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"It is he whose name is not now spoken; for the Valar have deceived you concerning him, putting forward the name of Eru, a phantom devised in the folly of their hearts, seeking to enchain Men in servitude to themselves. For they are the oracle of this Eru, which speaks only what they will. But he that is their master shall yet prevail, and he will deliver you from this phantom; and his name is Melkor, Lord of All, Giver of Freedom, and he shall make you stronger than they." – Mairon to Ar-Pharazôn, King of the Númenoreans
Once, a white tree had stood in the King's Court in Armenelos, the city of the Númenoreans. Nimloth it had been named, a gift from the Eldar of Tol Eressëa. It had been a seedling of Celeborn, and thus was a descendant of Telperion, the first white tree to shine its silver light over Valinor. Though it gave no light, Nimloth had blossomed every evening as countless seasons swept by, and filled the nights with its sweet fragrance.
Mairon had hated the tree and everything it represented; he had ordered it hewn to pieces and burned in the first lighting of the great altar of the Temple. Ar-Pharazôn had been reluctant to discard such an ancient symbol of the Númenorean alliance with the Valar, but he had eventually relented after a thief had stolen of its fruit. Mairon had seen to it that the King would not waver in his new allegiance. The Temple of Melkor had been built upon the hill in the centre of Armenelos; five-hundred feet wide in diameter, with walls five-hundred feet high. It had taken all Mairon's skill to conquer the engineering feat that was the Temple's mighty dome, which was roofed in silver. When it had been completed, the silver dome had glittered so bright in the sun that it could guide ships to the Bay of Rómenna. Yet soon enough, the burning of sacrifices by day and night had smothered the light in ash and soot, and the roof had turned black.
Mairon watched the city under the shadow of his temple. His keen grey eyes surveyed the ants beneath him, hurrying along dark and quiet roads, where once there had been light and music. They dared not look up at the impossible edifice of stone and metal, let alone the High Priest that surveyed them with cool detachment. Once this arrogant race of Men had challenged him, marched a great host to Barad-dûr itself with proud banners and braying trumpets, and demanded he swear fealty to the King of the Sea. Mairon's title was far greater than dominion over the tumultuous waves, though. He had named himself King of Men, and he had not forgotten it, even if the Númenoreans had.
If the Númenoreans could not see Mairon's pale face or flowing silver hair, they could certainly feel some nameless fear as his gaze fell upon them. The Ruling Ring on his right index finger whispered their innermost thoughts to him, and he in turn could whisper back if he chose. He dominated all lesser wills with his Ring, and Men were the easiest to ensnare. He had come to Númenor as a prisoner of the king, but now Ar-Pharazôn was so utterly lost in the darkness that Mairon only need say a few words cloaked in the guise of wisdom to steer him.
Little was hidden from Mairon's sight, and the Ring gave him perception of many things that would be hidden from Men. At this moment, he knew even before his eyes fell upon the train of horses and bannered spears approaching the temple's giant arched gateway, that Ar-Pharazôn had come. The King and his guardsmen trotted up to the colonnades that stretched around the temple's massive circumference, and dismounted. Mairon watched no more, he was already striding with haste back inside. He sensed that the King had not arrived with an armed entourage just to seek his counsel.
"My King, it is ever my honour to receive you in our Temple," Mairon welcomed his uninvited visitors at the Temple's archway, spreading his arms wide, yet not even deigning to bow his head. He seemed hardly a threat to warrant the presence of armed men in gleaming plate and chainmail. He wore only the robes of the Númenorean fashion, and his face was to them young, yet knowing and perhaps just a touch playful.
Ar-Pharazôn's face looked as stern and creased as if it had been wrought from the very same stone as the walls. He did not acknowledge Mairon's polite gestures, or lack of them, and raised his hand to point at the objects of his displeasure; namely a line of labourers and stonemasons carting loads of stone in a steady train through the Temple gate.
"Tar-Mairon, do not weary my patience. Has our Temple not already emptied my quarries, exhausted my finest craftsmen, and claimed hundreds of labourers in death or injury? What possible need have you of more stone?" Ar-Pharazôn demanded.
"A temple is not an empty cavern, my King," Mairon replied. His patient tone was as a father answers a child's wearisome questions. "Just as we need sacrifices for the Giver of Freedom, so too do our followers need likenesses of him to revere. I am carving the marble into fine statues and wall carvings of his deeds of old."
"Statues and carvings?" Ar-Pharazôn repeated in disbelief. "This temple is infested with accursed statues and carvings! What of those hundreds of gargoyles poking their ugly heads out over us? The glory of our Temple is not diminished for want of more statues, Tar-Mairon."
Mairon turned his head slowly upwards to see what the quick-tempered King was waving at so furiously. When his gaze returned to meet Ar-Pharazôn's, his flint eyes were narrow slits.
"Those are Balrogs, my King," he retorted, his words an icy whisper that mocked Ar-Pharazôn as if he were something far less.
"Tar-Mairon…" Ar-Pharazôn began. Yet no words could he form in the silence that followed. Mairon's eyes transfixed his, and it seemed almost as if the King himself had become a statue, so still did he stand. The breeze was hushed, the pennants on the spears of the guardsmen hung loose, and no birdsong nor bustle of the city could be heard.
Ar-Pharazôn blinked, and the spell was broken. He looked troubled, holding his hand up to his temple as if trying to recall a lost thought. Mairon held out his hand, and smiled. Ar-Pharazôn beheld his advisor's face, trustworthy and forgiving like that of Amandil, his noblest companion before the time that Elf-friends and followers of Eru Ilúvatar were reviled in Númenor. Yet to those guardsmen that beheld Mairon, his smile seemed wolfish and cruel.
"Walk with me, my King," Mairon commanded, and Ar-Pharazôn let himself be led like a stray yearling into the shadowy Temple. The smoldering incense, and glow of embers in braziers lit the dim Temple as though it were a great smithy lined with burning forges. Ar-Pharazôn stumbled, and Mairon came to a stop, not even glancing at him, but exhaling slowly through his nose. "I think we can afford a little more light, if you will it."
Ar-Pharazôn knew not where the light came from exactly, but as Mairon lifted his arms, he beheld the full majesty of the Temple, and was awed into stillness by its vast scale. Thick columns rose up to the inner circumference of the dome and in the grand space under it were the forms of statues taller than the roof of Ar-Pharazôn's court. Some stood completed, others were encircled by scaffolds where stonemasons toiled with hammer and chisel. In the centre of the temple rose a pyramid staggered with stairs, and at the top rested the altar on which those loyal to Eru were sacrificed.
"Behold, the great altar to Melkor, Lord of All, Giver of Freedom, and Master of the Fates of Arda," Mairon pronounced.
"Now, there's an eye-opener and no mistake," one of the guards muttered. The King and his entourage seemed very small as they took their hushed journey through that abyssal space, yet it was as if the otherwise unimposing figure of Mairon dominated it.
Ar-Pharazôn found himself drawn to the largest complete figure, which loomed behind the altar like a watchful guardian. The shadows cast across the angular features of its face gave it a forbidding appearance. Its hands held a war hammer, and it was clad in some sinister form of elven armour.
"Melkor, as I recall him," Mairon supplied softly, as he noticed what had grasped the King's attention.
"You knew him." Ar-Pharazôn was not asking a question.
For the first time, Mairon seemed taken aback. He had not marked the bold King of the Númenoreans as a perceptive man. He hesitated, before inclining his head almost imperceptibly. "I did."
~~~
A single watch tower, perched on a rocky outcrop, had escaped destruction at the black gates of Angband. In the three long, quiet ages of Melkor's captivity at the hands of the foul Valar, nothing but the view from this tower seemed to give Mairon solace. To the west and the east rose Ered Engrin, the Iron Mountains, snow-capped and silent, foreboding silhouettes whose shadows had hid Melkor's servants from the Valar. To the south lay a barren plain, and beyond that Mairon could see the humps of distant mountains from his vantage point. Mairon did not know much of the lands of Middle-Earth, the Valar had left them in the twilight of their trees, and Melkor had not named anything he did not control.
Melkor had promised Mairon many things. He had grown knowledgeable and powerful indeed under his master's guidance. It had still not been enough. If Mairon had been stronger, he would have raised a great tower fortress, gathered or bred all the dark creatures of Melkor's devising, stormed Valinor, and presented Manwë to his master in chains. Instead, he had waited for Melkor's release, restless in an iron prison of his own. He couldn't even raise the suspicions of the Valar by rebuilding what had been destroyed. He had spent the past few ages biding his time deep within the underground fortress, the secret halls of Angband that the careless Valar had overlooked.
Mairon pondered naming the distant mountains. Oronti Autho, perhaps? Or Oronti Núroro, for himself. Or he could do his master proud, and devise his own language to name them, one so dreadful it would hurt the ears of the Eldar to hear it.
The remnants of the black gates and the southern wall were wedged in a narrow mountain pass, a great tunnel hidden behind them that led through myriad caverns to Angband. From above, Mairon could see the patterns of rubble where the walls had toppled inwards from the mightiest of the enemy's blows. His gaze lingered over the ancient stone and fallen ramparts, his face a mask of indifference. He had long since stopped ruminating over the battle that was now ancient history. When next he met the Valar in battle, the memory of this humiliation would be washed away in their blood.
Mairon's attention was drawn to something on the horizon. The mingling of silver and gold light over the land had darkened not long ago, but it seemed to Mairon that still a deeper dark was coming. A shadow grew in the west, an almost tangible pitch blackness, and a chill wind blew over the ruins, moaning between broken walls and forgotten bolt-holes. Mairon was alone, so he allowed himself a thin smile. There was only one who was worthy of such a homecoming.
It was not long after the blackness had smothered the stars, when a cry of anguish tore asunder the still night air. It shook mountains, boiled rivers and even Mairon cowered in his solitary watchtower, clenching his ears so tight his nails drew blood. Something horrid and painful twisted in his heart, and he knew it was fear. It was only the second time he had truly known fear; the first had been when the Valar had taken Melkor in chains. Mairon knew not what would befall him, and would have rushed to his side in an instant, if his master had not instructed him otherwise. Now, as the echoes of the scream died away over the lifeless mountains, Mairon knew that fear again. Melkor was in great pain, somewhere in the darkness.
"Find him." The words Mairon then spoke could be heard in the depths of Angband as clear and loud as if he were everywhere in the fortress at once. His magic was not so great that he could leap from the tower and fly to Melkor, though such a gap in his power struck him as a woeful inadequacy he would have to correct. There were others on his side though, who would make Melkor's tormentor suffer. From the deepest pits and darkest halls of Angband, they came at his call.
Valaraukar they had once been named, though Melkor had chosen a name for them that did not have its roots in the hated Valar. Balrogs, demons of fire, they had served Melkor since the earliest days of his greatness. They stormed from Angband in flame and fury, bellowing oaths of revenge and doom upon the enemy. Mairon went with them in his swiftest form – that of a wolf. Forests burst into flame at their passing, but as they came past Hithlum, the way became so murky as to slow them to a standstill. Great webs blocked their path, and Mairon paced restlessly as the Balrogs burned away the muck with their flaming whips. He raised his head, and howled into the night sky in mournful reply to Melkor's cry, to let him know that his faithful one was close at hand.
The battle with the wretched thing that had taken hold of Melkor was brief. It was a bloated demon with drooling fangs and too many glistening black eyes, but the moment they fell upon it with flame and fang, it cloaked itself in shadow and fled. Mairon might have pursued it, had he not seen Melkor and instead rushed to his side, in his fair form once more. He muttered under his breath, his power undoing the strangling webs of the demon. As they fell away, he saw that Melkor's skin was crossed with dark bruises and red marks. Yet he breathed, and though Mairon showed no relief, his fear fled his heart.
"Melkor, Hérilquanya?" Mairon whispered. Melkor, my lord of everything? Hérilquanya was Mairon's name for him, and no other spoke it.
"I hear your voice, Mairon," Melkor rasped, drawing his free hand up to his throat. His eyes opened slowly, though they were fixed not on Mairon, but on his right hand, which was clenched into a tight fist. He gave a hoarse chuckle, holding his fist close to his chest. "I have struck the Valar straight to their feeble hearts."
"Your deeds are already known across Arda," Mairon observed, "nightfall is your mark, under which all gaze up and tremble."
Melkor reached up with his left hand, and touched Mairon's cheek, his dark eyes meeting Mairon's bright ones. "I had almost forgotten the sound of your silver tongue, Furincë."
Little liar. Mairon took Melkor's hand in his own, though his attention was drawn by curiosity to his master's clenched fist. It was clearly causing him great pain, and it was unusual for Melkor not to boast to Mairon of his latest accomplishment, whatever it was. Melkor noticed Mairon's inquisitive gaze, and a terrible, possessive look passed over his face.
"Think not of that!" Melkor growled, and Mairon drew back quickly, his gaze reverently lowered to the ground. Melkor slowly came to his feet, and regarded Mairon for a moment before he spoke again, this time in a smooth, lilting tone. "I will explain once we are safe. I left the host of Oromë behind some time ago, but that fool rider is as persistent as he is witless."
"As you will." Mairon rose, and assumed his wolf form once again. Melkor grasped at the beast's thick fur, and Mairon obediently knelt as his master climbed upon him. They went together through the night, the flames of the Balrogs lighting their path.
~~~
The deepest forges of Angband echoed with the whispers of Melkor. He had retreated into the pits, and bade his servants leave him alone. Mairon had not taken that to include him, but as he had tried to open the heavy arched door into his master's smithy, the handle had burned his hand. He had scowled, and muttered under his breath, but loyalty won out over disobedience. He would wait until Melkor came to him once more.
However, Mairon could not ignore the hushed sounds of Melkor's voice, or the clanging of hammer strikes against metal. Something was occupying Melkor's thoughts and the skill of his hands, and in the glimpses Mairon caught of him, when he stormed from his smithy with a thunderous look on his face, he could see Melkor's hands were both scorched black. His labours were painful and slow, so unlike the master artisan he knew. It was as if his creation was resisting his touch in some way, scalding his hands and slipping from his grasp, yet still he persevered. Mairon supposed Melkor's creation to be very precious indeed.
Mairon was busy overseeing the reconstruction of the gates. The Orcs of Angband had bred through the ages, honed themselves through generations of inter-clan rivalry. They were scuttling vermin below him as he watched from his tower. They toiled under the whips of their captains, hauling up stone and steel with rope and pulley, spindly cranes and scaffolds teetering haphazardly along the walls. The hierarchy of the Orcs was fluid enough that Mairon had stopped bothering to learn names. The latest Orc captain had complained – to no lesser being than he! – that the gates could be sealed with greater speed, on the condition that the Balrogs, and here Mairon recalled the words specifically, stopped lurking in their holes and put their backs into it. The Orc captain had been transfixed on the spot by Mairon's silver-glowing eyes, and the overwhelming force of his voice, commanding him to go before Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs and High-Captain of Angband, and tell him that.
A pale light shone across the dusty tracks and ruined walls of Angband. The orcs scattered, howling and snarling in fear and confusion. Mairon felt for the handle of his mace, for a moment thinking some new sorcery of the Valar was upon them. Then, he beheld Melkor, and was stilled.
The Lord of Everything had come, scattering orcs and other fell creatures alike as they recoiled from his dread presence. He ignored them all, and even from high above, Mairon could see Melkor matched his gaze unwavering. He ascended the steps up the watchtower and came before Mairon at the windswept top, the crown of pale light set over his coal-black hair lighting the old lookout like a beacon. Three jewels were set on Melkor's brow, perfect and unmarred, their pale brilliant glow seeming both wonderful and terrible at once to Mairon. They were fallen stars, fruits of Telperion, or shards of Illuin. Mairon might have desired them for himself, if they did not scorch his eyes so with their insistent gleam. Even now, he could guess what had burned Melkor's hands so terribly.
Mairon bent to supplicate himself before his resplendent lord, but Melkor's hand on his check stayed him. It still felt cool, despite the black marks, though its works and pains had scraped away its smoothness, leaving it rough and callous.
"None of that, Furincë," Melkor said. Mairon felt the hand cup under his chin, thumb and black fingers pressing his jawline as Melkor pull his head close to match their lips together. Mairon tried to enjoy the moment in thoughtless bliss; but he knew that later he would feel resentment that Melkor never let the course of their intimacy flow unguided. He was always pulling and grasping for control, his desire turned into possessive force. Melkor released him, a wicked, playful smile on his face, eyebrow raised slightly as if it were Mairon instead who had stolen a kiss from him. "Patience has its reward, does it not? How like you the Silmarils, the last lingering remnants of Telperion's light?"
Mairon truly disliked the three Silmarils, and such a burning radiance so close to him would have been intolerable had Melkor not been the bearer of it. He doubted their light pleased Melkor either; all his triumph was at the possession of the Silmarils only, rather than any appreciation for their beauty.
"They are without rival in all Arda," Mairon murmured, evading the real intent of the question. "As are you, Hérilquanya."
Melkor regarded him. Mairon's lustrous eyes were open and honest, but he was not Melkor's little liar for nothing. Mairon shivered as Melkor brushed his long hair back, and whispered into his ear though they were alone, letting Mairon closer than his faithful servant would ever dare himself.
"You missed me." Melkor himself sounded delighted by this, perhaps even surprised. "You stayed here, where I left you, and thought not of crawling back to Aulë. My lonely, patient watcher on the tower, your vigil is vindicated. Your greatest reward is yet to come."
"I sought no reward," Mairon whispered back. A shameless falsehood; yet he could not admit, even to Melkor, why he had remained. As he felt Melkor's arms close around him, he knew he did not have to.
"First," Melkor said, "the view from this tower is wholly unbefitting my second-in-command."
"Oh? Will you build me another tower, and make me lord of it?" Mairon asked. His grin was mirthful, but his eyes were now lit with greed.
"Tower? I'll raise for you a mountain," Melkor boasted. "Or… perhaps three."
~~~
"Tar-Mairon?"
The voice of Ar-Pharazôn shook Mairon from his moment of reflection. He blinked, still staring blankly up at the stone face.
"You will never know what it was to be in his presence," Mairon said. Ar-Pharazôn opened his mouth, but the look in Mairon's clouded grey eyes killed his ill-formed reply before it left his throat. Those terrible eyes, their light dimmed by the ages, contemplated Ar-Pharazôn with such intensity that he felt short of breath. "Yet the mere shadow of his likeness overwhelms you. So it should, for that is how I remember him."