Chapter Text
The air within the temple was thick with the scent of burning herbs, resinous woods, and incense—yet beneath it lingered another aroma, one unearthly and faintly unsettling.
Ar-Pharazôn crossed the threshold with the assured arrogance of a man to whom the world had never uttered the word no. His golden cloak trailed behind him like a standard borne into battle, a testament to his conquests.
Awaiting him, seated at the heart of the hall, was Mairon.
He wore robes of black velvet, their hem and sleeves embroidered with intricate gold filigree, and at his throat hung a chain—Numenorean-forged, deliberately loose, permitting the movements required of his station as High Priest.
He sat poised like a vision conjured from a fevered dream: his long limbs folded with preternatural elegance, his bearing impossibly composed. Though adorned with the semblance of restraint, he could not feign his true posture. He was tall—imposing like a tower—and his presence emanated a slumbering power, as though the very air hummed in response to his proximity.
A cascade of unruly crimson curls tumbled down his back, wild and unbound. His golden eyes glimmered in the dimness like embers banked in a forge. To the king, they were unnatural—terrifying, yes, but no less captivating. Mairon’s gaze never wavered, and his eyes never blinked.
When Ar-Pharazôn spoke, his voice was colored by a desire he had not sought to mask.
“I have known many... soldiers, courtesans, boys barely grown. But you…” His eyes swept the priest's figure with hunger. “You are a rarity. A delicacy.”
He relished the word in his mother tongue.
“I have never tasted anything like you.”
“Do you intend to taste me again, my king?”
The question struck its mark; Ar-Pharazôn faltered, momentarily undone. He closed the distance between them.
“Have you chosen to be docile at last, sorcerer?” he asked, voice low, barely a growl.
“I am obedient,” Mairon replied smoothly. “Though ‘docile’ is far prettier spoken from your lips.”
He rose with grace, the sound of his chains subtle but unmistakable. With an almost sacramental tenderness, he removed the chain from his own throat and wound it about the king’s.
“Do not presume too much, slave,” Ar-Pharazôn snapped, seizing a fistful of Mairon’s hair and yanking his head back. “I am your owner, not your lover.”
Mairon laughed—a sound rich and dark, slipping beneath the king’s skin like wine warmed over flame.
“You say you desire gentleness,” he whispered, mouth grazing the king’s ear, “but that is not what you crave. We both understand what you are. A pig with a crown. A glutton for humiliation.”
The insult landed with the weight of a blow. The king's grip tightened.
“You reek of mortality,” Mairon continued, voice soft as silk. “Of sweat. Of fear. These chains you place upon me mean nothing. I wear this form as one dons a garment. I am ancient beyond your reckoning, and you return to me because you know this.”
Ar-Pharazôn’s breath hitched, his body tense with anticipation.
Then Mairon, slow and sinuous, raised one leg and pressed it to the king’s chest.
The king shuddered, gazing up at the limb as though it were sacred. His fingers trembled as they traced the skin... awed, reverent.
“Enthralled?” Mairon murmured, then, with a sharp motion, drove the king back onto the altar, its cold stone softened only by layered furs.
He climbed atop him, his weight a commandment. With deft hands, he tightened the chain around Ar-Pharazôn’s throat.
This, Mairon despised.
The heat of the man’s body. The stench of flesh. The indignity of touch.
Mortals, in their essence, repulsed him. Be they kings or beggars, they were meat—clamorous, sweating, needy meat.
And this one... this man... was the most loathsome of them all.
He bore down, watching as color flooded the king’s cheeks. Beneath him, Ar-Pharazôn moaned—helpless, debased—like a slut, hips moving with abandon, .
Disgusting.
But still, Mairon did not relent.
He loathed the man’s body. Warm and alive. The hunger. The gasping mouth, open in lust. The vulnerability of a living, failing form.
Yet his body betrayed him. Desire unfurled like smoke from the embers of his wrath.
What made it bearable—almost exquisite—was the pain. The power to destroy and be worshipped for it.
“You desire gentleness?” he growled, voice like grinding steel. He sank his teeth into the king’s chest, drawing blood.
Ar-Pharazôn cried out—not in protest, but in rapture. Undone, unmade.
Mairon moved with violent rhythm—not out of want, but fury.
The altar reeked of blood, of sex, of sanctified desecration. The furs beneath them were soiled beyond salvation. And still, the king begged.
“More,” he gasped, undone.
Mairon’s golden eyes grinned.
“You do not know what you ask.”
“I want you.”
“Then you want your own destruction.” Mairon tightened the chain until the king’s face darkened with lack of air. “And I shall oblige.”
He moved again—merciless, relentless, divine in his cruelty. Each sound that tore from the king’s throat was a hymn Mairon claimed, though he found no joy in it.
Ar-Pharazôn climaxed in silence, body wracked with tremors, humbled and crownless.
“Pig,” Mairon whispered, spitting into the king’s slack mouth. Ar-Pharazôn received it without resistance, swallowing with gratitude.
“Next time,” Mairon murmured, “I shall leave your shattered carcass on this altar—for the gods you forsook to behold.”