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The initial pain of it all was lost upon him, though Melkor could not say he was grateful for this. The wounds of battle were nothing to the finishing blows that had hewn off his feet or the binding of the chains and collar that had once been his crown. Yet these injuries themselves were nothing compared to the crushing, agonizing, hollowing lack of the silmarils. Their blinding light had not left him in longer than he could recall, his mind reshaped around their beauty. He had bartered away pieces of his power for them, and he was power. Their light had filled in the gaps of every piece of himself traded away, sustained him and motivated him and held him suspended. In their light, he could barely see anything else, and he could think of little more than he could see.
To be so utterly stripped of their light, of all light, at once, thrust into the empty darkness of the void, was a shock that gouged into his soul more painfully than anything that could be done to his body, but as the two for him were so wholly tied, it felt as if his very innards had been scooped out, leaving him as nothing more than a husk. The numbness and pain alternated in equally horrible waves, and his thoughts were fully consumed by his craving for the return of their light. Even just to see them again, he thought, not hold them, not have them, just let him see them. Surely, nothing else mattered. His goals, his dreams, his allies, his life, all were nothing without them. If they were, he would not feel so empty, so devoid of a self, would he? The silmarils gave his life meaning. They gave him everything that was good, and if they gave him pain also, well that was a small price to pay for happiness and success.
Melkor laughed into the void, a laugh as broken and empty as he himself felt. What had he even been before the silmarils? What of value could he possibly have had before them? The pain had taken not just his sight but much of his memory and consciousness, too, though the memories remained buried deep within his mind. Independent of his will, his thoughtless questions seeped through the burned and cracked shell of his being, reaching deeper into parts of himself he had forgotten existed, stirring memories from centuries of forced slumber. They roused slowly, sluggish from abandonment and buried deep.
The first of them to return was neither thought nor image but feeling . The first feeling that was neither pain nor numbness since the Door had shut behind him: cold . Blessed cold. He recalled shocking gusts of icy wind swirling about him, the bite of it as soothing as any caress. Droplets of water fell from the clouds, but were transformed into soft flakes. They landed on his outstretched arms gently, so unlike the harshness of Ulmo’s domain, and on him , at least, they remained in this superior form.
Grasping for any solace he could find in the emptiness that enveloped him both inside and out, Melkor sank into the memory of the blizzard. Was it just one? Had it been continuous, or had there been many? When had it ceased? He couldn’t recall. He let those concerns dissipate and focused on the memory of sharp wind and tranquil snow around him. The little flakes had formed his first crown, he thought, and another feeling reached through the emptiness to take hold of his soul. When he had first merged his brother’s and Ulmo’s dominions and bent them to his own will, somewhere between a whim, a fit of indignation, and a cry for the solace of kindred spirits, he had been surprised by his success. In that moment, he’d felt a thrilling sort of awe, like pulsing electricity manifested as elation, and he had let the snowstorm embrace him as he laughed his first true laugh. Now, the echo of that moment clawed it’s way out of the vault it had been shoved into to make more room for the silmarils. It seized his heart and spirit, forcing out another laugh, still broken but no longer empty.
Time, as it is widely understood, did not exist in the void. But time was a part of Melkor which could not be traded away, and Melkor existed in the void, so time, likewise, manifested in some way, though the time Melkor experienced was Melkor’s alone. In this understanding of time, it felt to Melkor that nearly an age passed before his mix of pain and numbness and cravings and memories of snow changed again, and thus, an age did pass.
The process was a slow one, so it was with great surprise that Melkor, after another deep breath of frozen air, discovered that the hold of the silmarils over his mind, body, and soul had noticeably diminished. His first reaction was grief, the fifth feeling he recovered, for he knew that it meant his separation from his beloved gems had lasted long enough to have an effect. Perhaps, even, it meant that his memories of them were fading, and this caused in him great panic.
His panic soon faded, however, as the newfound clarity of his mind set in. The pounding pain in his head, the stabbing shards that had pierced his eyes for so long, had faded into something distant and avoidable. He still felt hollow, though the hollowness had changed, as if he were beginning to be rebuilt. Pieces he thought missing were clicked back into place, slowly, weakly, but determinedly. And as he rebuilt himself from the inside, the memories that surrounded him began to shift.
Exhilarating, comforting cold flickered, warmth - no, hotter than mere warmth - crept in, and frustration welled up within him. The memory battered at him like a man pursued might beat upon the door of potential shelter. It called to him, it screamed at him, but as if through walls too thick for him to make out the words. A name just barely out of reach, a gut feeling that he had forgotten something of the utmost importance, a grief that felt somehow deeper and truer than what he felt for the silmarils, despite not knowing what he grieved… they tormented him for time that dragged on for the duration of it, but was condensed into almost nothing as soon as it ended.
Flame , he thought, but no, that was not quite right. He had searched the void for the Flame Imperishable, but he had not found it. He had returned to Ëa irritable, and upon seeing the mindless work of his kin and their unquestioning servants, he had despaired.
He remembered asking why he was made as he was, why he was able to question, to challenge, to imagine more, if it was impossible for him to make his visions reality. But what had happened next? He wrestled with his memory; this was the key to the mystery, he was sure of it.
“Surely striving for greatness and failing is better than not striving at all... and much more likely to reveal alternate paths to success.”
The phrase returned to him detached, an echo of an echo of a voice. A flickering form, just out of reach.
“I - I’m so sorry, lord, I overstepped, I never should have spoken as I did, if you are angry with me -”
“No.”
He wasn’t sure if he had spoken aloud in the moment or only in the memory, but he was certain he’d interrupted at the time.
“You wish me to… walk with you? May I ask why, lord?”
“I desire your company,” his brain provided him with the words he had spoken so long ago, “And I wish to hear more of these wondrous, dangerous thoughts of yours.”
As the memories returned, he tried to understand what was happening in them. It struck him that he had been teasing the mysterious being, something he knew he had once greatly enjoyed. He could not recall the last time he had done so.
“Next time I leave,” another, later memory recited, “I want you to come with me.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
The next memory brought back the swirling, comforting cold, but at the epicenter of everything, a pulsing heat existed where before there had been only himself.
“All that I am, all that I can or will be, I swear to you. I am yours, for as long as you will have me, my lord and master.”
The heat flickered into a form, too hazy for him to fully see, but he could discern that there was a being of fire kneeling before him. Something in Melkor soared at the sight, marred only by the knowledge that it was in the past. And then, the memory of his reply surfaced, “Gladly I accept your service. You shall stand at my side until the end of days, and I will always endeavor to make you proud to stand there. Now rise,” the words rose to his lips at the moment of recollection, and this time he did say aloud, “my little flame.”
Mairon!
The beautiful fire Maia, most precious being in all of Arda and beyond. The first time he had seen him, Melkor had been sure he must be a fragment of the Flame Imperishable. Only this was a flame he could hold in his hands, and he had been fortunate enough to discover that Mairon wanted to be there.
With the name, the floodgates opened, and memory after memory washed over Melkor’s mind in a torrent far more painful than all that he had experienced before, for these memories he cherished. First, he witnessed the bliss of their early days together in Utumno, when time stretched out lazily, waiting for them to take their joy in each other’s presence, letting them build each other up through passion and inspiration.
Then it all came crashing down with his capture. The years of torment in the Halls of Mandos were a pain that had faded in his mind, but the image of Mairon’s heartbroken face as Melkor ordered him to stay behind for his own safety hit him full force. Throughout his long years of imprisonment, that face had tortured him more than anything the Valar could throw at him, but he always reassured himself that it would be worth it in the end. That Mairon would understand when they could at last be reunited and return to the bliss of their partnership.
Now, and only now, was Melkor able to recognize the tragedy in that expression. He hadn’t been able to realize it, but that was the last time he had looked upon Mairon and felt the depth of love his flame deserved. He had given Mairon that pain on the premise that it would all be worth it for their peaceful reunion, but in the end, he had never returned. To Angband, yes, but not to Mairon.
The memories turned, then, to that return. It had not felt wrong at the time. It had felt almost triumphant, besides the near death encounter with that cursed spider and the realization that he was now permanently wounded and disfigured. He had feared, very briefly, that his precious would not love him if he could no longer be beautiful, that he would lose him, but Mairon had crushed those fears as he crushed his own body against Melkor’s. It never occurred to him that he might lose Mairon another way.
That it might be himself who would forsake their love.
The worst part of it all was that he still craved their light. He watched himself grow sluggish from his blindness and his hands and later his foot. He watched himself grow irritable from the pain. He watched as he began to lash out more and more, becoming volatile and impulsive. He watched his beloved fall to his knees before him in tears, begging him to make wiser decisions. He watched his own hand strike his precious out of anger instead of lust, heard echoes of Mairon’s cries of agony, heard the genuine fear in his voice, fear of Melkor , and it ripped him open as surely as his whips had ripped Mairon’s fana. And still he craved them.
He didn’t want to. He wanted to hate them, and in some ways, he did. But he still wanted to see them again. What else was left of him, after all? Even his little flame, that which was and ought to have always been most important to him, was gone, and even if he were there, surely he would turn away. Charred hands and a scarred face may not have put Mairon off, but centuries of torment from the one who had sworn to love him surely must have.
But even as he thought this, one of his last memories returned to him. He wasn’t even sure he had registered it at the time, so consumed had he been by his hate and their light. But he must have heard it somehow, for he could hear it now.
It had been just before the final battle. They had held a meeting, him and all of his commanders. Everyone had left, save himself and Mairon, whom he had asked to remain.
“Lieutenant,” he had said, “This battle will be a great victory, I am sure. Even with only two of the three, my power is too great for any force to defeat.”
Mairon had looked at him so blankly, face devoid of all emotion, and while at the time it hadn’t meant anything to him, now it hurt to look at. His little flame had always shown his feelings openly, at least when they were alone.
“But,” he had continued, “should anything go wrong at all, I want you to turn from the battle.”
“My lord -” Mairon had tried to protest, but Melkor had ignored him, “You are my insurance, Lieutenant. Should our enemies cheat, you must rebuild our empire until I can return. You are the only one who can. Do you understand?”
“I understand, my lord,” Mairon had answered him in a soft voice. At the time, it had only annoyed him for being difficult to hear. Now it broke his heart further as he realized just how badly he had hurt his beloved. He hoped Mairon had seized the empire for himself, after Melkor’s fall. It was what he deserved, what they both deserved.
But then, as the Melkor of the past had dismissed him and turned his attention back to the silmarils, he heard the faint echo of Mairon’s voice whisper, “I still love you, my lord. I always will. Please remember that.”
This was the final blow for Melkor.
After everything, after watching Melkor be consumed by a couple of gems, after taking countless unearned punishments from him, Mairon still loved him. It was unthinkable. Euphoria blended with the poison of immeasurable guilt and self-hatred as the words swirled around and around in Melkor’s mind.
I still love you.
In that moment, Melkor wanted three things, each incompatible with the others. He wanted Mairon’s love, he wanted Mairon to be loved as he deserved, and yes, he still wanted the cursed silmarils.
He laughed once more, this time bitterly, for he realized at last that his torment would be more true and complete than any of the Valar could have devised, all wrought by his own deeds. His kin did not understand him; they never had. They would think, perhaps, that the humiliation of his defeat would be his torture in the Void. Or perhaps they didn’t care, so long as he was no longer their problem. He knew the truth: the real torture was that any consolation he might give himself would be immediately cancelled out.
To have Mairon returned to him would mean that his beloved must suffer greatly, moreso than he had already. Perhaps, instead, Mairon wouldn’t suffer anymore. Perhaps he would find happiness, even love, and live out the rest of time content. Melkor could not wish for that, either, for he could not bear the thought of Mairon forsaking him, selfish though it may be. I always will , Mairon had promised, after all.
And then there were those hideous, beautiful gems. He would likely never have them again. Perhaps he might see them, briefly, before the final battle, but he doubted they would ever be in his grasp again. And if they were, he knew now that for all the joy they might bring him, they would bring his flame only sorrow and pain. He might no longer value his own life without their brilliance holding him together, but if he could accept pain and weakness for them, he could gladly take an eternity of hollowness for Mairon’s sake. Of course, the comfort of resolving that was wholly lost, given that he would likely never have the opportunity to act upon it.
He lost himself to an endless cycle of torment, broken up only by the knowledge that Mairon loved him still, though it brought even more pain as he recalled again and again every reason he was unworthy of him. All of his grand visions and heartfelt promises had been undermined by his own weakness, his own addiction. It would be easy to say the silmarils were irresistible; after all, his was not the only life they ruined. Yet he knew there were those who had beheld them without falling. Mairon had stood at his side for centuries, gone only for eight years at Tol-in-Gaurhoth, constantly in their presence - had even touched them once, through gloves, while helping to forge the crown - but not once had he shown any indication of falling beneath their spell. Melkor had been blind to many things, but the jealousy with which he guarded the silmarils had picked out desirous gazes of individual orcs among crowds; he would have known if Mairon had wanted them. Or, he supposed, if Mairon had been clever enough, he might have been betrayed and deposed. Instead, Mairon had stood loyally by his side, following every thoughtless order and taking every vicious cruelty that Melkor’s addled mind had deigned to give.
As the cycle repeated over and over, time lost its meaning to Melkor and, due to the nature of the void, began to cease. To escape his torment, Melkor sank deep into his own memories, reliving the bittersweetness of his early days, from the moment he met Mairon up until his first capture.
Somewhere in the midst of a memory about a time he and Mairon had gone exploring in the Thangorodrim, before the construction of Angband had begun, he heard Mairon cry out, “My lord!”
He blinked, a feeling of uncertainty scratching at the back of his mind. Hadn’t Mairon just been at his side? But no, looking around, he found himself alone. Perhaps his Maia had wandered off and found something interesting.
“My lord, where are you?”
...or gotten lost. He shook his head. This didn’t seem right. He didn’t remember Mairon getting lost in these mountains. Still, he called back, “Mairon! I am right here. Where have you gone?”
“Master,” the voice was softer, but much, much closer than Melkor had expected, and he jumped as he felt the warmth of fire hovering nearby. Something was definitely wrong.
“What’s going on?” he asked, unsure who he was asking. Mairon answered regardless, voice still unbearably thin, “I failed you, Master. I lost. I lost everything.”
“Failed me?” he repeated, bewildered. What was there to fail? They were just scouting out some new mountains. He distinctly remembered this trip being a great success, ending with a celebratory feast and an even better private night afterwards.
“It is all over, my lord. Mordor fell, and my ring - my power - was destroyed.”
Mordor? Ring? These words meant little to him. What did have meaning, however, was the distress in his beloved’s voice, distress, anguish, and fear. It coiled around his heart, a crushing guilt that caused the memory to dissolve around him. It was all in the past. Mairon was in the past. He was alone in the void with nothing but the memory of lost happiness and the knowledge that he had thrown it all away.
“Please,” the voice begged beside him , “Please, Master. Punish me for my failure, hurt me, but please don’t ignore me. I have been parted from you for so very long, do not make me bear it another moment, I beg you!”
Melkor blinked again. How had Mairon’s voice followed him out of the memory? How had -
He gasped as it finally clicked, taking conscious control of his mind for the first time in many ages, and he turned to see the faintly glowing form of his Maia, weaker than he had ever seen, prostrated before him.
“Mairon?” he asked hesitantly. The Maia’s form flickered, more embers than flames, and he answered, “Yes, my lord?”
Without waiting for more, Melkor pulled his beloved into his arms, hating himself for the way Mairon flinched, though he could not bring himself to let go. Mairon was tense for a span of moments before slowly melting against him, entwining their ëalar.
“I’m sorry,” Mairon said at some point. Melkor shook his head, “Do not apologize to me, little flame. I have failed you far more than you could possibly fail me. That you are still loyal to me after I failed you in every conceivable way is a miracle to me.”
“Of course I am still loyal, my lord,” Mairon protested, “I pledged myself to you.”
“And I pledged to make you proud to stand at my side,” Melkor replied, “I broke my promise. Why did you not break yours?”
“Do you really not know?” Mairon whispered. Melkor held him even closer, “You love me. For some unfathomable reason.”
“It is not so unfathomable,” the Maia countered, growing warmer as a little of his old stubbornness returned, “You gave me hope when I was hopeless and power when I was powerless. And though I know now it was only temporary, as is your right to decide, I can never forget the time when you loved me, too.”
“It was not only temporary,” Melkor corrected, hoping his beloved could feel the depth of his regret, “It is only that I lost myself, and in my loss, forgot, for which I shall forever be ashamed. I remember now, and I love you, still, my most precious.”
Mairon sobbed against him, then, “I wish I were worthy of your words, my lord. I tried, I swear to you, I tried to free you, in every way I could conceive, but they all failed. I am only here because of my failure, my final defeat. You should not think so highly of me.”
“Was it not you who once told me that failing is better than not trying at all? And that failure might open the doors to alternate paths to success?”
“I… when did I say that, my lord?”
“It was one of the first things you ever said to me,” Melkor told him, “Do you recall our first meeting? You threw something at my head.”
Against his will, Mairon smiled, “I was very angry. And then very terrified when I realized who was there.”
“I think I was too shocked by the audacity to do anything about it. And I was in the grip of despair.”
“I remember,” Mairon said more quietly, “You were doubting yourself, and I could not bear to hear it. I knew the barriers between me and my visions were due to my kind. I was made to serve, and my master - at the time - had forbidden my creations, so I was stuck. But you were made to rule. I couldn’t bear to see you holding yourself back when you were free as I was not.”
“It was your belief in me that saved me, then. Let my belief in you save you now.”
Mairon gazed at him in awe and dawning hope, though he asked, “What is there left to save?”
“You, my little flame. There is you,” he paused, then, and though he still struggled to think of himself as whole without the silmarils, he added, “There is us .”