Archive of Our Own ^beta

Melkor reclined on his throne resting his cheek in one fist, the hall looming in front of him. In the reflective floor, the columns lining the hall seemed twice as long.

He didn’t bother looking up as the familiar click of heels sounded against the marble from somewhere to his left. They paused just in front of his throne, then started again up the stairs to the dais.

“My Lord,” came the voice of the owner of the heels. “I did as you requested.”

To his other side, Gothmog shuffled his feet slightly.

“And?” He demanded.

Thuringwethil hesitated before she spoke.

“It is as the rumours say, my Lord,” she admitted. “The Maia has fully defected back to Ulmo. Even as we speak he is in Ekkaia, once again taking his place in service to the Valar.”

Melkor hummed into the echoing vault of the hall, easing himself off his rest.

“I see,” he said quietly.

Then, with a vicious swipe of his arm, icicles shattered through the floor of the hall.

“How dare they!” He yelled, standing and aiming another bolt of magic at the floor. “I am Morgoth! Bringer of darkness! Ruler of the shadows! They think to take what I have claimed as mine?!”

“My Lord, please do not do anything irrational. We have plenty of other options—”

“I don’t care!” He bellowed. “They had no right!”

He wasn’t sure how long his rage lasted, only that when he cooled, Thuringwethil and Gothmog had both fled. The hall was in shambles around him. No matter: the staff would have it cleared and sorted before he returned. With a deep breath, he straightened his crown and strode out of the doors.

As expected, Thuringwethil and Gothmog were waiting there for him, along with many of his other council members, seated in their positions on the left and right of the head of the table. They stood as he entered, but he motioned for them to sit back with a quick gesture. There was no time for apologies: they would know that he had granted them forgiveness for earlier, and that was that. Instead, he took his place in the ornate throne at the head.

“I trust you have all been filled in on the recent… development,” he began. Now that the initial rage had passed, the anger inside him had soothed somewhat to more of a simmer. He would get his revenge; of that he knew. The details did not yet matter.

“Yes, my Lord,” Langon winced. “Our spies have reported back to us the particulars, if you—”

Melkor held up a hand to halt him. “No need. Simply tell me, who was it behind this… disappointment?”

Winces flickered on the faces of the various members around the table, but it was Thuringwethil who looked him in the eyes and answered. “Aulë, my Lord. He got wind of our plan and stepped in to bring back the Maia Ossë.”

Aulë. Of course it was. That interfering smith never had known how to mind his own business.

His plans could wait. He would warn Aulë off from getting involved in his affairs for the last time.

“Dismissed,” he announced coolly. The council didn’t hesitate, all shuffling out and away, apart from Thuringwethil and Gothmog, who didn’t move and waited until the room was empty to speak.

“Do you have an idea, my Lord?” Gothmog asked lightly. Melkor hummed in thought.

“The Smith has only a few things he especially cares for,” he mused eventually. “That dreadful wife of his. His creations.” A smile grew slowly over his face. “And his helpers.”

His advisors followed him to the scrying pools, just off the meeting room. Thuringwethil lit the incense to feed into the oil: her nature as a vampire made her the most natural at summoning the visions they needed.

Melkor and Gothmog stepped back as an image began to fill the pools at their feet.

It showed Aulë, proud and strong as ever. He strolled through the open halls of his Mansions, nodding to the occasional Maia passing him.

“That one?” Gothmog offered, pointing as one Maia, straw blond hair pulled in at the nape of their neck, ran up to Aulë and said something, resulting in the Vala laughing heartily and patting their shoulder in a paternal manner.

“No,” Melkor sighed. “We need to find which one he cares for the most. They’ll be the most talented, almost certainly: we’ll know when we see them. Just keep watch.”

They stayed there for five more hours, occasionally pointing out or zooming in on certain figures. Melkor was starting to wonder if he needed to pay a trip to Valinor when Gothmog let out a noise.

“There!”

They all looked in as Aulë entered one of the workshops, heading straight for the back. He nodded at the Maia he passed, observing their work and occasionally making suggestions, but it was clear he was looking for someone in particular.

Eventually he reached what was obviously the object of his search: a lone Maia, the workbenches around him empty, hard at work. He looked up as his master approached and dropped his head deferentially: Aulë shook his head and tapped under his chin briefly to make him look up.

“Zoom in,” Melkor said quickly to Thuringwethil, who nodded. “Connect the sound if you can.”

“…eat today?” Aulë was saying, voice distorted by the oil. The Maia winced and looked away. “You know how we worry.”

“I know, my Lord,” the Maia replied, looking a bit embarrassed. “And I was going to, I really was, but then I got distracted, and… well. You know.”

“I do,” Aulë agreed. “Won’t you please consider my offer? It would make me feel a lot more comfortable if I could keep an eye on you.”

The Maia’s eyes shot up, wide. “No, please, my Lord!” He cried, then shut back down. “I’m sorry. I appreciate the offer, but I like working here with everyone. I would like to remain, if it please you.”

“Very well,” Aulë sighed. “Would you join us for dinner tonight?”

“Oh…” the Maia winced. “Well, a few of the others said they were all going out to the meadow for a party? And I thought… maybe…”

Aulë’s expression curled momentarily before smoothing back out to how it had been, if perhaps a bit sterner.

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said firmly. “You know how I feel about you going to those parties.”

Looking forlorn, the Maia nodded. Aulë’s face softened slightly.

“You’ll understand when you’re older, little one,” he said. “I know it seems unfair, but I don’t want anything happening to you. Come to dinner? Yavanna has some new plants to show you: it’s not as fun as a party, perhaps, but it can entertain you safely.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the Maia agreed, and quirked his lips up in a poor semblance of a smile. “It is as you say. I trust your judgement.”

Aulë grimaced slightly as the Maia turned back to his work, but he settled for placing a comforting hand on his hair before taking his leave.

“That one,” Melkor said with a grin. “Have someone watch him in the pools for the next few days to pick up a pattern. Then we’ll make our move.”

His cloak dragged behind him as he left and he felt, as he marched out, the simmering anger sparking joyfully.

-------

It was almost depressingly easy to put their plan into motion.

The Ainur celebrated for pretty much any reason. All it had taken was a defeat for Melkor’s forces in a small, completely meaningless raid he’d ordered to be conducted and the entirety of Valinor was delightedly preparing a great banquet and ball.

It was no trouble at all to sneak in.

The Maia was, as they’d predicted, alone in the forges. He stood over his work station, the leather apron he wore practically unmarred, hair in a loose braid over one shoulder. He held in one hand a silvery contraption, which Melkor realised, as he looked more carefully, mimicked some type of flower.

With a careful shrug of his shoulders to make sure his cloak was secure, he strode in.

It took the Maia an irritatingly long time to notice his presence, and when he finally did, he didn’t even have the courtesy to jump. He flinched, ever so slightly, then raised an eyebrow.

Really, thought Melkor bitterly, Young people these days. He did have something of a reputation: this would not do.

“Hello?” The Maia asked, tilting his head ever so slightly.

“My greetings,” Melkor answered graciously, placing a hand over his chest. “I apologise for disturbing your work.”

“You didn’t,” the Maia said, then didn’t say anything else.

He was making it very difficult for Melkor to abduct him satisfyingly.

Melkor stepped closer then, making sure his boots solidly hit the floor. “Well, what did I interrupt you at then, hm? You must have been doing something.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the Maia muttered, looking down at his workbench. In his gloved hand, the silvery glass of whatever he’d been making melted until there was a puddle of molten liquid on the surface.

Melkor glanced at it for a second, then dismissed it as unimportant. He had other things to get to.

“Then why, might I ask,” he began, “might such a pretty little thing be hidden away while everyone else celebrates at the feast?”

The Maia’s eyes darted up to him suddenly, then back down. “Why do you want to know?” He accused. “It has nothing to do with you. It’s none of your business. Go away.”

“Charming,” Melkor said, letting some slight amusement seep into his tone. “I was merely curious, little one. No need for the offense.”

“Right,” said the Maia, looking at him suspiciously. “Well, I could say the same to you. At least I’m allowed to be here. You’re certainly not.”

It didn’t seem that the Maia knew who he was, or else he would surely have already called for help, but he wasn’t wrong with his assessment.

“No,” Melkor admitted. “I can’t imagine Aulë being particularly pleased to find me here.”

“Then why are you here?” The Maia asked, looking at him unimpressed, then let out a deep sigh. “Can I do anything for you?”

Melkor smiled slowly.

“Yes,” He crooned. “You can scream.”

And with that the ground beneath them split in two and Melkor grabbed the Maia’s arm fiercely, dragging them both deep beneath.

--------

He wondered if he should go and check on the little Maia at some point today.

He’d been locked in the guest quarters that Melkor had so graciously assigned him ever since their return to Utumno. After falling unconscious during the trip – which, yes, was partially Melkor’s doing – he’d been delivered to the rooms and the healers sent to check on him. Other than that, the only beings who had entered or left were the various maid spirits serving the fortress. Well, them and Thuringwethil, who was far too incorrigible to stop from going where she pleased.

He said as much after their council meeting.

“I really should check in,” he mused. “It’s simply bad manners to let a guest go unwelcomed for so long.”

“Lord Melkor is such a very gracious host,” Tevildo simpered from his position on the other side of the table.

Shut up, Tevildo, He thought glumly.

“Shut up, Tevildo,” Gothmog complained. “He’s being a terrible host. Yes, my Lord, you should go and see the Maia soon, because otherwise he might start breaking walls rather than plates.”

“Has the Maia broken a lot of plates?” Melkor asked curiously. He hadn’t heard about this.

“Mairon,” piped up Thuringwethil, who up until now hadn’t been paying attention. “And yes.”

“I know he’s a Maia, Thuringwethil, honestly. That’s what I just said,” Melkor snapped at her. She gave him a hugely unimpressed look.

“No,” she said, speaking slowly with very careful enunciation as though he were a child. “His name. His name is Mairon.”

Mairon.

It made sense, Melkor supposed. The Maia was pretty, to be sure, which was probably one of the reasons Aulë insisted on keeping him so hidden away, and he was obviously talented. A pretty name for a pretty face.

Aulë’s servants weren’t encouraged towards vanity, of course. Mairon probably hadn’t even glanced towards a mirror in decades if not more.

But that was all unimportant. He didn’t particularly like the idea of this impetuous Maia being given free reign of the crockery’s survival.

And so, later that day he found himself in front of the carved iron doors leading to the guest suite.

He knocked, then decided it was his castle and therefore he could do as he pleased, and strode in.

“Lord Morgoth,” Mairon greeted in a cold tone, standing as tall as he could.

Melkor dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Mairon.”

This, at least, seemed to give the Maia pause. “You know my name?”

“Of course I do,” Melkor chuckled, deciding it was unimportant how recently he had found it out. “I know a lot more than you might think. I’ve been watching you for a while, little one.”

Mairon reeled back, eyes wide.

“I don’t know what games you’re playing, Morgoth,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “But my master won’t stand for it. He’ll find out what you’ve done soon enough.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Melkor replied cheerfully. “It wouldn’t be much of a revenge if he didn’t even notice, now, would it?”

“Revenge?” echoed Mairon, narrowing his golden eyes.

His eyes, Melkor noted, were exceedingly bright.

“Oh, yes, little flame,” he cooed. “That’s why you’re here! Your precious master has taken something from me; something that I rather wanted. So we’ll see how he likes it when something of his is taken away, hm?”

“I don’t belong to him,” Mairon rebuked.

Melkor scoffed at him. “You don’t? I was watching, little flame. If you don’t belong to him, why would he keep you away from the others? Why wouldn’t he let you go out to parties and celebrations?”

“I—You—” Mairon staggered backwards momentarily before steadying himself. “He just worries. Because he cares. Something you would never understand, Morgoth.”

Once, such words might have hit him, but now he just laughed.

“As you say, little flame,” he said indulgently, turning to leave.

“My master shan’t forgive you for this,” Mairon spat out, a last ditch effort at reclaiming some dignity for himself.

Melkor chuckled darkly. “Oh, I don’t need him to.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And you should call me Melkor. You’re a guest, after all.”

The closing of the door came just in time to shatter the plate thrown at his head.

-------

A few days later and Melkor was relaxing in his throne, the hall having been swiftly fixed after his previous fury, when Thuringwethil hurried in, clearly trying not to smile.

“My Lord Morgoth, ruler of the shadows,” she greeted, sweeping into a low curtsey. He sat up, knowing that there were only a few reasons she would signal such a display. “You have a visitor.”

“Show them in,” Melkor ordered, smothering a grin.

From the gaping doorway strode a pale figure, clothed in light blues and whites. He came to stand in front of the throne and gave the most cursory bow possible.

“State your name and purpose in front of the Lord,” Gothmog ordered, pounding the base of his sword on the floor.

“You know who I am, Gothmog,” Eönwë snapped. “And I’d wager you know why I’m here. Lord Morgoth, there has been an incident involving a Maia of Lord Aulë’s host.”

“And my darling brother sent you to accuse me?” Melkor gasped. “How rude.”

Eönwë’s glare intensified. “No. My Lord Manwë sent me to inform you and inquire if you might know anything. However, Lord Manwë has always chosen to see the best in you, as his brother. I think we both know who was behind this.”

Melkor didn’t even try to contain his laughter.

“I’ve always enjoyed your honesty,” he chuckled. “Ah, well. I assume we’re talking about Mairon?”

“Yes. Where is he?”

Melkor spread out his hands innocently. “He’s being well cared for, I assure you. We are delighted to play host to such a well-respected member of your order.”

“His place,” Eönwë spat between gritted teeth, “is in the Mansions of Aulë. You must return him immediately.”

“I assume you know of everything that happened with Ossë,” Melkor mused, leaning back into his throne.

Eönwë hesitated, then nodded, clearly curious.

Melkor smirked.

“If you think about it,” he said slowly, as if just mulling it over now, “there really is no better way for Aulë to know the impacts of taking something you want than for him to experience the same.”

“This is all because Ossë decided not to join you?” Eönwë choked disbelievingly. “Oh, you—you’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Not at all,” Melkor retorted happily. “In fact, I see why Aulë likes him so much. He brightens up the place.”

“Lord Morgoth, I beg you to reconsider,” said Eönwë in a low tone, far more serious than he usually acted. “The only thing keeping Lord Aulë and Lady Yavanna even remotely calm at the moment is the idea that he might have gone off on his own for seclusion. If you release him now, I can bring him back to Valinor and we’ll pretend he simply lost track of the time. If you don’t… I dread to think of the consequences.”

“Is that a threat?” Melkor asked archly.

Eönwë threw up his hands. “They see Mairon as their own son. If you stick to this, they’ll be furious. This could start a war.”

Tutting, Melkor waved his hands dismissively. “No one would go to war over one little Maia.” He frowned. “Uh—no offense. Aulë and Yavanna will find a replacement soon enough. In the meantime, thank you for reminding me exactly how useful my new hostage is.”

He smiled at the Maia. “Send my brother my regards, won’t you?”

-------

As it turned out, Melkor really hadn’t formed a plan beyond ‘capture the Maia’, and so he decided he might as well try and get some sort of information out of it.

“Welcome to the guest tea rooms,” he introduced magnanimously as the guard bowed to him and left Mairon in the room with him.

Mairon looked around dismissively.

“It’s hideous,” he snorted, tossing his braid back.

Charming. If Melkor hadn’t been using him as hostage to pay back Aulë he might have been tempted to ask Mairon to stay as an actual guest. He was rather funny.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Melkor cajoled, pulling out a chair. Mairon looked as though he was going to refuse for a second, but then he slid into the seat gracefully. The fingers of one hand were running over the iron of the manacles around his other wrist, pulled from the shadows to keep him there and halt his powers.

“Lord Morgoth,” he greeted coldly.

Melkor chuckled. “I told you to call me Melkor, did I not?”

“You did,” Mairon admits. “I didn’t agree, though.”

Shrugging, Melkor reached for the teapot in the centre of the table. “If that is what you wish. Drink?”

Mairon scoffed. “As if I would trust anything you gave me. It’s probably poisoned.”

“I wouldn’t poison you,” Melkor assured him. “You’re far more useful to me alive. Do you care for some food?”

Mairon blinked at him, then laughed mockingly. “You must truly think me a fool. Do you think I know not what happens to those who eat the food of Utumno? I shan’t be trapping myself, no matter how much trickery you try.”

Melkor had, in fact, forgotten that those who ate the food of Utumno were cursed to never leave, because it wasn’t actually true. He wasn’t really sure where that rumour had even come from: Thuringwethil (the one of them who left Utumno most frequently and also the one who didn’t eat any sort of food) used to make similar jokes, but anyone who knew Thuringwethil at all should know not to believe a single word out of her mouth. She was a shameless liar.

“It was worth the attempt,” Melkor shrugged, because no matter if it was true or not, he didn’t want to give any of his kingdom’s secrets away to his new hostage. “But, as I’m sure someone as quick as you shall have noted already, this does not extend to liquid. Please, have a drink.”

One might think that the rumours indeed would extend to liquid, or that Mairon would be at least suspicious. Instead, the moment Melkor had praised him, the corners of his lips quirked up without his input. He accepted the drink without hesitation.

Interesting.

--------

It was not unexpected that a meeting of the Valar would be called. On a neutral plane, of course: Eru forbid Melkor step foot in their precious Valinor. He did, of course, and frequently, but there was no reason for them to know that.

“Melkor,” Manwë greeted, voice cold.

“Little brother,” Melkor replied with a grin. “Now, whatever could this be for?”

Aulë growled. “You know exactly why you’re here, Morgoth. Where is Mairon?”

“Who?” Melkor asked innocently.

Manwë heaved a deep sigh. “Eönwë reported back to me everything you discussed. I know very well that you have Mairon, and why you think that’s acceptable. I— Yavanna, please stop that.”

“Much obliged,” grumbled Melkor, brushing off the vines which had begun to climb his legs. “Honestly, you call me uncivilised…”

“Return him at once!” Yavanna insisted. “You have no right to keep him!”

“Oh?” Melkor said, raising an eyebrow. “And you do? Are the children of Eru not free to go where they please?”

“Not Mairon,” Yavanna sniffed. “He’s ours.”

Aulë nodded in agreement but he, at least, seemed to have calmed as though he’d seen some light.

“We care for Mairon deeply,” he said, as though this would make Melkor back down entirely and return their precious Maia. “He is, more than any other, our own child, and we love him as such. Of course they are free to go as they please, but Mairon belongs with us, in the light. He cannot survive in your world.”

“Don’t care,” Melkor shrugged, grinning in the most infuriating way he knew. Sure enough, Varda’s dark eyes narrowed.

“You have gone against the natural order of things once again, Morgoth,” she chastised. “This will not go unpunished.”

Melkor rolled him eyes. “Oh? And what are you going to do? You aren’t going to start a war. So many lives lost, over one Maia? You wouldn’t dare.”

Most of the Valar seemed furious at this being pointed out, with the noticeable exception of Yavanna and Aulë, who clearly thought they could and most likely would do such a thing.

“This will come to spite you, Lord Melkor,” Vairë predicted calmly from her place next to her husband.

Melkor snorted.

“Thank you for the useless words! He said cheerily. “Much appreciated. Now, if this is over—"

“It’s not!” Aulë interrupted. “What will you take in exchange, to give him back?”

“Nothing,” Melkor said spitefully. “This is my exchange.” He glanced around the room. “I see Ulmo isn’t here. Intriguing. Aulë, are you angry that Ulmo hasn’t bothered to show up for this, even though it was you rescuing his Maia that caused Mairon to be taken in the first place? I would be. I’d be furious.”

Aulë was furious, he could see it. Yavanna too: she was flitting her gaze between the other Valar as if she expected one of them to jump up and issue a declaration of war.

“I’ll be off then,” he said, slapping his hands on the table and standing. “Bye!”

“We will go to war,” came Yavanna’s voice, cold. Melkor turned to her, interested.

“Oh?”

She glanced at her fellows, who all looked surprised. Melkor was right, he knew he was; they’d never go to war over a single Maia, no matter who it was.

Yavanna knew it too.

“You won’t fight for my child?” She asked bitterly. “Fine. I’ll show you what your reluctance will do. I swear, the land will grow barren. No plants shall grow. The mortal children of Eru shall die, if my child is not returned to me. That is the price of your selfishness.”

She swept her cloak and then she and Aulë were gone, bitter expressions their last impact.

-------

Today’s plan was a little scare for his new… guest. A host of elves had been captured trying to invade his territory and were being most uncooperative. Melkor had decided that the Maia was not acting the way a proper hostage should, and therefore he would see just how well he was being treated right now.

The prisoners certainly hadn’t been supplied with a seemingly never-ending supply of plates to break.

“Are you going to supply me with any actual information?” Melkor asked impatiently, looking down on the prisoners, laying bloody at the base of his throne.

The leader managed to raise his head slightly.

“We’ll tell you nothing, Morgoth,” he spat. A bloody line of saliva trailed from his mouth.

Maybe he should get his housekeepers some better benefits, they had to do a lot of cleaning recently. Or at least start paying them.

“Very well,” he waved his hands coldly. “Take them back to the dungeons.”

Langon waited for them to depart before bowing to his lord. “What shall I do with them?”

Melkor thought for a second, then allowed a slow smile to grow.

“I know,” he said softly. “Why don’t we have our visitor decide? Hmm, Mairon? You’re in charge of their interrogation, now. Pitch your idea.”

“You could flay them alive,” Mairon suggested in a bored tone.

Four pair of eyes stared at him. He didn’t notice until he looked up from where he was buffing his fingernails and gave a shrug.

“What?”

“That’s fucking horrifying,” Thuringwethil muttered.

Mairon rolled his eyes. “You asked, didn’t you? Put them into pairs and have one of each pair flayed while forcing the other to watch. They’ll be far more likely to fold if they aren’t just standing up for themselves.”

“Um…” Melkor blinked, then nodded at Langon. “Yes. Do… that.”

“As you say, my Lord,” Langon said, departing the room with a look of newfound respect for Mairon.

“I thought you Maiar were supposed to be nice!” Gothmog protested, looking at Mairon carefully as though perhaps he had been switched out.

Mairon rolled his eyes. “It’s the most efficient way to deal with the problem. It increases the likelihood of getting information while still ensuring that they are all punished.”

“Right you are,” Melkor approved, trying not to stare. He hadn’t really registered it before, but the Maia really was incredibly attractive.

-------

“Is this necessary?” Melkor complained, letting Thuringwethil steer him into the seat at the head of the table. “He won’t even eat.”

“You can have drinks,” Miaulë pointed out from where they were watching the maids lay out various decorative foods. “I made some wine especially for today.”

They levelled a glare at Melkor. “I really hope you like them.”

Melkor knew Miaulë well enough to know that this actually meant ‘You will like them.’ He really ahd too many cats around, they were so mean.

Bats too, He mused grumpily as Thuringwethil laughed. He got no respect here.

“It will help if you get to know each other, my Lord,” Fankil assured him, leaning against the wall. “You’re planning on him being here for a long time, right? Besides, he’s very smart. Loads of good ideas.”

“How do you know that?” Melkor demanded.

Fankil rolled their eyes. “We’ve had tea and board games together a few times. I rather like him.”

No respect at all.

“It’s almost time,” came the voice of Oikeroi, who had just raced in. “The Maia will be arriving soon.”

Miaulë shifted a couple of bottles a few millimetres, then allowed themselves to get bullied out by the combined forces of Oikeroi and Fankil. Thuringwethil followed them to the small servant’s door tucked away in the wall.

“Good luck!” She cooed, closing the door behind her.

Barely a moment too soon.

“Announcing Mairon of the Maia,” the guard at the main door announced as it swung open to reveal their bitter houseguest.

Melkor stood and made as though to gesture to his seat—

—and then froze.

Mairon had been finally wrangled out of his old clothes, it seemed, and his maids had clearly taken the opportunity to go wild.

Instead of his previous outfit of tunic and leggings, the Maia was draped in long, deep swathes of red. The fabric cut deep around his neckline, stretching down to meet and secure at a heavy gold brooch. Behind him fell the rest of the silk, long and precious and edged with gold. Two long slits ran up the front of the outfit, long either of his legs, so that the material parted every time he took a step and revealed the filmy black fabric underneath.

And he—

Well.

Glittered.

His hair looked even longer and brighter than it had before, radiant against the dim hall lighting. Glowing as if it were itself the molten metal he used, it braided and pinned around his head with the rest falling loose, cutting the dark fabric like a river of fire over his shoulder. Everywhere he could conceivably be wearing jewellery, he was, gold sparkling on his fingers, ears, wrists; even the wrought iron manacles shone. Rubies embedded in gold hairpins peeked out from amid his hair, and a carefully constructed choker was fasted around his neck, the red gems fashioned to look as though his pale throat had been split, jewels falling instead of blood.

Melkor made a mental note to himself to have Mairon’s old clothes burned. He could have the choice between the fashions of Utumno or nothing at all if this was the result.

He dipped his head in greeting. “Lord Melkor.”

Melkor hadn’t heard him ever use his name before, and suddenly found himself almost wishing he’d never given the Maia permission. He was, it turned out, wholly unprepared to hear his familiar name spoken in those light tones.

“Mairon,” he answered, and if his voice was hoarse or weak, the Maia did not comment on it. He simply smiled (oh, they’d put something on his lips, they were so red—) and sat gracefully at the other end of the table.

Oh Eru.

He was done for.

-------

He had been thinking about how Mairon fit into Utumno – no, Gothmog, not because he had a crush, because he was a good ruler and liked people having a nice time – when an idea struck him. It would take a while, but it would surely be worth it.

He could already imagine Mairon’s expression of delight.

Yes, this would be worth it indeed.

It took the better part of a month for the work to be completed, a month filled with tiresome visits from Eönwë begging him to return Mairon and reporting how the mortals were falling in Yavanna’s rage.

Like he cared about that.

No, Mairon was much better suited to life here. Melkor had no intention of letting him go.

When the work was finally completed, Melkor found Mairon in the sitting area of his rooms.

“Lord Melkor,” he greeted, laying his book down. “Is my presence required?”

“Your company is always required, precious little flame,” Melkor answered, smiling despite himself. He reached his hand out. “But as of now, I find myself unable to resist in the way I usually can. Might you accompany me?”

Mairon glowed a little, the way he always did when he was complimented, and nodded, taking Melkor’s hand in his much smaller, more delicate one.

Aulë’s Maiar were not known for vanity, but it suited Mairon. He deserved to be complimented; he was clearly the most talented and beautiful of all his order.

It was not a particularly far walk to the gift, and they made it in companiable silence. It wasn’t until they were at the door that Mairon asked, “Is there a reason for this secrecy, Lord Melkor?”

“A surprise,” replied Melkor. “For you, little flame.”

“For me?” Mairon echoed, looking up through his eyelashes coyly. “My lord, you should not have—”

He was silenced when Melkor pushed open the door into the area he had constructed.

It was a courtyard, surrounded by a variety of wild trees, flowers and bushes, all of them Utumno species. In the centre was the crowning glory: a series of differently levelled pools of fire and lava, flowing down into each other and bubbling with a vicious joy. The rocks around them were dark and smooth, easy to sit on and reach in. The light from the fire hit a series of carefully positioned mirrors in the trees, reflecting around the room and creating a symphony of multicoloured stars.

“Oh,” Mairon gasped, hands over his heart. He did not seem capable of saying anything else.

Melkor steered him further into the room with his hands on his shoulders and Mairon carefully following the guidance, golden eyes flickering around to take in everything he could.

“What are those?” He asked curiously as they passed under a tree filled with round fruits.

Melkor reached up and plucked one. “I call them pomegranates,” he said, splitting it in two with his hands to reveal the ruby-like seeds within. “They only grow here, in Utumno.”

Mairon’s finger hovered over it, as if he were trying to examine the structure of the fruit just from observation.

“You truly made this all for me?” He whispered, eyes raising to meet Melkor’s. “All of it?”

“Ah,” Melkor sighed, reaching out to smooth some of his hair behind his ear, letting the gold earring hang openly. “You deserve all this and more, my precious.”

-------

It wasn’t exactly his decision to have Mairon accompany him on his journey of his kingdoms, but he looked so interested when Thuringwethil brought it up that Melkor could not find it in himself to protest. And so they found themselves walking along a path which Melkor usually only followed on his own during the occasional sojourn.

“Your kingdom is much larger than I had thought,” Mairon mused as they walked. He seemed to favour dark red colours rather than plain black or brown and long, velvety fabrics – though whether the latter was his choice or simply his maids seizing the opportunity to dress someone as they pleased he didn’t know. Mairon seemed strangely at ease in the fanciful clothing, no matter which way it came about.

“I have been working on it for a number of years,” Melkor pointed out. “Ah—careful—” he swept Mairon in from the rocky edge of the trail they were following just as some of the stone crumbled away and fell below.

“Thank you,” Mairon said breathlessly, and Melkor realised that he had accidentally pulled the Maia in flush against his body.

They stepped away from each other, but Melkor didn’t release Mairon’s waist.

Easier to guide him that way. That was the only reason.

“—Structure,” Mairon was saying, still looking mildly abashed. Melkor blinked at him.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard that. What were you saying?”

Mairon gave him a coy grin, clearly well aware of what had been distracting him, and repeated the statement. “I said that you need to have someone come and go over the integrity of the structure. This could be a useful trade route, you know, it would save them having to go all the way around the river. I’ll get Boldog on it when we get back.”

Melkor was not, as a rule, very fond of people giving the commands that he himself should be giving without his orders. Mairon was, as in many things, the exception to this rule.

“Are you doing a lot of that?” Melkor asked, handing Mairon over a large boulder in the middle of the path. “Giving orders, managing my affairs?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to keep my breath up that you’d do it,” Mairon sniffed, then sent a coquettish smile in his direction. “Does that bother you, my lord?”

Melkor smiled down at him, placing his hand back around his waist. “No. No, it doesn’t.”

They walked for another couple of miles, exchanging sly comments back and forth as they went. Melkor had lost sight of where they were entirely, so distracted by talking to Mairon, until the Maia came to a stop.

“What is this?” He breathed in awe.

‘This’ was a tall citadel, stretching far up, towers and half-broken balconies winding round the top in a way that gave a wide view of the kingdom. It had fallen into disrepair but, even beneath the strangling ivy and dirt, the curiously pale grey stone was visible.

Mairon stepped closer almost unconsciously, reaching his hand out carefully to brush his fingertips along the wall. Melkor watched curiously, then tapped his shoulder and, when he’d gotten his Maia’s attention, pointed towards the door.

“Come, Mairon,” he said, taking his hand and pulling him into the entrance hall. “Welcome to Angband.”

The hall was huge, reaching up several stories, with mezzanines and balcony corridors around the edge. Slim columns arched up around the walls, a grand staircase proudly stretching up to the next level. It had been a thing of beauty in its prime: now, though the base was still there, time and neglect had left stone crumbling and wood rotten through.

“It was one of my fortresses,” he informed Mairon, who was staring around in wonder. “Eventually, with the rearrangement of the trade routes and the danger of certain travels, it became more convenient to leave it. Would you like a tour?”

Mairon nodded speechlessly.

Melkor considered where to take him first, wildly aware that the stairs were in precious state, then thought of the perfect place. He pulled Mairon with him through a series of doors and corridors, stopping occasionally so that Mairon could inspect the passages. Finally, the came to a stop before a set of doors.

Proudly, he gestured for Mairon to walk through, and the Maia cautiously pushed the doors open.

He stopped in the doorway with a cry of delight.

Behind the doors was a large room, dust covering the surfaces and a large hearth set into the wall.

As Mairon clearly had realised, it was once a bustling forge.

“It’s incredible!” Mairon exclaimed, spinning so that he could take in the whole room, the bottom of his hem flaring out. “Lord Melkor, this is indeed—”

He seemed to realise that he was gushing and stopped abruptly. “I apologise, my Lord, I lost myself. Thank you for showing this to me. It is truly marvellous.” He folded himself into a bow of gratitude.

Melkor tilted his head consideringly, the back of his mind working furiously to figure out how to get Mairon to light up like that again.

“You truly love it?” He asked.

Blushing ever so slightly on the edges of his cheekbones, Mairon nodded.

“I do, my Lord. The fortress is beautiful. And this forge… even if hasn’t been used in a long time, it tells its own stories,” He admitted.

Melkor nodded decidedly. “Very well then. It is yours.”

Mairon gaped at him, taken aback. “I—my Lord, I’m sorry, what?”

“You like it,” Melkor shrugged. “And it’s a large project, which should give you entertainment for a time. And this way you have your own space, to do with whatever you should please.”

There was another beat of silence, then Mairon threw his body full force at Melkor’s.

“Thank you!” He cried, throwing his arms around Melkor’s neck. “My Lord, thank you. This is more than I could ask for.” He seemed to realise what he was doing and went to step away, but Melkor’s hands had instinctively gone to link at the small of the Maia’s back and so he ended up with his hands resting on Melkor’s chest.

“Thank you, my Lord, truly,” he whispered. “It means more than I can say.”

Melkor let one hand move itself up to Mairon’s lips, placing one finger over them to silence him.

“Then there is no need to say anything at all, my precious,” he replied. “There is nothing I would not do for you.”

Mairon let out a breath and lowered his eyes. He didn’t bother trying to leave the embrace.

-------

He had been searching for his little Maia for about an hour before he found him, probably in the place he should have checked first.

Mairon was sat on one of the rock ledges by the fire pools, kicking his feet into the lava bubbling away below or sometimes splashing them through the small lavafall next to him.

He looked… so very right there, Melkor thought, then brushed the idea away.

Ridiculous, he scolded himself.

Still, though, he could see what his treacherous mind had meant. Mairon’s skin seemed to glow more in the reflection of the lava, his hair the exact colour as if he’d poured some over his head. He was wearing simple clothes without the jewellery and flowing robes he had generally opted for after his last clothes… disappeared, though actually on a second glance Melkor noticed a large pile of abandoned fabric behind his boots.

“Enjoying yourself?” He asked, breaking the comfortable silence Mairon had been in. The Maia looked up, startled, though his face broke into a poorly concealed smirk when he saw who it was.

“Even better now,” Mairon answered coyly, letting his hair cover his face in a veil – and what was Melkor supposed to do with that except stride over and haul him into his arms?

“You’re a shameless tease, you know?” He murmured into Mairon’s hair, startling a laugh out of him.

“My Lord Melkor makes it simply too easy,” he hummed. “Is there a reason you’re here? Or did you just come to manhandle me?”

Melkor shrugged. “You know, I’ve quite forgotten. You’re very distracting, has anyone told you?”

“You might have mentioned it once or twice,” Mairon teased. “Ah, come— put me down, I wish to show you something.”

After a moment of overdramatic thinking, Melkor spun in a circle and then placed Mairon gently back on the ground.

“Very well, precious,” he sighed gently. “If I cannot hold you, then at least I can see your heart’s desire.”

As usual, Mairon’s cheeks heated up at the words.

“You cannot say such things,” he chided, but there was no heat in the words. “No, here, see—”

He clapped his hands twice and the lights in the trees turned off. Once again, and a glowing began to start: a tube, hidden in the foliage, filled with lava which slowly but surely grew, revealing more and more of the tunnel. Eventually, the area around the lava pools was lit by the lava in curving shapes of thin lines.

“You made this?” Melkor asked, astounded. Mairon looked up at him shyly.

“I did,” he admitted. Clapping his hands thrice again, the lights came back on and the lava began to flow away. “Do you like it? I—”

“Speak your thoughts, Mairon,” Melkor reminded him gently.

Mairon sent him a smile, then cleared his throat. “Well, I thought: if we constructed a similar system within the walls, the lava would travel around the whole stronghold. It’s been so cold lately: this would transport heat, decreasing the need for fuel for fires. And we can feed it back into itself, creating an endless supply.” He blushed. “What… what do you think?”

It had been cold lately. The reason for this was that Yavanna had made it so, in her fury at Mairon’s abduction. Mairon knew that, he’d told him. That he would work anyway to aid Utumno, when it was their fault they were cold in the first place—

“It’s perfect,” Melkor said, with very real awe in his voice. He looked down properly at Mairon. “You’re perfect.”

Mairon turned to him, a beacon of light.

“My Lord,” he whispered, head bowed.

Melkor reached out, tilting his chin up.

“You do not need to bow to me, precious,” he sighed. “Not now. Not ever.”

Mairon’s eyes burned in the low light. “As you say, my Lord.”

He glanced around and then looked at his feet, cheeks burning, looking mildly embarrassed.

“We should leave,” he pointed out. “I’m sure you have other things to do.”

“I’m sure I do,” Melkor agreed, though none of them were anywhere near as compelling as Mairon. The Maia nodded and turned to pick up his clothes from the floor.

Unfortunately, the angle they were stood on was very smooth and, as Mairon twisted, his bare foot slipped. Melkor managed to catch him before he hit the floor, landing and rolling automatically to protect the Maia until he ended up laying on top of him.

Mairon…” he breathed carefully. Mairon looked up at him, unblinking.

His hair created a halo where it pooled around his head.

“My Lord?” He asked, the quiet noise sounding like a cry in the silence of the hall.

His eyes were so bright, so golden, like all the light of the world had been made just to reflect in them.

“I—” Melkor let his hand trail along the soft planes of Mairon’s face. “You—”

He leaned down and kissed him.

His lips were softer than Melkor had thought they would be, but of course they were. He was perfect. He had been created for the sole purpose of demonstrating just how unattainable perfection was to anyone else.

Melkor startled back, scrambling to his feet. Mairon pushed himself up, hair messy, lips red.

“Melkor—” he began, but Melkor was already out the door and pacing towards his own quarters.

--------

This had gone too far.

Perhaps it had been leading to this after all. Melkor would not lie and say that he wasn’t flirting. But it had been easy, too easy, to fall into the natural conversation that flowed between them. He had never had the fated companionship that most of his brethren took for granted: for a time, he had fancied the Lady of Stars for his consort, but that was mostly spite at his brother.

And, although he had never found the one destined for him, he had not been glad. Neither Nienna nor Ulmo had married either, but neither of them seemed to feel any particular need to, delighting in their own company. Melkor knew for a fact that they had wine nights where they cheerfully complained about the irritancy of surrounding yourself with couples all day long. (He knew this, of course, because Nienna constantly sent him invites to join them). But he could not imagine it, not when fires of jealousy burned his heart whenever he looked to his side and found no one.

Until Mairon.

He thought of Mairon, trapped in Utumno, his beautiful hair dimming, the gold of his eyes rusting. His laugh, his mind, fading and growing rarer and rarer until he walked the halls as a shade.

Selfishness.

Aulë had been right. Mairon was made for the world above, to share his talents and spread joy. Not for here, in these rotten halls.

He would let the Maia go. Return to the brightness, where he could burn as he pleased and be all the warmer for it.

Mairon came to him in the throne room after the court session, hair curiously windswept.

“Thuri and Gothmog took me flying,” he offered by way of explanation. “You said you had something to talk about, Lord Melkor?”

Melkor hummed, trying to keep a stoic expression. If Mairon were to see how torn up he was inside, this would never work.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, and Mairon stepped closer.

“If this is about the other day,” he said, blushed, then started again. “My Lord, if this is about the other day… there is no need for anything right now. We can take things as slow as you need. We have all the time in the world.”

Melkor closed his eyes briefly.

“No,” he said coldly. “We don’t. The world outside is freezing and dying. Pleas are being sent from every corner of Arda, begging for the cold to lift.”

“That’s not your fault, though,” Mairon replied with a scowl. “Lady Yavanna will see sense, and all will be well—”

“She will not,” Melkor interrupted. Mairon fell silent with an irritated click of his mouth. “She and her husband will rage and not let go. And… I think they are right.

“I have been selfish,” he continued, standing and stepping down from his throne, leaving Mairon to stare at him from the dais. “I have kept you here, locked away. Your place is not here, little flame. Not here in the darkness and shadows.”

He gestured for the Maia to join him. Mairon did so, resting his pale hands in Melkor’s outstretched gloves.

Thin gold bracelets hung around Mairon’s slim wrist, shining against the iron of the shackles.

Gold and iron.

The manacles clicked and whirred and then, finally, fell off entirely.

Mairon stared at them blankly as they clattered onto the floor.

He blinked slowly.

“What?” He finally asked.

Melkor sighed, looking away. “You’re free to leave.”

Mairon took a half-step back, eyes wide. “Are you… kicking me out?”

“I’m—what?!”

It was Melkor’s turn to blink at him disbelievingly.

“Kicking you out?” He echoed. “I’m letting you go! Have you forgotten that you are – were – being held captive here?”

Mairon let out a hard bark of laughter.

“Captive?” He spat. “Don’t kid yourself. I am the greatest of the smiths of Aulë, I could have gotten out of those handcuffs in two seconds flat if I’d wanted to. You don’t get to think for even one second that you could manage without me. Your entire system here was a joke before I came along! Infrastructure. Administration. Staffing. Your law system. I’ve been managing it all! What, you think you can use me, drag me along in your little revenge fantasy, then drop me as soon as you realise that, just possibly, you aren’t as in control as you thought?”

“I will not hear this!” Melkor exclaimed, but Mairon wasn’t finished.

“You think you’re, oh, so high and mighty,” he seethed. “The only thing you have, Belekôrôz, is the delusion that you could ever, ever, be greater than your brethren, and a pathetic desperation to find someone who will love you despite the fact that the moment some one tries, you push them away!”

Perhaps it was the use of his Valarin name that made it hit especially hard, but Melkor reeled back at the words as though Mairon had physically slapped him. If it weren’t for the tears brimming in Mairon’s eyes, he might have been more inclined to take action.

As it was, the only thought on his mind was that he had made Mairon cry.

“I will contact my brother,” he said, straightening his sleeves. “He can escort you back home, to Valinor.”

“Please,” Mairon whispered. Interesting. He’d never seen the Maia beg, not even when he was first captured.

Melkor turned on his heel and left the hall, once again leaving Mairon behind, lost.

-------

On the day of Mairon’s departure, Melkor found him with Thuringwethil, both sat before a game board and moving black and white counters across in different patterns.

“It’s time to go,” Melkor said quietly.

Mairon’s hand paused over the stones, then drew back.

“I suppose that’s it, then,” he said in a deadened tone. “Thank you, Thuringwethil. It was a wonderful game.”

“Congratulations,” the vampire nodded at him. “You won. You’re very talented at this game.”

Mairon sent her a slight smile. “You have been a very good friend. I shall miss you.”

“And you,” she said, lifting a hand to her heart and lowering her head. Mairon repeated the action back at her, then turned to Melkor.

“Well, Lord Morgoth?” He asked, lips twisting bitterly. “I suppose you have other things to do today. I’m sure you want this done nice and quickly.”

Melkor wanted nothing of the sort. Mairon leaving seemed like more of a nightmare than he could ever have predicted, and now that it was time he was hard-pressed to stop himself from locking Mairon in the room and throwing the Valar out.

He wasn’t sure if he could even force himself to watch the sight. His precious Mairon, leaving for the last time, taking with him all the light and beauty that he’d brought upon them.

But he would. One, last goodbye.

Mairon walked next to him silently. His clothes were still of Utumno make, but they were overly simple, far more reminiscent of his previous outfit. His hair was once again in a single, loose braid over his shoulder.

His maids were going to be in mourning for years.

Melkor couldn’t even blame them for it.

The Valar stood solemnly in the entrance hall of Utumno, all of them tall and proud as though they were holding court in Máhanaxar. Melkor couldn’t even find it in himself to sneer at them.

“Melkor,” Manwë nodded, then his expression soften slightly as he saw Mairon. “Child.”

“My Lord,” Mairon answered, with a subservience he had never shown Melkor.

Just behind Manwë, Melkor could see Eönwë, shifting as though he wished to rush forwards and gather Mairon back to them, but Yavanna and Aulë moved first.

“My darling!” Yavanna cried, dashing forwards to hold his face in her hands. “Oh, sweetheart, are you alright?”

“Be gentle, dear,” Aulë cautioned, though he looked as though he too wanted nothing more than to haul Mairon back in into his arms. “Ah Mairon, little flame, please speak. Are you well? Are you unharmed?”

“I gave my word that I would not harm him,” Melkor reminded him.

He received a sneer in response. “As if I would trust you, after all you have done. Mairon?”

“I am unharmed, Lord Aulë, Lady Yavanna,” Mairon reassured the Valar. “The only difficulty is my desire to return home.”

“Of course,” Aulë agreed at once. He pulled Mairon close, one hand on his arm and the other on his back, and with Yavanna on the other side of their Maia they turned to go. Mairon did not look back.

And then—

He stopped.

“What is it?” Yavanna asked urgently. “Mairon, child, why have you stopped.”

Mairon tilted his head to the side. “I—”

Then he bent over double, almost heaving. “No!” He hissed. His eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry,” Mairon sobbed, pulling out of Aulë’s grip and falling to the floor, covering his face with his hands as he wept.

“What is wrong, my child?” Aulë gasped, reaching for him and faltering when Mairon flinched back. “Mairon?”

“I—” Mairon looked up at them all, eyeliner running in black streaks down his face as he gasped for breath. “I’m so sorry, my Lord, I’m sorry.”

Yavanna stepped forwards, her furious gaze fixed on Melkor. “What did you do?” She demanded. “You swore he would be unharmed—”

“No, my Lady, it was me,” Mairon interrupted miserably. “I just… I tried to hold out, I did. But I was so hungry… and I thought, a few seeds wouldn’t hurt…”

“Mairon?” Yavanna asked carefully, turning her attention to the Maia. “Mairon, what did you do?”

Mairon let out a strangled wail before he could speak again.

Very slowly, from one of his pockets, he brought out a small slice of pomegranate.

Several seeds were missing.

Eönwë hissed darkly.

“I didn’t think it would count!” Mairon cried desperately. “I asked around, and people said that it wouldn’t be enough to matter, that a few seeds was nothing—”

“Well?” Eönwë demanded, uncaring of the Valar around him. “If that’s the case then come, now—”

With a shudder, Mairon’s head sunk back down to face the floor. “I can feel it,” he whispered. “The pull… it knows I am leaving for good… it won’t let me go.” He let out a sob and collapsed fully on the floor. “It hurts!”

“Mairon!” Melkor, Aulë and Yavanna all yelled, each falling down to gather around him.

Melkor pulled his head onto his lap, watching his glowing skin grow slowly more dull.

“No, no…” He breathed. Aulë looked up and glared, grabbing Mairon’s arm as though he could protect his from Melkor that way.

“You did this,” he spat. “You killed him. You, and your selfishness.”

“I didn’t—” Melkor choked desperately. “I couldn’t have, I—”

He looked down at Mairon’s face, eyes closed as though he was sleeping.

“I never wanted this to happen,” he murmured.

There was a slight burning in his eyes and then, very slowly, a tear ran down his face.

Aulë sucked in a breath at seeing it and, very slowly, looked down at his child.

“None of us did,” he sighed, a strange kind of peace offering, and then he turned to cradle the wailing Yavanna.

Silence fell.

Melkor felt, very slowly, hands come to rest on his shoulders.

“Do not cry, Melkor of the Valar,” came Nienna’s calming voice. “He is beyond your power now.”

Vairë joined them, Estë on the other side, and both placed their hands on his shoulders too.

“Your anguish does you credit, Melkor,” Estë said gently. “Do not think of his death. Think of his life.”

At some point, the Fëanturi had joined them, and Námo tilted his head at his goodsister’s comment.

“No,” he said finally. “The Maia has not passed, yet. Time may still be written.”

Vairë hummed at this. “Yes,” she agreed. “His threads are left untied. What would you do, Melkor, to have him brought back to you?”

“Anything,” Melkor said desperately. “Everything.”

Yavanna and Aulë were watching the proceedings desperately.

“Would you take him as your consort, your equal in all matters?” Vairë continued.

Melkor nodded instantly. “In a heartbeat.”

“Then it shall be done.” Vairë turned to the other Valar. “My lords and ladies, I must ask you to depart. This must be done carefully.”

The varying Valar nodded and bowed before disappearing in differently coloured beams of light. Manwë met Melkor’s eyes before nodding and departing, taking Eönwë with him. Even Varda seemed to have pity in her eyes.

Yavanna and Aulë were the last to leave, and it was slowly that they allowed Estë and Irmo to take Mairon.

“Please, care for him,” Yavanna whispered. Her skin was sapped and dull, hair withered and falling flat.

Melkor nodded deeply at them both. “I do care for him,” he said. “I have told countless lies in my life, but I swear that my love for Mairon is not one of them.”

They nodded and, with a final glance at Mairon’s prone body, disappeared.

Vairë watched them go.

“This is rather sweet,” she sighed.

Nienna smiled at her. “Suitably dramatic. Lord Melkor, I trust that you mean what you said.”

“I do!” Melkor insisted. “Please, heal him!”

He looked down at where his body had been placed.

“I didn’t even think the curse was real,” he sighed. “How could this happen?”

“You mean that ridiculous thing about those who eat the food of Utumno are doomed to stay?” Irmo frowned. “It’s not real.”

Melkor gaped. “Then… how…”

Irmo gave a deep sigh as both his brother and sister levelled him with glares. “Look, this is not my fault. It was for her to use as she saw fit! You can’t blame me—”

“Irmo,” Námo scolded sternly.

“Yes, yes,” Irmo groaned. “Thuringwethil?”

Thuringwethil and Gothmog had been given strict orders to stay away from this, so it was almost no surprise at all when the vampire’s pale face poked around one of the columns, followed by a deep and worried, “Thuri, what are you doing?”

“Lord Irmo,” she greeted nervously.

Estë beamed at her as Irmo waved her over.

“That was very dangerous, child,” Irmo scolded. “I hope you know that.”

Thuringwethil nodded guiltily. “I know. But he said he knew what he was doing!”

“It didn’t go as badly as it could have,” the Lord of Lórien admitted. “Do you have the remedy?”

“Uh…” Thuringwethil grimaced, which all present took to mean, ‘No’.

“Don’t worry,” Irmo grumbled. “I’ve got one.”

From his cloak, he pulled out a vial of liquid and, with Estë’s help, dropped a couple of drops on both of Mairon’s eyelids and the centre of his forehead.

Almost instantly, colour flooded back into Mairon’s face.

“He’ll need rest,” Nienna said firmly. “Let his body adjust back to the world of the living.”

Melkor stared at them, the Fëanturi, their sister, their wives.

“Will someone explain what happened?” He bellowed.

“Don’t shout,” Estë chastised him. “We’ve done you a favour.”

Irmo raised a different small bottle from inside his cloak. “The Tears of Mandos,” He said, rather unhelpfully and then, lifting the one which he had used on Mairon, “And the Tears of Lórien.”

“Silly names,” Námo muttered.

Irmo winced. “They are, ah… some of my little experiments. One poisons you into a state of death-like sleep. The other wakes you. You see?”

Melkor blinked. “So, Mairon…”

“I happened to have a vial of Tears of Mandos,” Thuringwethil admitted guiltily. “I… acquired it somewhere—”

“Irmo gave it to her,” Estë corrected.

“Yes, Lord Irmo may have had a hand in me acquiring it,” the vampire grimaced. “Lord Melkor, you can’t blame me! He didn’t want to leave, and he knew you didn’t really want him to leave either! It was his idea—”

“Thuringwethil,” Melkor interrupted. “I am very grateful you helped. For that, you have five minutes before I kill you for poisoning the love of my life. Understood?”

Thuringwethil skipped back and let out a little ‘eep’ of fright. “You know what? I… actually, I think Mairon said I should go and see about getting Angband into order! So I’ll go do that, now. Goodbye!” And with that she turned into a bat and flew off.

Irmo watched her fly away. “Always getting into trouble, that one,” he said fondly. “We should leave as well, my love.”

Estë nodded and took his hand, turning once to wave to Melkor. “We’ll be expecting an invite to the wedding,” she grinned, and then they both disappeared.

Vairë shook her head, grinning slightly. “We’ll be looking forward to seeing what happens. Goodbye, Lord Melkor. I hope you appreciate what is before you.”

With bows, the three remaining Valar disappeared.

It took three days for Mairon to wake.

Melkor refused to leave his bedside the entire time, the maids occasionally bringing him plates of fruit. Gothmog came to visit every morning and night and Fankil and Langon both stopped by a couple of times to check in, but Melkor didn’t speak to them. He simply sat, staring, as Mairon lay unconscious.

When, on the third day, Mairon’s eyes began to twitch, Melkor almost fell over himself trying to grab his hand.

“Mairon?” He hissed desperately. “Mairon, precious. Can you hear me?”

He let his hand trail up and brush some of Mairon’s hair out of his face. “Darling? Please, wake up. Wake up, for me.”

Mairon’s lips parted and he sucked in a breath of air. Finally, his eyes fluttered open.

“Melkor?” He whispered. Oh, of course, his throat must be dry.

“Hush now, precious,” Melkor ordered him. “You mustn’t strain yourself. Here, let me help you sit.”

Very slowly and carefully, he manoeuvred Mairon into a sitting position, permitting himself to sit just behind the Maia in what he was going to pretend was support but which was really because he couldn’t bear to be anymore parted from Mairon than he physically had to be, and lifted the cup of water next to them to Mairon’s lips.

Mairon allowed it for a few minutes, then lifted a hand to brush the cup away.

“I’m fine,” he said in a much clearer tone. “I—”

He looked down and away guiltily.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised quietly. “I should never have done that. I have caused you trouble.”

“Mairon—” Melkor tried, but Mairon shook his head.

“Don’t deny it,” he sighed. “I disobeyed your orders. Forced you to keep me in a place I am not wanted, all for my own desires—”

“Mairon!” Melkor interrupted again, and this time Mairon fell silent.

“Silly little Maia,” breathed Melkor, running a hand through Mairon’s hair. “How could I not want you? You are all I have ever wanted in my life.”

“Then why were you going to send me away?” Mairon retorted, sounding as though he was about to cry.

Melkor nodded, knowing that the Maia could feel it the movement where his head rested on Melkor’s chest. “I know,” he said finally. “I should never have done that. I should have listened to you.”

Mairon sniffed again, then let out a watery laugh. “Yes,” he agreed. “You should always listen to me.”

“And I will,” Melkor assured him. “From now until forever.”

“Forever?” Mairon asked. There was a hopeful note in his tone which he seemed to be trying to keep down.

“Forever,” Melkor repeated, and pressed a kiss to the side of Mairon’s head. “After all, I promised a wedding. I’d hate to disappoint certain Valar.”

“That’s a terrible proposal,” Mairon informed him, but he was smiling. “Don’t I even get a ring?”

“I’ll get you all the rings you could want,” Melkor chuckled. “Three, glowing jewels to light you up so that you can show that not even the most perfect gem in existence can shine as bright as you, and a gold ring to unite us.”

“Forever?” Mairon hummed, another repetition of a word which sounded so wonderful. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Malkor hummed his affirmation. “Forever.”