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There is a thought that rages in the back of his mind near constantly.
It seeps through his veins like a poison, coils around his mind like a viper, burns under his skin like frigid ice. It does not whisper so much as it shouts, does not urge so much as it demands. It is a thought that his been present not since his conception, but did find root within him almost instantly thereafter. There were perhaps minutes to spare between awareness blooming where there was previously none and the thought blossoming in his mind like a terrible flower.
Well, minutes is incorrect. Those moments were timeless in a very literal sense.
The point is this thought-this feeling-beats like a war drum inside his mind.
This hunger.
A small whimper distracts him out of his thoughts.
Where was he again?
Melkor comes back to himself slowly, drawing the dark fog that has settled on the floor around them back into his body with a deep breath, skin settling back into a more familiar form. He is stooped down low, body hunched over his latest project, but his back scrapes against the ceiling overhead despite how he bends. His hand is tightly wound around the hilt of a sharp and cruel knife, the blade of which hovers just over the elf’s abdomen. Making contact with the skin but not pressing down just yet. He can see the way the elf takes short, shallow, gasping breaths, trying to avoid moving too much lest it cut itself on his blade.
It is very silly for that. It probably should have taken Melkor’s lapse in attention to try to kill itself.
His other palm is pressed firmly against the elf’s face, forcing it down to the table with just enough pressure to keep it pinned there, but not enough force to burst the skull open like a rotten fruit. It’s a line he straddles quite carefully now. More than once he prematurely ended his fun by not being delicate enough with these stupid, fragile things.
Neither of these actions warrant that sad, pitiful noise the elf had made. Unless this one is particularly stupid, it should know by now that Melkor loathes those sad, weak noises. Either scream or be silent. There is no use in doing things in halves.
No… the elf must know this. It must know better by now. It had only whimpered once before cutting off into a strangled silence. Something must have made it make the noise involuntarily.
Curious, curious.
Melkor’s eyes narrow and he draws the arm wielding the blade back slightly so he can examine the elf’s stomach better. There is no sign of injury there. Well, no sign of new injury anyway. There are a great number of old scars that run in careful, neat lines across nearly every inch of the elf’s body. Some are small, designed only for pain. Some are larger, where Melkor had delved in deep to study. Some are white, completely healed over. Some are still red and raw from more recent torments.
Despite this, there is no new blood amongst the grime. No sign that Melkor’s hand may have slipped and carved a new wound. No just cause for that sad, pathetic little whine.
Melkor places the knife down on his worktable, then wraps his newly freed hand over the elf’s stomach. He must be careful here. There are no bones here to protect the elf’s sensitive insides from the might of his grip, so he keeps his pressure light and gentle to avoid crushing it.
And to think his lieutenant believes him to have no restraint. Ha!
With the elf now safely secured, Melkor removes his hand from the elf’s face. Wide eyes stare up at him now that his palm no longer blocks their sight and-ah, there it is.
Something dark and foul had sloughed off his form and onto the elf’s face during Melkor’s episode of absence. It clings to the elf’s lips and nose, and with each shaking breath the elf takes it bubbles and stretches and pulls. It does not completely block the elf’s mouth or nostrils, which is very good. Suffocation is such a boring way to die.
His lieutenant had once pointed out to him that Melkor tends to take the idea of getting lost in thought very literally. Tends to let his form slip slightly into something more monstrous when he grows too introspective. Tends to lose parts of himself when he gets lost in his own mind.
Melkor uses the side of one of his nails to scrape some of the thick, sap-like substance away from the elf’s face. The skin underneath the black has been stained slightly grey, and he watches in fascination as the skin quickly bubbles in large blisters the moment it is exposed to the air. The elf draws in a deep, shaking breath, but when its eyes meet Melkor’s it seems to resist the urge to make a noise.
“Shhh,” Melkor croons encouragingly. “Be still.”
He never paid much mind to these things before. Does not cling to prettiness like some of his kin. He lets himself just be, lets his form shift freely, lets magic seep out from under his skin in a fog, and lets his skin change into something that flows like sap or tar and writhes like thousands of worms, and it feels just as well as when his form is fine and fair.
This is new, though. When he spends his days with the elves he has so graciously brought into his abode, he usually minds his appearance. Hands maneuver knives much more readily than claws, and if he is not careful that power that he lets seep out can choke the very life out of his captives, especially when he already leaves them just a touch too close to their deaths already.
This much is obvious now, given that even a small amount was enough to blister the elf’s skin.
…But it did not kill it.
Melkor’s eyes narrow in thought and he drags his nail across the elf’s face again, drawing up more of the tar and watching grey skin quickly erupt in welts and blisters. The elf is breathing harshly again at the contact, staring up at him with those wide, panicked eyes, and Melkor finds himself irritated by that pathetic look it is giving him.
This is why he covers their faces when he holds them down.
He flicks his fingers idly, and the tar finds its mark in the elf’s eyes. That has it screaming almost immediately, straining against his grip at it wails its little heart out. Little hands come up to cover its face but they are too late to prevent the agony it must be feeling Only a small amount had actually managed to get in the elf’s eyes, since most is still clinging to his nails, but it is apparently enough to cause extreme pain.
Melkor waits patiently, giving the elf time for its screaming to fade to breathless sobs. It takes it a few minutes to settle down, and when it does its shoulders shake-no, its entire body is wrought with tremors. Presumably from pain, though a part could be terror. This is, after all, uncharted territory for them both. The knife was painful, yes, but it was familiar at least. Melkor tilts his head as he peers at the elf’s blistered face. It has moved its hands slightly aside, but still has its eyes squeezed shut.
That simply will not do. He wants to see. Can eyes blister like skin? Will they simply burst? Can it still even see at all?
Melkor wipes his hand idly on the side of his shirt, cleaning his nails of the tar that was still clinging there before reaching out, resting his thumb over the elf’s right eyelid. He must be careful here to not prematurely damage the eyes before he can see his work. Applying only the barest amount of pressure, he draws his thumb upwards, trying to coax the eyelid upwards with it.
The elf scrunches its face, resisting his attempts to open its eyes.
“Stop,” he growls, low and rumbling in an obvious warning.
The elf shakes its head, pulling away from Melkor’s thumb. Foolish. How long has this one been here? To think it would dare deny him. All of his guests should know better than to resist him.
Melkor gives his hand wrapped around the elf’s abdomen a squeeze. Just a little one, a tiny warning, but it is enough to make the elf gag and make a funny wheezing sound. He seizes the moment of distraction to move his hand away from its stomach and grab it by the face instead, covering its mouth in the process. With his thumb on one cheek and his index finger on the other, the elf is well and truly unable to move its head.
Its face is still scrunched up, but Melkor pays it no mind. He flips his free hand over, baring the small, sharp nail of his pinky finger before he carefully works it under the elf’s eyelid. Bit by bit, until his nail is under the flap of skin enough so that he can pry the eye open forcefully. It can hardly be comfortable for the elf, but it really has no one to blame but itself for this. If it had not resisted him, he would not have to resort to more drastic means.
Honestly, the elf is lucky he did not remove the eyelid completely.
The eye is open now though. That is what matters.
He can feel the elf’s breath against the hand pinning its head to the table. Quick and shallow and rapid, in and out through its nose. If he shifted his hand slightly, Melkor is sure he would be able to feel its heart positively racing in one of those large arteries that runs up the length of the elf’s neck.
His attention focuses instead on that eye. The elf’s right eye, now exposed to the world once more.
It does not blister or bubble like the elf’s skin did. It is not stained grey and, in fact, there are no signs of that tar at all.
No. Instead, as he watches, the whites of the elf’s eye begin to rapidly turn yellow. Not a sort of sickly yellow, but bright yellow, which sweeps in from the edges like a spiral, descending upon the middle of the elf’s eye in a whirlpool-like motion. Almost golden in color, with strange little flecks of brown and orange. It no longer looks like the eye of an elf, nor does it look like the eye of any creation of Yavanna he is familiar with. The yellow is rapidly overtaking the iris now as well, devouring the blue color and replacing it with more gold.
Fascinating.
Melkor can feel excitement bubbling up inside him, and with it his skin bubbles and ripples. Darkness begins to seep out from his pores, and he can feel the click of his teeth against each other as he bares them in a cruel smile. The fog is back, gathering around his feet, licking at the sides of the stone table like excited rats waiting for a feast. The ceiling scrapes along his spine again, and he hunches further over.
That eye stares up at him, its black pupil barely a pinprick amongst the sea of gold. There is no more iris. Not anymore.
He wants to see more now. He wants to see what else will happen next. When the blisters on its skin fade, will it return to normal? Will they disappear at all? Will its eye stay like this forever or will it fade back to white? How long will each last? What could possibly come next?
What if the change is permanent? Can he make it so? With the knives it did not matter how many times he cut, the creature under his blade was still elven. What was born an elf will die an elf. Can he change that? Can he make an elf not an elf by dispersing his power into their flesh? Can he make them his?
That thought coos in delight at the prospect.
Oh, he’s losing himself to his thoughts again.
Melkor draws his power back and settles once more into a more fair form. He must be careful now, lest he accidentally kill his new project. Should he let it rest for a time before resuming? Perhaps eat something? Elves are so fragile, and he did desire to see how long the change could last.
Yes… yes, alright. They’ll resume their fun at a later time. Give the elf time to gather its strength before he subjects it to more of his essence.
“Return to your cell,” Melkor rumbles, removing his hand from the elf’s face. It pulls away slowly, resisted by something and ah, it seems Melkor was not fast enough to recall his wandering thoughts as there is a handprint shaped smear of tar across the elf’s lower face that clings to both its skin and his, trying to bind them together.
Melkor pays it little mind, dragging his hand away until the tar is stretched too thinly and snaps. Pieces still cling to the elf’s face, but it also seems to not care greatly, since the little thing flees the moment Melkor’s hand no longer binds it. There is a small thump as it rolls off the stone table away from him and onto the floor, striking the ground hard and in a heap. It does not stay there for long before scampering away on all four limbs like an awkward lizard.
This must be one of those elves that has been with him for some time. The newer, fresher ones he usually must toss back into their cells, but this one returns there willingly and even yanks the door closed behind it for good measure. It has apparently been subjected to enough torment that the cell-dirty, bare, cold-is, above all things, safe.
Good. Melkor deliberately does not choose to torment them within the confines of their cells. Over time, they come to associate the space beyond their four tiny walls with pain and suffering, and it limits attempts at escape.
Not that that would do them any good. They are in the deepest pits, the darkest depths of Utumno. To see the light of day again they would need to navigate through the maze of halls he has created, steeped with his power, filled with his legions.
There is no way out of the darkness. None of the elves here will see the light again until the day that they die.
Melkor turns and prowls out of the halls to find his lieutenant. He is going to need more test subjects.
———
Melkor spares the elf a whole month free of torture. He is very kind in that way, to avoid so much as looking at the wretched thing for an entire month. To spare it the torment of even his gaze. To give it the comfort of solitude and darkness.
That time is up now. Melkor stands before the thick, iron door of the elf’s cell and pries it open, gouging deep lines in the metal with his nails as he does so. He cannot help himself. He is excited.
Dark fog spills into the cell along with torchlight, providing the barest hint of illumination into the dark rooms. Nothing within moves.
Oh, he does hope the elf is still alive. Perhaps a full month was too long to leave it be without checking to make sure it had not passed. It would be a waste to start over again without knowing if it had perished almost immediately, or closer to the end of the month. If he must pour less of his essence into the fragile things, how much is too much? How little is too little?
Melkor slides within the cell, ducking under the low-hanging doorframe with practiced ease. The moment he enters the space, however, something stirs in the shadows and the torchlight reflects off a pair of golden eyes.
“Oh!” Melkor delights. Its eyes are still golden, how wonderful. He wonders how its skin has fared. He extends a hand into the shadows, grasping for the elf’s arm to drag it into the light so he can get a better look at it and-
The elf snarls at him and Melkor blinks, hand pausing in its reach. Aggression is usually one of the first things elves lose when he brings them to his halls. They scream and wail and cry because elves are sad little things. Weak. Pathetic. Any fight they have usually leaves them quickly. In fact, a month prior, this elf had been perfectly well behaved.
As if to prove him wrong, the elf suddenly lunges from the shadows and clamps its mouth down on his arm, sinking surprisingly sharp teeth into his flesh.
Melkor cannot help but stare as it hangs from its arm, nails scratching against his skin as it works its jaw, trying to find a better hold. The bite does not hurt so much as it stuns, and the elf is growling like some feral animal has possessed its body. Curious indeed.
Holding his arm out before him as the elf bites and claws and kicks at it, Melkor turns so the torchlight is no longer blocked by his body. He lifts his arm, trying to examine it better.
The skin of its face is partially grey and molted over in little bumps. The blisters are gone but the staining has remained in an almost perfect preservation of the shape of his palm. Its teeth are no longer flat as well. They are quite pointed now, like the serrated edge of a knife, and are doing quite a good job of trying to pierce his skin. Those eyes that caught the torchlight earlier are certainly still gold, but the pupils have stretched and contorted until they are like thin lines, like the eyes of a beast. Some parts of its skin are still pale. The forehead and ears mostly.
Melkor catches one of the elf’s hands by the wrist and holds it up to the light as it growls and spits and snarls at him. Its nails are still cracked and stained with dirt, but they look more like claws than nails now. Curiously, the skin of the hand-palm and fingers especially-is also stained grey. Puzzling. He cannot recall any of the tar getting on the elf’s hands when they were playing together a month prior.
Perhaps it had tried to clean itself off after returning to its cell. There is no sign of the tar now though on any part of it that he can see. Just the changes it has left on the elf’s body.
And the elf’s mind.
Melkor usually would not tolerate being attacked so, but the urge to bash the elf’s skull against the stone until it stops moving is outweighed heavily by curiosity. Eru’s children would never behave in such a way. For all the elf is trying to maul his arm, he cannot feel anything but excitement.
Its teeth, though certainly sharper now, cannot tear through his flesh like it wants. It has settled for gnawing on his arm, as if it can somehow find and crush bone without actually piercing skin. Adorable. It seems as though all traces of sanity and fear have left its frail little form in exchange for pure rage.
Melkor can certainly sympathize.
Melkor crouches on the floor of the cell slowly, not wanting to disturb the elf. Unfortunately it can still be called that, but hopefully for not much longer. Not with what he has in mind. His other hand finds a place on top of the elf’s head, pressing it gently against his skin to keep it in place. It does not flinch away from the contact but instead somehow bites down harder and rakes its claws upon his skin, as if worried Melkor will try to dislodge it.
No. Far from it.
Melkor hunches over his cute little project as it snarls and snaps at him, nearly curling his body completely around it. He draws in a breath, and with his exhale relaxes his form just a fraction. Releases the hold he has over his power until the fog surrounding them is thick and dark and heavy. He maintains enough control to keep the spread of his more monstrous form from bubbling forth completely. Keeps his body flesh so that he can hold onto the elf without completely drenching it in his essence. He is not stupid. That would surely kill it.
But he does permit a small amount of his essence to bubble forward directly under the skin where the elf is biting him. Wills it to spill out like blood would through flesh that is already being gnawed at.
The elf freezes near instantly, golden eyes going wide. It must still hurt to be exposed to such a thing, but Melkor is careful. He is only going to feed it a little. He is… invested now, as it were.
“Shhh,” he soothes, and the elf unclenches its jaw like it wants to release him, but his hold on its head won’t allow such a thing. He keeps it pinned there, forcing it to drink, even as claws that were digging into his flesh now try to push away. “Fickle little thing. You craved my blood, yet you attempt to pull away from it?”
The elf snarls wordlessly, and Melkor can see its gums are grey and its teeth stained black.
That thought is there again, and Melkor feels nothing but delight.
Mine, mine, mine.