Chapter Text

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Chapter Text

Mairon ran his long-fingered, elegant hands over the lapels of his inky-dark suit jacket and smiled.

He would be “The Admirable” once more, he thought. He’d inspire respect and even a healthy dose of fear.

Yes, he could sense it—he was on his way back up.

Wrenching this dubious establishment from Arafinwë’s trembling hands was but an unfortunate first, provisional step on the path to success that had to be borne with equanimity, of course, but Mairon could see the potential in this enterprise.

If he’d been given the choice, he would never have elected a school of all things to start his comeback.

At first, he’d utterly despised everything about this noisy, crowded place, but he’d soon changed his mind as he progressively realised how complex and alterable it was.

Sure, Arafinwë’s rule had been one of strenuous compassion and inefficient nurturing, but Mairon prided himself on being able to dismantle and optimise any machine he came upon.

The raw materials—the setting, the people, the context of unsupervised indoctrination—were highly promising, and he was looking forward to setting his plans into motion.

Children, after all, had such open minds, and—with the right help—he might well forge a new army of corrupted, perverted creatures to carry him to his goal.

A discreet knock on the door interrupted his internal monologue, which he’d never willingly have called a pep talk, because he didn’t need such weak-minded, soppy, therapeutic encouragements.

“The students are waiting for your speech,” the bat-like creature Mairon had recently hired informed him. “I can hear them puttering around down there.”

As she was clinging to the ceiling as if fiercely aware of the sticky debris that followed young ones wherever they went, Mairon wasn’t entirely sure where his future underlings were to be found presently.

Were they already at his door?

“I’m coming. Gather the…staff,” he barked.

He shuddered and invoked the Dark Lord to keep his new employees from devouring their charges before the bell rang.

“Growing pains, teething problems,” he muttered to himself as he grabbed the long, intricately ornamented cane he’d forged for the occasion and left his office.

As soon as he arrived in the “Auditorium”, he had to suppress a groan.

Half of his employees were huddled in the shadows, wary of the bright light streaming through the stained-glass windows.

A pair of dark green curtains had caught fire.

One of the said glass panes had burst into multicoloured shards when Glaurung had smashed his massive head through it.

Worst of all, though, were the fresh, hopeful faces of the half-baked, puffy-cheeked creatures, who were milling around the room noisily.

Distraught by their enthusiasm, Mairon started to regret having rejected Ungoliant’s application to become the new lunch lady—she might have cowed them into solemn, fearful silence.

Banging his cane onto the polished wooden floor, he learned his first lesson: If you wanted something done well, you had to do it yourself!

“Silence!” he bellowed. “Many things are about to change in here!”

“How’s your dad holding up?”

Finrod turned around to find Beren, hip cocked and youthful face grave, standing just behind him.

“He’s plotting his revenge,” the golden-haired youth replied with a quick shrug.

They both knew that Arafinwë, the former headmaster of the boarding school they’d been confined to, was prone to long, diplomatic discussions rather than forceful, reckless action.

“I wonder what the new tyrant will be like,” Beren mused aloud.

Despite their difference in actual lived years, the two adolescents shared an irrepressible taste for adventure, which translated more often than not into a proclivity for what was considered “naughty behaviour” by their elders.

Hence, they had been sent to boarding school in hopes that the strict rhythm and strong sense of community and mutual responsibility would temper their flights of daredevil fancy.

Thus far, the success of that plan had been middling at best, for it was their inherent sense of honour, fairness, and loyalty that motivated most of their transgressions, and the imposed helplessness of the strict setting had only strengthened their resolve to oppose injustice and abuse by any means necessary.

“If he thinks we’ll just roll over, he’s sorely mistaken,” Finrod declared pugnaciously even as the heavy oaken door behind them opened and a tall, lean man strode in.

From the oddly metallic sheen of his long hair to the pinched expression on his unnaturally beautiful face, he radiated the kind of cold sophistication that was laughably misplaced in a school for teenagers.

Just like Arafinwë’s devastating fall from power, though, the theatrical entrance of their new headmaster was soon displaced in the youngsters’ minds by entirely more pressing and mundane preoccupations, namely the unexpected addition of a new student to their roster.

“She’s beautiful,” Beren sighed. “She looks so delicate—I shall protect and defend her fiercely.”

As he drank in the dark, glossy hair and the huge, bright eyes of the young girl, Finrod sniggered.

His experience with his sister and cousin had taught him never to mistake ephemeral beauty with actual weakness, so he easily recognised the stubborn set of the girl’s rosy mouth and the understated but undeniable determination in her slender shoulders.

“I wonder what her name is,” Beren went on, undeterred.

“Why don’t you simply ask her? It seems it will take another hour for that fop to finish his procession through the room anyway.”

Despite his cheery attitude, Finrod couldn’t fully shake the shiver of apprehension trickling down his spine.

The headmaster’s first announcement only cemented the vague sense of dread assailing the student body.

Things were about to change, and Finrod was almost certain that it wouldn’t be for the better.

Nonetheless, his oath-bound, avowed friend looked ecstatic as he sidled up to the mysterious newcomer to shoot his shot.

“One has to take the good with the bad,” Finrod repeated his late grandfather’s heartening words under his breath.

As per usual, the young man was thoroughly convinced that he’d be able to cheat the system, reap rich rewards, and stave off the machinations of evil.

Chapter Text

Mairon’s nails made a rhythmical clicking sound against the polished desk as he drummed his fingers impatiently.

He was presently studying a list of things that were generally considered scary by children to inspire the forms he’d adopt to lurk and eavesdrop.

Indeed, the students had struck him as entirely too cheery thus far, and he was eager to instil good, honest terror in their malleable, little hearts.

Some of the points on the list he’d found were unfortunately incompatible with his vanity, while others were entirely too vague.

Not seeing himself impersonate the “fear of heights” or the “dread of a parent being murdered gruesomely while in the corner shop”, he finally settled for “dark corners and threatening shadows.”

Thus, he let the polished façade of a high-level bureaucrat melt away and embraced the billowing shape of pure darkness.

For a while, he just prowled through the corridors, pursuing stragglers and harassing students who’d asked for a hall pass by rushing along the walls, shadowy maw open and eyes aglow with sheer malice.

When he eventually tired of this, he dispersed, questing in every corner of the ancient, sprawling building for a situation that would benefit from his authoritarian intervention.

It didn’t surprise as much as annoy him to find that it was Fido, the son of a “friend” Mairon had made in “Werewolves Anonymous”, who required rescuing from his class.

“That’s what nepotism gets you,” Mairon groaned, his words underlined by a puff of noxious gas. “I knew he couldn’t be trusted.”

Of course, Fido was not the real name of the werewolf Mairon had hired to replace the former mathematics teacher, who’d met with an unfortunate accident at the first staff meeting since the switch in management.

Only, Mairon couldn’t bother to remember the highly complicated sequence of vowels that constituted the official appellation of the smelly, ill-kept creature.

Mayhap, if he dared come close enough, he could check the golden tag Fido’s mother had made for him to wear on his fashionable collar.

As soon as he burst into the chaotic classroom, Mairon realised where the problem with the new and improved teaching program lay.

Fido’s understanding of fractions was limited to halves, as he was half-man, half-wolf, and the rest of his curriculum seemed to centre around counting the days of the month and calculating the waxing and waning of the moon.

Evidently, such self-serving motives did nothing to retain the students’ attention, and so Mairon was dismayed to find them engaged in various silly games while Fido was ranting and raving about the full moon.

Just then, driven beyond his limits, Fido lunged across a few rows of benches and let his powerful jaws snap shut around a pale-haired boy’s calf.

Being the undeniable leader of the pack of ne'er-do-wells, he nevertheless shrieked in agony.

Immediately, pandemonium erupted.

With a ghostly howl so loud, it made the walls quake, Mairon restored blessed silence to the accursed schoolroom before it could descend into utter dissolution.

Finrod and Beren truly tried to give their new teacher the benefit of the doubt; it was, after all, not as if their previous calculus instructor had been a fountain of enthusiasm and inspiration.

Lúthien, whose actions, words, and reactions had soon become one of the most important elements to observe amidst their dull daily routine, even seemed initially pleased with the diverse hiring.

A short time later, however, everyone had to accept that diversity and qualification did not necessarily go hand in hand when their canine educator went off-script to dedicate himself exclusively to the various phases of the moon cycle.

“What is he on about?” Beren hissed, visibly perplexed.

By the end of the last term, they’d reached the subject of complex equations and were accordingly highly confused by this stark regression in difficulty and utility of the new program.

“Maybe, it’s a refresher?” Finrod whispered, ever the optimist.

When, after another few minutes, the oddly shaggy, long-toothed teacher still refused to move on to newer, more challenging subjects, the students stopped paying attention one by one.

Before long, though, the canine nature of the neglected lecturer broke through, and he howled angrily to make the students look at him.

And thus, he betrayed his profound ignorance about the outrageous resilience and nonchalant indifference of adolescents regarding the needs and wants of their minders.

It was only when a dark shadow in the shape of a huge, clawed ghoul slid in under the door and expanded across the whole latitudinal wall that the disrespectful chattering died down.

Finrod, who’d been engaged in a game of hangman with Beren and Lúthien, had not yet noticed this new, malevolent presence in the room—he was frowning at his crumpled weekly schedule.

In the margin, a few disjointed letters had been pencilled in sloppily, and he tried to figure out the whole word by substituting various vowels in the gaping holes.

“Fëanor!” he exclaimed as the penny finally dropped.

The sudden jolt of triumph thrumming through his limbs, as well as his conspicuously loud outburst, was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

The forceful hindlegs of their teacher tensed up and expanded, propelling him halfway through the room in an instant, and then, his iron jaws closed around Finrod’s lower leg even as he made to sit back down dutifully.

Beren lifted his pen high, ready to drive it through the hairy head of the crazed educator-turned-attacker.

Lúthien, far from shrieking or fainting, instantly stood and grabbed her chair to bludgeon the ferociously snarling creature if necessary.

It never came to that.

A roar akin to a winter storm exploded within the shaking walls of the classroom.

“Fido! Down!” an oddly familiar voice screeched.

“You, boy, go to the infirmary! The rest of you will copy the next twenty pages of your book for tomorrow and do every drill within that section twice. Now, go stand outside in the yard!”

Chapter Text

In all his existence, Mairon had never known such a blinding pain as the headache now pounding against his temples as if trying to split his gorgeous skull.

Children, he decided, were the worst lifeform to ever mar the face of Arda.

They were, unfortunately, closely followed by the orcs he’d employed for basic housekeeping.

This was revealed to have been a terrible idea when they adamantly refused to clean up the pool of blood in the classroom. To them, such a sticky cesspool of infection was apparently an integral part of a tasteful décor.

Rubbing his temples, Mairon paced through his bare office.

He’d dispensed with all the disgustingly sentimental knick-knacks Arafinwë had hoarded like a brain-dead magpie, but the room still reeked of clemency and idiotic ideals.

Once more, his secretary approached him from above.

“They think this is a prolonged recess,” she informed her fearsome superior shyly. “Also, the kid who’s been mauled is regaling his classmates with ribald songs. It does much to lift their spirits; I thought you might want to put an end to this rambunctious behaviour.”

“Send Gothmog,” Mairon hissed. “A little physical exertion shall soon tire them out!”

Recruiting the Balrog had been a stellar idea, the new headmaster congratulated himself. He might not have foreseen how much trouble this school would actually be, but at least he could depend on the huge monster and his flaming whip to keep the creeping, crawling, mouthy vermin on their toes.

And if all failed, Mairon would simply have to deploy a few songs of power of his own.

Comforted by that thought of glorious retaliation, he assumed the form of a many-legged reptile with glowing eyes and sharp fangs and slithered out into the courtyard to witness the inevitable breaking of the students’ spirits.

When he arrived, Gothmog was chasing the screeching mob across a course of home-made hurdles.

Now, Balrogs weren’t exactly known for their crafting skills, and this shortcoming was clearly discernible in the crude, nail-studded obstacles that had been haphazardly covered in shards of glass and barbed wire.

The crack of the fiery whip and the resonating roar of the fire demon were music to Mairon’s ears.

Incognito as he was, Mairon took up position at the foot of the most gruesome of barriers and nipped at the heels of those who managed to climb across every rusty, cutting, stinging difficulty.

“Wait, I’m fond of them, don’t crush it!”

Mairon looked up to see a sturdy boot’s solid sole hovering above his head.

He hissed menacingly.

A moment later, the golden-haired boy who’d driven poor Fido into a foaming frenzy arrived, limping but cheery.

“Slither along, little one,” he chirped and nudged Mairon with his mangled foot.

“Race you to the finish line?” the owner of the threatening footwear laughed good-humouredly.

He was a shaggy, unkempt, unsavoury youth, and Mairon’s maw filled with venomous resentment as he watched them saunter away as if they were having fun.

Gothmog had failed too.

“Are you afraid of dogs?” Lúthien’s enchanting voice was laced with gentle mockery.

“Me? Never,” Beren exclaimed, vexed in his still-wobbly manly honour. “I could tear a dog apart with my bare hands.”
“And lose one of them in the process, no doubt,” she replied coolly, disapproval writ plain across her beautifully radiant face. “I love dogs. Do you think Finrod is going to be okay?”

“Oh, certainly,” Beren reassured her; he didn’t doubt for a second that his hardy friend would be as right as rain as soon as the gnarly flesh wound was patched up. “Shame that he’s missing physical education, though. I’m sure he would have loved to dazzle us with his parkour skills.”

Again, the young girl merely snorted derisively before leaping away.

As brazen as she was light-footed, Lúthien not only misappropriated their terrifying teacher’s flaming whip as a skipping rope as she seemed to float across the course, but also helped any classmate she could reach in need of a boost.

Not wanting to be outdone by the one he was trying to impress with his determination and dexterity, Beren was hard on her heels, whooping and cheering merrily.

By the time Finrod joined the fun, their less-than-edifying trainer for the day was sweating embers, and rivulets of soot and ash ran down his grotesque grimace.

“Oi, wait up!” the limping classroom hero called as he swung himself across the first obstacle with enviable grace.

The way his golden hair shone in the dull, grey light seemed to incense their teacher even more, and the whip came down on a group of whimpering stragglers with a dreadful crack.

“The infirmary is just over yonder,” Finrod called over his shoulder.

As much as he’d indulgently smirked at his father’s soft pedagogy at times, he couldn’t say that he now approved of these changes that undoubtedly put students’ welfare in peril.

Still, their towering tutor was bellowing in a language none could understand, and the remaining pupils made haste to complete the course before it could start to rain.

When he finally reached Beren and Lúthien, Finrod saw that his friend was about to step on a hissing, spitting reptile.

He stopped Beren before he could crush the poor thing underfoot, for he’d ever been fond of profoundly misunderstood, scaled beasts.

Lúthien also seemed less-than-pleased with Beren’s readiness to destroy so marvellously absurd a critter without a second thought.

“It was about to bite me!” the chastised youth grumbled accusingly.

As Finrod pushed it aside with his foot, Lúthien lectured them on the primitive brain and visceral instincts of invertebrates.

At last, the dense, dark clouds overhead burst, and their tutor fled with a long-drawn, angry wail without taking the time to do a proper headcount.

“We should break out,” Finrod said.

“We should break in,” Beren proposed at the same time. “No doubt, there’s something cool we can steal from the headmaster?”

“Let’s do both,” Lúthien grinned. “Help me push over these obstacles. Quick now!”

Chapter Text

Despite being the worst teachers he’d ever seen, Mairon’s new hires were at least apt at pursuing and wrangling the pesky students who’d tried to escape his new regime of discipline and healthy terror.

If it had been up to him, Mairon would have had half a mind to let them wander through the wilderness without food or shelter until they came crawling back of their own accord, begging him for mercy.

Alas, neither Fido nor Gothmog had the wherewithal to withstand the draw of fleeing prey, and so they’d given chase.

When the culpable parties were dragged into his office, the much put-upon headmaster was unsurprised to discover that it was the very same agitators who’d caught his eye earlier.

Reptilian brain! Dumb invertebrate! Their disrespectful demeanour made his blood boil even now!

Grinning unapologetically, they were looking around as if they were on a private tour of the school grounds rather than on the verge of being decapitated where they stood.

“What have you to say for yourselves?” Mairon asked tersely, steepling his long, perfectly manicured fingers under his shapely chin.

He’d not had time to conjure up another frightening disguise, but—as his previous attempts had hardly been crowned by success—he’d all but given up on that course of action anyway.

“That’s wicked! Is it some kind of monkey’s paw?” Beren exclaimed as he examined a dismembered, mummified hand Mairon had put on display for effect.

Considering that his plan to take over the school and turn the students into his underlings had failed miserably despite him doing everything right, Mairon started to wonder about this himself.

“Don’t touch that!” he hissed, exasperated.

Neither his gruesome trophy nor the Orc’s truly horrid finger painting—congealing blood on dirty wood—had managed to cow these troublemakers into submission, so he didn’t dare hope that a simple scary story would sober them up.

He was so focused on the two pubescent pups poking through everything they could reach that Mairon almost forgot about the girl who’d accompanied them.

Quick and quiet as a shadow, she flitted around in the background, weaving in and out of his field of vision like an undecided ghost.

He should have been wary, but he was far too unnerved and annoyed by their rebelliousness to feel anything other than depthless exhaustion.

“You’re not to leave the school grounds, that goes without saying. Also, there’s a dark, dank dungeon with your name on the door. After school, regardless of your state of health, you shall remain there until classes resume. Is that understood?”

For the first time since his ascension to the wooden throne of education, Mairon sensed a shiver of apprehension in the air, and he savoured it.

“Now run along. Glaurung doesn’t tolerate tardiness!”

When the three revoltingly contrary cubs turned to leave, Mairon smirked. “Don’t forget yourselves and mind your manners!”

As soon as the door fell closed behind them, he leaned back in his chair and cackled.

Victory was his!

A little more bruised and battered than any student should be after half a day of school, the temerarious trio hobbled back to the auditorium.

“This is starting to become absurd,” Beren complained under his breath when they entered the room, only to find the massive head of their teacher still poking through the broken window.

“Do you think he might be stuck there?” Lúthien wondered aloud.

“I have been waiting patiently for you,” the huge, wingless dragon snarled, his sharp teeth bared in a terror-inducing rictus that might have been a smile. “I always know exactly where and when people will appear.”

Nostrils flaring, Glaurung shifted ever so slightly.

“Ah,” he purred threateningly. “I like the smell of you!”

“See? You wear entirely too much jewellery,” Beren quipped as Finrod stepped back in alarm. “It’s not only blinding birds! Now a literal dragon yearns to roll in your riches, whether they’re still attached to your puny body or not.”

Grimacing in disgust, Finrod grumbled something unintelligible.

“Better not let him see this, then,” Lúthien whispered conspiratorially and tugged at her pocket to let the others glimpse an expertly crafted jewel that seemed to pulsate with living light. “I nabbed it from the principal’s office.”

“Hey, that’s my family’s,” Finrod whispered.

“Well, now it’s mine. Finders, keepers.” Lúthien shrugged and patted her pocket smugly.

“Family,” Glaurung interrupted, eyes ablaze with malice. “Yes, shouldn’t you—like so many others—run back to your kin? They might be in danger. Is an education really worth the risk of being forgotten little by little by your friends and family?”

“I wish they’d forget about me for a little while,” Lúthien mumbled. “My mother has a perfect memory.”

“What family?” Beren hissed in a hard, resentful tone.

“Have none of you a dainty sister or an ailing mother to rescue?” Glaurung inquired, impatient.

“I’m honestly sorry to ruin your creative writing prompt for grisly presages of misfortune, but you seem to be wholly ignorant of the virtues and strengths of the women of my line,” Finrod chuckled. “The toothy teacher and the gruelling exercise course were holiday fun compared to a family gathering in my house.”

The scales on Glaurung’s neck started to glow like embers, and hot, malodorous smoke burst forth from his widened nostrils and open jaws.

“Mayhap, I shall hex you to lose all memory of those you hold dearest,” he bellowed.

“My quest is bound to this ring,” Beren scoffed, holding aloft his most precious heirloom.

“Don’t be silly,” Lúthien sniggered. “My parents live like hermits, and yet they are unforgettable.”

“I would like to see you try,” Finrod exclaimed and threw his arms up dramatically. “My family won’t let you forget them. In fact, they might be standing behind you even as we speak. You may well have conjured them up by invoking them once too often.”

By now, open flames flickered across Glaurung’s gleaming fangs, and the glass shards arrayed like a necklace around his head started melting.

Chapter Text

“Enough!” A flaming eye, all-seeing and lidless, opened in the ceiling and twitched frantically at the rush of the dense smoke rising from the dragon’s blazing head.

“Go for a walk, Glaurung. You seem to be overheating!” Having failed to foresee an actual mouth, Mairon had to accept that his delivery sounded a tad tinny in the sprawling room. “You’re also blocking the only open window!”

He would have to amend this in his next iteration of this particular nightmarish form.

“But…but…” Glaurung sputtered in an eruption of red-hot embers and stifling ash. “How dare they?”

Mairon had lost much peace over this specific question himself.

“I shall take over,” he said suavely. “If you won’t squeal, you shall sing for me.”

He’d found the curriculum in a dusty drawer and was determined to get this school back on track.

If he could only find the rosters as well to find out the names of those detestable children, he’d surely gain the upper hand.

Indeed, he’d only realised that he’d forgotten to make them sign their names on his “naughty list” when they’d already left his office, and none of the other teachers had even bothered to wonder about such inconsequential details.

They said it was easier not to know the individual names of their food, and Mairon couldn’t fully disagree with that.

A principal, he considered, was supposed to know these things about his charges just like a farmer was to recognise his cattle.

“You,” Mairon exclaimed, staring pointedly at the golden-haired, big-mouthed youth who’d reduced Fido to a whimpering mess. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Given the lithe frame and the delicate facial features of the boy, Mairon had expected a soppy ballad about green fields or sweet maidens.

Alas, he seemed to be under the misapprehension that Glaurung’s chaotic brainstorming session was still underway, so he launched into a fast-paced spoken word piece about his family.

Not only was it tediously long, but the proverbial thorn in Mairon’s side appeared to make it up as he went…and he showed no sign of running out of ideas anytime soon.

Unable to escape the verbal diarrhoea, Mairon at least got an inkling as to the identity of that tiresome creature, which gave him a small measure of comfort.

He’d use this newfound information to break the insolent pup!

Mairon took a deep breath, recalling all the humiliation and anger he and his admittedly underqualified staff had suffered at the hands of the student body already, and prepared for his counterstrike.

He’d grind this descendant of Finwë the Foolish into a pulp so fine that even Fido in his present state of indisposition could partake in it, albeit through a straw.

Power and violence flowed through his whole being like purifying light. He would reveal himself as well, and they would cower in terror and repentance.

He wanted, nay needed, them to know who it was they were thwarting, so they could embrace their inevitable defeat just like Arafinwë had.

“Sauron?” Lúthien cocked her head in surprise. “Hmmm, you might know my mother.”

She said this in the dismissive tone adolescents usually use when talking about their parents’ habits, hobbies, and acquaintances.

Taking in this somewhat underwhelming revelation, Finrod literally changed his tune, promptly infusing his ongoing exposé about his extended family with various melodies that had been either composed or preserved through the ages by his kin.

“Oh, I know this one!” Lúthien exclaimed excitedly. “Daeron picked it up somewhere. Ah, what a small world.”

And, as if they were in a pub they had no right to even set foot into, she joined her powerful, ringing voice to Finrod’s in a haunting chorus.

“How about a bit from the Noldolantë? I’m sure everyone’s familiar with that one!” Beren asked and turned to their flabbergasted classmates. “All together now!”

Just like physical education, music class was an avowed favourite amongst the students, and they joined in with more enthusiasm than skill.

Soon, the walls shook with the sheer might of their joyful rendition of a song usually so sad and haunting that it was now barely recognisable.

The ever-watchful, glaring eye started to tremble as the redoubtable enemy of juvenile enjoyment put forth his dread power.

Unfortunately, his wholehearted assault was misunderstood as readiness to engage in a friendly battle, and the students’ hearty song swelled like an ocean of mirth.

To their disbelief and delight, the new headmaster now cycled through various incarnations, morphing from an eyeless, open-mouthed wraith into a vague mass of boiling tar, splattered all across the ceiling.

For their rousing finale, Finrod intoned a merry tune praising the inherent strength and resilience of “little people”. It seemed eminently appropriate to him to vaunt the virtues of youth in the context of this epic stand-off between the principal and the students.

They never learned what horrid truth Sauron had read between the lines, but—with a bone-chilling shriek—he disintegrated into a fleeting shadow that flitted away hastily.

“Do you think this will make it into our reports?” Finrod sighed as they stormed the cafeteria to celebrate their victory with lemonade and sandwiches.

“Oh, we’re expelled, for sure,” Lúthien grinned. “What a shame, I’m sure my father thought that sending me here would set me straight.”

Her twinkling gaze shifted to Beren.

“You intimated that you have no family of your own to annoy. Might I offer mine? I’m sure my parents would be delighted if I came home, only a week after being sent off, with a boyfriend in tow.”

Sputtering and staring, Beren could only nod frantically.

“We’d better get out,” Finrod interrupted the sweet moment of nascent love. “These cracks in the ceiling keep widening. I’m afraid my father’s school is about to turn into rubble.”

And so, they watched, comfortably perched on the remnant of the obstacle course, as the proud towers fell into smoking heaps and the ancient walls burst into flames.

“Hey, could I come too?” Finrod asked quietly. “I’d rather not face my father when he sees what has become of his life’s work.”

“It was hardly your fault,” Beren protested, ever the loyal friend and reliable companion. “Well, not only yours.”

“You also would do well to flee Arafinwë’s wrath,” Finrod replied dryly.

Wrapping her sandwich neatly, Lúthien stood effortlessly on a narrow beam as if weightless. “Very well,” she said. “Let’s leave then. I see they didn’t clean away our previous trestle, so we might as well make good use of it.”

As they trudged through the dense woods surrounding the wrecked campus, Finrod grinned.

“Any chance I’ll get back my family’s jewel?” he asked casually.

“None whatsoever,” Lúthien replied. “Any proof of our misdeeds shall be hidden forevermore. It’s for the best.”

“Misdeeds? It was all in good fun!” Beren interjected, scandalised.

Not considering that anyone could fundamentally disagree with them, they intoned another song.

Chapter Text

“I am delighted to hear that you want to give back to the community, but I doubt this will be to your liking,” Eönwë had said when Mairon had presented himself at his door. “I didn’t even know you were interested in cooking.”

Mairon didn’t care a fig about food, but he was bitter enough about his defeat against a few snot-nosed savages and his checkered past with Eönwë to change the whole flavour profile of his former lover’s small establishment.

The fact that Eönwë had been disgustingly kind and apologetic about his decision to put an end to their liaison and had welcomed him in the distastefully cute restaurant gracefully only rubbed more salt into Mairon’s wounds.

“Oh yes, I’d love to learn from you,” he lied through his teeth now.

Eönwë’s beautiful, beatifically radiant face grew grave, and his full lips twitched as something dangerously akin to pity flashed through his gorgeous eyes.

“Not like that,” Mairon exclaimed dramatically.

In truth, Mairon had often dreamt of taking revenge on the golden-haired, bright-faced fool for having had the gall to leave him.

Alas, Eönwë’s gentle and profoundly good nature had made it impossible for the longest time to find a way to repay him in kind for the humiliation and the pain he’d caused without drawing the wrath and retribution of the powers protecting him.

Moreover, as his last failed attempt at utter corruption had shown, Mairon fundamentally lacked the virtue of patience.

Luckily for him, he was an excellent student and a hard worker, so he was confident that he could achieve his wicked goals if he had only himself to worry about.

Everything was under his sole control now, and Eönwë was far too naïve and generous a spirit to see through Mairon’s machinations until it was too late.

Thus, humbled and wary, the former headmaster of a now fittingly destroyed school poured all his focus into creating the façade of a subservient apprentice.

He pretended to be not only intrigued by the insipid, healthy snacks Eönwë lovingly hand-crafted every day, but even devoted to their preparation and subsequent sale to pale, listless customers.

Once he’d understood and infiltrated every part of the business, Mairon started to insinuate himself more.

Using his guile discreetly, he feigned innocent excitement for a recipe of his own and, unwilling to discourage him after he’d done so well, Eönwë allowed him to put something less healthy but much more savoury on the menu.

Soon, Mairon’s concoction of peanuts and palm oil became the best-selling item, and Eönwë, enthused by the uptick in customer satisfaction, granted Mairon a second slot for his seductive creations.

Before long, Mairon had turned the once so cosy and wholesome establishment into a place of fast-moving service and subpar quality.

Various kinds of fats and dubious meats had displaced the raw seeds and varieties of nuts and berries, and the customers had morphed from mellow, talkative acquaintances into stressed, impatient strangers.

More than once, Mairon thought that Eönwë would approach him on the subject, but—given the immense success of their business—he never quite had the heart to do so.

Robbed of the dramatic confrontation during which Mairon could bask in Eönwë’s pain and disappointment, he found other outlets for his compounded frustration and anger.

Whenever they were serving a family with kids, Mairon would make sure their fries were cold, their burgers soggy, and their desired alterations ignored.

Moreover, he took immense pleasure in claiming that the ice cream machine was broken, and the desired cheap toy the child demanded was out of stock.

Remembering how those students who still haunted his nightmares had worn him down little by little, Mairon made sure to savour each tiny victory and revel in every hysterically crying child.

Still, Eönwë only looked increasingly sad.

Despite Mairon creating countless opportunities for either a tense discussion or a full-blown fight, the owner and head manager of the perversion of all his dreams and moral imperatives kept his peace.

At long last, after another day of desperate mothers and wailing whelps, Eönwë could take it no longer.

“I’m sorry to do this to you…again,” he said, looking so beautifully dejected that Mairon wanted to throw him into the dirty meat grinder. “I congratulate you on your acumen and talent, but I feel this has moved too far away from my vision.”

Staring at him with incandescent rage and profound incomprehension, Mairon gawked and gibbered for a moment.

“I see that you take pleasure in your work, and I’d be glad to provide you with a place to grow and experiment…”

“Are you breaking up with me? Again?” Mairon howled, disbelieving his ears.

His heart was racing in his chest, and his mouth filled with burning venom.

“You? What? No, no, there’s nothing like that between us now, is there? No, I mean, I’ll leave this place to you, and I’ll go back to my roots somewhere else.”

For a moment, Mairon was speechless, then his face split into a grin.

“Ha! You give up! You give in! I win!” he cheered and broke off the ice cream machine’s handle for good.