Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Year of the Sun: 14,362

Fingers brush against Maedhros’ face, landing lightly on the scarce areas of skin that aren’t peppered with bruises and clotted blood. As they travel upwards, they trace lengthy scars that curl across his right eye and snake onto his forehead. Eventually they move onto his hair, weaving themselves into the tangled mass of crimson that lies haphazardly spread about his head across the dirty stone floor like a blood red cloud. The long fingers run through knots, smoothing them out with a gentle delicacy that soon devolves into rougher, crueler tugging.

The delirious elf stirs from a pain-induced unconsciousness. As his senses return to him and a small, choked whimper of pain is hewed from his cracked lips, the owner of the fingers only laughs in amusement.

“Welcome back, dear Maitimo,” Mairon coos as he abruptly yanks his head upwards by the hair. Like a ragdoll, Maedhros’ body obeys but ultimately he can only make it up halfway before the chains shackling him to the wall hold him hostage at an uncomfortable standstill.

The Maia briefly pauses as he takes this in. His mind, one that his master often praised for its genius and exceptional intellect, considers and eliminates a million thoughts per second about how he should proceed. He could continue to play a torturer’s version of tug-of-war and observe the possible effects it could inflict on the elf-king’s already-battered hröa; alternatively, he could just simply drop him to the ground in hopes of seeing if a fall from such a height might result in any cracked bones. Ah, but how many times over the past decade had he played these games with Maedhros? Far too many; he knew by heart what would come of these same old endeavours, and they bored him half to death despite the momentary delight they gave. The elf-king seemed to have taken a vow of silence about five years earlier, and really! The fun in torture had been utterly drained dry without the sound of Maedhros’ once-lilting screams to validate the appropriate levels of pain he was inflicting.

A disappointed frown curls at Mairon’s rosebud lips. Maedhros sees the discontent on his tormentor’s fair face, and his mangled countenance shifts into one of contemptuous mirth. Even if the rare joy he can snag is one afforded at his own expense, it is a victory nonetheless to see not everything going as flawlessly as Mairon often preferred.

Mairon flushes when he notices the look of triumph on his prisoner. His nails turn into iron-sharp claws as they begin to dig deeper into Maedhros’ scalp. “Wipe that smirk off your face, kinslayer,” he hisses, and his breath sizzles like smoking embers on the tip of his nose. “To laugh at someone who has the power to make the next hours of your life a hell unlike any other… I cannot tell if you’re bold, or simply stupid.”

The noise that erupts from Maedhros’ throat can hardly be considered a laugh- it is hoarse and ragged, like the grinding of rusty wagon wheels against coarse iron spindles. When he speaks, it comes as no surprise that his voice is guttural from a lack of usage other than producing enforced grunts of pain. But he speaks, nonetheless, his first words in what has seemed like years since his captivity, and if he were not speaking out against him, Mairon would almost have been impressed.

“Bravery,” he rasps, “Is what gives me the strength to endure your wickedness.”

“Ah,” Mairon sneers, and he seizes the sides of Maedhros’ face with both his hands, clamping his cheeks between them tightly. “But bravery too was what got your precious father killed mere moments after landing in Beleriand. How fitting that his heir should have inherited his gusto! Do not worry, my little flame- I won’t give you an ending as anticlimactic as his...”

His fingers glow a hot amber as he concentrates his Power in their tips and immediately Maedhros’ body convulses as burning heat sears onto his face; he cries out, attempting to pull away, but Mairon’s hands are a vice that renders him immobile with no choice but to endure what torture he has planned. For a moment, he forgets the humiliating position the Maia has him in, so heavily convinced that red iron rods fresh from a raging fire are being pressed into his skin that ugly tears prick the corners of his eyes-- but just as what seems like a shout may escape him, he bites down on his tongue with such force that he draws blood. The rattling of chains caused by his incessant writhing is all that resonates across the small cell, yet Mairon only looks on with blank eyes like the spectacle before him is only slightly more amusing than watching milk curdle.

“I was right,” he sighs melodramatically once he has grown irritated by the elf’s enforced silence. He lets his hands fall to his sides, causing Maedhros to crash abruptly onto the floor in a crumpled heap. “This has grown stale, Maitimo. I will tell you out of the kindness of my heart that giving in now is a much easier solution than what will come if you continue this ridiculous charade. Why do you continue being so stubborn? Let’s try this once more from the top.”

And Maedhros spits at his feet. “Burn in hell!”

“Oh, but this is hell, and you’re our guest of honour!” Mairon laughs, landing a solid kick in the elf’s ribs. He notes with disgust the way Maedhros digs his fingernails into his skin to stifle his whimpers as the soft crunch of breaking bones pervades the air.

He raises his foot again, pondering if a second kick will sate his anger for today, but the cell door behind him slides open with a great groan as it is dragged across the rough cobblestone floor. Light pours into the dim enclosure - Maedhros recoils from the intensity of the outside lamplight like he’s been scalded - only for it to be blocked out entirely by the shadow of the towering figure that enters. The temperature plummets; the puddle of blood to the left that had been rippling earlier comes to an eerie standstill. Mairon sees that Maedhros has begun to shake in a way that he was never able to make him do so. Only one entity in Angband has that effect on Fëanor’s eldest son, and Mairon has grown so used to his domineering presence that he needs not even to look behind to recognise who it is.

“My lord,” he says with a little bow, moving to the side and allowing Melkor full view of the cell.

The small breath of bemused air leaving the Vala’s nostrils indicates his acknowledgement, and as he strides in he shrouds the cell in darkness once more. He takes in the sight before him: his Lieutenant standing to attention, arms akimbo, with his intricate robes dyed a discoloured crimson at the ends, the pools of blood that lie messily smudged, the shelf of overturned torture instruments - most likely Mairon’s doing in a rare fit of rage. But most delightful to Melkor’s cruel eye is the damaged, battered form of the High King of the Noldor that lays at his feet. To him, each bruise on his skin is a flower that blooms in a meadow of blue and purple. He marvels at the dim luster that still radiates off the crimson sheen of his hair despite how matted and dirty it has become.

He is trembling before the Dark Lord now — an action his body does out of instinct from the unconscious memory of the traumas it has undergone at his hand — but Melkor knows there is still defiance in Maedhros. There is still a sense of his Noldorin pride that stokes the fire of his burning fëa and holds his head high. There is still hostility… grief... anger in relation to Fëanor’s death and the safety of his younger brothers that keeps him going. That loyalty is a beautiful insect, for even if Melkor may uninterestedly admire it from afar, it is still something he feels the compulsion to pulverise out of existence entirely.

Today, he will ravage it once and for all.

“Step back, Mairon. You have outdone yourself for today,” he commends, ushering the blond to retire behind him with a swift flick of his slender wrist. “Allow me my turn before you get too greedy, won’t you?”

A wide grin makes its way over Mairon’s face as the weight of his lord’s words sets in, and so with a new bounce to his step he makes his way to where he indicates. Once he’s in position, he looks up at Melkor, eyes sparkling with sinister intrigue. “Do you believe you will succeed this time, my lord?”

“Failure was never once a consideration of mine,” he replies with a confident smirk.

Maedhros is barely awarded a moment to catch his breath before the Vala steps forth, and as his foot hits the floor he begins to morph into a dark, wisplike form. Tangible skin dissolves into a heavy swirling smoke that seems to hold itself in the shape of his body only faintly; the tips of his hair spread outwards like an overbearing shadow, casting a suffocating darkness over the frail form of the elf below him. Melkor holds out a fluctuating hand, reaching directly for Maedhros’ exposed torso, and as he makes contact with his emaciated chest his arm seems to go through it entirely.

He tenses, his ruby eyes narrowing in concentration; a soft hum escapes his incorporeal lips as his fingers tighten around something Mairon cannot quite see, yet the effect is instantaneous. Maedhros jolts backwards like he has been whipped by one of Gothmog’s flaming lashes, and as Melkor finds his grip and begins to pull his hand from his chest, the elf writhes like he’s fighting a battle he knows he ultimately cannot win. It is a crusade of wits seeing the spirit of the Moringotto wrestle with the High King’s, but ultimately, when Mairon hears the first fresh scream ripped from Maedhros’ throat, he understands with a long-denied exhilaration that the first stage of his master’s plan has passed without issue.

Melkor’s wispy form flickers for a passing second as he redirects his Power— then as if accosted by an explosive force, he withdraws his outstretched hand with the ferocity of a storm unrestrained. The helpless elf-king is jolted forth along with this sudden movement and Mairon watches in curiosity as something mesmerising and golden is torn out from his chest, clutched in his master’s knotted hand. Once it is completely sundered from him, Maedhros collapses to the floor like a puppet whose strings have been cut, and his limp body is dazzlingly illuminated by the resplendence of the golden flame that dances atop Melkor’s outstretched palm.

“So that is his fëa, then,” Mairon remarks slowly. He shields his eyes with a slight wince, “It is far too bright for my liking, truth be told.”

“It won’t be for long, my dear,” Melkor replies with a cruel excitement to his deep tenor, “So I encourage you to appreciate it while you still can.”

The Maia finds himself unable to look away from the golden sheen of Maedhros’ fëa. The more he tries to fight it, the more he finds his eyes drawn to the boutade that spills from the center of the room, swirling in fierce divine contention with Melkor’s black miasma. It is his first time seeing a raw, naked fëa shorn from a hröa and admittedly it is overwhelming, even for him. The longer he stares, the more its brilliance burns into his corneas, sending his head spinning backwards. Perhaps a regular fëa would have had less of an effect on him-- but it is Maedhros’ fëa after all, and it sears all who gaze upon it with an intensity that would have reduced any regular orc within its radius to ashes instantly.

The heart of the blazing inferno surges forth with a roar. Mairon watches as it ripples over itself like molten iron seething and popping in the bowels of a forge, and slowly, images begin to come to life from within its aureating brilliance. Seven humanoid figures dance among the swirling mass; they’re all of varying heights, yet their pointed ears are unmistakable indicators of their Elvish genetics. Some wear their hair in braids that the wind teases above their heads, and others carry on their hips swords with gem-encrusted hilts that glimmer under the gentle moonlight. The tallest figure holds out his hands, and two smallest ones run to him; when they tackle him and he falls back onto the grass under their tight embrace, his laughter traverses the night breeze like the clear ringing of gentle morning bells.

From outside the vision that swarms Mairon’s consciousness, he hears the real Maedhros scream again, his voice raw with a vulnerable anguish that reduces him to a sobbing mess. He is pleading now- no, no! please don’t- don’t take this from me- they are all I have left- no please, no! and so Melkor tightens his fist, digs his clawed fingers deeper still into the pulsating soul, relishes in the destruction he is slowly but steadily inflicting on the elf chained before him. The tendrils of his cloudy mass snake out to the corner of the room, curling under the door and permeating into the outside hallway. They’re intermingling with Maedhros’ exposed fëa, hitting hard against its flaxen shell until small cracks begin to form. Once a large-enough opening has been hewed, they penetrate straight through into the heart of the flame. The first invaders of the barrage are instantly reduced to ash by its sheer intensity - by the innate goodness and nobility and all other positive qualities of Fëanor’s eldest that makes Mairon want to gag. But even the holiest of citadels must fall, and it’s only a matter of time before the all-encompassing glare of the inferno begins to dim...

In Mairon’s vision, he sees that the seven figures have come to a sudden standstill. The elves are melting now into decaying fields of mud and slag, their brilliant golden bodies deforming and distorting until almost nothing remains of them except an ugly black slush. Only the tallest elf is left untouched, but he cannot run nor does he attempt to. The darkness of the mud-pool wraps itself around his ankles and begins to climb up his legs, leeching and leeching at the resplendence of his shining purity until it has caked his entire body in its hideous filth and he is virtually indistinguishable from the rest of the putrid mass and then--

Then the sight before him bursts into billowing flames, and Mairon falls back with a startled yelp as he forcibly wrenches himself from the vision. For a moment, he panics as he notices what he thinks is the same muddy slag coating his own hands, but calm returns to his racing heart when he realises it is only a projected trick of the mind. When he looks up, he sees his lord standing before what is now a hideous mockery of the once-golden blaze that Maedhros’ fëa was. Now saturated in the Dark Lord’s corruption, its miserable flickering is hardly noticeable from underneath the mire that coats it like a thick, impermeable sludge.

Melkor releases the desecrated fëa from his iron claws and pushes it back into Maedhros’ chest, almost carelessly so. The elf chokes out a deep, desperate shudder like a gasp for air as he tries to fight it off, but he is powerless to stop the hideous mockery of what was once his own soul from reuniting with his hröa. His body reacts violently to this defilement, flailing wildly as it struggles to rehome what has essentially been reduced to filth and corruption. But then Melkor forces it in with one final push, and Maedhros ultimately crumples to the floor one last time as his spirit is bested.

“....At...ar… forg...ive...” He weeps softly with the dregs of his remaining strength-- but they are the very last dregs, and it is almost disappointing when his sentence dies along with his train of thought.

He does not move any more. All is still, and all is calm. Light returns to the cell as the heavy miasma is restored to Melkor, growing more opaque and finally solidifying until he is back in his physical form.

“I am tired,” he announces, as if what he’s just finished doing is something as menial as going for a light jog or doing simple yardwork.

“As I am speechless,” Mairon says breathlessly, slipping an arm around his master’s waist to steady his slight swaying. The Vala debates slapping him away, but eventually decides maybe having an aide guide him back to his chambers after such a strenuous task would not be such a bad idea after all. “Though, a quick question, my lord… Is he dead?”

“Hm. It wasn’t my intention, but we’ll have to see. Maybe I had a little too much fun,” he shrugs nonchalantly. “Well! If he does die then I’ll simply have to count on you to bring him back. Surely you can do that for me, my little sorcerer?”

“I doubt I can work with that,” Mairon frowns, giving the limp form of the unconscious elf a quick glance. “My lord, you never fail to flatter me with your confidence in my skills-- but having to work with your… ah, leftovers, is oftentimes a task even I struggle with from time to time.”

“And that is precisely why I do what I do, my dear Mairon,” Melkor laughs as they begin to walk out of the cell. He snaps his fingers at a shivering orc attendant huddled in the corner furthest from Maedhros who’d watched the entire process with his hands alternating between covering his eyes and clamping over his ears. “Orc. Make sure the Noldo doesn’t die, or it will be you taking his place next. Come, Mairon. We will return tomorrow to see the fruit of our endeavours.”

With an inaudible squeak, the orc prostrates himself before the two Ainur in senseless obedience. Then, when the cell door slams shut with a thundering finality, he is left alone with the elf he’s half-sure is already dead. But Melkor’s cruel, haunting laughter is all he can hear in his pounding head, and thus begrudgingly he makes his way to the crumpled mass of skin, bones and red hair to make sure his lifeline is still breathing.

“What comes next if he does survive, then?” Mairon asks as they make their way past orcs and Umaiar who drop everything to bow before them as they pass through the corridors.

Melkor hums in response, twirling a strand of his inky hair with a slender finger. “It’s no fun if I spoil it now, isn’t it? You’ll simply have to wait and see.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you even have a plan at all, my lord, or if you’re just making things up as you go.”

“Who knows, my dear Mairon? Ungoliant strike me down where I stand if I become another carbon copy of that predictable Iluvatar. All I know is that our precious Nelyafinwë…” A terrible smile replaces his look of disgust, curling the sides of Melkor’s mouth upwards and exposing sharp teeth. “He shall bring some much-needed excitement to Angband and her inhabitants, that is for sure.”

“More fun than you’ve already had with him?”

“Boredom is an intimate whore of mine, little Mairon. All endeavours I make are those born to evade her loveless seductions.”

“That’s rich, very rich indeed, coming from you.” The Maia shakes his head, stifling the urge to roll his eyes.

They arrive at the great iron doors to Melkor’s chambers, and as they groan open, the corridor they expose leads into a depthless twilight threatening to swallow them both. But ah, Mairon thinks as he steps into its cold embrace and escorts the fallen Vala inside, we are already shoulder-deep in this darkness. And who will be there to pull us out?

Only shadow, when the fire shirks away.

And only death, when the shadow takes its prey.