Chapter 1: Mairon
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Mairon learned of his Lord's return when a shriek split the air in the depths of the ruins of Angband.
Moments after, the thunder of the Balrogs shook the halls. The quill he had been holding slipped across his jewelry designs, spilling ink like blood over his sketches. A blessing reminding Mairon of what he must do. Stand guard and be ready to herald the coming of Melkor.
Their meeting came all too soon and far too late. Three ages had he been separated from his Lord, but the three days he was given, from the first signs of Melkor's return to his coming to the fortress, were not enough to shape Angband into something worthy. Most of vaults were still crumbled from Tulkas's wrath and filth lay everywhere.
It was with shame and not adoration that Mairon bowed before the towering shape of Melkor. The fire of his hair dimmed to ashen grey and the eyes which dotted his fana were closed. "My Lord, it is an honour to be in your presence once more," Mairon put a hand to his chest. "Forgive me for my failure."
"Do not let it happen again," Melkor said, voice cool, but without a drop of deserved venom.
"It shall not, I swear by it," Mairon promised.
"Good, you may rise now," commanded Melkor.
And so Mairon did, slowly opening his eyes to look upon Melkor. Instead of silk robes, he now donned dark armour. The glint in his eyes was drowned out trio of jewels adorning a black crown of spikes. An ancient and hallowed light danced within them, amplified by countless facets.
They were majestic. Oh Mairon longed to reach out and touch them… Slowly, he lifted a hand towards the light shining from the crown. "May I?"
The crack of armor against flesh rang through the air and Mairon reeled back, nearly crashing to the ground.
Melkor had struck him.
His Lord, his Vala, his friend had raised a hand to him as if he was a mere thrall.
"No. They belong solely to me," Melkor spat out. "I have no tolerance for such insolence."
"I apologize! I meant no ill will, I ask of you to grant me mercy," Mairon pleaded as he stared at the mark on his wrist. It throbbed with pain. The ring of eyes there was squeezed shut.
"It will be granted, provided you never seize what is mine again. Now, return to the forge, there are blades to be crafted," Melkor ordered. "I trust you will impress me as always."
"There is nothing I'd rather do!" Mairon smiled in utter relief as he caught a glimpse of the Vala he had sworn his allegiance to. These gems held many wondrous secrets, but their Doom was not amongst them.
Chapter 2: Langon
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Melkor had come back and his greatest servants ought to be glad. Why did they find themselves sitting in a parlour with shoulders slumped and sweat glistening on their faces? So desperate for a seat, Langon and xyr detested rival, Mairon, had taken up the couch together. Fankil had rolled up next to them in his wheelchair. Thuringwethil and Kurúki had been brought so low as to sit on the floor.
Langon broke the silence first. "Well, someone is not the favourite any more," Langon smirked at Mairon's wrist splotched with purple around the eyes.
Mairon hissed at xem. "I'm still the Lieutenant. Closer to his power than you could ever dream of. Melkor is not himself, any choice he makes does not belong to him."
"Cease, there is no need for this strife. It distracts from our mission," Fankil frowned as he crossed his arms.
"You are right." Mairon nodded and sat up stiffly, always the obedient servant. Langon said nothing, merely side-eyed him.
"I believe those jewels are hindering our mission more than our bickering. I'd like to investigate them. I am certain their crystalline structure is complex. They have a light that does not fully belong to this world." Thuringwethil mused.
"If Lord Melkor will not allow me to even touch them, I fear this is an impossibility. A shame. To try and recreate them would be a good challenge. They'd look splendid on a necklace, or perhaps fragments could form a pair of earrings?" Mairon suggested. Langon sighed. So naive. What was the purpose of this fruitless speculation? Melkor had made it clear that the gems were his alone. Xyr fellows were disrespecting him by even entertaining these notions.
"Those are both good ideas, although I, myself, want to challenge the enchantments which wretched Valar have forced upon the Silmarils and free Melkor from his torment. I am currently developing a salve to treat his burns," Kurúki exclaimed, but then their shoulders slumped. "He is rejecting it."
"Please keep trying, he desperately needs healing… I see him in shudder in pain when he believes no one can look. Although he ought to be aware that I am here," Mairon gestured broadly to the many eyes of his fana.
"Should we not trust him as we have always done?" Langon argued. Xe was ashamed of xyr allies. They were supposed to be unified in their mission to spread Melkor's will to all of Arda. In the past, xe was only forced to contend with fiery Mairon, but now Thuringwethil and Kurúki were parroting his dissent. Xe looked over at Fankil, hoping for some support.
But none came. Only a grimace was returned to xem. "I would, if he would trust us. The battles he is planning are not feasible. He wishes to send so many orcs into war it will lead to the exhaustion our breeding stock and our populations will plummet. I have explained this to him, but his gaze always wanders to the mirrors now in his throne room.
"Kurúki, be wise with your work. Thuringwethil and Mairon, do not meddle needlessly in the realm of the Silmarils. I know not what they are, but they are mutilating our systems and our fortress cannot survive without you." Fankil pleaded.
"I will, if I am ever allowed to complete it." Kurúki agreed.
"Our work is not needless," Thuringwethil argued.
"It is less essential, and thus not worth the cost," stated Fankil. That at least, Langon could agree with. "First, we should focus on gaining Lord Melkor's willingness to allow Kurúki to heal him."
Kurúki, Thuringwethil, and Mairon all nodded their approval without a second thought. Langon did not move. Four heads turned to face xem, eyes boring into xyr ëala, willing xem to surrender.
Finally, Langon could not take it any more and spoke: "It will do Lord Melkor good to be in less pain."
Mairon let out a cry of delight and then gave Langon a smug smile. Oh, how Langon longed to wipe that grin of his face.
Before the throne of the grim Vala, the five waited for his command, heads bowed.
"What brings you to my presence?" The rumble of Melkor's voice shook the room. "Answer me."
"We have come to heal you." Kurúki was the first to look up and stare Melkor directly in the eye. Langon was the last to raise xyr head, xe stepped back, ashamed to even be here.
"Why would I accept help from you? You failed before," Melkor leaned forward.
"They're the best healer we have. Please give them another chance," Mairon argued. "I hate seeing you so miserable. Let us help."
Melkor pursed his lips, "And what would this entail?"
"If I can examine the source of your burns, just for a few hours, I should be able mix a new salve. An effective one," Kurúki explained. Langon deemed this to be a reasonable request. In a little while they ought to be on their way to put this issue to rest.
Melkor's eyes darkened and his mouth curled, fangs like piercing daggers visible. He slammed his fist on the arm of the throne. "Leave this instant!" The stone of the floor shifted under them and cracks marred the walls. Dust and the stench of smoke filled the atmosphere.
Thuringwethil took to the air and fled, narrowly evading a falling chunk of of ceiling. Fankil was next, wheeling away the second he saw the floor loose its stability.
"Please listen!" Kurúki pleaded, but their words went unheard as they were pulled away by Mairon who was dashing towards the door. Langon was was the last to leave, lingering at the door to give Melkor, or perhaps the one who masqueraded as him a final pained look.
Chapter 3: Maedhros
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The Úmaia smirked as the shackle clicked into place. Binding Maitimo's wrist with frigid steel and wicked curses. Never to yield to any blade besides the Úmaia's and Moringotto's own.
"Here you will remain for the end of your days. If even I cannot have the Silmarils, than why should you, a mere incarnate, have ownership of them?" Þauron taunted Maitimo. The wounds seemed to sting more with each hateful sound.
"They were my father's," Maitimo croaked out. A sliver of the truth. None of the torment of the Oath was for Þauron to know. He would not have the prilvilage of enjoying this satisfaction.
Þauron cackled, "What a silly notion."
Maitimo wished he could knock the being off the ledge and watch him crumble into the abyss below. After the kinslaying, he had sealed his fate as tainted and irredeemable, what was one more death? "You know nothing of loyalty."
"You know nothing of me. I have followed Lord Melkor to the ends of Arda and have endured endless pain for his sake and for my own goals. It has all been worth it."
"Truly? If I knew what I was to be driven to do, I would still be in the Valinor." The words of the Oath would have never wound themselves around his fëa.
"I'd say that's cowardly."
"I think it is quite cowardly to hide away in a fortress while your dear ruler was held by the Valar, Þauron" Maitimo felt bile rise within him as he described Moringotto as dear.
But it was worth it to see Þauron hiss and snarl at him. His hair erupted into sparks. Wings of flame sprouted from his back and he took to the air. "Anyone who calls me that hateful epithet is not worthy of my time. I have had enough of your nonsense!"
"Perhaps that is the only matter we agree on," Maitimo called out, but his words were stolen away by the wind.
Chapter Text
His name was lost to him. Sometime in the years since coming here it had vanished in these miserable halls, not even Varda's lingering touch could cease the erosion of self. The edges of every prisoner were worn off until they could spend their eternities trapped, working the machines of Moringotto.
From the first days, a hammer he had been given. Ever after he refused to be parted from it. The nick in the wood just under the head, unique to only his. The callouses of his scarred hands shaped around the handle. Days were spent with the rhythmic thud of metal in his ears. His will and his rage radiating from his hröa. The blaze of his fëa could not be tamed by any force. Not even the glare of Moringotto was enough to quench it.
When the wicked Vala came, everyone stood up straighter and stiffer. Hiding their imperfections from the light. All except for him. His name and his memory had been stolen, but his hate still remained. Lifting his hammer high above his head, he rammed it into the metal. A crack split the air and the table crumpled under him.
An ache spread from his arms to the rest of his body and he gasped for the smokey ashen air, clutching his chest desperately. Hammer slipping out of his grasp and clattering to the floor. The sound of boots roared in his air and darkness overtook his vision as cold hands crept along his skin. With one final wheeze, he slipped out of the waking world.
A cell was to be his dwelling now. He spent his first night being awoken by the laughter and jeers of the orcs. The morning was to consist of his retraining by the Lieutenant of Angband into the smith Moringotto wanted him to be.
"What have we here?" A shrill voice sneered from the shadows, then a monstrous figure stepped into view. Hundreds of eyes bulged out from every corner of his skin and their sickly yellow irises all swiveled around to stare at him. To cry as such a twisted being must be agony. Not that he had any need to. He wondered if the Lieutenant ever felt anything at all besides glee at the suffering of his prey.
He refused to dignify his question with a response.
"Finally, Lord Melkor gave me a task to do. A smith to train, I was so excited," the Lieutenant crossed his arms, a wave of eyes melting into his flesh, "But this is what I get? How disappointing. I suppose you are not entirely useless." The Lieutenant swung the door of the cell open and grasped him, nails embedding themselves in his skin. Roughly he was hoisted up and dragged out the door and into a small forge.
The walls were covered with various objects of torture and torment mixed in amongst glistening jewelry. In the centre of the room lay a polished sheet of copper reflecting its surroundings. Intricate engravings were creeping up along the edges, currently covering about a quarter of the surface.
At last the Lieutenant released him and he stumbled towards the wall and clung to it.
"Sharpen this," he handed him a burin, dulled from many hours of marking copper. Then he pointed at a stone in the corner and led the elf over there.
"What must I do?" He finally asked.
"Hold the shaft at this exact angle." The Lieutenant forcefully twisted his hand, he could feel the muscles strain under the pressure, but he kept his face as expressionless as he could manage. He would not give the Maia any entertainment. Then the Lieutenant dribbled mineral oil on the surface of the stone.
The elf was told to move the burin in circles to sharpen the point, before turning it over to to perfect the right and left sides. Again and again the burin was ripped from him and scrutinized. The Lieutenant would lament about there being a line of light and force him to start again as he laughed.
After too long, they were done and the burin was snatched away from him for the final time. His commander waltzed over to the mirror without a word of thanks. While he was forced to watch on with aching hands.
On the day dragged in weary silence. It came to the point where even he could not endure it anymore. If he was forced to endure such close company, he would make the most of it. "Why are you making a mirror?" It seemed awfully frivolous.
"Lord Melkor destroyed the last one in a rage. I was there when it happened and thus he blames me," Sauron explained. His tone was distant and the elf spotted a bandage just peaking out from under the sleeve of his dress. "It seems this is all I do now…"
There was no need to give a response. All he could say was that it was better than the work he was given. And that would lead to retribution or worse his demise.
Notes:
Thank you very much to this video on youtube by Evan Lindquist for helping me figure out how to describe the sharpening of a burin. It was incredibly helpful https://youtu.be/giA-g5FjmFY
Chapter 5: Lúthien
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He thought he had known fear, but when the jaws of Huan closed around his fana, he knew this was a terror beyond all else. Every shift brought his fate closer and closer. The pain banished his thoughts and left him knowing only agony.
The power of little Lúthien pierced through his fog with orders to surrender or else endure this torment at the hands of Melkor.
The choice ought to be the effortless. If he did not impede her now, Melkor's power would be fractured and his Silmarils would be vulnerable for the taking. It was his duty to fight to the end. That was the cost of the authority he had enjoyed.
Yet, would Melkor even know he was gone? Or would he be too consumed with despair for his stolen crystal? Was it treacherous to not discard his entire life and all his ambitions of righting the world for the whims of his Vala?
Huan's teeth sunk deeper into his neck and Mairon let out a cry of anguish as black blood spilled out along with those faithless words. "I yield to you."
"So be it," Lúthien stretched out her arms and spoke her Doom over this isle. Mairon felt his foul enchantments slip away as he crumpled in front of Huan, gasping for air. The ground shook as his towers rumbled and split. Debris pelted the land and a flash of brilliant light overtook the sky.
With his last scraps of ability, Mairon twisted himself into the shape of a vampire and fled to the sky, blotting out Tilion's glow. Blood dripped down, marring the ruins of his home further. But he could not bring himself to look back. He knew his schemes were ended, and what was the use in wallowing in his defeat? His only choice was to flee until Lúthien and Huan could no longer torment him.
Onward he pressed, not ceasing until he passed above the shadowed trees of Taur-nu-Fuin. At last, he began his dissent into a patch of soft grass near a particularly ancient tree. There he collapsed and lay there for a long while. The bond keeping himself to his body started to stretch and fray and his pain numbed. A faint call encroached on his ëala, beckoning him to Melkor.
Suddenly, panic seized Mairon and the misery from earlier returned in full force. But, as he smelt the sap from the tree and felt the blades of grass scratch at his skin, he felt he relief. He was still here and alive.
Gritting his teeth in concentration, he decided he would never lose his fana. He was not going to be sent formless to Angband with only scorn in his future.
First, he ripped some cloth from his dress and wound it around his neck, then he rested his hands there, putting pressure on the injury. He desperately hoped it would be enough to hinder the blood flow. All he was left with was his thoughts.
He knew that his dreams of ordering Arda had been crushed. His beloved werewolves were soon to be dead by teeth of that mercilessness beast. Thuringwethil had suffered the fate he managed to flee from. All of the thralls he had painstakingly trained would long have fled. When he returned to Angband the consequences would be harsh. He had failed Melkor truly and utterly. What ever punishment he received would be deserved.
Chapter 6: Kurúki
Chapter Text
Late one night, Kurúki heard a knock on her door, sharp and rhythmic, every pause between raps evenly spaced.
Mairon was here.
She leapt up from her bed and rushed to the door, with shaky hands she opened it, revealing a bedraggled and exhausted figure. The tangles of his hair clutched at bits of the forest, his fine jewelry was gone, and there was a bite scar all along his neck where eyes used to be. "Mairon…what took you so long to arrive? You were unaccounted for months."
"There was an incident, with a hound," Mairon shifted side to side uncomfortably, "It is nothing to concern yourself with. I'm here now and ready to impart the will of Lord Melkor."
"But it is. All know of your 'incident'. You were attacked by Lúthien and Huan and lost your fortress. Then she and an aftercomer snatched the Silmaril by putting myself and others to sleep. Though, I'm glad you have returned," Kurúki said truthfully. She was not quite sure why, but she did miss Mairon. "I feared you had shared in Thuringwethil's fate."
"I almost did," Mairon frowned guilty. Kurúki did not press the matter further.
"Good, we have had enough suffering here." Kurúki pointed to the fresh scratches on her walls and the empty space where the rest of her potion making station used to be. "Melkor wanted me to give him something that could aid in returning the Silmaril to us. I failed and he was furious."
Mairon clenched his hands and was silent for a long while, before responding in a low voice, "I failed him too. I cared for him, he meant more to me than anyone else. He saw my talent and nurtured it. And this is how I repay him? I know he loves the Silmarils more than I, why I cannot love him enough to do what needed to be done?" He started to tremble and slumped to the ground.
"I would not die for his sake either," Kurúki weakly assured Mairon. She longed to say more, if only words did not fail her.
"Or the sake of his Silmarils." Mairon murmured.
"Certainly not!" Kurúki spat out, unable to conceal her bitterness.
"Still, I will have to work my hardest to repent for my faults. I shall torture every elf my Lord sends my way, no matter how tedious and dull they are to endure. Regardless of what he wants from me in the forge, it will be created." Mairon rose to his feet again.
"We need more mirrors."
Mairon sighed, "That will be no trouble. But before that, we must address the reason I came here at all. I require your aid. My fana has been giving me some difficulties. I cannot shift as completely as I once did. Whatever the form I take, this scar that Huan gave me appears. No longer can I make any eyes appear there. I-I can't appear like this before Lord Melkor. He will know I lost from this scar and may resent me for it."
"He already knows that. He knows that all of us lost. I fail to see why this is any matter of concern."
"This can't happen to me! The loss of these abilities happens to the Balrogs, not to ainur like me," Mairon's eyes grew wide as this dawned on him and he shuddered.
"It is one singular trait that is universal across fanar. I've seen this before many times. It's a part of your ëala now." Kurúki explained flatly.
"Even you cannot reverse it?"
"No one can. Scarring is natural. Many ainur have them. Fankil has one on his lower back, Melkor has gained many over the years, and I recall Estë receiving one when she tried to rescue a moth," Kurúki felt a pang as she recalled her former Vala. She tried to dwell on her as little as possible.
"I suppose you are right, although I'd prefer it not happen to me. Every time I look at it, I'm reminded of my weakness." Mairon brought a hand up to it and touched it gently. "Though, perhaps it is also a sign of my survival. Above all, it just is."
Kurúki liked the last statement in particular. "Yes, it is neither good nor ill."
"Thank you, I feel less ashamed now," Mairon gave Kurúki a genuine smile.
Chapter 7: Maeglin
Chapter Text
Mairon examined the cell he was now trapped in. Dark and cramped. He doubted he could stand up if he tried. The bars keeping him from the outside held a thousand tiny slots, each barely big enough to slide a finger in. Only slivers of light could pass in, but it was enough to make out a huddled figure in the corner.
The being had waves of silky black hair covering his pale skin and stained clothes. A dark eye peaked out, a gleam of intelligence sparkling in it.
Mairon crept over to the stranger and took a seat next to him, "What is your name?"
"Maeglin," The elf, for he could now tell he was one, mumbled. Then he gasped upon seeing Mairon and sat up, "Who or what are you? I've never met someone with so many eyes before."
"I'm Mairon, a Maia," Mairon answered. "I quite like to style my form this way. It allows me to see more, and it frightens the weak." Mairon smirked, expecting the Maeglin to squirm.
Instead, Maeglin giggled, "I'd do the same if I could change my shape. Ah, I can imagine the look on Tuor's face now."
Mairon was caught off guard by his reaction. No other elf had responded with anything beyond fear or repulsion. He was instantly intrigued. "It's a shame you are trapped as an incarnate. I am certain you'd choose a form far more interesting than most."
"Thank you, I'd also rid myself of my father's features."
"Why?"
"I'd rather not speak about it." Mairon considered if he ought to press further to gather information, though it seemed harsh.
"What would you like to discuss?" Mairon asked.
"Smithing, I'm a smith." Maeglin told Mairon.
"You are?!" Mairon exclaimed and clasped his hands, leaning in to hear what Maeglin had to say next. "I'm a smith too! We are rare in Angband. It is mostly just the thralls I have to force into their roles. They are resistant." It often took great deal of torture for them to be of any use. So this was great news! Perhaps him and Maeglin could create together? What if Maeglin liked to craft jewelry too?
Maeglin faintly smiled back. "How nice. What do you create? It is too bad about your thralls. Though it does not surprise me. I knew someone from Angband, Rog, he was fond of messing with the tasks he was meant to complete."
Mairon speculated to himself if perhaps that was linked with why so many swords he had commissioned in years past came back brittle. "I create whatever Lord Melkor wishes. This is often weapons. But in my own time, I make jewelry." He pointed to a pair of ruby earings he was currently wearing. "Like this."
"They are pretty. I'd like a pair such as those someday. I've made jewelry too. Though mostly for my mother."
"Thank you," Mairon said warmly and then contined to inquire about Maeglin's own talents.
On and on the conversation flowed. From one form of smithing to the next. Then it drifted onto mining and favourite minerals. Mairon never wished this time to come to an end. Here he was conversing with someone about his most beloved things without judgment, instead there was true passion between them.
But in time, unavoidable truths started to show and Maeglin had a question. "If you are the Lieutenant of Angband, Morgoth's second in command, why are you here? In a cell?"
"I failed to repair Lord Melkor's mirror in time and he punished me accordingly."
"He punished you…by putting you in a cell without a way to craft a mirror?" Maeglin raised an eyebrow. "His tendencies are as odd as my uncle's."
"It's a common occurrence." It happened to him and the other Maiar on occasion. He tried to not let it sour his view on Melkor. This was growing increasingly challenging.
"That is unacceptable. You deserve better than this life." Maeglin said with sudden intensity. "My father threatened to put me in bonds, I know what it is like to be under the control of someone you cared for and it is awful."
Mairon felt seen. Someone had listened to him and not mocked or dismissed him. "Thank you. It is awful. Lord Melkor and I used to be close. He supported me in my aspirations. Now, I fret that has gone away. All he cares about is his Silmarils."
"The Silmarils are lovely, but I have seen prettier minerals before. Even a fragment of amethyst holds more splendor." Maeglin stated. "Also, what are your aspirations?"
Mairon pondered how to obfuscate the truth to be less distressing. But he decided it was not needed. Maeglin did not seem to share in the same fickle concerns of the other elves. "Arda has been marred from the earliest of days. There is a disorder rotting it from within and no one cares to stop it. Everyone is going down their own paths and from that comes friction and conflict. They are wasting their days with meaningless pursuits and nothingness.
"The Valar could not see this Doom, so I sought out aid from other sources. Lord Melkor came to me. It was through him I hoped I would be able to rule Arda and make it how it was meant to be. Now that seems so far off." Mairon sighed sadly.
"I understand you. I am seeing what this world is coming to and I am afraid I do not like it. I am a prince and lord in my own city, and yet, no matter what I try, my plans are always hindered. Why, the rules dictate that I cannot even leave. And yet the fleeting aftercomers can go wither they please," grumbled Maeglin.
"I take it you escaped and were brought here?"
"Not exactly, I went a bit too far on a mining trip and was captured. Morgoth threatened me with torture, but he also promised me to be his vassel of Gondolin. If only I reveal the location of the hidden city. I know not what to do. I have wished to make the city my own and to finally claim the power I was denied since the days of my youth."
An idea came to Mairon. He had never suggested anything like this before, but Maeglin understood him more in a few hours than Melkor ever did in thousands of years. "Perhaps, we could rule it together?"
Maeglin's eyes lit up and he beamed at Mairon, "Yes! I'd love that. Thank you so much!"
"You are welcome," Mairon smiled back, his hair aglow and his many eyes filled with fondness.
Then Maeglin reached out his hand and Mairon clasped it in his own. It was warm and tender. Mairon longed to experience this a thousand more times. Maeglin leaned in close, his inky locks dancing alongside Mairon's flames. "I have something to confess. Maeglin is not my only name. I prefer Lómion."
"A splendid name. Then Lómion you shall be." Mairon caressed Lómion's cheek as a hint of rose blossomed under his fingertips.
Chapter 8: Lómion
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Lómion was supposed to despise Angband.
Everyone around him whispered hushed stories of this foreboding land of dread which tainted all who entered.
Perhaps the gentle hands that stroked his hair and held him with reverence were imparting poison into him. Well, if they did, he welcomed it.
He'd rather be the enemy with him by his side than endure in some state of goodness alone.
His workspace had become theirs. Jet black glavorn blended with Angbandian steel. All woven into rows and rows of blades and machinery. Each revelled in the brilliance of the other.
"Perhaps our work will be enough to pull Lord Melkor away from his crown," He remarked after a long day spent together. Hair of flames still flittering around his ankles, unquenchable even from the hours of work. A kaleidoscope of eyes adorning molten gold skin. Eyes decorated his head and wound their way around his limbs like ribbons.
Mairon. The most beautiful being Lómion had ever met.
"If anyone could do it, it would be you," Lómion said.
"Thank you. But I fear even our combined efforts would not be enough," Mairon tsked. "The silmarils have caused nothing but problems in his hands. But in ours…"
"There's still two, one for each of us." Lómion prompted.
Mairon rubbed the scarring on his neck, the only flesh Lómion had never seen shift. "It is my doing that there is not three."
"No, it is that—what did you call her?" Lómion paused, searching for words "—Accursed spawn of Melyanna's fault. She stole them. If Melkor could not keep them, then he did not deserve them."
"You are right, as always." Mairon smirked playfully.
"I'd much rather the silmarils belong to us. It would do Melkor good to be sundered from them for a time," Lómion confessed. "And it would do me good to see you bearing its radiance.
Mairon laughed with delight. “Oh, silmaril on your brow would look gorgeous as well!"
Lómion felt his heart flutter as he envisioned him and Mairon standing hand and hand in the palace of Gondolin. Vows spoken under the sacred light the Trees in a land that would be home for ever. "Let's wear them together."
"Yes, I will await that day."
"If only our happiness wasn't so far away." Lómion sighed, envy towards the numerous pairs of Gondolin burning in his heart.
"Is it? We may not have the gems and we cannot be married, but there is still joy." A mischievous gleam lit up some of his eyes. "Meet me on the balcony that overlooks Thangorodrim tonight."
Mairon was the first to arrive, sparks from his hair crackling behind him. The usual eyes on his limbs were foregone in favour of flesh more practical for dancing. A single large one remained on his upper back and numerous remained on his face. No interruptions could escape his view.
He wore heels and a matching golden dress. A ruby choker Lómion had forged for him was encircled his throat and a matching ring was slipped onto his finger.
Lómion came in plain black robes, common amongst thralls. But they were freshly washed and crisp from ironing. His long black hair had been braided like a crown around his head, letting the amethyst studs Mairon had crafted sparkle free.
"You came!" Mairon exclaimed and beckoned Lómion to join him.
Lómion rushed over to his Maia's side, the stone clicking rhythmically under his boots. "Yes, I would not miss this for anything."
"Nor would I," Mairon extended out his palm and Lómion took it, soaking up the touch. "Now let me show you something."
Mairon held Lómion’s hands delicately and twirled him around with the utmost grace. His robes billowed about him like ripples of obsidian. The starlight peaking through the gloom reflected in his smiling face.
“You are beautiful,” Mairon whispered words he had never spoken before in Lómion's ear.
And Lómion's cheeks turned crimson as he listened to words he had never heard before. “I am?” Lómion thought of everything he hated of himself. Every marring feature of his father corrupting his form. Someone saw him for all that he was and did not despise him.
“Thank you, thank you!” In sheer joy he rushed towards Mairon and swept him off his feet, whirling him around. Mairon’s laughs echoed through the air and he let out a cry of delight as Lómion set him down.
“You are welcome,” Mairon beamed.
Together they danced on the balconies of Angband. Their love a shining testament to the truth that there was still good even in the most vile corners of Arda.
Chapter Text
The children of Angband, and yes there was children, weren’t fully aware of the horrors they existed in, if their parents cared enough to shield them.
For Ida and Zôrphursā, Angband was paradise. There were endless places to hide away and obstacles to climb on. Jumping over the retractable spikes keeping the prisoners out of the library was a favourite game of the pair. If they made it past, they could slip inside and steal a book. Ida was teaching herself to read. She was going to be the first orc scholar. Zôrphursā liked to look at pictures of landscapes.
One fateful evening, they had been particularly successful, crossing without even a scratch. Inside they dashed. Zôrphursā stifled their laughs bubbling out from the thrill. Ida tugged Zôrphursā along, gripping their hand close. At last they made it, collapsing in a smiling heap in front of the shelves chronicling rocks, jewels, and minerals.
“I want to make jewelry,” Ida informed Zôrphursā. “I found some scraps of gold from the forge.”
“Me too!” Zôrohursā chimed in, they had never even considered it, but if Ida wanted to, it must be fun. They pulled off a volume and laughed when they saw the cover. It had a drawing of three white gems embedded in a spiky black crown. “That’s a silly hat!”
“Thank you.” Ida took the book and held it close. “I think that's Lord Melkor's.”
“If I am a ruler I am going to wear a pretty tiara with gold and no spikes.” Zôrphursā proclaimed.
“I don't think we can become rulers. Lord Melkor said orc women are supposed to be mothers and nothing else. And in your case, most humans die in a few years.” Ida reminded Zôrphursā. She then frowned. “Let's not talk about that. I don't want to think about you dying.”
“Well, I think those rules are nonsense! You can do anything you want and I am going to live a very long time.” Zôrphursā fanned their fingers out around their head and furrowed their brows. “Look at me! I am Lord Melkor and I wear ugly hats and have bad thoughts.”
Ida cracked a small smile and pretended to bonk Zôrphursā with the book. “I will stop you! Take this! Those gems belong in pretty things.” She hoped her parents wouldn't hear about this. Lord Melkor was very important to them, for some reason. She didn't want to get in trouble.
Suddenly, their moment was interrupted by the squeak of the door and the click of heels on the tile. A faint scent of burnt paper filled the room and Zôrphursā covered their nose. Ida’s hands grew clammy and she shoved the book, now streaked with sweat, into Zôrphursā's hands.
“Get down!” She hissed at Zôrphursā. They both sunk to the floor and clung to each other. There was only one person that could be. The master of torment himself. Next, they heard the faint drone of wings followed by chilling silence as Langon joined Sauron.
Zôrphursā squeezed Ida so close she gasped for breath. What if the Úmaiar heard their mocking?
“We have volumes on the Silmarils here, right?” Sauron's cruel tone sent shivers through the room.
“If anyone knows anything about them, it should be one of Aulë’s,” Langon sneered. “Not a ‘worthless messenger’.”
“Humph, my word still stands, you know where materials are in the library.”
Langon huffed and said nothing, xe started to fly forward to the section on the physical world, unaware of the friends huddled just below xyr eye-line. Mairon followed close behind. Zôrphursā moved one hand away from Ida and covered their nose and mouth, so not even their breathing could be heard.
Above them, the two heard the crinkle of paper being shoved to and fro. Books thudded to the floor.
"Where is it? I know we had something?" Sauron cried out in exasperation. "It had Melkor's crown on the front. I thought it may hold the answers to wrestle the Silmarils from him and break his curse." Zôrphursā glimpsed the book in their arms, it matched the description.
"Why are you so desperate to win his affection back? Was the elf not good enough for you?"
"Don't talk to me about Lómion!" Sauron stomped. "Keep his name out of your filthy mouth."
Zôrphursā and Ida both wondered who Lómion was. It was hard to imagine an Úmaia caring about anyone.
"I will not waste my time with your tantrums," Langon complained. "The book you described ought to be right there. Lord Melkor wrote it himself." Xe pointed to an empty spot on the shelf.
"But it's not. Someone must have taken it, I'll find them," Sauron grumbled.
Ida and Zôrphursā shivered. What if he found them and punished them? They might loose all their toys or never have dessert again!
"We have to tell them," Ida whispered to Zôrphursā.
"Together," Zôrphursā nodded.
Each squeezing the other's hands tight, they stood and made their way to the pair of Úmaia, Zôrphursā still clutching the tome. The eyes on Sauron widened and Langon raised a brow.
"We have what you were looking for. Ida wanted to forge," Zôrphursā confessed, offering up the book. "We are really sorry! Don't kill us, or torture us, or take away my favourite plush!"
"Or bring us to the fierce bird man with the eagles," Ida requested. Zôrphursā had tried to tell her that the bird man was nice many times, but now wasn't the time for a reminder.
"We won't. Gaining skill in forging is a noble ambition and I can train you when you are older," Sauron said, taking the book from Zôrphursā and smiling at Ida.
"Thank you! I won't let you down," Ida bowed.
"Of course," Sauron said, before opening the book. The pages were a blur as he turned them. The grin started to drop into a scowl as he continued on. "This is all about his adoration for them. It resembles a diary, but on one subject alone."
"There still must be something of use." Langon peered over Sauron's shoulder. Then xe grimaced. "An essay on how radiant their light is?"
"I knew he valued them…but to see it laid out…" Sauron slammed the book shut and shoved it back on the shelf, gagging slightly. "I fear he may be further gone than I thought."
"You ought not to say rude things about Lord Melkor. He takes care of all us," Ida scolded Sauron. "My parents told me that being kind is the best thing to be." She wasn't kind to Melkor when she was only with Zôrphursā. She didn't like him much at all. But Sauron was Melkor's friend and friends didn't talk behind each other's backs.
"Oh…right! Yes," Sauron cleared his throat. "We are doing some research to see if we can help Lord Melkor take care of everyone."
"You weren't meant to hear any of this, Mairon can be clueless," Langon poked Sauron with xyr elbow. "It's nothing for you to worry about."
"Remember, kindness." Ida prodded gently.
"Of course," Langon groaned. Sauron stifled a giggle. "We will help Lord Melkor, somehow. You have nothing to fear."
Ida and Zôrphursā both knew that was a lie.
Notes:
A bit of lore on Ida and Zôrphursā. They are an important part of my largest AU, which is the Niennandil-verse.
Zôrphursā grows up and escapes Angband during the War of Wrath, they later marry Elros and rule Numenor.
Ida is tragically killed, but is reembodied in the fourth age and has a nice life.I wanted to include them in here as a fun little detail.
Chapter 10: Fankil
Chapter Text
When Arien scorched the sky, Fankil understood this to be a sign they had lost. Even his plotting and planning had not been enough to save them. In the end, the Valar had once again eked out victory. And this time, they had millions of weak incarnates to protect. They would not be so lenient.
He looked to his three still living allies and prepared his orders. "Come, we must hide."
"Okay," Mairon responded, stroking the ring he always donned these days as he took a step in the direction of the inner chambers. Langon followed.
Kurúki was still. His gaze was affixed upon Ancalagon's lifeless body splayed out over the crumbling ruins of Thangorodrim. His lower lip quivered for just a moment before he gritted his teeth. "It never gets any easier. I was there when he hatched. Come on, we must to rescue any dragons we can." He started towards the battlefield, in the opposite direction to the others. Fankil wheeled over to him and grasped his arm.
"No. They are going to die and you will be numbered with them," Fankil told him.
"Lord Melkor needs us," Mairon added.
Kurúki was quiet as he slunk over to join the other three, constantly looking over his shoulder at Ancalagon.
Fankil plunged on ahead, trusting the other ainur were following. All that was left was this passage out in the open and then a lift just inside to bring them to the depths. If this current pathway was still clear enough to maneuver his chair through he would be okay.
An arrow whizzed past his head, grazing his hair. His ears started to ring with the tongue of the elves.
"Halt, you Úmaia scum!" An elf commanded from a several yards away. "Or we will shoot again."
They all pivoted around to face the two elves before them, both in shining plate armour and intricately braided hair. In contrast, the ainur looked pitiful with the dirt and sweat clinging to their rags. Still, they refused to be deterred. Langon drew xyr sword and charged at the shorter elf.
The taller dashed towards Fankil. When she was almost upon him, he strained his neck to see her, her pendant swayed about, obstructing his view, but still he could make out the determination knit into her furrowed brows. Fankil curled his hand into a first and thrust it towards the sky, punching her in the jaw. With a satisfying thud she stumbled back towards Mairon.
Mairon caught her and pressed his ringless hand to her forehead. A wave of flame burst from his grip and overtook her. Before it consumed her utterly, he ripped the pendent from her neck and slipped it into a fold of his dress. A final flare of heat went out and she dissolved into ashes.
"I hate how it stains," Mairon muttered as he looked at the dark streaks now on his dress. "Ah well, it would be a shame for such a pretty piece to be wasted on her."
"It is more important that she is deposed of," Fankil remarked.
A little ways over, Langon was dueling with the shorter elf. The blades clashed against each other, streaks of silver darting and dodging.
Kurúki looked upon them, hands raised. A faint glow surrounded him, growing into a vibrant fuchsia as he chanted a spell in the foul speech of Angband. Then he clapped, thunder split the air, and the elf's hands began to tremble. This quiver spread to their entire form and brought them to their knees, desperate for stability. With a clatter, their sword hit the ground.
Langon took flight, blade held high, then xe slammed it down.
A crunch, followed by silence.
"We must be going," Fankil told them all. "We have tarried long enough."
"Yes," Langon nodded. Xe led the way, wiping down xyr blade in case they encountered any more foes.
Thankfully, they managed to arrive to the lift with nary an issue. It was rather cramped with four and there were debris from an orc band sprinkled about, but it would get them to where they needed to go.
Fankil tugged on the ropes. The machine creaked and swung, beginning its creeping descent into the bowels of the fortress. Fumes of toxins and waste washed over them and they could hear the distant echos of battle from the upper levels.
At the lowest level, they stopped and got off. Ahead of them was a maze of forgotten corners and crumbling passages. Only those who had called this fortress home for as long as they did had any hope of navigating.
But the most determined may find them and Fankil could not let this come to pass. He wheeled around to face them, a subtle frown made its way onto his face and he did not have the heart to will it away. "This is where we must part. The thralls of the Valar will search everywhere for us. If they find us together, all shall perish. If we go alone, some may escape."
"This is goodbye?" Kurúki whispered.
"And now I am to lose yet more people I care about," Mairon lamented bitterly as he held his ring close. "But you are right. It is for the best." Kurúki reached out for Mairon's hand and squeezed it gently.
Fankil knew he ought to reprimand them for such a display of weakness. But no servants nor enemies could see them. Did it matter?
"Farewell, it is good we met. Perhaps we will reunite in the void," Langon gave a pained smile.
"That is not a pleasant hope," Mairon shuddered.
"Estel is not for us," Fankil reminded.
For a long while, they all looked upon one another, so much said in brief glimpses they could never say out loud. For it would defy their very nature.
At last, Fankil realized that if he stayed any longer, he would never be able to separate. So with shaking hands, he grasped the handrims of his wheels and slipped away. Only sparing a final glance at the now empty corridor.
Chapter 11: Morgoth
Chapter Text
Angband was overtaken by the squalor of the Valar and only the very deepest chambers were still untouched. Melkor and his closest servants were forced to cower in the putrid basement with its floors of rotting earth stretching as far as one could see. Rusted armour and weapons were melding with the muck and Melkor wondered how long it would be before his jewels would share in their fate. Upon him came a vision of Eönwë uncovering the silmarils along with his corpse, their light blotted out and their surfaces scratched and chipped.
"Was it worth it?" Mairon's voice rang out, the foul question played at the edges of his lips. Even his most faithful servant was forsaking him and he would never permit this.
“You were quite the hypocrite to interrogate me for treasuring my Silmarils.” Melkor towered over Mairon's thin frame. “You are always staring at that worthless ring your dead lover gave you.”
“Leave me alone!” Mairon’s head whipped around and a dozen eyes bright with rage honed in their target. “He wasn't my lover! You wouldn't understand.”
“If he wasn't, then what was his use?”
Mairon went silent. As always. In the past he had rambled off some nothingness about how words always failed when he tried to explain what Lómion and him had together. According to him, he had to show with his spirit and very few had that privilege. Melkor supposed he must have lost it when he returned to Angband changed.
“Answer me,” ordered Melkor.
“We made each other happy,” Mairon started to speak, “It was because of our combined brilliance that you crushed Gondolin. Perhaps if you hadn't let him die you would have had your third chunk of rock back by now.”
“Mairon, I did not let your elf perish. Why can you not understand there is a bigger purpose? I let you join me because I knew you saw my vision. There are matters more important than what you want.” Melkor rested an icy hand on Mairon's shoulder. But Mairon's very fana rejected him by ripping open ancient burns. With a cry, he yanked back his hand. Grey smoke swirled around it like chains.
Mairon rose to his full height, a storm of eyes materialized like a halo around his head, all pointed towards Melkor. His lips twisted into a sneer and his hair crackled to life.
“I do not think you want what you say you do. If you did perhaps you would have spent less time gazing at the lights of your crown and more time plotting to win this loosing war. I have had enough of you and your foolishness. The Melkor I once called friend has rotted away. Lómion deserved a better jewel as adornment."
Melkor opened his mouth to utter the truth, but Mairon was too far gone. All that he could do was watch as the servant he had poured everything into turned away and shut every eye that could still yet see him.
“Farewell, I go to seek my fortune elsewhere.” He proclaimed and walked into the horizon. A path of scorched soil was the only trace left of him.
Melkor moved to sit where Mairon was and stared off as the Maia he had trained and trusted left him without a thought. The weight of his crown bore down on him, clouding old memories of what they had shared. Even thinking had begun to hurt. But perhaps it would be less painful to never know what he had lost.
Chapter 12: Mairon
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Mairon ran through the desolate halls, getting as far away as he could before his will inevitably faltered and he found himself back in Melkor's presence. Instead he pressed those fickle thoughts to the corners of his mind and honed in on anything and everything else. The way his fana was straining under the exhaustion of a thousand battles, any shadow which held the possibility of being a fiend, the ruby ring on his finger, and his own vision for the future.
Yet, these were only enough to hold him over until he arrived another lift, even more hidden than the first, and sank to the floor.
What if Melkor returned to his senses and at last remembered his loyalty? He would be terrified and alone.
However, Mairon could not forget how he forsook him when he was alone and hurting from Lúthien's and Huan's attacks.
Even farther back his memory stretched.
Melkor had laughed when he first listened to Mairon's wishes to right the brokenness of Middle-earth. Any smith work he did was unheeded unless it served some higher purpose. The plans he had created to thwart the schemes of the Valar were stolen and claimed to be Melkor's own work.
Mairon had adored Melkor, but had Melkor seen him as anything more than a useful pawn?
He did not know. Even still, he would choose to hope that perhaps once there was fondness between them and that Melkor could have partook in his mission for Arda.
The one matter he was certain of was that Melkor had been consumed by his own foolish desire for the Silmarils and entropy of its own sake at the end.
Although, he could not recognize it at the time. It was Lómion who had taught him that. Lómion who had respected his ideas and listened with eagerness as he described endowing all of Arda with his wisdom. Lómion who was gifted beyond measure in the forge and appreciated all of Mairon's creations. Lómion who shared with others every detail Mairon suggested as they planned the Fall of Gondolin.
They had seen each other's potential and all the ways this world had failed them. Lómion was sundered from him, but he could still fulfill his beloved's wishes and the ambitions he so believed in.
Lómion had told him he deserved better than this and gave him kindness without a shred of pain.
"You are my dearest friend, my heart's companion. I love you in every way I never imagined possible," Lómion whispered in Mairon's ear as he embraced him. Melkor was watching on, judging. But Mairon had found he cared not The warmth and sweetness of his precious's touch was far too delicate to let slip away.
"I love you too beyond all measure. Thank you for coming here, I needed you. I will await your return where we can finally rule Gondolin as we were meant to," Mairon stroked Lómion's hair, something he had never felt before welling up in his eyes.
If he had known it was to be the last time…
Now he was all alone. Thuringwethil, Kurúki, and Fankil were either dead or would be soon. To see even Langon again would be a relief. Melkor ceased to be useful to his machinations. Order was only able to endure chaos for a short while before it was forced to inflict its will.
Where was he to go? What was he to do? Was there a place for him yet still in this decaying land?
No, this was utter nonsense! His future was still ahead of him. His dreams still lay in his heart.
He'd make Lómion proud from wherever his fëa rested. The land was to be transformed into a worthy home for him, even if he could never dwell there. Perhaps he would look upon Mairon's work and feel joy, if only for a moment.
All would recognize his wisdom and embrace his ways ere long.
Out of Angband and into the twilight he walked, knowing Arda would soon be healed to its rightful state.
Notes:
We have arrived at the end of the first age. The Silmarils fade from history, but as we know Sauron has quite a few troublesome magical trinkets to make himself.
Thank you so much for reading and coming along!
oakenting on Chapter 9 Sat 06 Sep 2025 08:25PM UTC
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sallysavestheday on Chapter 12 Sat 06 Sep 2025 07:13PM UTC
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oakenting on Chapter 12 Mon 08 Sep 2025 09:04PM UTC
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