. It feels unnatural, different, like clothes that don’t quite fit. It tires him, and his motions slow, as Huan paws at him and tears a great gash down his flank, blood spattering on the rocks beneath him. Mairon tries to stand up but fails, and Huan uses it to his advantage, bearing down on him and sinking his teeth into Mairon’s neck.
He howls in pain, unable to move, every breath and movement tearing his wounds wider. Away, he thinks, concentrating his whole being to fleeing from the pain, slithering away from it, and he takes the form of a snake, escaping Huan’s grasp momentarily – but he is too slow, and the great wolfhound simply pins him down again, and Mairon falls back to his regular form, hissing beneath the beast’s touch.
“Unhand me”, he snarls, spraying bloody spittle from his lips. “Unhand me, you filthy creature.”
No, Huan simply barks. And then a shadow bends next to him – the half-breed bitch Lúthien, who had caused him to lose. If it weren’t for her spell, Mairon would have won.
“No”, she echoes. Even her voice sounds wrong, too high for a human, yet too low for a Maia. “You will plague this place with your evil no longer. Hand me the keys to your tower, or Huan will shred you to bits, until you are forced to leave this body forever. How long will it take for you to craft another, I wonder? What will your master think of you, as you return to him, naked and shriveling?”
A shudder runs through Mairon’s form. No. He cannot lose this body now, not after how long he has spent perfecting it. He can always take back the tower, return with reinforcements.
But disembodiment is a shame that he cannot bear.
“Very well, daughter of Melian”, Mairon spats, lifting the wards that were guarding the gates. “Unhand me, now.”
Huan releases his fangs. Blood gushes from the wound and burns like fire, as Mairon takes another form and flies, the darkness of his wings drowning out the sun.
*
The flight goes by in a haze. Mairon can barely retain consciousness, barely stay airborne. He can’t breathe, can’t see – it’s dark in his eyes and quiet in his veins. He can barely make out the Song anymore. It is like he is reaching towards a single strand with broken hands, knowing it is there but unable to grasp his fingers around it.
Mairon lands in the shadows of Taur-nu-Fuin. He has no power left to stand, to retain this form. He crumbles back into a broken spirit, his black clothes in tatters and skin covered in streaks of blood. The light in his eyes is pale and flickers – even the flames in his hair are faded to a dull brown.
He crawls his way to the darkness of the forest, burying himself in the hollow of a tree. There he closes his eyes and sleeps.
He dreams of his master. He misses him. They have been apart for too long. Mairon wishes to go back, but has no strength to do so. Shame darkens his dreams. In his nightmares he is humiliated by his master, punished and tortured until he is finally cast out. Cut away from the Vala, left a hollow shell, incomplete.
In his slumber the forest stirs. Shadows gather and the sun withers. Taur-nu-Fuin is filled with terror.
*
When Mairon returns to Angband, he finds Melkor in the throne room, alone.
He has his back turned towards the doors, and he gazes absently at a glowing vein of rock on the wall. If he notices Mairon’s presence, he does not make it known. He simply stands and stares.
Mairon comes in slowly, carefully. Still his master does not turn. Finally Mairon reaches the foot of the throne, and he throws himself on the cold stone, at his master’s mercy.
“My lord”, he calls. “I have failed you. I am sorry.”
Despite the weight of Mairon’s words, Melkor shows no response. As if he has not heard them at all.
“Master?” Mairon asks. “Is everything all right?”
Slowly Melkor turns around, and Mairon gasps audibly. A horrible gash runs along Melkor’s forehead, next to the old scars that already rake his face. Mairon can no longer contain himself. He sprints up and runs to his master, tenderly taking his face in his hands. Melkor does not turn away. He barely responds to the touch.
“You are hurt”, Mairon speaks. “How?”
Melkor’s skin is cold. His voice is flat.
“They took it”, he says quietly.
“What?”
It is only then that Mairon notices the strange lack of light emanating from his master’s forehead. The crown. The Silmarili. One of them is missing.
“They stole it from me”, Melkor says. “That elvish brat and her human pet.”
Mairon swallows. He understands who Melkor means. He bows his head in shame.
“It is my fault. Had I not lost, they would never have come here. I allowed my emotions to consume me. I will not do that again.”
Melkor says nothing. He does not punish Mairon, nor does he forgive him. Yet, for some reason, this feels like the worst punishment of all. It is almost as if his master has forgotten that he exists.
“They took it from me”, Melkor whispers. His eyes are dull and colorless, and although they face Mairon, they don’t really see him. They look behind him. Away.
Melkor’s skin feels no longer cold. Neither is it hot. It is simply lukewarm: so tepid, that it would be easy to forget that he even is there.
*
From that day onward Melkor is distant, often lost in thought for long. He goes to a place where Mairon cannot follow, and each time Mairon tries to reach out to him, Melkor simply draws further. He never leaves the castle anymore. He barely moves from his throne, barely rests, barely speaks. He guards the remaining stones with a ferocious jealousy. He grows increasingly more paranoid. Several of his servants lose their heads for even looking at him wrong. Mairon, in turn, increasingly takes over the castle: it has gone to ruin at Melkor’s disregard, the dungeons overflowing with filth, the walls crumbling with decay.
Mairon hides his hurt. Buries it. He still blames himself – I made him like this. Mairon punishes himself for it, disciplining his own body as his master refuses to do so. He does not even remember the last time Melkor has touched him. Mairon has almost forgotten how it feels like.
Sometimes Mairon thinks that Melkor would not even notice if he was gone.
Day by day the wound grows, festers. What began as pain turns to anger. Hate. First towards himself, then towards another – those filthy mortals who stole his victory – and then, finally, those wretched stones upon his master’s crown. He never takes it off these days, not even when he sleeps, although that is a rare occurrence. Melkor claims that his jewels were stolen from him, but the truth is the opposite: those stones stole Melkor away, robbing all the love there was left in him.
One day Mairon has simply had enough. All it takes is a simple moment of his master’s weakness, a simple resting of the eye – and then Mairon’s hands are on Melkor’s temples, on the cold iron of the crown. It is heavy in his hands as he lifts it, almost as if it carries all of Melkor’s worries with it. Mairon inhales a deep breath and holds it.
Suddenly his master’s eyes fly open. Mairon loses his grip, and the crown falls from his hands, clattering on the cold stone floor. Melkor’s form seems to grow larger in Mairon’s very eyes, and the Vala’s hand darts out unnaturally fast, grasping Mairon from the throat and pinning him to the floor.
“You”, a snarl disfigures Melkor’s features. “My most faithful servant, turned against me…”
Mairon writhes, rolls on his back to escape Melkor’s grasp, and Melkor rolls with him, the two tumbling across the room, one on top after the other. They roll over to reach Melkor’s crown, and Melkor’s hand frantically reaches towards it, a wild light glowing in his eyes. Mairon’s foot kicks it back, and Melkor’s grip on his throat tightens, constricting the air out of him.
“You thief”, he hisses. “Trying to steal my precious…”
Mairon blinks the tears from his eyes, from a pain both physical and emotional. That what was Melkor used to call him. He can barely breathe anymore. Mairon lashes out his fëa in a desperate attempt, his flames burning Melkor’s skin. Melkor grunts in pain, loosening his grip, and Mairon strikes again in hot anger. Melkor cries out as fire catches in his hair.
“Pathetic”, Mairon laughs at him. “You can’t even defend yourself from me anymore. Look at what you’ve become!”
“I will teach you your place”, Melkor gnarls. And then Mairon feels the Vala’s fëa on his skin like a punch, drowning out his flames like icy water poured into fire. Air escapes from his lungs, and his vision goes momentarily white. His skin steams at Melkor’s touch, but Melkor does not release his grasp. His shadowy tendrils reach deep under Mairon’s skin.
“Finish it already”, Mairon croaks. “Show me how much you hate me.”
Melkor growls. “You wish for me to hate you?”
“Perhaps.”
For some reason, that causes Melkor to call off his assault. He still lies on top of Mairon, but no longer suffocates him. Now his dark eyes hold a question.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Perhaps I want for you to hate me”, Mairon replies, still catching his breath.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I just…” Mairon swallows – he finds the words difficult to say, and not only due to being breathless. “I just wish that you would feel something for me. Anything. Even hate would suffice, if it meant that you still cared for me.”
Melkor freezes. Something flashes beneath his eyes. “I still care about you, Mairon.”
Mairon scoffs. “No you don’t. You don’t care about anything except those cursed rocks. It feels like I don’t even know you anymore.”
Melkor is quiet for a moment, lost in thought. His gaze goes to his crown, which is still lying on the stone floor a few feet from them. He makes no move towards it. Instead he rises up and holds his hand towards Mairon, offering to help him to his feet.
Mairon does not take his hand. “I can stand on my own.”
So he stands. Melkor still makes no move towards the crown.
“Mairon, I…”
“Save it”, Mairon says, turning away and crossing his arms. “A few honeyed words won’t erase my hurt, if I know that you don’t mean them.”
He fixes his cape and his tousled hair, lifts his chin and clicks his boots to leave.
“Don’t”, Melkor stops him. “Mairon, please. I could not… I could not bear to lose you too.”
“So you beg now”, Mairon lifts his eyebrows. “The Melkor I know would never reduce himself to this.”
“The Mairon I know would never turn his back on his master.”
A bitter thought rests on the tip of Mairon’s tongue. Perhaps I don’t want you to be my master anymore.
He swallows those words, although Melkor would deserve them, after everything he has made Mairon go through.
But the simple truth is that he loves Melkor too much to let him go. Losing him would be like losing a part of himself.
“Then you must promise me”, Mairon speaks, barely audibly. “You must promise to never hurt me again.”
Melkor’s voice is soft and raw. “I promise.”
“You must promise to never forget me again.”
“I promise.”
“You must promise to never leave me again.”
“I promise.”
And for the first time in a very long time, Mairon feels a genuine smile creep upon his face. He turns around, back to his master, and kneels in front of him to pick up his crown and to place it upon his head.
“Then I promise to be yours, always”, Mairon whispers in return. “Until the end of Arda.”
He reaches towards his master to kiss him. Their lips crash together in an inevitable collision, and Mairon is home again.