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There had been three circumstances, only three small instances, since Mairon had fled Almaren to join Melkor permanently in Utumno when he realized he just might regret his decision.
They were not large things, exactly. Simply passing things to notice and eat away at him until all he could do was scowl and either move on or return to the very place he was no longer welcome. Obviously, only the former option was available. Not that he desired to return to Aulë, at any rate. He certainly had no inclination to do such a ridiculous thing.
But still, he couldn’t help the little frown that pulled his lips down as he thought about the very first problem he had stumbled upon. Melkor broke things. His things, specifically. He had already known this, truthfully, long before his venture here. The Vala had not shown much care for his possessions the few times he’d been inside Mairon’s chambers in Almaren, picking things up and setting them down again so roughly, but now...now Mairon had few belongings of his own left, few things brought with him to this new place, and it irked him greatly to see yet another book’s cover torn, or the delicate band of his favorite ring bent by a finger pressing just a bit too hard with such great strength into soft metal.
He understood - far too well, perhaps - that Melkor was not doing this on purpose, ruining his things. He simply had no idea of boundaries, or personal possessions, because he had never needed to understand such things. And so Mairon simply took a deep breath and held it, when he watched those large hands bring destruction to yet another item beyond replacing.
Held his breath and wondered why he had left, only to remember this was so much better than everything else he had known. Melkor never noticed the ire in his face. Or at least, as far as he was aware. The kind words and gentle laugh that came after such instances always seemed to soothe these hurts away, and truth be told he did not care quite so much as he once had.
The second annoyance came from the fact that Melkor insisted Mairon follow him everywhere.
It had been bizarre, at first, and Mairon had felt run ragged as Melkor dragged him all over the fortress on errands and tasks that likely did not need attention at all. And then as “ragged” faded, Mairon simply because frustrated. There were other Maiar about, others he had brought long before Mairon had joined his ranks (which, honestly, was another point of contention he was not quite willing to study any closer just yet), but still Melkor insisted Mairon not leave his side. His sheer exuberance, though, had worn through Mairon’s irritation after a while, and he was no longer hesitant to harken to his lord’s call when it so often came now, nor did he heave a heavy sigh when that voice reached his ears.
So there were two. He had grown used to these, now. They did not send him reeling, or fill him with twinges of regret the way either had in the beginning of this new life. Certainly not. Mairon adapted, as he always did and always would.
But it was the third problem, the third horrible situation - the one out of Melkor’s control and placed fully in the hands of the fortress itself - that made him regret every choice he had ever made since he had been given a corporeal form that brought him to this moment of existence.
And that - that was the cold.
The cold, bitter wind as it tore around the mountains. The snow as it continuously fell from low-hanging clouds that refused to part for a reprieve. Sleet and freezing rain that crusted along the ground and against the side of the imposing fortress, turning the stone to sleek walls of gleaming ice.
It cut through his body as easily as a sword, impaling his flesh until he wanted to collapse into unnatural shaking trembles he had never experienced before coming to this place. He would grow used to this, too, certainly he would. But it was taking so long, and every time that wind picked up, screaming through the mountain’s sharp ridges and crests, he shivered as though it were coming through the very mortar of the fortress to wrap around him, as well. His soul had never known such savage chill after the warmth of so much fire in his previous life, and it was not adapting well to this.
He had taken to wearing heavy cloaks lined in furs, gloves to protect his long fingers, thick leather boots instead of the delicate slippers he had enjoyed in Almaren. This, he knew, Melkor noticed, but the Vala had not mentioned anything about his change in dress.
Now, this very moment, the wind was howling angrily as a storm came through the range. Mairon could see the snow like a blinding flurry beyond his windows, and he huddled closer into the back of his fireplace, closing his eyes and pulling the fire higher around him. It worked quickly, flames rising above his head and licking the stones. He wrapped his arms around his bent knees and took a deep, soothing breath, absorbing the heat and energy of it all into his body to chase away the chill that always seemed to linger just under goose-pimpled flesh since he had found home here.
It worked, so easily, and he sighed in marvelous relief, finally feeling warm again.
He could feel fire sparking into his hair, eating along his back and hips, brushing his legs and arms and shoulders, over his face and scalp - it was gloriously perfect. He had no idea how long he had been here this time. Did it even matter? No, it did not matter at all. Perhaps he would take a nap. Yes, what a lovely idea.
The door to his rooms opened unexpectedly just as he began to relax, swinging inward with force and bouncing off the stone wall again. Mairon jumped, his head hitting the back of the fireplace, but he held still again quickly as Melkor came striding in as though he had every right to be there without knocking for entrance - for he hadn’t knocked, Mairon would have heard it - and looked immediately toward the workdesk under that very same window where the snow was still a dizzying sheen of white.
“Mairon?” he asked, somewhat baffled when he did not see the Maia there as he had expected, amongst his beloved books and sheaves of papers.
Melkor spun, looking toward the bed - still neatly made and not slept in for quite a while - and then gazed at the bookshelves, then toward the arched entryway to the sitting room and its comfortable divans and sofas and chairs, all of which were empty. If Mairon remained still and silent, maybe he would leave. He was not avoiding, he truly was not, but this was terribly awkward, to be found as he was, and he did not want to be discovered here, sitting in the fireplace surrounded by flames without a stitch of clothing on his body. At least the flames hid him moderately well, and as long as Melkor did not look directly at the hearth…
Which was exactly what he did next, blue eyes gazing about to find the roaring fire and widening in shock upon finding the figure huddled inside it. Mairon crouched in on himself, knees coming closer toward his chest so his arms could latch about them. He stared back, not speaking as a wash of stubbornness overtook him.
“What in the world are you doing in there?” Melkor asked, too surprised to be upset that Mairon had not replied when initially called.
“It’s cold,” was all Mairon said in response. His voice was distorted by the flames still rising around him, eating much of what he said and only releasing some of the sound.
Melkor stepped closer, starting to laugh now. “Come out, I have something for you.”
“I would really rather not,” he retorted before thinking his response through. He flushed immediately upon realizing how that had sounded, him denying his lord what he asked. But he did not amend his words, instead continuing to stare boldly as Melkor stood behind a chair set in front of the fire. He did not appear angry, but rather terribly amused.
“I can climb in there with you, if you would prefer,” he said slyly, raising an eyebrow. “Somehow. I’m sure I could fit. Or at least make space for my entire frame beside yours.” He paused to chuckle at the horrorstruck expression Mairon felt blossom across his face at the idea. He would destroy the fireplace in his attempt, they both knew it. “Fire does not burn me, just as it does not burn you. In fact, it looks rather cozy in there. Budge over.”
Melkor made to crouch down in front of the hearth, fingering the clasp of his cloak and about to doff it off. Mairon reached out a flaming arm, almost touching him and halting just before he made contact. The leather of the Vala’s bracer blackened with soot at the nearness regardless and he withdrew before any imprint could be left. “No need,” he said with a curt nod, restraining the frown that wanted to pull at his lips. “You do not need to join me here. I will come out, as requested. Just -” And here he paused, eyes darting over the room as he thought quickly. Melkor’s stare bored into his face, and he knew his time for excuses was short. He could not find one.
“Just turn around.”
“I’m sorry? Turn around?” Melkor repeated, surprised again and this time rather put off by what was clearly a command.
“If you would,” Mairon demurred to forestall any argument before Melkor could bring it forward, with the necessary, “my lord,” added with a bowed head. He raised his eyes after a moment to see Melkor’s expression softening just as he knew it would. “I am unclothed,” he finally admitted, dropping his gaze completely, this time more from frustration at the predicament than from subservience. An odd ache pulled in his chest against his throat and he swallowed.
“Yes, I can see that very well,” Melkor said with a bellowing laugh. But he complied regardless, standing again and pacing to the other side of the room with his back to the hearth. He stood by the far bookshelf, gazing at the titles there and whatever other trinkets caught his attention. Shockingly, though, he did not touch anything.
Mairon waited another moment, perhaps expecting him to turn again with the intention of surprising him into tumbling backward, but the Vala’s back remained in his direction. He hooked his hand around the outside bricks and, absorbing the fire into his body until there was none left, hefted himself out of the fireplace. A few streaks of soot marked his torso and limbs, but those he ignored as he looked around quickly for a robe or some sort of covering. A blanket was on the nearby chair and he grabbed it, draping the soft fabric about his shoulders and clutching it tightly about himself. Already, the chill was creeping back in.
He padded barefoot across the cold stone floor to Melkor’s side, curious to see what he was looking at on the shelf. A necklace displayed on a small wooden pedestal, gold filigree surrounding a brilliant fire opal that pulsed with life when worn against flesh. One of the few pieces of personal jewelry he no longer kept locked in the chest beside his bed, so unlike Almaren where other Maiar would balk at such a piece, or ask questions that should never be passing their lips.
Melkor gazed at it for another few seconds, lost in those same memories, before turning his head to look at Mairon instead. “I never thought you one to be shy,” he said with a smirk. “Do you think you have faults to hide?”
Mairon reached out to touch the opal, running a finger over the smooth surface of the polished stone as he clutched the blanket tighter with his other hand. He did not return Melkor’s look, fixed as it was on his face, and let his eyes remain focused on the necklace. “No,” he replied softly, honestly. “I am not shy, as you so bluntly put it, nor do I try to hide these so-called faults from you. I was merely taken by surprise, is all,” he added after a moment with a shrewd little grin, “when you burst into my rooms unannounced as you did. Can one not expect a modicum of privacy in one’s own chambers, in an effort to find warmth from this bitter cold?”
“Is that all you were doing?” Melkor said with a chuckle, even if the words were not nearly as scolding as they could have been. “Warming yourself? For a moment I thought you were avoiding me. Or attempting to set the entire mountain on fire.”
Mairon let out a short puff of breath through his nose, trying not to smile now as he continued to stare at the necklace rather than turn his gaze to Melkor. “Certainly not. But you have no manners, do you, rushing in like one of your Balrogs. I was not prepared for you. I suppose I owe an apology for that much?”
“Perhaps not,” Melkor said, continuing to stare at him so intently the Maia felt as though hands were being placed upon him.
But the short statement was quiet, genuine with its simplicity, and he finally turned his head slightly to meet Melkor’s dark blue eyes. He withdrew his fingers from the necklace and pulled his arm back under the blanket. The wind was ferocious outside, an angry force as it blustered around the fortress with ice and hail and so much snow. A chill ran through him and was gone.
A strange gleam ignited in Melkor’s gaze and he reached out to brush his thumb across Mairon’s high cheekbone. His finger came away smudged with soot and he grinned, glancing down at it for a moment before looking up to meet Mairon’s eyes again.
“Do not apologize for such a thing,” he murmured, far more softly than Mairon was expecting. It appeared he wished to say more on the subject, though instead he extended his hand again to thread his fingers through Mairon’s hair. “There are still sparks alight in your fine tresses,” he said. “Shall I put them out for you, or leave you burning?”
“I does not matter,” Mairon replied, his gaze following the upward and downward movement of Melkor’s hand as it passed his field of vision through whatever strands he was passing between his loose grasp. “They will not damage my hair. Although,” he added as a true afterthought as the subtle scent of burning reached his nose, “they may damage the blanket, and I quite like this particular blanket. Perhaps you had best put them out.”
Melkor hummed amicably, using thumb and forefinger to begin snuffing out the sparks and flames still twinkling in the red depths and tangles of his hair. Mairon held still as he did so, listening to the hisses of doused fire as they were put out. Melkor was standing close before him now, a pleasantly docile expression on his beautiful face, and the Maia watched him closely as he focused on the task he had been given.
After only a moment, Melkor withdrew his hand and said again, “I brought something for you.”
Mairon did not reply, and Melkor reached then into a deep interior pocket of his cloak and extracted an unevenly wrapped parcel of some kind. He extended it out, waiting patiently for Mairon to take it from him. The package was decently heavy in Mairon’s hand, and he peeled back the thin and oil slickened leather to reveal a book. One of his own books, in fact, that had been damaged recently. He tugged it fully from the wrapping and examined the cover with widening eyes.
“I had it repaired for you,” Melkor explained, his voice exposing his own pleasure at giving the gift. “I noticed how displeased you were when it was harmed, and I had the cover replaced. The binding, as well, has been refinished and the inking on the first several pages was redone. There may still some stains, though.”
Mairon stared at it, agape with disbelief as he turned it over one-handed, the other still keeping the blanket about his shoulders. This particular book, when Melkor had finished ‘harming’ it, had been left torn nearly in two down the spine, doused in some flammable solvent from Mairon’s own forge, and scrawled through in with doodles and vulgarities. He had been so upset by its destruction he hadn’t been able to speak of it, and had let the remnants of its poor corpse in the burn pile beside his fireplace. But now here it was again, restored to its previous magnificence.
“Thank you,” Mairon finally managed to whisper, touched by the unexpected gesture, once again at a loss for words. Though this time, at least, such speechlessness was brought by a kind gesture rather than one of ruin.
“You must let me know if the repairs are not up to your standards,” Melkor told him, and their eyes met for a moment before Mairon looked down at the book again. “I asked Razgurg to put the effort in on it, and if his mending is subpar I will do the work myself.”
“It was your mistake, after all,” Mairon shot back with a little laugh. “Perhaps you should do it regardless, to make up for the initial woebegone error that was your fault to begin with.”
“Yes, well. I did not want to make it worse. I am no good with books, as I am sure you have noticed.”
They looked at one another again, and Mairon grinned when Melkor began to laugh as well. The Vala was still standing quite close, enough to smell the crisp freshness of outside air upon his clothes, and Mairon knew from that scent that he had likely been upon the ramparts for quite a while before coming here, in that cold, snowy wind Mairon so despised. This closeness was something Mairon had come to expect at some point over their immense time spent together, something he had grown to cherish in his tacit way. Melkor’s desire for touch and physical awareness had awoken the same inside Mairon’s own soul, a desire he had not been aware of before Melkor had stirred it.
“Are you really so cold here, Mairon, that you find yourself seeking refuge in the fire?” Melkor asked after a long moment of easy silence.
The question was so casually spoken that it took Mairon by surprise, and he hesitated as he mulled over his response. “It is only the temperature I find unsettling, my lord,” he said, lowering his eyes to break their gaze. “Though I will acclimate to it before much longer. I have simply - I have not been in such a cold environment for this amount of time before, is all.”
“Ah,” Melkor said, more a whisper of acknowledgement in his throat than a word of reply. His lips pulled up into a small kind of grin, his expression softening as Mairon raised his eyes slightly. “I should have given your predicament a bit more forethought, I suppose. The fire of your soul does not take kindly to the chill winds of this place. I will correct that. Perhaps you will rest easier then, yes?”
He reached out again to brush Mairon’s hair behind his ear, pausing as he withdrew to slide his fingers along Mairon’s jaw in a slow, almost reverent motion. Mairon turned ever so slightly into the touch, feeling his heart leap up against his throat until he felt his breath catch. He clutched at the book in his grasp, pulling it up toward his chest. Suddenly, every little erroneous issue he had come across during his time here - every little thing that made him question his decisions and ponder his reasons for wandering so far from his previous life - none of them mattered.
Everything he had been searching for was here, and those reasons, the ones that propelled him onward to the greatness beyond and around him, would always be stronger than anything to cause irritation or frustration.
Melkor himself - the one he would follow wherever the path may lead - was a more powerful pull than all of those would ever be. What petty irritations those were, after all.
Never again - never again would Mairon ever doubt he had chosen correctly.
He turned his head to kiss Melkor’s palm as it passed near enough, only the briefest touch of his lips to the wide expanse of lined skin, and he watched as a smile bloomed across Melkor’s face at the boldness of the move.
“I will forever rest easier, my lord, when I am near to your presence.”