Chapter Text
Father is the first to break the silence.
A melody emanates and at once, there is space for it to pierce.
The Ainur listen and join in, their voices soaring in unison with the One.
The song is a cascade of colours, a vision of a wondrous world to come.
Melkor, strongest of the Ainur, grows restless. A new song, diverging from the present one, takes shape in his mind and proudly, he lets it out; puts his very essence on display.
His melody is not in harmony with Father's. Yet, it is powerful and some Ainur mimic it.
Then there is another voice joining in. It does not follow the notes of his song, but adds its own harmony to it. It is clear and strong, devoid of all hesitation. Though it holds none of the discord Melkor manifests, it somehow entwines with his melody into a symphony of perfection; a union of a new vision, diverging from Ilúvatar's.
It is beautiful.
This new harmony carries such longing; The yearning to break free of the given path and truly create out of free will. It manifests his own nature so achingly perfect, that the singer has to be moulded from the same flame as him.
The moment passes.
Melkor is chastised by Father thrice, suffering a searing humiliation in front of his kin for expressing what he is. The other singer is unknown. The voice has come from the lower choir of the Maiar and of those there are plenty.
Melkor dwells in the shadows, biding his time.
When the task to create Arda is at hand, he joins his siblings. His twin brother, Manwë, has been appointed to rule the Ainur, despite Melkor being the better choice.
Thus, if Manwë is to rule the Ainur, Melkor has decided to rule Arda and its future children.
The others do not share his vision of the new world. It does not stop him. Every creation not to his liking, Melkor seeks to tear down and reshape. After all, he will be king of Arda and so he must have a say in its appearance.
But Tulkas, the only Vala who measures up to his own strength, fights him tirelessly at every turn.
When Arda is finally deemed complete, the Ainur build their abodes on the island Almaren. Two lamps are raised- one in the north and one in the south- to create the rhythm of day and night. Melkor settles far away from them, in the northern mountains.
There he takes root underground; shaping a fortress where the light from the lamps cannot penetrate.
A few of the Maiar choose to follow him, though the mysterious singer is not with them. Once he lays eyes on that Maia he will know, as surely as Manwë knows Varda is his assigned companion.
In his fortress, he and his Maiar are free to experiment with creation. It is with great pride Melkor brings forth his own children, the demons, before Father has presented his. They mingle with his Maiar, some in intimate unions, and Melkor does not hesitate to explore the pleasures of his newly taken flesh with these new children.
At least, here he is the sole ruler; the creator and destructor as he pleases.
But there is solitude in his elevated station. A part of him is missing, as vital as his arm, and neither his Maiar nor his children can fill that emptiness.
They do not understand the way this unknown singer does; sees how his divergence from the other Valar is a premeditated doom as well as a gift that will force him apart from them forever.
So he begins to search. He keeps some Maiar as spies in Almaren and takes as a habit to travel to the island every now and then, all in the guise of peaceful visits.
Soon enough, there are whispers in this young Arda; rumours spreading like the grass and trees in its fresh, fertile soil.
A Maia, of great skill and talent. Willful, but kind and charming. One of the Vala Aulë's smiths.
He has many admirers as his name suggests.
Mairon.
Conveniently, this Maia is not at Aulë's court, but has his own forge close to a river. The spies say the forge is frequently visited by Ainur who wish to adorn their newly taken shapes with the Maia's beautiful craft.
Melkor leaves his fortress in a hurry, driven by the shadow of a foresight only his kind can have.
This path will lead to his destiny, in whatever shape it chooses to manifest.
***
He comes to Mairon's forge late in the day, when the warm light of Ormal is fading and the other lamp, Illuin, unveils the stars with its deep blue light.
As expected, the forge is not very busy this close to lampshift.
Through a large open vault in the umber-coloured stone building, three smiths can be seen working. There are no visitors in sight.
Two Maiar are scrubbing workbenches and sweeping the floor. The third one stands by an anvil, swinging a hammer at a small object held in place by a pair of pliers. His red-gold hair obscures his features as his head is bowed over his work. Then he looks up.
Melkor's heart stops.
Warm amber eyes, set in the most exquisite face, gaze into his.
The Maia's tresses fall like molten embers, spun with gold and fire, against his fair skin.
Contrary to expectation, he is not crudely built. He is Melkor's opposite, with his slender frame and lean muscles. As the Maia straightens up, it is revealed that he is more than a head shorter than Melkor.
The contours of his face are defined and yet the angles has a softness to them. A spatter of golden freckles is strewn over the upper parts of his cheeks and nose. There is nothing decent about the shape of his pink lips or the way they part slightly at the sight of Melkor.
But the eyes.
The subtle shape of wings and in them, two orbs of rich colour, burning with specks of gold. There is an awareness in them, one rarely seen with those of his kind. They hold none of the usual resentment and suspicion towards him. Instead, they reflect Melkor's own reaction perfectly.
Recognition.
The Maia puts his tools down and steps forward, bowing his head before resuming a brief eye contact.
The smooth hands of this Maia, with nails as clear as glass, are smeared with oil and soot. Mairon rubs them on his leather apron, tied over a dark green tunic that is too simple for such a pleasant form.
Something begins to seeth inside; a churning, violent shock that ignites every part of Melkor's flesh. This one is not made for Aulë. Mairon is made for him and has been kept from his sight.
"Mairon." Melkor says.
"Lord Melkor." Mairon replies. "How can I be of service?"
"The reputation of your skills reaches far." Melkor replies calmly, though a storm is brewing inside. "I came to see what you have to offer."
"Of course." The Maia gives him a stunning smile. "Anything in particular you had in mind?"
There is a tug at Melkor's heart then; a dark, clawing hunger that seeks only the shape before him. He lifts his gaze towards the other two Maiar, toiling away to make the forge clean and meticulously organised.
"Have I arrived at an inconvenient time?" He asks.
Mairon shakes his head. "Not at all. I always stay until late, preparing for the morning. Please, come inside."
Melkor walks in with a raised chin and determined steps. As the Maia leads him deeper into the workplace, he notices the appealing shape of Mairon's buttocks, trapped in worn leather breeches.
Does he know, this tempting little servant, how he affects his surroundings?
The other two Maiar cast nervous glances at Melkor, but he ignores them. This meeting is too important.
He is led to a desk by the innermost wall. Underneath it are a rich number of scrolls, neatly tucked into deep laid shelves. Above the desk are yet more shelves, filled with everything from circlets and crowns to saddle rings for mounts.
What it all has in common is brilliance. The crafting is so clever, so perfectly executed, that it casts a shadow over Aulë's work.
Mairon stops by the desk and turns to him. He lowers his gaze and bites his lip. Melkor can think of a thousand ways those lips could be of use.
"I am building a fortress under the feet of the Iron Mountains." Melkor says, keeping his voice distant and formal. "You might have heard of it."
"Utumno." Mairon replies. "I am aware, my Lord."
If he keeps saying 'my Lord' like that, there is a risk of him being kidnapped to the same Utumno at this very instant.
Melkor grits his teeth. He has to be careful with this one.
"I need a throne for my reception hall and I am considering having it made in iron." He continues.
"Iron is a surprisingly soft metal." Mairon informs him. "Can I suggest an alloy to harden it?"
While Mairon shows him samples of different alloys, the other two Maiar finish their duties. They stand lingering, waiting for approval.
"Excuse me for a moment." Mairon says and inspects the tools and surfaces around the forge. One of the Maiar is softly reprimanded and has to scrub an anvil once more while Mairon explains to him why no residue should be left on its surface.
Once this is done, they have permission to leave. Still, they hesitate.
"Go." Mairon insists. "I'll be fine."
What bothers them is so obvious, there is no need for further explanation. Melkor saw it in their eyes as he entered the forge; the reputation of the dangerous Vala has travelled far and wide.
Though concern flickers in their eyes, they hang their aprons upon elegantly crafted hooks and bid Mairon farewell.
When they are out of sight, Mairon turns to him with a apologetic gaze. There is no fear; only a whisper of awe behind his carefully controlled surface.
"Are you not concerned I might have come to lead you astray?" Melkor asks.
"I already excel at that myself, my Lord." He replied. "I suppose that is why my Master keeps me busy."
The words are stabs with a vicious knife.
Aulë is not your Master.
He can prove it; take this little Maia there and then, press him face down on the desk and claim him.
Though, without his consent, the union will be seen as invalid and the other Valar might take action against him.
Also, he wants Mairon's cooperation; his full devotion even. Surely, he must feel this too; this excruciating pull between them?
"Why are you not at Aulë's court?" Melkor asks. "Someone with a skill such as yours should hold an important position."
"I was offered to be his chief smith. But- " Mairon's gaze wanders around the room.
" - I enjoy the freedom here. The lack of surveillance when I work."
The corner of Melkor's mouth rises slightly.
"You value your independence, as I do."
Mairon nods, averting his eyes.
"How do you conjure up these astounding objects?" Melkor asks. "Tell me."
Mairon takes a scroll from underneath the desk and unfolds it as he speaks.
"I have heard many times that my imagination is abundant and my patience scarce." He replies with a little smile. "At times, I forestall my Master and create things he has not asked for nor approved."
"Such as?"
He glances up at Melkor before taking a small wooden box off the upper shelf. Lifting the lid, he uncovers three small, glistening stones. Dark red, like blood frozen for eternity.
"They are magnificent." Melkor says under his breath. "A tribute to the manifestation of life itself within these fleshy coils."
A pink blush spreads on Mairon's cheeks.
"I call them rubies." He says. "My Master thought them too unseemly; too ill-fitting against the other minerals of the mountains. Then Yavanna sang the crimson poppies into life and his opinion of these stones changed."
Melkor studies him, watches how the colour seeps deeper into his face, though the Maia remains impressively composed, looking down at the scroll he has just laid out.
"Aulë has no right to blame anyone for rash decisions." Melkor remarks. "Especially those made in the throes of inspiration."
"Ah, yes, the dwarves." Mairon nods. "Though I find them very likeable."
"It does not offend you that he shaped children of his own, before Ilúvatar has presented his?"
"Truth or amenities, my Lord?"
Melkor takes hold of Mairon's chin. He turns the Maia's face towards him.
"There is no room for lies between us," Melkor says, "particularly from you, who brought such a fitting harmony to my song."
The blush spreads down to Mairon's neck and collarbones, which are deliciously revealed above the neckline of the tunic. He is perfectly devourable.
"I was much reprimanded for it." Mairon replies.
"Why? If this is how Ilúvatar has made us, with all this capacity for diverse creation, then why should we hide or suppress it?"
Melkor can tell the thought has crossed Mairon's mind already. The only obstacle is the love this Maia holds for all of creation; the spring of this world, the Ainur, Ilúvatar, the coming children and yes, even his Master.
Melkor swallows the offence down, though it is a hard lump in his throat. He can keep all this love, his little Maia, as long as in the end, it is directed only towards him.
"I believe the existence of the dwarves to be fair." Mairon says. "We should all be sanctioned to create life the way the Highest One does. Who is to judge a life as better than another?"
Melkor holds Mairon's chin for a little longer. Before releasing him, he brushes his forefinger over the red cheek, careful not to scratch him with his sharp nail. That will come later.
Clearing his throat, Mairon turns to the contents of the scroll once more.
"Here are some designs of other thrones and seats that I have made." He says. "Perhaps you could look at these and give me an idea of what appeals to you?"
"I have a better suggestion." Melkor replies. "Come visit me in Utumno. If you are to design my throne, then you should see the environment in which it will stand."
Once more, Mairon looks directly at him with those obscenely pretty eyes.
"That is very gracious of you, my Lord."
"Come when the forge has closed and the light from Illuin darkens the sky. I would like you to have plenty of time for the assignment."
With that, Melkor strides out of the forge, his long black cloak billowing around his feet. If he stays there for a moment longer, his self-discipline might give way and Mairon will end up violated before being whisked away to the underground halls of Utumno.
This one is too important for such a whim to be allowed. Their union must be seen as valid by all the laws Manwë has made. Once it happens, no one will have any means to question it. Mairon must come to him out of his own free will.
But most importantly; a lasting trust must be built between them, a foundation for their eternity together.
When he returns to the fortress, he locks himself into his private chambers. There he muses upon Mairon, letting the memory of the Maia's beauty ignite and release the pleasures of the flesh.