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Chapter Text

The nothingness was all encompassing. It begged to be filled with all manner of creation. His irritation seethed at what he perceived to be wasted potential. The nothingness mocked him with its emptiness, mirroring the absence he felt within his being.

He had been searching and searching but in vain. The flame imperishable was nowhere to be found in this vast void. An unending search in an unending blackness. Yet he persisted. 

The others crowded around Eru, drawn in by their creator. But not he. He cleaved not unto his maker’s thoughts but wished to forge his own path. The others did not understand him, they did not share his vision. He had hoped that one of them… but she had turned towards another. The Void echoed his hollow dismay at this rejection. He would create alone, then. Mighty, but alone. 

He felt it before he saw it, something other than him in the vastness. He turned towards its presence and perceived a light. Small and dim at first, but growing brighter as it approached until its lustre was great indeed to fill his entire essence, though it remained so little in the darkness. Could this be the flame he had sought for so long, he wondered. He sensed it nearing him and reached out to hold it.

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She had no concept of time here. She had not even registered this place at all, but had merely been travelling through it, this emptiness. The last thing she remembered was the explosion of energy, the waves of which had catapulted her through the very fabric of space and time, so she thought. So it felt. 

Then she had been drawn away and held in place by an unknown force. She could feel its proximity in the enormity of what surrounded her, yet it was entirely indescribable to her physically. 

“What art thou?”

The words did not come to her through her ears, or even her mind. In fact, they were not really words at all. She experienced the question in her very being. A soul communing with a soul. She had never known anything like it and for a while did not respond, for she did not know how. Her human body was used to communicating through her mouth, this method was entirely alien to her. 

After what felt like too long, she attempted to reply in kind. Feeling the words not just in her mind, but everywhere. 

“Human.” It took all her effort to transmit that one word. 

“What is ‘human’?” Came the reply. 

“What are you?” She countered, falteringly with the effort it took to converse this way. Explaining what a human was to an unknown presence was too much for her to attempt, she did not even know where to begin. 

The presence called themself an Ainur, then shared a name she would only utter but twice in her lifetime, for it was of a language not used by mortal tongues. 

Throughout their discourse, she had felt a tugging. Whatever trajectory the explosion had put her on, some force compelled her onwards upon it. Now the feeling had grown into a wrenching sensation and she felt herself wrested from the other’s hold on her. She sensed, again through her entire being, waves of competing emotions from the other as it attempted to keep her. Dismay, frustration, but mainly anger. The anger scared her, for it was great indeed. 

She slipped from there and travelled onwards, for how long she could not tell, until the emptiness abruptly ended and she was hurled into a dark shape. She had had enough time to become aware of a bright light in the distance, and a valley surrounded by mountains, before she unceremoniously careened into one of them. 

Only it was no mountain. She was falling backwards from the impact, looking up at the sheer front she thought had been a rock face, when a hand caught her from underneath, encompassing her in a cave of fingers. She felt herself be raised upwards, and watched the blur of a darkly clad, broad body whoosh past her vision until she was level with a pair of eyes, icy blue yet somehow seeming dark, piercing, and coldly appraising. If ice could burn, those eyes would be the result. She had never beheld them before, yet they felt strangely familiar.

As they studied one another, she saw comprehension dawn in those eyes, swiftly followed by glee. 

“I hast found thee again. It has been some time since our last meeting.”

The voice was masculine, deep, low, and commanding. It reverberated through her very bones and set a sickening giddy feeling in her stomach, like one who stands upon a precipice unsure of if they will fall. Yet she was held in place by it. 

“Dost thou not remember me?”

She finally found the courage to break the shared eye contact so she could assess the rest of the giant before her. They were male in countenance. The features were human, yet also not so. Face, eyes, nose, mouth, hair; all of these present but there was something about them all that spoke of an otherness. 

He was beautiful, breathtakingly so. Destructively so. He harboured fierce features behind which one could detect darkness, yet there was light also, radiating from his eyes and where she supposed his heart would be. His  lips were thin, with a curved bow on the top, and dark enough to contrast against his skin, which was the blue-grey of dusk. Rippling hair that shimmered like light upon spilled ink framed sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline. 

As much as she could physically see it, she moreso felt his might. She also detected an undercurrent of potential malevolence within him that ensured she could not relax in his presence. With difficulty, she met his eyes once more. 

“Are you the presence I met in the darkness I was travelling through?” 

“The Void. Yes, I am.”

“How is it I am able to understand what you are saying?”

“I know not for certain, perhaps it is because we truly perceived one another in The Void.”

Truly perceived one another . That statement made her uneasy and she was not sure it was entirely true either. That they had communicated, she could not deny. Perhaps that was why they could understand one another again. She did realise she knew who and what he was though. She had had an inkling after he told her he was one of the Ainur and now seeing him before her, she felt her suspicions were almost completely confirmed. How it was possible, she did not know, for the being in front of her was supposedly fictitious. 

“What is your name?” She asked shyly, wishing to confirm her theory. 

A smile spread across his face and she was surprised to see it reached his cold eyes. “I am Melkor.”

She had been correct then. Her heart began swooping about her chest in adrenaline fuelled panic. Surely this was some insane dream of her fevered imagination and she would awake in some hospital bed with a head injury. Melkor did not exist, save in fantasy tales.

“I have yet to learn thy true name though.” Melkor continued, cutting through her thoughts.

“My… true name?” 

“Yes. An age I have waited for thee, hoping thou wouldst be reunited with me. I called out to thee, seeking the connection we made in The Void. In that time, I named thee after what I perceived thee to be. Pia Cálë. Little Light.”

A brief silence washed over them before she was able to speak. Connection ? Had there been a connection? She had not thought so, their meeting had been so brief. She was caught entirely off guard. 

“Oh.” She swallowed. “Well, my name is Leah.”

“Leah.” The name broke surprisingly softly from his lips as he tried it out on his tongue. “What meaning has the name ‘Leah’”?

“It means weary.” She replied, surprised to be asked the question in truth. “It can also mean delicate. Why have you been waiting for me?” She added. 

Melkor looked at her for a while then, seemingly gathering his thoughts. His expression was unfathomable. He apparently reached a decision for he slowly lowered Leah to the ground. She stepped off his hand and turned to gaze up at him. He towered above her to such a height that she could not accurately make out his face. 

Melkor’s form began to shimmer so that all was a haze before Leah’s eyes. When the air was still once more, he stood before her in more human proportions. He was still tall, her head only reached the bottom of his chest, and his shoulders were nearly double the breadth of her own. Giant he was no longer, intimidating he remained. 

He was clad in a black robe, embroidered in colours of dark red and grey, intricate patterns and swirls that mimicked flame and shadow. His head was bare, as were his hands. His robe was open from the waist down, being tied with a black sash at the hips, revealing dark red hose to match that of the embroidery. His feet were shod with plain black boots that hugged his calves. Melkor was perhaps five feet from her but he closed most of that in one languid step. He was now close enough that she had to tilt her head far back once more to look him in the eyes. 

“Lelya Cálë.” He murmured ponderously to himself as he reached down to stroke one long finger through her hair. Leah dared not move. Melkor began to circle her as he spoke. 

“Thou art the first creation I have met that is not of Eru’s design. Or not of Eru’s making, anyhow. Eru has children planned to come hence at some unknown time and thou dost resemble the second ones. I hast waited for thee, as I feel thou art mine own, separate from Eru. Thou camest to me in the timeless halls. Thou canst be mine. My own creation.”

Leah felt her veins frost over. She knew of Melkor. The moment he confirmed his identity she knew that she was doomed. Now she realised she was doomed in a whole different way to the one she had supposed. She forced the bravery out of every cell she could. 

“But I am already created. How, then, can I be your creation?”

Melkor stopped in front of her, his gaze darkened, and his thick, black eyebrows drew down to crease his brow. 

“I shall make thee mine own.” His voice was condemning. “I will perfect thee. The thought has been with me since I beheld thee. Thou shalt be greater than all other creations set forth by The Ainur, or even Eru himself.”

I am going to suffer a fate worse than death, Leah realised. She felt fear tugging at her insides, yet she found she was ignoring it rather better than she expected. She knew she could not escape. From the look of what she now supposed was the beginning of Arda, and how Melkor had mentioned the children of Eru were still to come, she assumed they were very early in the First Age. No elves, no men. Just Valar and Maiar. Just her and Melkor. She should not be here. Surely, she could not be here. Here was no place for a human. I’ll die before he can do much with me, was her only comforting thought. If he doesn’t kill me by accident, this world will. 

“I don’t belong here, I should really find my way home.” Leah announced with as much calm authority as she could conjure. 

Melkor gave her a pitying smile tinged with an undercurrent of cruelty that did nothing to assuage the fear that was now moving from her insides to crawl over her skin. 

“Oh Lelyacalë , I shall be thy home henceforth and forever.” 

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Melkor could not believe his good fortune. He had found the human again, the little light from the timeless halls. He had failed in his quest to find the imperishable flame yet he had found this at least. A small flame. A delicate flame. It would be enough for his creative desires. 

How delicate she was had yet to be determined. He had not paid a great deal of attention during the great song of creation when Eru had shown his proposed children, he had been too preoccupied with orchestrating his discord. Eru had conspicuously remained vague on the details anyhow. He saw enough to understand that what he had encountered in The Void was the same as what Eru Illuvátar was planning to bring forth, only she held within her light akin to the flame imperishable. 

Eru had not known of his Pia Càlë. Melkor had made certain of this. He had feigned interest, asking many questions of The One after The Song was concluded, slyly slipping in the query he most wished answered amongst them. He asked Eru if any elf or human already existed, to which Eru had replied they did not, save it be in his mind alone. Melkor had known then that Eru was not as omnipresent or omnipotent as he appeared. Illúvatar could be wrong. 

He had not expected the human to be quite so small and he knew not how long she had existed. Holding her in his hand and touching her hair had felt different than his interactions with any of the Ainur. Her hroä was more solidly here, her feä hidden within. His curiosity to explore her entire being was ravenous. Yet he was somewhat afeared in case in his might or eagerness he broke her beyond use. This was a new feeling for Melkor, who in all other doings wrought destruction and mighty changes, uncaring of the harm he bestowed.

She possessed not the beauty of the Valar or Maiar, yet, there was something there, he supposed. Her eyes changed with the shifting shadows, now sea green, now slate grey. Her whole soul laid bare before him in those eyes, which both drew him in and repulsed him. Such lack of concealment was unnatural to him, he who preferred to keep his truest sentiments away from other’s perceptions. Her openness unnerved him, and that was not a feeling he cared to have. Then again, the boldness of it also thrilled him. She did not so much welcome him into her thoughts than dared him enter. 

She was pale of skin and dark of hair, though not like the black of his own, but a soft brown that ended bluntly above her shoulders. 

Delicate . 

She did not seem delicate. She was already fighting him, he could see it in her stance, her expression, the fiery steel at the core of her being. This irked Melkor, he was mightily tired of everyone fighting him, but he was confident he could persuade her to his view. If not, then he would merely force her to comply. Did he not deal in the deepest fires of this earth? Did he not deal in the cold metallic foundations of this world? So then, he would be able to deal with her. For he was the greater of them. 

“I cannot survive here. I need to go home.” She spoke with unhesitant command. 

Perhaps she was correct in these assertions, Melkor mused; Arda was not yet fully formed and the children of Illúvatar were not due in the near future, of that much he was sure. Illúvatar would not bring forth his children until the world was made ready for them. Melkor pondered his next move. 

“Even if I wished to return thee home, I cannot. I do not possess the knowledge to do so. If this world is so uninhabitable to thee, I shall go forth and make it habitable.” 

Leah raised her eyebrow at him and a smirk appeared at her mouth. A full, shapely mouth. He wanted to watch that mouth form words of adulation for him. Whatever loveliness she possessed, far lesser though it was than the Ainur’s, it was slowly revealing itself to him.

“How would you know what is habitable for me?” she scoffed. “You who spend all your time undoing the works proposed in The Song.”

Melkor felt his irritation begin to turn to anger. He had the urge to grasp her throat to hold her words in. How dare she question and insult him whilst purposefully misunderstanding him in the same breath. With a great deal of self-possession, he held himself still. 

“I suppose thou wilt have to assist me in this matter.” He attempted to make his voice placating, but her face showed him that he had not quite succeeded in this. “How dost thou know of The Song of Creation?” He added as the realisation of what she had said cut through his rage. 

He felt it then, through their fëa. She was being pulled away by some unknown force again. He saw by her expression that she felt it too. No! He must find a way to keep her here. He reached for her then, not with his hroä but with his feä, and touched hers. He pressed his essence to hers but she recoiled from him. He pressed more fervently, attempting to hold her in place, still she was slipping away from him once more. 

She reached to push him away, but the contact did not have the desired effect. It was abundantly obvious to Melkor that the human was not used to manoeuvring through her spirit and had a stronger connection with her body. She had willingly touched him though, and that was all he needed. Then she was gone, swept away before either of them could speak another word. 

Melkor stood, looking at the place she had been. He would get her back. His plans would come to fruition. They had gone beyond the connection in The Void now, they had marked each other’s spirit. Faintly, unfortunately, but enough for him to sense her when she returned to Arda. For she would return, of that he was certain, the bond between them would pull her back. He would be patient. Though next time, he would ensure she was bonded to him entirely, so that she could not be taken from him again. 

In the meantime, he would set about shaping Arda to his will. The other Valar would see to it that the world was ready for the coming or elves and men, he would see to it that the world held space for himself and his machinations. With a smile full of gleeful malice, he raised himself to his full might once more and smote the mountains down into the valley, so that all was a flat plain. 

Chapter Text

Eru Illúvatar did not lie. Eru Illúvatar could not lie. When Melkor had asked him if humans yet existed and Eru had replied they did not, save only in his mind until he would bring them forth, that had been no lie. For the human that had sped through the Timeless Halls had passed on, becoming one with Time itself, meaning there were no humans in existence when Melkor asked, for she had no longer been human and would pass forth to another time. 

Eru could have explained this to Melkor, but he sensed it would be better to let his mightiest Ainur think him the cleverer in this situation. The One wished to see where Melkor’s hubris would lead him.

But Eru had perceived the human and had watched with interest Melkor’s interaction with her. He knew Melkor’s desire to create, to dominate, to surpass his maker, for were these not also Eru’s desires? Were the Valar not created from aspects of his own being?

The One had seen the surge of power that launched this unknown being through the fabric of space and time to arrive within his dominion. He looked from whence she had come and saw it was another world, another time. She was not one of his creations, but another’s. As with all things, Eru let events unfold as they would, waiting for the best time to intervene, if necessary. So he kept a careful watch on this unforeseen woman. Unbidden she may have been, but unwelcome she was not as yet. 

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In the Great Lake which sat in Almaren, Manwë perceived a shape floating upon its surface. He had not seen how the form had come to be there, for he had been keeping watch elsewhere on the tidings of his peers, and also the undoings of Melkor. Always Melkor. He grimaced at the thought of his wayward brother, whom he could not understand and could not bring himself to hate, no matter the destruction and malice he wrought. Soon the Ainur’s labouring would be complete though, and they might celebrate their endeavours and rest a while. Or so Manwë hoped. 

His keen eyes perceived that the form was a being, though not one of the Ainur. Nor did it look like a beast of Yavanna’s. No… it seemed to him that this was a creation of Eru’s. Surely, this was not the time nor place for the Children of Illúvatar to wake? Manwë strode upon the lake and reached down, scooping up the small body in his hand. It was female, he surmised. She was pale and cold, yet he could feel life flutter within her. 

Who and what art thou, little one? Manwë thought to himself. 

He carried her back to his dwelling with Varda. He called all The Valar to him, so that they might discuss together what he had found. It may be that he would need to consult Eru directly in this matter, however, for currently he was at a loss as to the best or proper way to proceed.

The Valar arrived all in physical raiment. Yavanna placed a cloak of woven moss over the still form to keep her warm. Tulkas exclaimed that whatever she might be, she was indeed most tiny and frail looking. Nienna shed a single tear and placed it upon the lips of her that lay there. She has suffered much.

She will suffer much more, I foresee . Námo spoke quietly, but his voice carried in each of his fellow’s minds. As one they turned to him, but he offered no more, remaining solemnly silent thereafter. 

Is she one of the Children of Illúvatar? Aulë asked, interested and eager. 

A contemplative silence lingered whilst The Valar looked on the unconscious form before them. Collectively, they all agreed she must be, yet how this was possible, none there knew. 

If we canst wake her, mayhaps she might reveal more of who she is and from whence she has come? Lórien suggested. For I cannot see into her dreams, her mind is veiled from me. 

Estë came forward then and placed a hand upon the brow of the unknown being. Her face clouded as she searched the other’s small form and she turned with dismay. She has the essence of darkness upon her . 

At that utterance, the being stirred. Her eyes opened and she gazed blearily about. Her focus sharpened quickly though as she saw all who were looking down on her. 

“Welcome, little one.” Varda spoke softly. 

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Leah could not understand a word spoken to her. Where had she come to now? She was so tired. Tired of being dragged from place to place. Tired of not knowing what was going on. Worse than the fatigue was the feeling of something being not quite right within herself. The explosion on her home world had clearly left its mark upon her, she could feel whatever force had propelled her along was still working inside her. But it was not the only thing that had marked her. 

She could feel Melkor within herself. The imprint of him. It was faint, but it lingered on her as a light bruise, a drop of oil on water. Oh how she ached from that mark, like a partially healed wound. It reminded her of the ache her other scars gave her at certain times. The ones she had obtained in the war. 

The war. 

Adrenaline flushed out any exhaustion as Leah remembered. The explosion. Questions flooded her mind as her recollection returned to her. They had been trying to stop the new weapon from detonating, she, Aman, and Sophie. Clearly they had failed, for she recalled the explosion, the brilliant light and the ear-splitting boom. Aman had not been quick enough, it seemed. What had become of Earth she might never know, for that weapon had been meant for the erasure of all human life. For all she knew, she was dead right now, or else dreaming. She wished her friends were with her, the thought of them dead or else alone somewhere equally alien grieved her. They had been so close, so close to succeeding…

One of the entities surrounding her was attempting to communicate with her again. Leah realised the panic at her situation must have shown, so she made a conscious effort to shift her expression to a neutral one. She could not understand them though, their language was strange and not entirely pleasant on the ear. It reminded her of the name told to her by Melkor in The Void. The beings were tall, beautiful, and otherworldly. They radiated a light from within them that was both beautiful and burning. Too pure for her, it seemed. She wondered if they were The Valar and if she was still on Arda. Whatever they may be, they were godlike indeed. 

Leah felt very small and insignificant. She felt very vulnerable. It was not a feeling she liked, though it was one she was used to, sadly. War did that to you. War made you vulnerable. It was an inevitability. Vulnerable to death. Vulnerable to pain. Vulnerable to loss. 

She had hoped her mission would have put an end to some of the vulnerability, but she was not back on Earth, she was here. Wherever here was. If it proved she was not dead and this was not some afterlife, maybe she could get back. Or maybe she was stuck here and would never find out. Worse still, maybe she would be dragged through time and space again and again with only brief respite for the rest of her days. That thought made Leah feel tired all over again and weariness settled on her once more. Whatever happened, she hoped she was done with Melkor. She could do without him and all he brought. 

Leah did not know how long she was there. There were no days or nights and the others apparently never slept. She had been allowed to wander around the island they inhabited, but always accompanied, sometimes by them, sometimes by beings alike to them but often seeming lesser in stature and nature. 

Habitually, the beings had no corporeal form, instead being spirit. Leah could feel them, hear them, but seldom see them in this form. Most surprising of all was that she could smell them. She came to distinguish their spirits through scent more than anything. There was one who smelled of rich earth, blooming flowers, and sweet ripened fruit. She was the one who brought her fruits, nuts, and vegetables after she encountered Leah eating berries from a bush and perceived she needed to eat in order to survive.

One smelled of sea spray on whipping winds, of dark depths, and water bubbling over rocks. He seldom visited Leah, for he seldom visited the island at all, but when he did, he attempted to communicate with her the most. He showed her how he manipulated the waters. He created towering waves within the surrounding lake and took her to little streams where she could paddle her feet. She danced in his rain and he laughed in delight. 

On seeing her dance, another of the beings would join her. She had an aroma like nothing Leah had come across before. If the joy one feels at being able to move one’s body in unison with one’s emotions was a scent, this being would smell of it. They had danced together until Leah became dizzy and then she had sat and watched in mesmerised awe at the movements of the other. 

She began to notice natural pairings between the others and also ones who remained alone. She began to pick up on some of the language, but it was clumsy on her tongue and she felt ashamed to attempt it. At one point, after Leah estimated she had been there for at least a month, though it was impossible to tell, one of the aliens came to her. He was the leader, Leah had surmised. He smelled of the summer breeze on a clear day and cold air that rushed over mountaintops. He leant down and breathed in her ear so that her head was filled with a cool clarity. 

When he spoke it was in English.

“Well met little one, I beseeched Eru on what should be done concerning thee and He, in His mercy and wisdom, granted me that I should share the language of my people, that we may finally understand one another. I am Manwë. I wast the one who found thee, floating in the lake there, and brought thee to our home in Almaren.”

Leah felt her heart sink. As she had feared, she had not left Arda after all. Melkor was still out there and could still reach her. She also realised that the niggling suspicions she had had of who these beings were had been correct.

Manwë discerned her fallen countenance and his brow furrowed. “What troubles thee, little one?”

Melkor . But she dared not say this to one such as Manwë. For she remembered what was written, that of the children of Illúvatar, men were thought to be most like unto Melkor. What The Valar would do if they knew she had already met him, already been tainted by him… they would distrust her. Melkor at least wanted to make her great, they on the other hand would no doubt look down on her in pitious contempt. 

“I miss home.” She finally replied, as it was not a lie, even if it was not the full truth. 

Manwë straightened himself at this and his face turned most solemn. He looked Leah straight in the eyes and saw the weariness there, the weariness and the apprehension. 

“That is to be expected. Eru has not granted me the knowledge or power to return thee hence, however.”

Leah beheld Manwë in all his splendour. In all his otherness. The Valar, for that is what she now knew them to be, had been kind to her thus far. Maybe she was judging them too harshly. She felt so insignificant in the other’s presence, weak and forgettable. In other circumstances, she would not be noticed at all. She missed home more than ever then, missed the ones who knew her and loved her. Aman’s kind eyes and Sophie’s warm smile. The feel of Aman’s hand on her back as he helped her on, the feel of Sophie’s arms around her as she hugged her goodnight. The small things that meant everything. 

So she told Manwë all about her home. She went all the way back, to her birth, her childhood, then the war, the mission she was on, how she came to be here. She mentioned a dark presence as she travelled through The Void that reached out to her, but left out meeting Melkor later on. She secretly hoped Melkor had forgotten all about her, that he had moved on, so she would too. The mark she bore laughed quietly at her optimistic folly. She was not brave enough to maintain eye contact with Manwë throughout, so she spoke to the lake. 

When she had finished, a figure emerged from the water. He was a towering presence that would have struck fear into Leah at his foam crested helm and shimmering scales of mail, had he not approached her with an expression of kindness and understanding. Ulmo. The one who smelled of sea salt and rain. The one whom she felt had tried to understand her the most. Inadvertently, she had been telling her tale directly to him. He reached out and plucked a tear she had not realised she had shed from her cheek and absorbed it into the swirling waters of himself. 

“I am sorry to hear of the strife that befell thy home. But that dark presence thou mentioned, I believe to be Melkor. One of our own, but turned to his own wicked ways of jealousy and destruction. I am sorry for it. Yet, as Eru has told me in his wisdom, even as Melkor strives to destroy, he can bring about great beauty. For through his works have I been brought closer to Manwë, my dearest friend.

“I hast heard thy tale and perceive thy strength, thy long suffering, thy patience, and thy kindness. Thou shalt live here among The Ainur loyal to Eru, where we shall keep thee safe. Dost thou not agree, Manwë?”

Manwë was contemplative for a while. Eru had given him little instruction, He had merely stated that what would be, would be and to trust in Manwë and the other Ainur’s counsel in the matter. After a few more moments, he came to a decision. 

“I agree with thee, Ulmo. I hast perceived Melkor’s growing influence in Arda, The Spring is being yet marred by his evil-doing. He hast returned to Arda whilst we were not as dutiful in our watch.”

He spoke directly to Leah. “Thou mayest stay with us, safe, until such a time as we know what else to do. I perceive no threat in thee and it be best thou doth not meet Melkor again, for he would only be the cause of thy destruction.” Manwë’s countenance grew dark at these last words.

Leah nodded in gratitude. She would be safe, if still feeling utterly alone. Then again, it was better than being with Melkor she supposed. She was protected, for now. Until The Valar found her wanting or bothersome, no doubt, and would cast her out or leave her behind. The anxiety and paranoia crept unbidden into her mind and lodged there, rooting themselves in to ensure she could never quite relax and would overthink every interaction. 

Melkor was still yet to destroy the great lamps, though whether Leah would even be alive to witness it was beyond her reckoning. She considered warning The Valar, but then decided it best to not interfere. There were countless stories told of those trying to change the future that actually caused it. Better to let be, what would be. She was such a small part anyhow, and one not meant to be there. She would die among strangers in a strange land, no one would love her and no one would mourn her. Her heart ached at the bitterness of that revelation. She was surrounded by light, yet she never felt so dark.

Chapter Text

For how long she was on Almaren, Leah did not know. She still had no concept of time. From Estë she learned that the force of the eruption that had sent her careening through The Void had ruptured the fabric of the universe as well as herself. The essence of creation, or creations light, was within her, healing her and slowing down her ageing. Námo, or Mandos as Leah better knew him from the stories, explained to her that her mortal body could not contain this force, no matter how it tried to cling to her, so that it seeped from her even now, and that she would one day die as all mortals must, having lived a prolonged life. It also allowed her to manipulate matter to a small degree, to create in a way humans had never done.

She did heal quicker. A few times she had fallen and cut herself only for the cut to heal before her eyes. Once she broke a bone when she fell from a rock whilst exploring. The break had been tended to by Estë, set straight with the greatest tenderness, and was completely healed the next day.

The Valar left Leah to her own devices on the whole, checking in to ensure she was well, but they kept their distance. Leah felt their unease at her presence, at the essence of Melkor staining her soul. She tried to be as cooperative and non-threatening as possible, but it was she who felt overwhelmed in the presence of those whose power and majesty far outshone hers. She was in the presence of gods, after all.

She asked many questions but most of the Valar and Maiar were hesitant to answer. Still, she learned some things over time, some from observation and others from what she could glean from the few conversations she managed to have.

From Ulmo she saw how he could commune with all of Arda. He seldom took on corporeal form or joined the others on Almaren, but when he did, he would seek her out to talk with her. He showed her the beauty of water, but also its danger. He quickly recognised in her a love for the sea, for she told him of the ones on Earth. Of all the Ainur, she and Ulmo shared a special bond, for he was the one who was most open with her. She found she missed him when he was gone and would wander the water’s edge hoping he might make an appearance.

Leah found Varda the most beautiful being in all existence. She knew from the stories this was meant to be the case but she had been wholly unprepared for the fact upon beholding her. All The Valar were beautiful, but there were no words of human tongue to describe Varda’s utter loveliness. No wonder Melkor had desired her, Leah thought. From Varda, Leah learned to see and utilise the light within herself, and to see the light in all creation. She learnt of the stars and how to use their light to guide.

Nienna had taken Leah’s grief and cradled it, shaping it into a more bearable form. She taught Leah more of pity and how that might shape the heart. Nienna saw that Leah had already endured much in hope, so needed not to counsel her much in this matter, but instead encouraged that knowledge within her. She was the only one of the Ainur who spoke of Melkor, and it was always with sorrow and never anger.

Nessa had already danced with Leah and did so many times since, showing her ways to move that emulated the very surroundings, worshipping them. She taught Leah to run, faster than she ever had before.

Aulë was the only one of The Valar, save Ulmo, most eager to bestow his knowledge, as he had been longing for the coming of the children of Illúvatar for that very purpose. He himself toured her around his forges and introduced her to the Maiar under him. Aulë and his followers were able to instruct her in many arts, both grand and small, and she came away with a good amount of knowledge and skill.

Leah had been clumsy at first in her execution. She burned herself many times. At one point she realised she must have been with The Valar a long time, as she was not healing as quickly as she had at their first meeting. As a human she had been limited in what she could accomplish, even with the help of the creations light within her, nonetheless, Leah was now armed better, in mind, body, and spirit for an encounter with Melkor. For she felt sure their journey together was only just beginning, moreso because she had now met Mairon. Her hopeful optimism that she would die before Melkor had a chance to meet with her once more had slowly morphed into despairing dread on meeting Aulë’s brightest smith.

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Leah had encountered the fiery maia fairly early on. He had shown little interest in her, however, especially when he saw how slow she was to learn the craft. Leah knew who he was, who he would become. She felt sure he was spying for Melkor even then, but had no proof. She also knew he was not the only one.

Her suspicions were confirmed when he began to watch her more attentively, asking her questions of herself that she was mindful to be careful to answer. He was deliberate to approach her in a group, to join in a conversation that had already started, so that he might be more inconspicuous in his questioning.

It was not until he had sidled up to her on his own and complimented her on the bracelet she had made for Ulmo, whom she held dearest of all the Ainur in her heart, that she knew she was in trouble.

“Thou art working hard on this piece. Thou carest much for the receiver of it?” He asked conversationally.

“I do.” She replied, keeping her voice level, neither friendly nor abrasive.

“Thou mayest remember me, though I believe we hast never been formally introduced. I am called Mairon, a servant of Aulë.”

“Yes, I know you.” More than you realise, she added in her head. “You have the fire of the foundations of the earth in your feä.”

“Thy feä is harder to see, though even I perceive it is marked.” He countered, his tone hard to discern.

“Is that so?” Leah found herself smiling at Mairon’s slyness. She could guess where he was leading with this, but would let him do so unhindered or helped by herself.

“Indeed. Thou art full of glorious light, yet a dark stain is upon thee, small and thin though it be.” Mairon’s voice was now full of interested concern.

Thou art full of glorious light. A flatterer from the beginning, then. She would have to be extra vigilant in her dealings with him.

“As you say. None can take it from me. Even Estë cannot heal me of it.” Leah kept her tone conversational as she continued to work on her bracelet. “What do you think of this? I am not very skilled, but do you think Ulmo will appreciate it anyway?”

Mairon picked up the bracelet with delicate fingers. His brazen eyes, the colour of molten gold, appraised her craftsmanship. His expression was blank, before a small smile spread across his thin lips.

“I think this is a good effort for one such as thyself. One can see the care taken, even if the skill is not yet polished. Any of The Valar would be pleased to receive this from thee.”

A fair assessment, so it seemed. Leah felt he would have praised more if he had been lying. Still, she was ever cautious.

“Thank you.” She said, taking the bracelet from him and placing it back on the worktop. “May I see a work of yours, please?” She was genuinely curious to see what Mairon’s workmanship was like, especially under Aulë. The stories held little to no detail other than the famous One Ring he would create in the Second Age.

Mairon looked pleasantly astounded at the request but quickly schooled his face into a more passive expression. Nodding, he gestured to the other side of the forge. They walked side by side, Aulë’s workspace being vast enough for three human-sized people to go abreast between workstations. Leah heard the whisperings of other Maiar as they passed, though she could not decipher what was being said.

Mairon reached a bench and from it held up a helm. It was exquisite. Gold blended into silver, intricate carvings of leaves adorned the sides, and gems the green of forest leaves decorated the brow. Leah could not have hidden her wonder even if she had wanted to. She had seen many works by The Maiar in this forge, all beautiful, all wonderful, but Mairon’s skill was clearly the greatest of them all.

Mairon saw her expression and grinned in delight. “Thou dost like mine handicraft?”

Leah looked at him then, and gave a sardonic smile. “Well, I think the bracelet I have made is clearly better.” She joked.

Mairon took a second to comprehend her true meaning, then his smile broadened.

“Thou jests. Very good.”

“Indeed’ She cocked her head to one side, giving him a sideways look. “You know this is magnificent, Mairon, you do not need me to tell you that.”

“Yet I like to hear it all the same.” Mairon’s voice had softened.

He was telling the truth, of that she felt certain, yet it felt like manipulation all the same. She could not trust him, she reminded herself, she must stay vigilant. She plastered a sympathetic smile to her face.

“It is of the highest splendour. Which lucky head shall wear it?”

Mairon waved his hand dismissively, “One of Oromë’s followers. I wast commissioned to do the piece by Aulë, on behalf of Oromë. I didst think it for him, hence the extra care I took with it.”

In an attempt to stifle the giggle that threatened to surge up her throat at Mairon’s uncensored pride, Leah choked instead and began to cough. Luckily they were stood near a blazing fire so she blamed it on the dry air and smoke. Mairon seemed to not suspect anything different and ushered her outside, his hand pressed firmly into the hollow of her back as he guided her towards the exit. Once outside, Leah ensured to break the contact, with as much subtlety as she could manage.

“Thank you.” She inclined her head to the maia. “However, I will bid you good night as it is high time I rested.”

“I bid thee good luck with that. I shalt see thee again… soon.” His voice was laced with hidden meaning and the accompanying smile was not one to inspire confidence.

A chill crept under Leah’s skin, starting at the base of her spine where Mairon had touched her and spreading out until she was smothered by it. Melkor was going to attack soon, maybe even in the next moment. The thought crept into her mind at Mairon’s tone and words. He had about him the air of one who knows what is going to come, but is purposefully keeping quiet.

Understanding and her sudden mistrust must have bloomed in her eyes for Mairon’s suddenly hardened. The air between them turned from balmy softness to frigid tension. Not knowing what else to do, Leah turned and fled, using all she had learned and seen from Nessa to quicken her steps. Yet she was still only human, and as much as Nessa had tried to teach her how to move using her feä, it was such a foreign concept to Leah’s human form that she had never been much good at it. She should have at least attempted it then, but she did what was natural to her and used her legs.

She outran him longer than she thought, which offered small comfort for when he did finally catch up with her. She felt him pass through her as spirit, and her whole soul was made ablaze with his fire. She cried out and fell into him as he solidified into his corporeal form in front of her. He held her as she gasped cooling air into her seared lungs. His hands gripped her wrists with great strength, his thin fingers digging in uncomfortably. He let go and put one hand around her waist, holding himself to her, his other hand he used to cradle her jaw, forcing her to look up at him.

“Why dost thou run, Lelyacalë? Dost thou not know t’is futile? Melkor knows thou art here. He wast always coming to show his might against his foes, but now that he knows thou art here it quickens his step. Thou canst not run. Thou canst not hide. Thou art his, now and forever.”

His voice was almost deadpan, but he could not conceal his cruelty. Leah held his gaze, though it seemed to burn into her mind. She burned right on back. After all, a door opens both ways. She saw his need for perfection, and for perfection he needed control, and for control he needed power, and for power he would use Melkor, and-

“Stop it.” Mairon hissed. He let go of her face in recoil.

“You are wrong. I do not know what lies he has told you, but I am not Melkor’s. I never was, nor will I ever be.” Leah spoke vehemently. “He may hold me captive, he may force me to do things I will have no power to stop him, yet he shall never own me. I will never willingly follow him in any evil. I will never willingly be his. I am not like you.” She spat the last at him, anger and fear projecting the words from her mouth.

Mairon scowled at her before throwing her forcibly to the floor. She landed on her right side and her hip and forearm both jolted painfully. He aimed a kick at her stomach, but she grabbed his foot and upended him onto his back. She scrambled to her feet but nevertheless he was quicker. He grabbed her hair and pulled her back, his other hand instantly at her throat.

“Quit thy fight and it will be all the better for thee, human. Thou art coming with me, whether thou likest it or not.” He growled into her ear. Leah knew it was over, she could not win in a fight against Mairon. She could not win against any of the Ainur, truth be told. She was still just a little human, in a world of gods and monsters. She relaxed against him to show her compliance. He let go of her hair and throat, instead taking her by the wrist in a firm grip.

“Thou hast some sense about thee at least.”

“Well. You can’t blame a girl for trying though.” She flashed him a sarcastic smile that made him frown in confusion.

“Off we go then.” And it was she who made the first move forward. As they crossed the great lake into the world beyond, the deep blue water of the lake glowed red with the fire of Mairon, an omen of what was to come.

Chapter Text

Mairon moved quickly, as he needed to get the human to Utumno as soon as possible. The destruction of the lamps was Melkor’s aim, and the aftermath would be too chaotic for a human to survive. She was delicate after all, he smirked to himself. Unbeknownst to herself or The Valar, Mairon had been watching “the little one” much more closely than any realised. At first it had been mere curiosity and he was not the only maia to peek at the strange addition to Almaren. He had begun to spy for Melkor a short while before the human’s arrival, and on one occasion when he met with Melkor himself to debrief him on what he knew of The Valar’s plans, he had mentioned the mortal. 

Melkor had asked him to repeat himself, with an urgency that shocked Mairon. What should one so great care for such a puny being? However, he had told Melkor all he knew, which was not a great deal at that time as his interest had waned and the human made no attempt to interact with him. Melkor’s eyes had shone bright with triumphant glee. He smote the earth in his jubilation and caused mountains to creak in the quake thereof. He bid Mairon keep a watchful eye on her especially and bring her to him at the next opportunity. The Valar were beginning to search for his stronghold, so he deemed a preemptive strike was necessary before they could find anything concerning Utumno. 

Mairon had bowed, confused but obedient. Melkor had gripped him then, they both being in physical form, and his eyes bored into Mairon’s. He stressed that his Lelyacalë should not be harmed as she was his, his to mould and perfect, his to own, now and forever. 

So here Mairon was, leading the human to Utumno. How she was to survive there, he had neither idea nor care. He did not like her. He did not like her wilfulness. He did not like her resilience. He did not like how she mocked him with her smiles and words. He did not like how much time she had spent with the other Valar. He did not like that she may have more favour with Melkor than he did. 

He tugged her along now, and the going was slow. How he wished they could travel as feä only, her hroä was slowing them down. An idea suddenly hit him. He let go of her wrist and transformed into a giant wolf, dark and slavering. 

“Get on my back.” He snarled at her through jagged teeth. 

To her credit she did not flinch, but actually looked impressed. Mairon felt a small part of him warm with the unsaid compliment. Drat this human. He would have to be more cautious around her. He lowered himself so that she could clamber up. 

He noticed she did her best not to tug on his fur overmuch. He growled at her to hold on tight lest she fall off, and once he felt her grip tighten, he loped off at great speed. He felt the human flatten herself against his back. She was warm and soft. And small. Utumno would destroy her, he mused. It was no place for small, soft things.

They came after some time to the gates of Melkor’s hidden fortress, deep in the crevices of great mountains. Down, down, down, Mairon led his charge until he came at last to Melkor’s throne room. There he bid the human get down from his back and he returned to his other form once more. He had been tempted to scare her more as a wolf, but she had had the audacity to scratch him behind the ears before she slid off his back and that had ruined the moment somewhat. Instead he glowered at her as she looked around the room. 

It was vast and she was diminished by the greatness. Melkor had set a fire burning and the smoke rose into the vaulted space, making it even harder to discern how tall the ceiling was. Mairon studied her further. He conceded to himself that she was not entirely without beauty, faint and little though it was. The firelight catching the warm highlights in her hair and making her green eyes shimmering dark pools were not unpleasant to look upon, he supposed. Still, what Melkor saw in her he would never know, nor comprehend. She was nothing when compared to the grandeur of Melkor himself, whose beauty was dark and harsh, an obsidian blade upon which one would cut themselves in order to hold. No, she surely was not meant to be his equal, certainly not his queen. She must be merely a project, a pet. She could be nothing more. 

A tremor caused the foundations beneath them to quake, shaking Mairon from his thoughts. Lelyacalë, as he supposed he must call her, fell to the floor in the tumult. Mairon himself only just managed to keep his balance. More quakes wracked the mountain and the fire threatened to extinguish itself. Lelyacalë crawled to the throne and grasped a leg, her tiny frame barely making it around half.  

“This is Melkor destroying the lamps, no?” She yelled at Mairon. 

How had she known this was Melkor’s plan? Had his master revealed it to her at some point? Or did she guess so well because she knew Melkor so well? That he was being plagued by these questions did not delight Mairon in the least so he cast them aside for the time being. 

“Yes, he is destroying the lamps and changing the face of Arda forever. Almaren will be destroyed.” Mairon shouted back, his voice warring with the booms that ricocheted around the hall. 

The fire finally gave up and went out. Save for the dim illumination from the great fires within the mountain, Mairon was left as the only real light, his golden flame lit up the vaulted space, until, with great shock, he saw a faint light, lovely to behold, radiating from the foot of the throne. It shone with a gauziness, yet within that thick darkness it seemed like a beacon. So that was how she was thus named Lelyacalë. A delicate light indeed. Mairon felt an urge to touch that light. To consume and be consumed by it. It was pure. He felt it call to the light of The One within him that he had begun to turn away from. 

At the thought of Illúvatar, Mairon was brought back to himself. Eru had proved false. Melkor was the way forward now. The way to get what he desired. Still, he made his way over to the throne to ensure Lelyacalë remained unharmed and together they weathered the assault outside. 

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Melkor returned to find Mairon huddled beside Lelyacalë under his throne. He marvelled at her light shining dimly in the darkness, a small pearly beam amidst the blackness. I am small , her light murmured, I sit alongside the dark as a companion, gently breaking through it; I invite my loveliness to be beheld but I do not force it upon any . This compared to Mairon’s blazing embers, a ruby crown dissolving the darkness around him with a fierce beauty that seared all who looked upon it; it demanded adoration and received it.

He strode over to them, kicking debris aside. Outside was still all in tumult from the destruction he had wrought, but The Valar were busy tending to that which had allowed Melkor to flee. Manwë’s booming voice still reverberated through his soul though, the fear it brought still clung to him. Seeing that dim, welcoming light in the darkness calmed him, however, and his boldness slowly returned to him. She was here at last, she was his at last. 

Mairon rose and addressed him and Melkor thanked him for succeeding in his mission, with an added look and touch of hand that promised a more physical show of gratitude would be made later, and bade him restart the fire. As he made his ways towards her, he noticed that Lelyacalë was wary of his approach. She did not recoil with her body, but her eyes could not hide her fear and… yes, that was a touch of revulsion. This angered him, but more so because it also pained him that she should reject him so. To his surprise, she looked down and then suddenly straightened and spoke, her eyes meeting not meeting his but now only held a cautious look.  

Her voice when she addressed him only quavered a little.

“You look much more formidable than last we met, Melkor. I believe it is the armour. It is most impressive indeed. Did you make it yourself or did Mairon make it for you?”

Melkor felt a small warmth within himself at being recognised as formidable and impressive . 

“Mairon? No, I fashioned this piece with mine own hands.”

“The skill evident in its design and execution is most high. Even one as unknowledgeable as I can see that.”

She was complimenting him. Furthermore, she seemed sincere in her compliment. He, who was a master of lies, could best tell when one was being told to him. Melkor heard Mairon hiss under his breath and felt the other seethe in his mind. He was not happy at having his little light here with them. He would learn to accept her though, for Melkor had no intention of letting her leave. She would be a part of his life now forever, of that he was going to make certain. His prized possession; his cherished creation. 

She ignored Mairon’s outburst and settled back into silence, waiting. Melkor took the moment to merely watch her, to take her in once more. She was much the same as when he had last beheld her, only there was an added wisdom behind her eyes that only time brings. He found excitement was building within him at the prospect of all they would do together, all he would help her become. He could feel Marion’s exasperated eye roll and knew he was going to receive a tirade later on, no doubt littered with Mairon’s favourite phase of “tunnel vision”. He ignored Mairon for now and focused on the human before him. 

“Lelyacalë.” He murmured to himself. “My Lelca.”

She looked shy, all a sudden. “May I not still be called Leah? For it is my name.” She asked softly. 

Mairon had relit the fire and the throne room was cast in warm tones once more, shadows dancing along the edges. Except where the great pits of fire were dug out, the mountain was dark and cold elsewhere and the throne room was no exception. Melkor was planning further excavations, adding magnificence to his dwelling to match his own being. He was ruler of these lands now and his domain would echo this.

“Leah is the name for thine old life. Lelyacalë is the name for thy new one, with me. Lelca I name thee affectionately.” Melkor spoke firmly, but without anger. He could not blame her for wanting to hold on to her old life, her old name. That was only natural; but she would let that life fade away into the blackness of Utumno and embrace her new one, embrace him. Even Mairon had taken some seduction, and he was a strong, burning spirit. Melkor could hardly expect a human to let go so easily, weakly made as they apparently were. 

“Very well, as you wish. What should I call you?” Her despondency was evident.

Melkor pondered a moment. Thus far, she had referred to him as Melkor, which was indeed his name. Her question suggested she was offering to call him something more deferential. He smiled. 

“Thou mayest call me My Lord or else ninya melda.”

It was clear from her expression that she did not know what ninya melda meant. A malicious chuckle emanated from behind Melkor. Lelyacalë gave Mairon a sharp look before returning back to him. She bowed her head. 

“Thank you, My Lord.”

Part of Melkor was uneasy at how little she was fighting him. She had fought him much last time they met and even in The Void he had felt her wariness and defensiveness. Perhaps she finally saw she could not win. Perhaps it was some deception, a strategy that formed part of a longer-term plan. He would find out. For the time being, he let her meekness bolster his pride. 

He turned to Mairon. “Gather the others, I wouldst speak to all with the tidings I bring.”

Mairon bowed with a sly smile. “At once, Ninya Melda.” 

Before Melkor could admonish him for the teasing, he flew from the room in his spirit form. He would punish the maia for that jest later. He smirked at the thought. Punishing Mairon was always so rewarding, in more ways than one. Perhaps he could combine it with his promise of gratitude. Better not think on that now though when he had to concentrate on important matters at hand.

Melkor took off his helm and gauntlets, throwing them at the side of his throne. He ran one hand through his hair, releasing the parts that had caught in his armour. Lelyacalë watched him silently. She was so small. He was not even at his full height anymore and yet he was the mountain and she was the sapling in its shadow. She was thinner than last they met. Her hair was longer but her eyes were the same green, yet holding more time behind them now. She was struggling to meet his own eyes, not least because of the height difference. In one swift motion, he grasped her around her middle and hoisted her onto the arm of his seat. To his great amusement, she issued a squeal of indignant terror as he did so. He sat on the throne next to her and carefully turned her to face him. 

She stared at him with wide eyes and hugged her knees to her chest. With the fire lit, her light was harder to see, but it was just discernible through those big, open eyes. His light. She was his. The thought made him smile. She did not smile back, but instead lowered her gaze to her feet. 

“Look at me, Lelyacalë.”

She obeyed, albeit with a hint of reluctance. They stayed that way for a few moments until she spoke, her voice a fading ghost in the vastness of the cavern. “What do you want from me?” 

“All in good time, first, I must address those loyal to me.”

Thus saying, he reached forth and with one hand, swivelled her round to face the room. All manner of spirits were flooding in. Those that had joined him in his discord and those that had been seduced to his side after. Some remained in spirit form, some, like Mairon, had their physical raiment upon them. Melkor leant forward. 

“I hast returned after a great victory!” He boomed. Lelyacalë jumped and would have fallen off the throne arm, had he not still had his hand upon her. She gripped him tightly to secure herself and this pleased him greatly. Yes. Let her rely on his strength, not The Valar’s, not her own. Let her look to him, not The Valar, not herself. He would become all she required.

“I hast destroyed the great lamps of our foes, Illuin and Ormal have fallen to create a new shape to Arda!”

Cheers arose from his followers, some hooted, others applauded. The noise was deafening, so much so that Lelyacalë was forced to cover her ears. Melkor raised his other hand to quiet the din. With that same hand he gestured to Lelyacalë. 

“This is Lelyacalë. She shalt be mine greatest creation. None shall have leave to touch her, save by mine express will. Is this well understood?” His last words were laced with threat. 

A chorus of “Yes, Lord!” resounded through the hall. Melkor leaned back, satisfied. “We shall continue with my great work. More mining, more scouring the earth, turning it to my will. We have had one victory and the enemy has retreated for now. They shall no doubt return! We must be ready. Go forth and continue in thy goodful service to me! Thou art dismissed.”

Once the hall was empty again, for Melkor sent even Mairon out, though he had looked betrayed at the dismissal, Melkor focussed back on the little human perched on his throne arm. Mairon was his greatest counsel and he sought his companionship often, but Lelyacalë he would keep to himself. Some moments were for them alone. Lelyacalë turned her head to look back at him. 

“What now, My Lord?” She was gazing at him with big open eyes, on edge but obedient. If she was this amenable going forwards, his work with her would be the more pleasing. He would have her more comfortable in his presence though, once she truly comprehended his vision and become united with him in all things, then all would be well. 

“Now, thou wilt tell me all that passed between thee and The Valar on Almaren.”

Lelyacalë nodded, turned to face him fully and crossed her legs, her knees protruding over the edges of the throne arm. He kept his hand about her waist, enjoying the feel on her against him. Her eyes met his yet seemingly went straight through him as she focussed on the past instead. Then she began.

Chapter Text

Leah was terrified. There was no point denying it. She had no clue as to what the future held for her, but she could almost certainly guarantee it would include pain and misery. She had no strategy except to survive. This was not the first time she had been a prisoner and she had survived that. Just. The scars of that time ached dully at the memory. Her captor then had been a man, deranged and psychopathic, but a man. This time she was at the mercy of a destructive, chaotic god. Both demanded a devotion they had not earned. 

Utumno was vast, and Melkor was forever delving deeper. He left her alone seldom, for he preferred to have her with him most times. He had constructed a bedchamber for her once he understood she needed sleep. Spirits brought her food, including meat, which she had to cook herself as they had brought it raw. The food wasn’t that bad, considering. She had definitely endured worse. She always made sure to thank the spirits that brought her sustenance. It might not do much, but if kindness could buy her anything good in turn, she would take that chance. . 

Utumno was draining. She was so tired of being the only real light in this place. Fires were everywhere as the volcanic nature of Utumno almost demanded it, but they seemed evil, casting deep dancing shadows that evoked the shapes of demons, the flames themselves threatening to scorch. Mairon was a seducing light, his golden gaze would draw her in if she let it. She distrusted him completely and his beauty therefore held no sway on her. Besides, having lived amongst The Valar, she had been gorged on beauty, loveliness had drowned her to the point of wanting to tear at her own flesh for the dullness of it; to wrench at her eyes so that she would not have to see reminders of her own inadequacy. Mairon was a reminder of all that, as he was ever present at his master’s side, lustrous and monstrous in his loveliness. His elegant marble features mocked her own gracelessly plain ones.

Most of the beings she met kept their distance or ignored her entirely, and she did the same. It made for a lonely existence. Mairon would talk with her sometimes, but mainly to jibe and taunt. When she was feeling particularly low, she would trick herself into seeing it as banter in an effort to find any good in the situation. Sometimes his cruelty caught beneath her skin for great stretches of time, however, and left her itching for revenge. 

With Melkor she communed the most. In the beginning he had asked her many questions, and she had answered them without guile. She dared not lie. Where she wished she could hide the truth, she merely answered more carefully. Sometimes deflecting with her own question, sometimes purposefully misunderstanding the question asked of her. She had been most reluctant to tell him about what Estë had revealed to her of the force within her. Yet he had asked and she could not forestall him forever. When he learned she would die, and be taken from him forever, he had stilled into a fearful dread that had permeated into Leah’s own being. 

“This must not come to pass. I shall see to it that it does not.”

How those words haunted her. She did not know how long she had dwelled in the depths of that accursed mountain, but it felt like centuries to her little human mind. Weariness pressed down on her, like the miles of earth above her. 

So far, Melkor had merely been studying her. She had expected him to be more forceful, but it seemed he erred on the side of caution. Then again, Leah pondered, if he was too forceful and she died, he would have no other to experiment upon. She was a one shot chance, therefore, he must ensure all was in place before he began. 

The conversations with Melkor were not pleasant, as she was constantly on edge and he was a domineering presence, but she consented to them. He cared little for her past life, as it was a reminder to him that she was her own person before he came upon her. His questions mainly pertained to her time with The Valar and the human body, of which he had little to no knowledge. When he had commanded she disrobe for him so that he might study her physical form, Leah had openly rejected the notion, which had seemed to shock Melkor but also amuse him. 

The option became she made herself naked, or he would do it for her. That she was given the option was surprising mercy in and of itself. He could have merely ripped her garments from her at the refusal. With shaking hands, Leah had complied. She had had her clothes forcibly removed before and the memory of that echoed in her mind as she had taken off the dress Varië had made for her, with accompanying slip underneath. She had not attempted to protect her modesty with her arms, for what would have been the point? He had been determined to see all of her. Melkor had studied her as a jeweller studies a gem under a lens. The scrutiny was great, he walking around her several times. 

He had traced one of his long fingers languidly over the scar on her lower abdomen, asking from whence she gained it and why Estë had not healed her of it. She had told him that she had not asked Estë to heal her and so Etsë had not, and that it was from the war back home that she had acquired it. He had not been satisfied with this vague answer, however, and pressed into her mind as he pressed down into her scar. Leah was unable to resist him, especially since the memory had bubbled its way up to the forefront of her thoughts out of the deep oceans of her mind where she usually kept it drowned. 

She was cast back in that room with him, the one whom she forced herself not to think of. His hands were grasping at her stomach as he wailed, tear streaked face scrunched up in dispair. 

It is not mine. It is not mine so we shall be rid of it. It is the only way.

She heard her own voice pleading with him to calm down, turn into a scream of begging him to stop, please stop, what was he doing, get away! Get away! But still he approached her with the scalpel raised and took from her what was not his to take and more besides, for in ridding her of the life she had been growing inside her, he had caused irreparable damage to that which could have housed future ones. 

Melkor had seen the whole memory, all that she had never shared with anyone. Pain she kept secret and hidden, Melkor was now party to. She had felt defiled. Instead of making her feel weak, it had kindled a fierce anger in her and she had been able to shun Melkor from her mind. The force of her convictions had startled him, as had her anger. He had stepped back to see the seething tears in her eyes. His face a mask of stone, he had bent down so his eyes were level with her own. 

“Do not do that again. Thou art mine. All that thou art is mine. Thou wilt not hide from me. Thou wilt not deny me.” His voice had been low and cold, yet not cold enough to extinguish the fire within her, for that blazed all the more at his words, even if her skin had crawled at the sincerity of the threat in his tone. 

Thus saying, he had brushed the tears that had simmered over onto her cheeks with a rough finger before straightening himself and dismissing her. Mairon had skulked in then, as she had pulled her dress back on. They had looked at one another but Leah had not been able to discern the emotion behind the other’s eyes. She had left without them saying a word to one another. Neither of them spoke of it.

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Despite the harsh caution Melkor had given, he did not attempt to force himself into her mind for a while after that. Instead, he bid her show him what she had learned from The Valar. She did so, but unbeknownst to Melkor, did not reveal all she knew, keeping back the most part of her learning and blaming it on either her human inadequacy or The Valar being cautious in their teachings. In truth, there was not much she would have been able to show him anyway, what little The Valar shared with her would be stifled in that oppressive darkness. 

Melkor had initially accused The Valar of wanting to make her their own. Leah had countered this was not so, that Manwë had even gone to Eru for counsel and been told to trust his own judgement. Melkor had recoiled at this information. Illúvatar knew of his Lelyacalë, Illúvatar had become involved. Yes, He had not intervened yet, but who was to say He would not in the future? Fear and doubts had plagued his mind and for a while he was in a dark, brooding mood. 

He had moved Leah deeper into the mountain and she accompanied him at all times when she was awake. He had shown her all his works, the creatures he had created, the nature he had bent to his will. He had guided her to creation of her own, under his instruction, but all she created was more akin to what Yavanna would produce. Most concerning was when he had been instructing her on how to better connect with her feä. She was slow to learn, her hroä being so enmeshed with her feä, she could not separate the two as he could. In the end, he had given her a herbal drink that allowed her spirit temporary freedom from her body, and as they had beheld one another in the spirit realm, he had seen the power of the universe within her and how it was fading away. He had also seen Time pulling at her. Softly though it was, and she had seemed not to notice, yet he feared her being taken from him again. 

For a while after he had schemed, and eventually his cunning mind bethought how he might both keep Lelyacalë with him always and begin to perfect her at the same time. He conducted experiments on lesser creatures of Yavanna’s making and was pleased to note after several failed attempts that he had fallen upon the correct technique. Thus he had come to Lelyacalë and once more had her drink the herbal drink to separate her body and spirit, then he had surrounded her feä with his own and poured his essence into her. She had resisted, but where their feä touched, they had blended. He had poured his might into her, and, for the time being, had shielded her from the darkness of himself. He had wished to strengthen her, and with his power seal the universal essence within her. 

He had watched her carefully after that and noticed the force within her was no more escaping. It was thereafter contained within her. Now that it had nowhere to flee, it began to infuse with her as it had tried to in the beginning, helped by the strength his added feä provided. She was made immortal, death would not steal her from him. Still, Time called out to that force within her and beckoned it onward. Melkor knew he must do more to keep her from being swept away from him. 

His mind was assuaged for the time being, however, and he had other plans in motion. Mairon kept the running of Utumno in good order, and Gothmog led his balrogs well. Soon spirits were bringing him word that the Quendi had awoken upon Middle-Earth. This brought Melkor much jealousy, and he sought to bring the elves under his dominion. 

The spirits who spied on the elves told of how they lived and worked, how they communicated one with another, and how they loved. A coupling of the flesh. He had seen it in Lelyacalë’s memories and then there was Mairon… What the spirits had described was not what he had witnessed Lelyacalë suffer in the memories he had seen thus far. It was more akin to how he and Mairon came together in those moments that felt sacred and secret. So, it could be done with love or force. He had mused deeply on that topic.

The idea of she being his to command, his perfected Lelyacalë, the greatest creation brought forth by any of them, loyal to him and him alone gave him insurmountable pleasure, filling his heart with an intense possessive desire that he forever after mistook for love. 

Lelca would take what love he could offer, he concluded.  Otherwise, he would have to resort to force. 

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Melkor stood before her and his look discomfited her greatly. He entered her chamber and his presence filled the entire room. Leah had been getting ready for sleep. Utumno was unbearably cold where she was situated and she was desperate to get under the thick warm furs and woven blankets of her bed. Then Melkor had arrived, eyes glittering with malicious purpose.

“I hast found a way to free thee from the beck and call of Time, Lelyacalë. I shalt bind thee indefinitely to me, so that thou stayest fixed to me, therefore fixed to this world. We shall be one.”

Leah did not think it possible for her body to freeze anymore that it already was, yet there she stood, a figure of ice sculpted from trepidation. Melkor beckoned her to him but she could not move, her body screaming in protest. He raised an eyebrow at her hesitance and commanded, “Come to me, Lelca.”

She forced herself to move towards him, her steps short, her arms wrapped around herself. Melkor closed the distance she had left between them and tilted her face upwards with the knuckle of his forefinger. He pressed his lips to hers but she immediately drew back, in horrified shock.

We shall be one.

The true meaning of his words hit Leah hard. No. No. Was it not enough that he had invaded her mind? Was it not enough that he had forced his spirit into hers? Was there nothing of hers that he was not going to take? She did not think him capable of wanting such a thing, surely it was beneath him, she was beneath him. She was trying her hardest not to cry, but her breathing was already coming out in ragged gasps, her chest heaving, as the panic began setting in.

Then Melkor was upon her. He lifted her bodily in his arms and threw her upon the bed. He stared down at her sprawled form for one long moment before pulling off his tunic and hose. She would have thought his body darkly beautiful had she not been reeling with the realisation of what was about to happen. She could have run, but her muscles were locked with fear and deep inside she knew it was futile. In this pitiless darkness, he would always find her. 

“You don’t have to do this. Please.” She hated how pathetic and desperate she sounded, her voice a shaky whimper. 

Melkor ignored her. 

He knelt over her, his legs pressing into her sides. His long, raven-feather hair fell past his face and curtained them both as he brought his body parallel to hers. He was mere inches from her face, glacier eyes burning into her own green oceans, penetrating their very depths. 

His body was not pressed into hers yet, he resting on his hands and knees to loom over her. His face was hard to make out in the dim light she emitted, but she could just about discern his lips were parted in an expression of wanting. Lust, not for her, but for control over her.

She raised her hands to push in protest against his chest. He was an immovable pillar of granite, and as cold as such. She might as well have pushed against the foundations of Utumno. Her efforts earned her a cruel laugh, softly breathed into the small space between them. The laugh told her she was hopeless to try, she could not stop him. 

He sat up, suddenly, on his knees and placed his hands upon her breast. With a swift motion, he ripped her nightdress asunder, exposing her to her navel. With the tip of his finger he traced a pattern above where her heart was. His touch branded her skin, causing her to cry out and grasp his hand in a vain attempt to make him stop. When he was done, he pressed his palm against the mark and she felt it move under her skin, through her flesh, her bones, searing her blood until it was emblazoned on her spirit. 

The pain was excruciating, causing her vision swim in and out of focus. Melkor bent down and kissed the place where he had burned her, his icy lips sending welcome cooling through her. She was gasping again, this time agony born, the breaths hitching in her lungs. She made an effort to regulate it, to breathe through the pain, but it was too great. 

Melkor lowered himself to her once more, reaching down to rip the rest of her night dress away. Then he pressed his mouth to hers. His lips were hard and his kiss was hungry, as if he wanted to consume her. As he glided his tongue to part her lips and enter her mouth, he parted her mind and entered in there also. 

Yield thyself to me . His voice sounded like a drum in her head.

She made no reply, her mind lurching from what was happening. She felt him enter her then and he caught her scream in his mouth. It was not just his physical body that invaded hers, but his feä also penetrated her own. Leah retreated her feä within herself, withdrawing it as much as she could. 

Why dost thou not fight me? His query was laced with annoyed confusion. He wanted her to fight back, revelling in the futility of it.

Last I fought you, it bonded me to you. Even in her mind, her voice was a hollow murmur.

His anger grew then and he pressed down more to her body and he was everywhere. There was not a part of him that was not bonded to a part of her. He filled her body, he filled her mind, he filled her spirit. He violated her in every essence of her being and she was powerless to do anything about it. He took everything she was for himself and gave back little of himself, just enough to seal herself to him. He reaped her light and her loveliness and in return gave her only darkness and ruin.

For a long while after she was greatly diminished. Her light reduced to the merest glimmer deep within herself. His corruption had tainted her, her hair slowly abandoned its warm brown to embrace the shadow within her and there was forever more darkness around her eyes, shadowing the green therein. She felt utterly alone in her desecration, for it had been complete and she saw no way back to who she once was, being forever changed from that moment onwards. 

I will never willingly be his.

The words she had spoken to Mairon all those years ago echoed mockingly in her mind; for she had stayed true to them, but the cost had been most high. Willing, she had not been, his, she now undoubtedly was.

Chapter Text

Melkor had been aggrieved at Lelyacalë’s light dwindling after he had bound himself to her. She had fully retreated into herself, becoming like a ghost, haunting the darkness of Utumno. He felt no remorse for his actions, they had been necessary; however, her great sorrow did prick even his blackened heart at that time, for it was not entirely closed off yet, not entirely overrun with hatred, and he was reminded that she was, after all, delicate.

He needed to strengthen her further. Mould her into his perfected creation. He had already made her immortal, next was to make her indestructible, like unto the Ainur. Could it be done? He would try. That would show his might to his peers. To Eru himself. He would take a lesser being and raise them up to showcase his power and talent. She would be beneath him still, being his creation, but greater than anything the others could produce. 

Lelyacalë had refused to look at him since. Even when he had laid next to her after it was all over, she had not moved for a great while. Melkor would have worried he had killed her had he not seen the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Her face and eyes glistened with the numerous tears she had shed. She had not moved to clear them away, so Melkor had reached forth and, with a gentleness he had not thought himself capable of, wiped her tears away. He disliked tears, for they reminded him of Nienna, who had perhaps been the kindest of The Valar to him. Lelyacalë did not turn to him but instead rolled away, drawing her legs into her stomach. He had seen then the dark stain on the coverlet, and understood he had made her bleed. A weakness of the body. It had not been his intention, but she would heal quickly, especially now she had his power within her. In time, she would come to understand this had been a necessity. 

“Rest well, Lelyacalë. I shall see thee once thou hast awoken.”

Thus saying, Melkor had left her curled there, pale and cold. When he had returned some time later, it was to find her dressed, the bed made clean, but her refusing to eat. She had sat, eyes glazed, voice deadpan. It had been some weeks since then and she was eating again, but less than before. She still refused to look at him and flinched whenever he made a move towards her. His pity was no deep well, and her behaviour soon riled him. He confronted her then. Demanded that she look him in the eyes. She had replied in a quiet, yet resolute voice. 

“Let me out of this place. Let me see the light of the stars, this darkness is oppressive, it crushes my soul. Allow me to see the stars, to remind me what true light is.”

He had been astounded, not at what she asked, but that she had dared ask it. He glared at her for some time until she looked up from his feet to finally meet his eyes and he saw her thoughts. He saw the stars and how they were alike to the light the force within her emitted. Utumno was perilously dark in many areas, by his design, but Lelyacalë was a welcome light. He had kept her in those darkest areas to best reveal and revel in her light. He would not have her snuffed out. She offered a purity that the deep fires unearthed in his delvings could not.

He called forth Mairon, whom he trusted above all else. 

“Thou shalt accompany Lelca to see the stars. Let her bask in their glow, then bring her back to me when she…” he refused to use the words is healed , “… has had her fill. I trust thee with this. Now go.”

“As thou commandest, My Lord.” Mairon bowed his flame-coloured head. He did not look well pleased however, Melkor noted. 

Melkor disliked the separation from Lelyacalë, but he would not venture out under the stars if necessary. Their reminder to him of Varda cut deep still, she whom he loathed the most. He had deeds to complete here in Utumno anyhow, Mairon had him constantly updated on all that needed to be accomplished. That was partly a reason to send Mairon with her, he had been getting tiresome in his administrative duties of late to the point they had come to much heated words on more than one occasion. That the heated words evolved into different heated situations sent delicious shivers throughout Melkor at the memories, but even so, he needed a break from both Mairon and Lelyacalë to focus on other matters. 

Mairon would ensure her safety and that she would not be able to escape. Not that she should dare. Their separation would only be for a little while, anyhow. Let this be her first real test amongst many. Let her prove her loyalty to him and let her come back all the brighter for his pleasure to look upon. Let it also test Mairon’s loyalty and strength. Melkor knew Mairon disliked his little light and did not share his vision for her, so his accompanying her would reveal much about their relationship. He disliked court politics, but Mairon and Lelca were the two dearest to him and how they operated together therefore concerned Melkor. He would not be forced to a point where he must choose one over the other.

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“Follow me.” Mairon looked down at Lelyacalë’s pale face. He did not know what Melkor had done to her, but it had taken a great toll on her indeed. Melkor had merely said that he had bound her to him, but had not gone into any details on how he had accomplished that. In fact, he had seemed quite reluctant to discuss it with Mairon at all, which was unusual. Mairon was not sure if he should be concerned or not. Either way, he did not particularly want to undertake this particular task. He would rather have little to do with the human at all. Not that she was entirely human anymore, he realised. Perhaps she would become a better companion once Melkor had accomplished his full design on her.

They set off through the labyrinthine passageways that made up Utumno. Mairon led the way and Lelyacalë followed silently behind him. With a pang of irritation, he realised he missed their squabbling. She was no fun to taunt if she didn’t fight back. He would have even taken her being hurt at his words, but she seemed to feel nothing, he could get no rise out of her at all. 

It took them several hours to traverse through the vast fortress. They at last came to one of the exits, not the main one, but a smaller, sneakily hidden door set on the other side of the mountain. Mairon looked back at his charge but she was staring blankly ahead at his feet. Despite the doorway being small, it was still guarded by two of Melkor’s minions. Mairon barked at them to open the door and they swiftly obeyed. Outside was utterly dark, there being thick shadows pulled about by Melkor to conceal his hiding place from the sharp eyes of Manwë and his servants. The feeling of smothering rock above one’s head was gone though, and there was a wild wind that spoke of open spaces. 

Mairon contemplated for a moment. He turned to Lelyacalë and saw she was peering about her at the bleak landscape. It was difficult for her to see beyond the very dim glow she herself was effusing and the torch-like brilliance of himself. His keen eyes were better at penetrating the darkness so it amused him to see her gazing blindly about. 

“It will be quicker if I become a wolf and thou doth ride upon my back to proceed through the shadow.” He was loath to have her ride upon him again, but the greater pain would be to travel for longer with her walking. He would have this over with as soon as he could. 

Lelyacalë looked at him then and nodded her agreement. Mairon transformed, this time keeping the snarl out of his throat. He felt her small, soft hands pull at his fur as she climbed up. Knowing what was to come, she tightened her knees to his flank and pressed down into his back, hands grasping the fur at his collar. Mairon wished they did not have to touch so much, but as he galloped down the mountainside and onwards, he began to become accustomed to it. 

The further they travelled, the more the shadows receded and lights began to appear in the firmament. He felt Lelyacalë gasp against him and she tugged on his coat, begging him to stop. He came to a halt, expecting her to dismount, but she did not do so, instead sitting up and whispering reverentially “Varda.”

He turned his great canine head to look back at her and saw tears shimmering down her cheeks, reflecting the light of the stars. Her own light was glowing brighter, radiating softly from her eyes and her pale skin, reaching to connect with the luminescence above. Her arms were wide open, as she drank in the glittering firmament. Mairon recognised the beauty within her. He saw who she was, who she had been, and all she could become, and for a moment he marvelled at it. Then his heart grew harder once more as jealousy set in, and a realisation that one so inferior to him in power and accomplishment could hold real worth. It would have been better for Melkor to have cut out the light within her and discard her, he thought bitterly. 

Without warning, he leapt back into a run, and Lelyacalë was thrown up off his back, holding on only by her hands in his fur. She landed back on him, the breath expelled painfully from her lungs. He laughed then, the sound gurgling from his maw in a growl. They did not stop again until Mairon spotted a lake in the distance. Knowing he should not have travelled so far, he slowed to a halt. He did not give Lelyacalë time to dismount, instead he began transforming whilst she was still upon him, causing her to fall off him with an ungracious bump. 

“Watch thyself, Lelyacalë.” He smirked at her. 

She glared up at him from the ground, a familiar expression that had been absent from their interactions of late. 

“My name is Leah.” She enunciated each word slowly. 

Mairon leant down close so he could whisper malevolently in her ear. “What name is this? Thou art Lelyacalë. Lya Melda hast named thee such, so thou art.” 

She shoved him back then, as she rushed to her feet. Her eyes were a dark tempest, a surging sea in which she would drown him in rage. 

“He is not my beloved. Nor shall he ever be.”

Despite himself, Mairon recoiled from her anger. The ferocity of her words, unexpected as they were, seared through him and he felt it was not all her own. He detected Melkor behind, or perhaps mingled in, that anger. 

“Thy rage is much like unto Melkor’s; thy beloved he mayest not be, perhaps thy mirror instead?”

At this, Lelyacalë threw back her head and laughed. A harsh, mirthless sound that gave Mairon pause. She stalked towards him then, only stopping when she was close enough for him to see the dark grey band that encircled her moss-green eyes. To his great surprise, her look was one of pity, and when she spoke, her voice matched. 

“Oh, Mairon, you know nothing of my anger. You know nothing of me at all.”

Neither of them moved for a few heartbeats as she gazed up at him infuriatingly and he glared down at her incredulously. 

“I have seen somewhat of thy mind. Maybe I shall visit it again.”

“Try it.” She spoke through clenched teeth. 

So he did. He attempted to bore into her thoughts when he was met with a barrage of suffering, both physical and emotional. It was as though he had released a dam. He was suffocating. Suffocating in helplessness, in betrayal, in revulsion, in guilt; his whole body was wracked with a thousand different pains. It ended as quickly as it had begun. He found himself on his knees, hands clutching his face. Lelyacalë knelt beside him. 

“I have suffered much. I have been violated much. After your master sought fit to rape me, mind, body, and soul, I took that of himself which he poured into me and I used it to fortify myself. Never again will my mind be invaded. Never again will my feä be touched by an unwanted presence. As for my body, well, Melkor means to raise me in his might. That combined with what else I have learned means I shall soon be able to defend my body so that no one will harm it again either. You are not my enemy, Mairon. For that to be the case, I would have to care about you. I do not. If I am to be yours, that is your own choice. I do not wish to have a quarrel with you. I do not wish to have anything with you.”

Mairon looked at her then in wonder, fear, and bitterness. Her face had become impassive, apathy smoothing the harsh ridges her anger had cut into her face moments before. Did not care? Did not wish to have anything with him? The insult cut deep and his animosity was already making the wound fester. He raised himself off the ground and she rose in unison. He would not tolerate this. She was Melkor’s pet. A project. An experiment. He was Melkor’s… the word equal refused to form in Mairon’s mind but in his heart, he felt it. He was Melkor’s most trusted, Melkor’s most valued.

“Thou hast spent enough time out here. We shall head back now.” Mairon kept his voice level, but inside he was seething.

Lelyacalë sighed and looked over her shoulder at the lake behind them. 

“I am going to wash before we head back. In that lake over there. Just so you know I am not attempting to flee . I am sure Melkor will forgive you if you do not follow and watch.”

“Do not be long, or I shall drag thee out and back to Utumno in whatever state I find thee in.” Mairon menaced.

Lelyacalë raised a daring eyebrow then and without another word, walked away from him towards the shimmering expanse in the near distance. Mairon watched her go, simmering with anger as he did so. He had already foretold she would be a problem. Yet his scheming mind was already attempting to find a way to manipulate her to his advantage. He let her go, having no wish to watch her bathe. Her physical form was not something he was remotely interested in and instead he closed his eyes and called to mind a body he was very much interested in, one he had left behind in Utumno. Her words hit him then, after your master saw fit to rape me , and he balked at the image that came into his mind, of their flesh as one. So that is how he had bound himself to Lelyacalë. It sickened Mairon that Melkor should debase himself so and he longed to be back in Utumno to purify his master’s flesh of this egregious sin. 

Chapter Text

The lake was vast and reflected the stars above like a black mirror. Leah was desperate to bathe. There was little in the way of washing in Utumno and whilst she was used to living for weeks in dirt and grime thanks to the war back home, the lure of having fresh skin and hair again beckoned her onwards. 

She did not look back to see if Mairon followed. She knew he would eventually, no matter what he said. Melkor would obliterate him to a pulp if Mairon lost her. She would bathe, then she would go back. Even as she thought it, her insides reeled at the thought. Horrifyingly, part of her lurched in anticipation towards that thought. That must be Melkor’s essence within her, calling back to its own. She would have to watch that. The war and all she had suffered there already gave her dark thoughts aplenty, Melkor was threatening her with more. 

She felt weariness settle on her again, to accompany the drumming noise of Melkor’s presence in her mind. Maybe the water would drown it out. At any rate, her body would be clean, even if her mind was not. She reached the water's edge and for a moment enjoyed watching the soft lapping of the small waves against the shore. The lake was mostly placid, barely a ripple upon its surface. Leah sensed movement to the left of her, amongst some trees. Where she stood was open, a flat grassy bank leading down into the water. Mairon had indeed followed her then, and was watching. Delightful. 

Once upon a time, Leah would have been ashamed and coy to even consider being naked in the presence of anyone other than her husband. The war had changed that, made her desensitised to another’s gaze. 

Not just the war though. More specifically… him.

Leah gritted her teeth. She would not think of him. She would not. She once more, and with great determination, drowned him in the depths of her memory. 

With that, she undid the lacing at the front of her dress and let it slide off her shoulders onto the ground. The slip underneath followed suit. She stepped out of the puddle of clothes and peeled off her boots and stockings. She stood there, bared to the world. She gazed in wonder at the light her body radiated. A soft, pearly glow that mimicked the stars above. She felt her hair move gently against her back in a pleasant breeze, grazing the top of her buttocks. She hadn’t had hair this long since she was a young child. 

Without another thought, Leah stepped down into the lake, feeling its cool silkiness slip up her legs, over her hips, until she was neck deep. It was blissful. It was freeing. Her heart harkened back to Ulmo and she wondered if he ever got the bracelet she made him, or if it was destroyed with so much else during the destruction of the lamps. The thought made her throat burn. Tears began to slide down her cheeks to splash into the water below. Still Melkor pounded the inside of her skull, vying for attention, for a place to sit alongside her own thoughts. Or more likely, to dominate them. 

She looked at her reflection in the water, barely recognising herself. Then she plunged down, submerging her head. She swam forwards and turned, still under the water, to see the sky. The lights were distorted by the shifting liquid lens above. She stayed there until her lungs began to scream at her, then pushed to the surface, drawing air into her lungs in greedy gulps. She lay back and floated, arms and legs spread like a starfish, hair swirling about her as dark seagrass. 

Maybe she could stay here, let the water claim her. It seemed to have washed Melkor away for the time being, the noise in her head was quieted. It was so peaceful here. The stillness was suddenly replaced by a hurried splashing and a male voice, sounding panicked. Beg Mairon was not coming into the lake with her, she groaned. She moved into an upright position to tread water when she saw it was not Mairon hastily ploughing through the water towards her, but a dark haired elf. 

An elf. He was surely an elf. He did not seem like a maia. The elves had awoken then. Leah realised with a heavy heart just how long she’d been alive now. Too long. Fear also gripped her as she remembered what Melkor did to elves in the stories back home. 

The elf had stopped two feet in front of her, and Leah realised the water came to just above his waist, so she placed her feet on the lake bed and stood up, the water stopping just above her breasts. The two studied one another. His expression of worry changed into one of relief. 

“You were not drowning!” He exclaimed. Leah was surprised to understand him. He spoke with a deep voice and to her ears it sounded like English, though she knew it could not be so. Water trickled into her ear and with it a thought. Ulmo. Ulmo knows the elves and their language. Ulmo is giving that language to you, through the water. She laughed then, in sheer delight. The elf looked startled. 

“Sorry!” She quickly apologised. “No, I was not drowning.”

She looked past the elf to see where Mairon was, but could see no sign of him. Maybe he had not followed her after all. Surely he would have come forward on seeing another in the lake with her. She looked back at the one who stood before her and tilted her head to one side. “Were you coming to rescue me?”

The other smiled, and as his lips stretched out to form that smile, Leah felt her heart reach for him. The first genuine smile she had seen, had received, since Yavanna had watched her revel in the trees she had planted and helped grow. That felt like a lifetime ago now. It had been a lifetime ago, she remembered. 

“I would not let beauty such as yours suffer.” 

“Oh? But if I were ugly, you would let me drown?” She raised an eyebrow at him. 

His brow furrowed, taken off guard by this question. “I do not know what ugly is.” He finally answered. 

Leah laughed again. “Yet you know what beauty is. Everything has its opposite.”

“All I know is I saw your hair lit by the stars, and it was as though the night sky adorned your head and cascaded down your back. Your very skin glows as though a star lights you from within.”

Leah felt herself blush. She supposed she was moderately good looking, though sometimes she thought herself ugly, so to have praise heaped on her in such a poetical manner made her at odds with herself. Especially as she knew that the darkness of Melkor entwined with her vied to extinguish the light being so praised. Also, she no longer looked like herself. She was not the Leah she was used to. Then again, the war ( and him, her thoughts added, unbidden) had already changed her from the woman she had been before that. 

She realised she was not replying to him, her embarrassment at his words robbing her of speech. An awkward silence had fallen between them. 

“I am unused to such kind words.” She managed in a small voice. “May I know who speaks them to me?”

“I am Ilinhen.” He replied. 

“Ilinhen. I am pleased to meet you. I am-“

She nearly said Leah. It was, after all, her name. But it was not a name anyone had called her for a long time. It was not a name that felt like it belonged to her anymore. For all she had screamed it at Mairon’s face mere moments before, his words echoed true in her mind. Thou art Lelyacalë. Lya Melda hast named thee such, so thou art. The truth of the words had been the reason behind her anger at he who spoke them. Leah had died after Melkor had bound himself to her and Lelyacalë was the result of that. 

“I am Lelyacalë.” She finished her sentence, saying it more to the reflected version of herself than to him. “We should get out of the water, we shall become cold otherwise.”

She began to calmly walk past him towards her clothes on the shoreline. She scanned her surroundings, but could not see Marion anywhere. Was he hiding? Watching in secret? She did not look back to see if Ilinhen followed, but could hear from the movement of the water that he did. When she reached the grass, she turned back to the lake to wring her hair out. Ilinhen stood a respectful distance away, facing resolutely from her. She wondered at that. He must have seen her nakedness when she ventured into the lake. She was grateful, however, it was a mark of respect that he offered her this moment of privacy. She was sure Mairon would not have extended the same courtesy if he were here. 

“Were you the one I heard in the woods over there?” She asked him, watching his back. He was dressed in a simple tunic and leggings, and Lelyacalë wondered at what they were made from and how they were made. 

“I suppose I must have been.” He replied. 

“I thought you might have been the one who travelled with me. You shouldn’t stay with me. It isn’t safe.” Lelyacalë warned Ilinhen, at the thought of Mairon. She dreaded to think what he would do to the elf. She was not sure if Melkor was already aware of the elves having awoken or not. She had not known herself until seeing Ilinhen. 

He turned his head slightly towards her, so she could see a sliver of his face. His eyes remained looking forward however. “Why is that? What do I have to fear from you?”

“It is not me you should fear, but the one who chaperones me.” He should perhaps fear her as well though. Who knew what she would become now the corruption of Melkor was within her. A monster, no doubt, like everything else Melkor twisted to his own designs. 

“I see no one else.” Ilinhen sounded bold, even in his confusion. “I think we are safe for now.”

We . 

Lelyacalë finished wringing the last drops from her hair and began wiping down her arms and legs with her hands, getting the excess water off. She was feeling quite chilled now, with the breeze evaporating the moisture on her skin. She quickly pulled her clothes and boots on. 

“You may turn around now.” She hugged her arms to her body for warmth. 

“You look cold.” Ilinhen frowned. 

“Nothing to the cold I feel in Utumno.” She replied. 

“Is Utumno your home?” 

“No. It is my prison. It is my tomb.” She wasn’t sure if he knew what these words meant, but he understood her tone.

He stepped towards her. “Do not return there then. You could live with me and my people. You would be most welcome.”

Oh how his words pierced her. If only… but it was not possible. Nor was it safe. Melkor was already going to torture and mutilate elves, imagine his wrath on them if she forsook him for them. Imagine his wrath on her. She shuddered to think. 

“I cannot. I must return. It will be all the worse for me and for your people if I do not.”

“Why? Who holds you captive?” His voice was full of curious concern and Lelyacalë realised that he would not have met with evil yet. 

“Melkor. He is one of the great powers that shaped this world, but benevolent he is not. Cruel he is. Destructive he is. Malicious he is. Mighty he may be, powerful in many ways, but he has turned away from the light and set his heart on darkness. Stay away from him. Stay away from Utumno.” She spoke with bitterness, she felt it’s acrid aftertaste on her tongue. 

Before Ilinhen could reply, Lelyacalë heard her name being called from a distance. Mairon. Both looked in the direction of the voice then back at one another. Ilinhen grabbed her hand and urged her towards the woods nearby, after a moment's hesitation, she relented to his pull. They ran together, for quite some distance, zig zagging through the trees, until he tugged her behind a broad oak with thick roots. He was panting slightly at the sudden exertion, yet to Lelyacalë’s surprise, she was not. Her breathing remained as though she had always been at rest, her heart steady. That was a new development. 

Ilinhen’s heart was hammering in his chest. She could feel it as they were now pressed together. He was a welcome warmth and she unconsciously leaned further into him. This made him turn to her, his hand let go of hers and he instead wrapped his arm about her shoulders, bringing his other arm about her waist, turning her to be pressed against him. She had to choke back a sob. She was being held. She was being held with affection. She was being held with compassion. She felt safe, for the first time in centuries, she felt safe. If only she could ask Time to stop now, or else whisk them both away to a better time, a better place. 

Then her heart grew cold again. She could not afford to make friends, or any kind connections. She could not keep Ilinhen in her life, she had to go back to Utumno and she would not bring him back with her for all the treasures in the earth. 

“We cannot hide from him. Mairon - my chaperone - will find me. He best not find you.” Lelyacalë pulled back slightly to whisper up into Ilinhen’s ear. 

His pale blue eyes gazed into her own dark green ones. “Will I see you again?”

“Pray that you do not.”

His face was anguished at her words, and he suddenly held her all the more tightly. “Let me come with you. I will serve this Melkor if it means I get to see you even one more time.”

“No!” She hissed, her eyes blazing. “No, Ilinhen, that is folly! You do not even know me! You do not know what it is you are saying. Go home. Why would you risk torture and never ending torment, even death? For what?”

They heard Mairon call her name again, it sounded like he had made it to the lake. Ilinhen’s eyes were wide, the weight of her words hitting him with harsh realisations. 

“Elf-maidens I have met plenty, none have captured my heart as you have. I have travelled far seeking for I knew not what, until I saw you. Something within me slotted into place when I saw you stood there beneath the stars. Like you were one of them, come glimmering to the earth.”

His sincerity was searing. It was also terrifying. No one had spoken to her like this since her husband had died and taken those kinds of words with him. She stared in bewilderment at him. 

“I am sorry for that then.” She replied with a heavy heart. “For you need to return home and forget I ever existed.”

“That I can never do. Nor would I wish to. If we are to be parted forever, I would ask a favour of you, Lelyacalë.” His voice was a gravelly whisper, his forehead leant against her own. Lelyacalë could hear Mairon moving through the forest. He was getting closer. 

“Let me taste the starlight dancing on your lips.”

Lelyacalë’s heart began beating as it should have after their sprint through the trees. She had breathed out the word yes before her mind had caught up with her mouth. 

Ilinhen’s hand slid up from her shoulder to entangle his fingers in the hair at the base of her neck. He looked down at her momentarily, then he bent to place his lips with gentle firmness to her own. Lelyacalë melted into him, kissing him back tentatively at first, but then with more need. The last time she had been kissed was by Melkor and before that… he who she would forget. Those kisses were of possession, of a lust that had never met love. This kiss was all tenderness and worship. She did not want it to end, the feel of their lips moving in perfect unison together, breath intermingling, hands grasping each other more tightly together. 

He tasted of the night air and ripened berries. He smelled of crushed pine needles and sage blossoms. He stopped suddenly and Lelyacalë blinked up at him, he leant forward again and kissed her face where tears had fallen. She had not even realised she had begun to cry. 

Mairon’s voice called out her name once more and he was perilously close now. He did not sound annoyed, but more playful. He was enjoying the hunt, it seemed. 

“Go.” She mouthed at Ilinhen and he nodded, but placed a single sage blossom in the palm of her hand, curling her fingers gently around it, before he turned and with great grace, speed, and silence, faded into the trees until she could see him no more in the gloom. 

Lelyacalë held the bloom in her hand then tucked it between her breasts, having no other pockets. She waited, knowing Marion would find her soon. Sure enough, within minutes of Ilinhen leaving, Mairon appeared, a pleased smirk scarring his pretty face. 

“Oh no, you found me.” Lelyacalë said in a deadpan voice.

“Naturally. Thou canst not hide from me. Though be it on my own head to let thee have thy privacy, just so thou couldst attempt to flee. I see thou hast washed. Therefore, it is time we returned hence.” 

With those words, he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her with a vice-like grip until they reached open sky again. She tried to protest that she had not attempted to flee, just prolong her freedom, but he ignored her. Once away from the trees, Mairon transformed into his wolf form and grabbing her in his jaws, threw her over his head to land with a jarring thud onto his back. 

“Thou hast the smell of another upon thee.” He snarled, voice like gnashing rocks in his wolf’s throat. “Whom did thou meet?”

Lelyacalë could not speak, the air had been knocked clear out of her lungs when she landed on Mairon’s back. Eventually she managed to wheeze out “No one."

“Liar! Melkor shall have the truth out of thee, human.” He snapped. 

“So he shall.” She panted. “But you won’t.”

Mairon threw back his head and howled, a horrid sound that deafened her. It echoed in the air as they tore back over the land to Utumno. Lelyacalë looked to the stars the entire journey, memorising their light, but when they entered the shadows surrounding Utumno, it was a pair of pale blue eyes that floated in her memory, staving off the darkness. 

Chapter Text

The change Melkor perceived in Lelyacalë on her return was great indeed. The light from her was positively radiant in the deep shadows of Utumno. Many of the beings that followed him were forced to turn away to preserve their eyes. Not he though. He marvelled at it, revelled in it. That this light was his, his to own, his to mould, his to use, utterly delighted him with a dark joy. 

Mairon had seemed especially mischievous on his return, having about him a cruel gleam in his eye whenever he beheld Lelyacalë. Melkor had queried his lieutenant about that, and Marion had explained how Lelyacalë had attempted to hide from him, to extend her freedom and he had been forced to drag her back. 

Melkor had been stirred to wrath at this, and hauled Lelycalë before him. He enjoyed the sight of her penitent on her knees at his feet, face imploring behind the stoic visage. Then she stared him straight in his eyes, and refused to repent, to even acknowledge that what she had done was wrong. She would always value freedom, especially when kept prisoner. Melkor had been driven to rage, dragging her up by her hair so he could whisper cruelly in her ear that he would have her obedience and her veneration, even if he had to break her to achieve this. She had clawed at his hands and writhed to free herself, but while tears of pain formed at the corners, her eyes were baleful.

He had thrown her down, ripped her dress to expose the bare skin of her back, and grasping a whip from an attending balrog, lashed her. She did not cry out, though her nails dug into the hard rock beneath her, cracking in the process. He flogged her five times. She flinched but a little and uttered only hisses of breath through clenched teeth. Once his anger had abated, he felt a small stab of remorse as he surveyed Lelycalë’s slight form, blood trickling in rivulets down her back, stark red against her pale, glowing skin. They stayed like that for a while, no one moving, until he saw the light within her reach out of those wounds and close the flesh back up, leaving no trace they had ever existed. Only then did he command her to stand. She had done, shakily, clutching the front of her dress to her for modesty. 

He made her swear she would not abandon him again. He made her swear her loyalty to him. Her reply stunned him, for it was said with a dark joviality.

“After such loving treatment from My Lord, how could I say no?”

He had put Mairon in charge of training Lelyacalë in the arts of combat after that, safe in the knowledge the other could subdue her if necessary and with him being the chiefest of his lieutenants other than Gothmog, who was far too fierce to place with Lelyacalë. At least for now. 

It had been apparent she had never fought with a sword before. Or indeed, any of the weaponry Melkor and his minions had forged. She had explained to him that the weapons of her home world were different, but that she had never had much cause to use them anyway. She had told him how she fought a little in the war that had consumed her world, but was never counted as a soldier, and had never received proper training. This he had seen a little of in her mind when he had entered previously. He did not invade her mind often, for she had become quite good at repelling him when he tried and he found she was generally honest with him when he questioned her, understanding that hiding anything from him was done so in vain. What she would not offer up willingly, he would merely pry from her by force. She was broken unto him now, with nothing to hide.

Her strength grew by the day, and Melkor was pleased to note she was using that part of himself that he had placed within her to aid her fighting. She had defeated several of his lesser followers in training, and was slowly beginning to force Mairon to actually put effort in to stop her attacks. 

Not that Mairon went easy on her. More than once, Melkor had had to carry her beaten and bloodied body to her room so she could heal. Mairon had revelled in her blood, licking it from his fingers, or on at least one occasion, from the wound directly. His little light continued to heal quickly, often meaning she could begin training again the next day. Melkor knew it was gruelling for her, yet she never asked for respite. If anything, she seemed determined to win. He encouraged that thirst for domination. 

Mairon would often taunt Lelyacalë, mock her when she slipped up, laugh at her when she fell. Melkor permitted this, as he saw it as another form of attack she must learn to overcome. For her part, she never retorted, treating Mairon with a cold indifference that only seemed to spur the other on.

He, himself, had sparred against his little light on occasion, but he had not used even a quarter of his might in doing so. He enjoyed feeling her quick, hot breaths on him when they clashed together; or the brief contact when she brushed against him to fend off a blow. There had been one occasion when she had been particularly riled up, by what he had later learned to be her irritation at being held against her will, a point of continual contention between them. Each blow against him was laden with her frustration, her perceived injustice at her situation, yet the more she assailed him, her emotions seemingly grew in stature rather than dissipate. He had found this entertaining at first, until she had landed a hit to his side that had forced him to inhale sharply. They had both watched this new epiphany take shape in the space between them, that she could hurt him, her rage was enough, her strength was enough to cause him physical pain if she wished it. 

He had cut through the air with his sword to break that epiphany and send its ephemeral threads to dissolve into the encompassing shadows before it could solidify; but she had grasped his gauntlet, defiance shining from her eyes to rival her natural light. He had made to throw her off, throw her down, except as she fell she pulled all her weight on his arm, lurching him forward. Her leg kicked out and caught his own, sending it out beneath him. He had crashed down upon her, saving her from being crushed completely by landing with a jarring thud on his free forearm as she still held his gauntlet-clad wrist on the other. She had let out a winded wince at the impact and he had glared down at her for her insolence. She had glanced down at their bodies, legs entangled, metal creaking in protest on their chests, his face looming like a cliff above her, and she had begun to giggle. It had sprung forth in ragged, hitching gasps until she was totally overcome. Melkor had gazed down at her in astonishment, her hair splayed out about her as it had become loose from their fight, her cheeks reddened with the effort of the fight and her laughter, and he felt his own laughter build in his bosom. He began shaking with it, until he too joined her and only stopped when he saw tears in her eyes. 

She had raised a hand to rub them away, then swat at his chest while telling him to get off her. She called him a great oaf , but her tone had been joking, affectionate even. Melkor had not wanted to move. He had not known that tears could be invoked by light-heartedness. It had never occurred to him that he should participate in a moment such as this. A different revelation emerged between them as he extracted his body from hers, it stretched between them as they moved apart. They had been united in a genuine moment of amusement and a line had been crossed from which Melkor cared not to return, though Mairon urged him to. He had not been thrilled at the spectacle witnessed and to placate his favourite lieutenant, Melkor had ceased partaking in training sessions going forward. Little did Mairon know, this had merely led to a lively discourse between he and Lelyacalë in which she playfully called him a coward at not wishing to face her again and he would tease her that he was simply waiting for her to learn enough to land a proper blow against him. It was the kind of conversation he had only previously entertained with Mairon, Mairon being the only one who had ever dared to engage him in such a way before. Mairon never forgave Lelyacalë for it.

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The quiet friction between Mairon and Lelyacalë finally erupted a year or so later. The flame haired Maiar had been overseeing a fight between her and a lesser balrog. She was doing remarkably well, the balrog was forced to use a lot of its might against her attacks. She eventually gained the upper hand and the fiery demon yielded, limping off, the flames within it diminished from the many wounds inflicted. Melkor had been most pleased. Lelyacalë had seen his dark smile and, to his immense surprise and pleasure, returned that smile with a radiant one of her own. 

Mairon had cut in at this point. “Thou hast pleased our master, it seemeth. Even I must admit thy technique hast improved.”

His words were begrudging, but honest. He was staring at Lelyacalë with a mixture of contempt and interest. Melkor did not care what personal issues Mairon had against his little light, so long as they did not hinder his plans for her. 

A dark maia, Sàratalma, who had followed Melkor from the beginning, strode into the room, dragging behind him a smaller form that he threw before Melkor’s feet. 

“My Lord, myself and a few others hast caught a dozen of these creatures, the firstborn of Eru, as thou didst command us to after much spying on them and their folk, and do hold them captive in thy dungeons, awaiting thy command as to what shall be done with them. This one I bring before thee that thou mayest see the deed is done.” 

Melkor peered down at the form splayed before his feet. It was quivering in fear. As he was contemplating his next move, he perceived out of the corner of his eye Mairon whisper something into Lelyacalë’s ear. He looked up to see her face pale and then turn to give Mairon a look of outrage.

“What dost thou say to her, Mairon?” Melkor’s voice was deceptively light. 

“He teases me, as he is want to do, My Lord. Do not worry yourself over it.” Lelyacalë cut in before Mairon could reply. 

Mairon’s face was all wicked grin and glinting eyes as he watched Lelyacalë, but when he turned to address Melkor, his face was more reverential. 

“I confess, it doth amuse me to torment her, oh Dark One.”

Melkor studied them both grimly. Something was not quite right here and he would get his answers. “Thou art both hiding something. Lelca, thou will come with me. Mairon, I shall deal with thee later.”

Both nodded their heads and muttered “My Lord” in cowed submission. Melkor stood then, stepping over the pathetically shaking form on the floor, and beckoned Lelyacalë to follow. 

“Take this one to join the others in the pits, I shall be along to inspect them in due course.” He added as he passed Sàratalma.

Lelyacalë was jittery from Mairon’s words as Melkor led her from the training rooms to his counsel chamber. Their relationship had progressed to a better place but she still feared his wrath greatly. He sat and bid her be seated to the left of him. She obeyed and hoped she was pulling off an air of normalcy that she was trying so very hard to project. If Melkor sensed any unease, she was doomed from the start of this conversation.

“Thou will tell me what passed between thee and Mairon and thou will tell me all.” He commanded.

Lelyacalë considered her options. Melkor knew when she lied, at least, he nearly always knew. If she could blend some of the truth with a lie, or tell a half-truth, then perhaps she could escape his full fury. That he was unhappy with her, and with Mairon, was evident. 

“He asked me what I thought you would do with me, now that the elves were here in Utumno.” 

Mairon’s actual words had been, I know thou hast not told him of the one thou met. Imagine what he shall do to thee once I bring that one here to Utumno.

She had not told Melkor about Ilinhen, not just to protect him, but herself. She had fortified her mind against any prying Melkor might conduct, but he had not attempted to enter in there. She was not sure why, but she was thankful regardless. In all honesty, she had expected Mairon to betray the truth but apparently he had not, instead waiting for the lie to catch her out in due course, such as at a time like this. She should have known better. She was too tired and not nearly clever enough for intrigue of this kind, if any at all, but she could not afford to misstep with Mairon again. She hoped she had done enough to avoid incurring wrath and hiding Ilinhen from Melkor a while longer, if not forever. Mairon’s threat to bring him here curdled in her stomach, as she knew it was possible and Mairon more than capable of carrying it out. 

Melkor nodded. “He wast implying I would set thee aside in favour of Eru’s firstborn. Fear not, Lelca, for thou will be mine greatest treasure forever. Now, thou will accompany me to inspect these first children of Illúvatar. Thou will assist me in my plans for them.”

“As you wish, My Lord.” She feigned gratitude at his words, but in secret her heart sank. The torture those poor elves would suffer was insurmountable, and she would apparently be witness and even party to it. 

When they reached the treacherous hollows Melkor had constructed to hold those he wished to punish, Lelyacalë was hit with the stench of blood and fear. Mairon was there in his fiery spirit form, a thin flame extended from his hand to form a whip, a ruined mess of a body in front of him. Sàratalma stood to one side, a wicked curved blade twirling in his hands. Lelyacalë had to physically slow her breathing. She should not be here. She could not be here. Please, had she not seen enough in this merciless place? Had she not seen enough atrocities in the war? Though those memories were beginning to fade, some still haunted the deep, dark waters of her mind waiting for an excuse to emerge. 

On seeing them enter, Mairon resumed his corporeal form and lowered the whip in his hand, a malicious grin on his face. 

“They are strong enough to break and mend, to mould as thou see fit, oh Great One.” Mairon addressed Melkor. “With them, thou shalt create works to rival those of The Valar, to plague their own creations.” 

Melkor listened intently to Mairon, but offered no smile. “Proceed.” He commanded. 

Mairon raised his lash once more and, fire blazoning down its length, flogged the elf chained up before him. The poor thing screamed, the sound echoing against the unforgiving walls of that dank place. The sound was still reverberating before it was joined by another as Mairon hit him again. 

Lelyacalë dared not turn away. Instead, she blurred her vision, a useless trick she had always been able to do, unfocusing her eyes. She could not force the same detachment for her ears, however. The wails of the elf were joined by ones in her memory, of her own and of others she had witnessed tortured in the prisoner of war camps. They were a cacophonous choir of agony, chaotically assaulting her mind. 

After Mairon had raised the whip for what must have been the twentieth time, she could bear it no more. 

“You are going to kill him, you fool!” She yelled at him, the words bursting forth before she could think better of them. 

Mairon turned to glare at her. “So what if I doth? There art plenty more to play with.”

Her horror turned to wrath, she felt it surge through her as a great wave, flooding her veins, the marrow in her bones, suffusing her every muscle and roaring through her brain. She lunged, seizing the long whip in the middle with one hand, ignoring the searing pain to her palm, and smote it with all her might across Marion’s face. He screeched in shocked fury and pain, clutching his face. Before he could recover, she grabbed him by his shoulder and threw him hard to the wall, where he hit with a smack that shook rock loose from the ceiling. Grabbing the whip again, she lashed it about his other wrist and yanked harshly down, causing him to stumble to his knees. 

No one intervened. She was vaguely aware of Sàratalma and could have sworn he wore a large grin upon his face as he watched the spectacle. Melkor she dared not look at. 

Mairon grabbed the whip and jerked her towards him, but she had been expecting this. Using the momentum he gave her, she twisted to fling herself onto his back, where she gripped his hair, the light of which joined with her own so that they were both bathed in shades of white and amber lustre, and wrenched his head to the side. The soft curve of Mairon’s neck was now exposed to her. She stared into those glimmering eyes and grinned at him until the disdainful confusion she found there broke into disbelieving shock. It was at that moment of understanding between them that she sank her teeth deep into his throat. She bit hard, not stopping until she could taste his blood, thick, bitter, and burning in her mouth. Only then did she let him drop from her grip to spit that self-same blood into his face as he lay there staring up at her with astonishment. 

For a long moment no one moved or spoke. Mairon lay there, blood soaking his hair and clothes, his flaming golden eyes never leaving Lelyacalë’s face. She stood there, gold-coloured blood trickling over her chin and down her neck. She tried not to swallow but she had caused him to gush into her mouth and she could feel him burning rivulets down her throat. 

She spat upon the ground at Mairon’s feet, then turned to Melkor. “My apologies, My Lord, for interfering in the torture of your prisoners.” Her voice was husky with ichor. 

Melkor was studying her like he had never seen her before. Then he threw back his head and laughed, the sound filled Lelyacalë with dread, for it was the laugh of one in triumph. 

Chapter Text

After her attack on Mairon, Lelyacalë had eventually returned to her room to clean herself up. Melkor had dismissed Mairon to go heal, as the wound she had inflicted on him was not sealing up as it should have been, whereas the welt from the whip she had given him across his eyes had already faded to nearly nothing. This surprised but also concerned her. What had she become that she could inflict such a wound on a maia? She was evolving more and more to be less human, to be more Melkor’s vision. Naturally, Melkor had praised her for her actions, genuine delight dancing across his stone features. He had bid her come to him in his personal chamber after she had cleaned up, as he would discuss things further with her. 

She was apprehensive of that conversation. Then again, she was apprehensive of most conversations with Melkor, for she was never sure how he would react. He had been, dare she think it, friendlier of late. On the other hand, she had been fighting him less. It was all a part of her plan to survive this place; keep on his good side until she could be free of him. She was surprised at the small current of sadness that threaded through her mind at the thought. No, she had no business missing her captor. It was ridiculous to entertain such dangerous feelings. She was just used to Melkor now, that was all. She had been longer with him than with The Valar on Almaren, she was fairly certain, and whilst at first she would have given any chance to escape and find them again, now she feared their rejection over what Melkor had done to her. She doubted the elves would welcome her, even Illinhen would surely abandon her once understood the truth. No. There was no place for her outside of Utumno now, Melkor had seen to that.

She stripped off the training armour she wore, and stood before the basin she had carved into the wall. It was not too badly made to say she had little skill in the area of rock carving. She filled it with water whenever possible so that she could wash. Melkor had insisted he had servants to attend to her for those sorts of duties, but Lelyacalë disliked asking too much of the followers of Melkor, being aware that many took exception to her existence. The water was always freezing, but she had learned to manipulate fire somewhat, so that she could take it from the torch burning at the wall, to sculpt and hold it in place under the basin, heating the water that way. Ordinary fire did not burn her anymore and whilst the flames could no longer singe the flesh from her bones, her power over it seared her from her human self. She was not Maiar, or Valar, nor elf. Now she was not truly human either. What had she become? Who was she becoming? Questions that haunted her with answers that never took full form before transmuting into new shapes again, leaving her none the wiser and frustrated for all that. 

A metal shield, polished until it could mirror her reflection, was hung above the basin. Call her vain, but she felt a need to see the change being wrought on and in her. Her uniqueness demanded observation. She may have little say in how she evolved, but she could monitor the progress at least. 

Mairon’s blood had seeped into the shirt she wore under the armour, so she threw that off as well. She scrubbed at her face and neck, watching the water in the basin go from clear to murky yellow, golden strands swirling in the midst. She pondered on when Mairon’s blood would turn black, then on if Melkor’s was already black, before realising hers was probably going to become black as well. She watched the gold blend into the water and recognized how much she missed colour down here in the gloomy depths, where all was shaded black and grey, save for the flames of fires and balrog. And Mairon’s golden splendour, she mused. 

She refilled the basin and rinsed her mouth out. Again and again and again. Once she felt all the blood was gone, she gulped down some clean water. Lelyacalë had found that she did not need to eat or drink much at all nowadays; her appetite was almost entirely gone. The water sat unhappily in her stomach, however, causing waves of nausea to roll over her. 

Gold-tinged liquid spewed from her mouth, a small torrent, splashing the walls and floor. She heaved once more then straightened up. Mairon’s blood was affecting her, and not for the good. She would have to inform Melkor, who would no doubt not be pleased. With that pleasant thought for company, Lelyacalë cleaned up her mess as well as she could manage and dressed herself in the most pleasing attire she possessed, a crimson gown embroidered with gold thread. Best look as diverting as she could before delivering unwelcome news. She still felt lightheaded and at odds with herself as she combed her hair out of the plait she wore for combat training, and not for the first time that evening, regretted her earlier actions. To tear at another’s throat like she was some depraved animal, was truly beneath her. Not that it hadn’t been satisfying, but such violence and how easily it had come to her showed how much she had changed. She looked herself over in her makeshift mirror, sighed, and departed.

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Mairon had known Lelyacalë had met an elf. He had seen them both, in that lake. He had kept back to watch what would happen, comfortable in the knowledge he had the power to intervene whenever he wished. Mairon was not one for rash action where it could be avoided. He preferred to gather all intelligence and then act when it was best suited for him. It took a great deal to provoke him to lose himself, thus far only Melkor had ever accomplished that feat, and so he refused to give Lelyacalë that honour, despite her constantly threatening to slide under his skin with her quips and irritating questions, or else her sullen silences and indifferent eyes. 

Lelyacalë had been so used to him appearing in corporeal form now, she had forgotten that he could shed that form like she shed her clothes. He had not watched her bathe, having no interest in seeing her naked again, until he heard her talking and another voice answering. He had watched unseen as fëa only and on hearing their conversation, he wanted to see if Lelyacalë would be true to her word and return to Utumno, or attempt to flee with the other. So he had withdrawn some distance again, put on his physical form once more and called out. 

She had not replied, so he had wandered casually to the lake and saw sodden boot prints in the grass, leading towards the forest. She had chosen to run then. He had not been surprised and in fact was rather pleased he had an opportunity to hunt them both down. He did not fear losing them, so he followed at a leisurely pace. He would take that other being, one of the Quendi awoken at last he presumed, and force Lelyacalë to torture him. He would have her unmake this firstborn of Illúvatar in body and mind before her very eyes, and watch her break in both herself. The thought had brought a cruel smile to his face. He could not rid himself of this unwanted stain on his life, he could, however, make Lelyacalë’s life an utter misery.

But his plan came to no fruition, for when he had eventually come upon Lelyacalë, she had been alone. No matter, he had thought. He could be patient. He would find that Quendë again, if the Quendë did not find him first. He had seen how the other had looked at Lelyacalë, eyes bright with adoration and longing, as though she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was pitiful to behold. Yes. That one would seek her out, no matter her warnings to him. Mairon could be patient. Besides which, he had this very meeting to hold over Lelyacalë, for he was sure she would not tell Melkor of what had transpired. The silly creature was truly doomed if she kept handing him weapons to undermine herself with.

Mairon had been right, the elf had indeed come to him, and the satisfaction of that fact bolstered his own self-regard. His understanding of the world begged him to order it. He could see where things might be tweaked here, guided there, to allow for all to come to pass as it should. Control thrilled him, but it also calmed him. The duality led to an intoxication he would chase for the rest of his life. That he could exact control under one as chaotic as Melkor, that he could rein in his master’s impulses and guide that power to greater ends, was a trophy Mairon wore in the timbre of his voice, the stance of his shoulders, and the stride of his legs. It was in his cocked eyebrow, his broad smirk, and the tilt of his pointed chin. Melkor thought him his best prize won, yet in reality, Melkor was his. 

Mairon recognised the elf the moment he laid eyes on him. Mairon did not venture forth much from Utumno, Melkor needing him to oversee the torture and corruption of the elves they had already caught. But then he had heard word of elves travelling closer to the stronghold, curious of its darkness. On bringing this news to Melkor, he had asked to go forth to find and capture these elves that dared to wander so close to the shadows. His master had assented. 

The elf had not been travelling alone. He had three companions with him, two male and one female. It transpired that Melkor’s servants had already captured the wife of one of the he-elves, and he was searching for her. The others were his brother and sister-in-law. The elf that Lelyacalë had met travelled with them, though it was in search of her, Mairon knew, and not for the sake of his companion’s wife.  

He had told the shivering, fearful-eyed group that they could be reunited with their loved one if they but followed him, and so they had come willingly, if uneasily. Love was the undoing of all clever deeds, Mairon surmised. Love led to destruction. He should know, he bemused bitterly, for his love for Melkor threatened to undo him entirely some days and Melkor’s love of creation and domination threatened to destroy everything.

He had watched with cruel glee as the husband found the wife, shackled to a wall, stripped of all loveliness by wicked instruments, her eyes unknowing of the anguished face before her, her lips unfeeling of the kisses he bestowed on them. The first stage of experimentation was going well. The breaking down of these creatures was working, now he would focus on building them back up in a more befitting image. There was power in hideousness to match that of beauty; one only had to look at Gothmog to perceive that.

He ignored the cries of What have you done to her? and Let her go, I beseech you, let her go! Instead hauling the two male elves off to another part of the dungeon and throwing the female in with the mutilated other. As for Lelyacalë’s elf, for that is how Mairon thought of him, he had other plans. 

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Ilinhen had done his best to heed Lelyacalë’s words. Her warning had been so urgent, so heartfelt. Yet, he could not bear to think of her suffering alone. His whole body yearned for her, the memory of their kiss imprinted in his mind had become less and less able to sustain the loss of her as the years progressed. He needed to see her again. Her loveliness and her sadness haunted his heart so that none else could occupy it. He saw others marry and bear children and he longed to follow suit, for children were joy personified. But none other would do now he had seen her, tasted her. She was all he wanted. His future would be incomplete without her in it.

He had heard tales of others who had gone missing, taken by some dark force. When an elf from his own village was abducted, he willingly joined the search party, even as he felt guilt at betraying Lelyacalë’s plea for him to stay away. 

On seeing Utumno, he had understood her words in full. As the company had approached and watched the stars fall away to smothering shadow, he felt his own heart be cloaked in that same darkness. The starless skies made navigation difficult and they seemed to wander in darkness for some time, going nowhere. 

The horror that settled in his heart spread to encompass all of him once he saw what was being done to elves on reaching that fell place. He had recognised Mairon’s voice from when he had called for Lelyacalë all those years before, it held the same mocking callousness. He had found Mairon to possess a deadly beauty, like unto a flame. Lovely to behold from a distance, dangerous to have too close. He despaired of ever seeing Lelyacalë in this accursed mountain and wished he had heeded her counsel. Then Mairon spoke to him. 

“Thou art he who Lelyacalë met at the lake, art thou not?” Mairon’s voice had taken on a deceptively light and almost friendly tone, jarring with the harsh surroundings and his previous actions towards Ilinhen’s companions. At the mention of Lelyacalë’s name, his heart had warmed, igniting his feelings for her there. 

“I am he.” Ilinhen had tried to make his voice as steady as possible. “How do you know me?”

“I didst see thee both at the lake and watched thee in my spirit form, unseen to thine eyes.”

“Why did you not reveal yourself? Why did you allow us to run?”

Mairon raised a thin, amber eyebrow. “Why, for mine own amusement of course. Also to see if Lelyacalë wouldst indeed attempt to flee. In truth, I would have been greatly disappointed had she not.”

Ilinhen did not reply. He desperately wanted to ask if he might see Lelyacalë, but he knew it would be folly to do so. He missed her light, especially in this, the darkest of abodes. The fire of Mairon was harsh in comparison, it seared his eyes, leaving dancing spots of darkness behind to mar his vision. He missed the soft glow of Lelyacalë’s skin.

Mairon watched him intently, his bright eyes roaming every inch of Illinhen’s face. At last he spoke again. “What did thou think to accomplish by coming here? Didst thou think to be reunited with Lelyacalë once more?” 

It unnerved Ilinhen how Mairon seemingly could determine his unspoken thoughts. He could no longer find it in him to speak, so offered one short nod of his head. 

A malicious smile spread upon the other’s lips. “Why dost thou seek this reunion? Thou who have met her only the once?”

Ilinhen did not answer again, but looked down at the floor, dark, damp, and reeking. It was a fair question. His own kind did not form such attachments normally, and in truth, his own feelings baffled Illinhen but he could not deny them. Lelyacalë had awakened something within him that he yearned to explore. Mairon stepped closer to him and leaned in. 

“Thou hast no companion of thine own, I see. Didst thou wish to make Lelyacalë thine own? Have her bear thy children and make a home together? Is that what thou desires?” Mairon’s voice was a cruel, scornful whisper at the end. 

Ilinhen refused to answer, but him turning his head aside from the maia seemed to be all the confirmation he needed to give. Mairon issued a soft laugh that seeped coldly into Ilinhen’s soul. “Mayhaps I can bring these things to pass… if thou wilt obey my every command.”

Ilinhen looked up sharply then. He knew his choices were limited, but he would rather suffer torment and death in the hope of Lelyacalë, than in refusing the offer. As bold as he could muster, he replied. “A promise of obedience for only a chance is not a fair bargain.”

Mairon grabbed him by the jaw, long fingers coming to rest against the pulse in his throat, sharp nails threatening to break into his skin. 

“There is no fair down here, elf, there is only the will of Melkor.” He hissed. “Thou shalt see Lelyacalë. Thou shalt have thy family, thy children. Only if thou bend to the will of Melkor.”

“Of Melkor, or of you?” Ilinhen issued through gritted teeth. 

Mairon let go of him, throwing him back as he did so. He stumbled but managed to regain his footing, just. His face ached where Mairon had gripped it. 

“I follow my master’s will, therefore what he wills, I will. It is the same.”

Ilinhen was not sure he believed Marion fully in this assertion, but had no strength or cause to argue just then. He merely stood and bowed his head. He had made his decision. It was a vain hope, a fool's hope, but Mairon was not going to let him leave, of that he was certain, so the maia’s offer was the only real choice Illinhen had. He bowed his head. “Very well.”

Mairon led him through the despair of Utumno until they reached a dank cell deep within the mountain, far from his companions. Thick metal bars were across the entrance and it was empty but for a bucket, an outcrop of rock to form a bed, and dead grass strewn on the floor. Without a word, Ilinhen was thrown in and Mairon shut the door; it rang with a deafening clang as metal slammed on metal. They stared at each other through the bars, neither uttering a word, then Mairon turned and left, taking the light with him. 

Chapter Text

The room was dimly lit by only four fires in brackets on each wall, meaning shadows lept from all corners. The ceiling was high, barely discernible due to the weak light. A grand chair, highly carved, was placed at the far end of the room under one of the burning sconces. Upon it sat Melkor, his jet hair highlighted amber by the flames behind him, his icy eyes were blue flames standing starkly out from his silhouetted face. There was no bed, for Melkor required no sleep, at least not yet in those early days.

It was only on moving closer to him at his command that Lelyacalë could pick out the designs hewn into the wood. They were of flames, flames and the souls they tortured. It was not unlike Dante’s inferno, she thought and she suppressed a shudder. Now she was closer to him, she could see his hungry smile and the way his eyes lingered on her greedily. Trepidation began to grow in her heart and flow through her until she was filled with it. Whatever he wanted with her now, it was not good. She should not have attacked Mairon as she had, it had been folly. Her lack of control grated on her, for while she had bested Mairon in that attack, she felt that he was the one who could claim victory and that she had lost in more ways than one. The anger she had felt had been all her own, but it was useless to deny that Melkor’s essence within her had aided her, had joined with her fury to further ignite and spread it. Where once it could have been said her temper could make her unstable if pushed too far, with Melkor now a part of her, she was become volatile with it.

She knelt before him, head bowed, when she felt his strong fingers under her chin, compelling her to look into his perilous eyes. She dared not move, dared not speak. She barely dared breathe. He lifted his hand up, forcing her to stand once more, still he did not release his hold on her jaw. 

“I am well pleased with thee, Lelyacalë. Thou hast grown strong indeed. Thou acteth as thou should, bold and fierce. The light that has become so delicate and weary within thee shall grow all the more mighty.” His voice shone with praise.

“Yes, My Lord.”

His smile lessened and the grip on her face tightened. She knew what he wanted and was reticent to give it. 

“Yes… ninya melda.” She whispered with no real conviction in her voice. 

He let go of her forcefully and in a cold voice that seeped into her bones replied, “Thy reluctance is noted. Why is it such?” She was still getting used to his whiplash temperament, but that he could drop from elated to menacingly displeased before she had time to inhale put her on instant high alert.

“My heart has always belonged to another, though he is now long dead. It has not stirred itself in that manner again.” She spoke the truth. She loved her husband, brutally taken from her in the war, killed in action as a conscripted soldier. She had never loved anyone else. She had never even entertained the thought. A pair of pale blue eyes under strong brows and framed by dark hair swam into her mind. She hastily pushed it away, forever conscious that Melkor could read her thoughts if he wished, despite her better mental fortitude.

Melkor grunted in begrudging acknowledgment. “Thou must forget the past, Lelca. That heart thou speaketh of belongs to who thou wast, this heart,” he leant forward and rested his forefinger above her breast, “is formed anew and belongs to who thou art now. It belongs to me.”

She wanted to scream. Every cell in her body cried out in protest at his words. Those same cells cried out in traitorous assent. She was a being at war with herself, at war with those parts of Melkor that permeated her. If she was being truly honest with herself though, there was a small part of her that wanted to give in. To pretend that what Melkor offered was sincere love and not abhorrent possession. So she settled for pretence. There was no use in fighting battles she stood no hope in winning. This was a war of endurance, she must do what she must do in order to survive. 

He wanted to use her to mirror the greatness he saw in himself. To hold her up and see glory, beauty, and devotion. So she would, she would try to find any goodness that had come with him from Eru and magnify that if she could. Let her show him the difference between her and his other creations. Let her show him light. If she had to pretend to worship, so be it. It would not be forever, for she knew how Melkor’s story ended after all.

She smiled sadly up at him. “You are right, as always, I look to you to give me the strength to cast off the past, ninya melda. I thank you for your continued patience in this matter.”

She waited with bated breath to see if she had been convincing enough and to her immense relief, Melkor’s smile was a genuine one as he stood from his seat to tower over her.

“It gladdens me to hear thee speak as such, Lelca.” He reached forth to trace his thumb over her bottom lip. She closed her eyes in what she hoped would come across as reverential bliss, but was in actuality to hide the real emotions in her eyes. It was time to reveal the issue of Mairon’s blood, which she could feel even now eating away at her inside. She could sense Mairon’s feelings, like a whisper in her veins, echoing his emotions. Right now, he was furious and betrayed. Whilst it may be useful to have this window into Mairon’s being, the cost would no doubt not be worth the reward. 

“My Lord, I have a confession to make.” She spoke up against him, her lips brushing upon his thumb as she formed the words. She opened her eyes. Before he could react she continued. “Mairon’s blood… I did swallow some and it has begun to affect me.”

He withdrew his hand and concern clouded his features. “Affect thee how?” 

“I can feel him within me. I fear his blood has formed a connection between him and me.” 

Melkor stood stonily. His brow was drawn down low in a displeased scowl. “I will break that connection, thou belongeth to mineself only.” He glowered, voice impassioned.

All of a sudden, he pulled back the sleeve of his shirt and drew one of his fingernails across his wrist. Grey-blue blood welled along the cut, a single, thick drop sliding down his forearm in a languid drip. Not black yet, she noted.

Lelyacalë knew from the moment he began cutting himself what she would be required to do. To further her good favour, she did not wait to be asked. Lean into the pretence, she reminded herself. Besides, a part of her, a part that disgusted her, yearned for it the moment she had seen the first dark bead bloom against his skin; yearned to take him into herself, to savour him upon her tongue. She reached forward and brought his bloodied wrist to her lips and drank him in. To her surprise he issued a groan of pleasure and her eyes flicked to his to be met with a look of tormented elation. He was revelling in this, even as it pained him. She drew on him harder, gulping down his essence. It was burning cold, frozen iron, yet it satiated a need Lelyacalë had not even known she had possessed. The more she drank, the more her tongue cried out for the taste of it.

Melkor had fallen to his knees, his other hand clawed at the rug beneath them, sharp nails dragging up fur in tufts. She consumed her last mouthful and ran her tongue over the wound, exacting a further deep moan from him. He was staring at her in awe, carnal and triumphant. 

Be his mirror . The words surged in her mind. 

So she did. She lowered his arm and stepped forward to press her blood-soaked lips against his. At first he did not react, then the moment she felt his lips move to return the kiss, she pulled back to ensure he was looking in her eyes. 

“Your turn.” She growled at him. 

His eyes widened as she brought his hand up to her own exposed wrist and used the same nail to slice it open. She forced the resultant blood between his unprotesting lips and felt him begin to lap her up. He offered no resistance and needed no urging. He was strong and she was forced to lean against him as he drained her. Eventually she pulled her arm away, feeling exhaustion creep in as her lifeblood left her. 

He knelt there as she stood straddling his thighs, both pressed to one another, her panting slightly, he with a glazed expression upon his face. For that languid moment, he looked quite unlike himself. Then his eyes snapped into focus  and he pulled her down onto him, red and grey mixing on their tongues in a coppery iron infusion as he kissed her. 

Lelyacalë’s senses were all ablaze. Giddiness accompanied nausea; fervidity swung into guilt; longing battled disgust. Melkor had slid the hand of his uninjured arm up her back and into her hair, cradling the base of her skull. She mimicked him, entangling her own fingers in the silky dark river that flowed around him.

He embraced her with an openness she did not think he was capable of. There was no possessiveness to his actions, no domination underlying them. Nor was he submissive. He met her as he was and took her as she was. It thrilled and terrified Lelyacalë in equal measure. If she was not careful, she would fall for this version of him that was unlikely to surface again. This was not who Melkor was. This was a moment of weakness for him and once he realised this he would shun it forever. 

She pulled back to look at him. With the deadly malice ever underlying his features now retreated, Melkor was truly, breathtakingly beautiful. His iron-forged features no longer spoke of harshness, but of strength. Blue eyes no longer threatened to sear with ice, but lit up his face with majesty. The colour of his skin spoke of skies approaching dawn, ere else saying farewell to a sun that has left the sky. Then there were his lips, the sheen of both their blood upon them amplifying the curves, softer now they were open in pleading, pleading for her. She spoke his name softly, his true name, the one he had told her in The Void. It stumbled clumsily off her tongue but he ate it up regardless, devouring her lips the moment that name passed through them. 

Still pressed together, Melkor knelt up and began pushing her down, so that she was now laid on the fur rug beneath them and he was on top of her. Panic blossomed in her stomach as she realised where they were headed. But Melkor had ignited that part of her that yearned for him, that reached for the shadows, that wanted to save him from the darkness or else join him in it, and it smothered that panic. She lay there and just as blood oozed from her wounded arm, a truth seeped from her wounded soul. Melkor may have poured himself into her and so some of her thoughts, feelings, and behaviours might now be his… but in reality they had only bolstered much of what she already secretly felt. She and Melkor had already been the same in many ways and it was becoming more difficult to deny it. The anger he harboured, his need to be understood, his desire to destroy what he could not control… these were all part of her and had been from the beginning. On the one hand, the thought brought her no comfort, on the other, it was a relief to finally acknowledge the fact.

So she gave in. Fully. 

She forgot about horrors committed, of evil deeds done. She forgot about how she was changing. She forgot about her past life. She forgot she was in the carved out guts of a cruel mountain. She forgot Melkor had ruined her and would continue to ruin her. She refused to think of the atrocities yet to be committed, or that she may have started something that would be the undoing of her, that she had no control over. It had been one thing to stop fighting Melkor, it was another thing entirely to willingly give herself to him, especially in this way.

Then for all that, she did not forget those light blue eyes in a kind face, those sage blossom lips, those arms safely enclosing her in a warm embrace. Thus, she was a woman divided. Part of her stayed with Melkor as their flesh joined, hot, sticky, and needy, moving together as one until he released into her with a cry of her name, part of her was imagining another body with her the entire time. 

They laid there together on the rug after it was over and this time Melkor stayed. He traced over the mark he had given her the last time, so that it was now made in blood upon her skin. She had taken his hand afterwards and kissed the blood from his fingertip.

“Is Mairon gone from thee now?” He murmured, lips brushing her ear. She nodded. Melkor’s blood had rushed through her, washing away all traces of Mairon from within her. She was exorcised of one demon and filled with another. He turned her head to him with one finger against the line of her jaw and pressed his lips to hers once more. Their mouths were turned viscous with ichor now, so he ran a tongue over her lips as he kissed her. When he finally broke away from her, he left her with racing blood and gasping lungs. She tried to hide the effect he had on her by sitting up and pulling down the skirts of her dress, refusing to look at him. She attempted to tame her mussed up hair, but she was coated in blood so the strands stuck to her fingers. She could feel him watching her but he said nothing for a great while. He sat up and bade her look at him and she obliged, heat still tinging her cheeks and colouring her eyes. Melkor had seemed to come to himself then and proclaimed she was more his now than ever. She had thought to herself and you are a bit more mine , but had dared not speak that aloud. His parting words to her before she left echoed around her head. 

“Thy worship of me is cherished, that it was through thy body the more so. Thy sacrifice shall not be forgotten.”

When she finally returned to her room, she felt like a ship tossed upon tumultuous waves, anchor threatening to tear free and leave her at the mercy of that treacherous sea of emotion. Lelyacalë pondered whether this dance with the devil was worth survival. She was at risk of losing herself entirely. Exhausted, she threw her blood stained dress into a corner of the room, hastily washed the blood from her body and hair, pulled her nightdress over her head and went to collapse onto the bed. That’s when she saw it, resting on her pillow. Small and white, starkly standing out in the gloom. 

A sage blossom. 

Chapter Text

It had been quite some time since she had found that sage blossom on her pillow, and whilst he was constantly on her mind, Lelyacalë had not been able to seek Ilinhen out. She had tried on the few occasions made available to her, but it had been a futile task. That Mairon had put the sage blossom for her to find, she was certain of. That he had Ilinhen here in Utumno or else in Angband, she was less sure of, but the fear of it was eating her up inside and she wanted the truth. 

Utumno was vast, and she still did not know most of it, having had little taste for exploration for fear of losing herself. There were seemingly no end of prisons in which elves and other poor creatures were held and tortured, more being built all the time, or else expanded. Added to this, Melkor would have her by his side even more now than before, or else she was training for future combat she was sure Melkor would never let her actually participate in. Sàratalma, the dark Maia she had met a few times before, was overseeing her fighting instruction now and she much preferred him to Mairon. He did not mock her and would engage her in actual conversation. He was not friendly as such, but he was far from hostile. She knew he was a chief torturer amongst the prisoners, but gleaning information from him without outright revealing her true intentions was proving beyond her. 

Mairon was rarely at Utumno nowadays, being placed in charge of the fortress at Angband, which he had both designed and helped create. He would send messages via servants, most notably Thuringwethil, who traveled as a great bat between places to deliver news. Lelyacalë had seen Mairon a scant few times since she had maimed him, and noted with satisfaction that she had succeeded in scarring him permanently on his throat, though he tried to hide it. She had never seen him alone and more often than not it was in passing. If it had not been for her worry over Illinhen, this would have suited her well.

Even if she had been given the opportunity to speak to Mairon alone, she would not have mentioned the flower left on her pillow in parting gift to her, she would not have given Mairon the satisfaction. As it was, she watched and waited, listened and was patient. Dread was hastening that patience into an early grave, however, and her lack of freedom was irking her into insanity. 

Since consuming Melkor’s blood, she found blood was all she craved. Other food no longer satiated her, or else made her sick. She would not ask Melkor for more of his, though her veins called out for it. She was growing gaunt, darkness was creeping in around her eyes and her skin had become almost translucent. It was practically white, allowing the light within her to shine through all the better. It was only when she had collapsed after barely any attack one training session, that she was forced to confess all. Sàratalma had carried her to Melkor after she told him the reason for her weakness and Melkor had dragged an elf up from the holding cells personally and thrown them at her feet. 

“Feed.” He had commanded. 

And she had. Her teeth, become sharp now, had rent into the smooth flesh to release the sweet blood it housed. That first time, she had not been able to stop and had looked down in disbelieving horror at the drained body before her. Melkor, who had purged much of her memory, had mocked her reaction. 

“This is not the first life thou hast taken, why dost thou tremble so at this deed more than thy previous ones?”

She could provide no answer in that moment and Melkor had leered victoriously at her silence, though later she thought on how taking life in war was much different to taking the life of that elf, an innocent prisoner. The blood of the elf had sustained her for what must have been months. Time was still largely incalculable in the depths of Utumno, so Lelyacalë had to estimate as best she could. She learned to rein in her thirst, and Melkor took advantage to give those elves she partially drained his own blood to compensate. The effect was different to what had occurred with her. Melkor’s blood corrupted, but it did not create bloodlust in the elves. Many did not survive. That they were subjected to harsh torture, broken down again and again, also contributed to their demise.

Melkor had begun breeding them. At first to little success, as the females had control over when to conceive. Extensive torture could override this, but it was inefficient and timely. Melkor’s blood, on the other hand, was far more effective and productive. It defiled the womb as well as the mind, robbing all consent. He needed an army and he needed one as quickly as possible. A host of Ainur may have sung his discord with him in the beginning, but few of those had followed him down to Eä, and even fewer had dissented to him after. He needed followers to help him conquer and destroy, and to withstand his enemies should they come against him. When they would come against him, for surely they would.

Many offspring perished, not strong enough to survive the ordeals that befell them. So Melkor turned to the male elves to use his blood there. It took a toll on him, Lelyacalë noticed. He appeared more and more in his corporeal form, seldom now did she perceive him in spirit form. The more he tied himself physically to his creations, the more he tied himself to his physical being. She knew this would be the case from the stories she had read concerning Melkor, but to see it happen before her eyes was truly fascinating to witness. 

He had chosen thirteen he-elves to test their mettle. He wanted the strongest survivors to father the next generation of his new race. She had fed on some male elves before but none had been Ilinhen. She had hoped that this plan would allow her to see him again, but it was not to be so. The thirteen chosen were to be tested by endurance instead. Lelyacalë heard all Melkor’s plans and could only hope Ilinhen had not been one of the chosen, for they were to be left shackled to the peaks above Utumno and left for dead. After a time, those that still showed signs of resilience would be used as breeding stock, given Melkor’s blood to strengthen and bind. 

Furthermore, Mairon had been put in charge of deciding who showed promise and who was to be left dead upon the mountain face. If he had brought Ilinhen here, she did not know whether Mairon would prefer to have him killed or corrupted to his and Melkor’s service. Though she knew Mairon had returned for this task, she did not see him, it was as though he was avoiding her or else Melkor was purposefully keeping them separate. 

Years were flying by, in Lelyacalë’s estimation, and Melkor’s army was fast growing. He had a host of balrogs and many other grim creatures he had devised and defiled, but they were slow to procreate or else could not at all. This new breed of elf, the Uruks, were fast to reproduce. She still had seen no sign of Ilinhen and hope shrank within her. She was coming to the realisation that she may never find him, or else he might already be dead. The latter made her most grievous, whilst guilt also gripped her for her part in his demise. Had he not met her, Mairon would never have targeted him. 

She began to think it would be a blessing that he did not see her if he were still alive, for she had become monstrous, feeding on the lives of others, the light within her mocking the darkness she was forced to succumb to, weak though it was now. The light was a lie. It gave her an ethereal beauty she did not in truth possess. She often wondered at it, so separate from what Melkor had imbued her with of himself. She had not really tried to utilise it since then, to see exactly what she could do with it.p That it continued to shine at all truly astonished her, surely all she had done and become should have snuffed it out long ago. Yet there she was, a monster dressed as an angel. An angel of death. 

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How long he was kept in that dank cell, Ilinhen did not know. He had been stripped of everything he possessed, including the sage blossom he had brought for Lelyacalë. That had been handled delicately and told to be given to Mairon, who apparently had expected Ilinhen to have it. The guards had searched for it specifically amongst his clothing and eventually found it clutched gently in his fist. He did not actually see Mairon again for what must have been years. He was given scant to eat or drink and sleep was nigh impossible. He was chained, flogged, beaten, burned, mocked, taunted, and cursed; the pattern repeating until he could remember nothing else. Whenever he thought the lashing would finally send him into the safe arms of death, it would stop and he would crawl back to some semblance of health whilst being mentally assaulted with wicked words from unseen beings. 

He lost all sense of himself. Everywhere torment reverberated through the air and into his mind, his bones, his spirit. He tried to picture those moss-green eyes in a pale face whenever he closed his own; tried to remember skin glowing softly with starlight from within. He held on to that light for as long as he could, but each crack of the whip upon his skin, each pummel of a bludgeon against his ribs, tore that light from him piece by piece until he was holding on by the merest threads left. 

That was when he saw it. Her. Lelyacalë and the light she exuded. He was curled on his side, dazed from another day of cruelty, his body too agonised to get the rest he so dreadfully needed. He was staring blankly out of the bars of his cell when he saw her glide past. 

Her light might have been faint by the lake, but in the overwhelming darkness of those dungeons, she was practically a radiant beacon. She was pearly silver, a star personified. Yet he perceived darkness too. As she approached, he noticed her eyes were framed in shadow, she was thinner and her nails were long and sharp. Her lips, where once a pale pink blossom had bloomed, were now a deep red, standing stark against the pale skin. In one way she was more beautiful than ever and yet more horrifying for all that. She was changed from when he had first seen her. 

Then again, so was he. His body was a mass of scar tissue, from whip and flame alike. He could not see his face, but he knew it was as ruinous as the rest of him. In his shame, and also fear, he did not call out to her. It was a decision he came to regret. Nevertheless, her light rekindled his memory and also his hope, it branded itself anew into his mind and filled him with desire to survive this wretched place.

When he was told by Sàratalma - the one who tortured him the most but also the one that talked to him the most and of whom he had learned scraps of information about Lelyacalë - that he had been chosen to be blessed of Melkor’s hand with power and a new birth, he did not know whether to be relieved or more afraid. He and thirteen others were finally led from the bowels of Utumno, up and up to the pinnacles of the mountains above, where they were separated. What became of the others, Ilinhen neither knew nor cared. He was aware he should feel something for his fellow prisoners, but pain made selfish beings of the most kind and giving of folk, and he was neither. He was left chained to the mountain, alone and impoverished. 

It felt like a slow death, not a new birth. Maybe Melkor had learned the art of resurrection, maybe he was to die first and be reborn as Melkor’s device. Maybe he was supposed to free himself. He tried, but the chains were thicker than his arm and secured well to the rock wall. He prayed for rain, but when it did come, his weary tongue could not lap the drops up fast enough to drown his thirst. He had become tempted on more than one occasion to eat pebbles and dirt, just to have something to fill his stomach.

After what felt like endless hunger and thirst, where death would have been a welcome mercy, a face appeared above him. Beautiful it was and he thought he knew it. Yes, he did know it. Mairon. He came before Ilinhen and offered him wine, ruby red and plentiful. The goblet was brimming with the divine looking liquid and Ilinhen felt his whole body lurch involuntarily toward it, lethargic though he was. 

Mairon smiled at him and the smile was one of friendship and pity. He told Ilinhen he had succeeded and drinking this wine would make him reborn, able to receive the power Melkor saw fit to bestow upon him. Ilinhen no longer cared, he wished to slake his unbearable thirst, so he took that wine and he drank it to the last drop. Mairon looked well pleased, unchained him, and bid him follow, for there was much for them to do. Ilinhen was slow to his feet, his legs weak beneath him causing him to stumble. 

The wine quickly filled Ilinhen with a fiery warmth thoughp, his veins blazed up and so too did the world. Where before all was dull grey and black, now Mairon shone in colourful splendour before him. He felt intoxicated, his mind fuzzy at the edges but oh so clear as he focussed on Melkor’s servant before him. His muscles invigorated even as they burned from the red liquid he had consumed. It had felt too thick to be wine, but he had drunk it all nonetheless. 

On their descent back into Utumno, Ilinhen had felt emboldened by his survival, the drink he had just imbibed, and the assurance of power. He asked Mairon of the promise he had made when they first met and the other had abruptly stopped to address him. 

“Hast thou not seen Lelyacalë, in all the time thou hast been here?” He asked, accusingly. “She does frequent the prisons fairly regularly, surely thou saw her at one time?”

Ilinhen was taken aback once more by Mairon’s knowledge of seemingly everything. “A brief glimpse only, as she passed the gate to my prison. Did she know I was down there? Was she searching for me?”

Mairon’s face held a mocking expression. “If thou saw her, why didst thou not call out to her?”

Ilinhen made no reply and Mairon laughed. “Thou wast ashamed of thy appearance, of how low thou had been brought by the might of Melkor!”

“I thought you would reunite us, not hold me and torture me. You promised Lelyacalë would be mine to espouse, to have-“.

“Children.” Mairon cut him off with a smirk. “And children thou shalt have. Thou and Lelyacalë shall be reunited once more, as I promised. Thou must be patient ere still.”

With that he turned and resumed the path back into Utumno. Ilinhen felt unease sow its seeds through him. He could not shake the feeling Mairon had tricked him with twisted words. The promise of children sat uncomfortably within him. He had often pictured what his and Lelyacalë’s family would look like. He would be happy with one child. He worried that Mairon meant to twist their children into something else, to take them and have them serve Melkor. Still, he had little option available to him except to follow the maia now wherever he would lead him. He continued after the other into the darkness and joined it, hoping to find Lelyacalë there too before long. 

He could not have guessed the maia’s true meaning behind his promise. 

Chapter Text

The rhythm of the mountain had become a pulse within her she was now accustomed to. Lelyacalë found that whilst she missed her freedom, she had adapted well to the demands of Utumno. This was her life now and she felt the memories of her past slipping further away from her, both good and bad. It was hard to pine for a life lost when the one she was living expected so much of her. 

Moreover, she was understanding Melkor more. She knew what would anger him and what would make him laugh. She perceived his hyperfixations, his tunnel-vision on projects, and how his thoughts could consume him for great lengths at a time. Volatile he may be, but she had established the lines she could not cross with him and the ones she could push at the right times. It was decades of trial and error, missteps and observations, but she now found she not only no longer dreaded Melkor’s company, but appreciated it. He was a constant in her life and not an entirely unpleasant one at that, if she played her cards right. The more she had spent time with him, the more she had grown to understand him; the more she had grown to understand him, the more she began to empathise with him, which at one time would have shocked her, but not anymore. 

Still, remembrances would bubble up to burst upon her vision or else her tongue, and she would be back home for a fleeting moment, before dissolving once more into reality, dizzy and wrong-footed. One such instance was at the end of a productive combat session. Sàratalma was still her mentor in Mairon’s stead and the two had found a comfortable tempo over the many sessions they held together. Their mutual indifference had evolved into begrudging respect and then something resembling genuine regard. He would engage her in conversation more freely, making him the only thing resembling a friend she had in Utumno. Most others that inhabited the stronghold kept polite distance or else entered into short, practical talk that one could build no meaningful relationship upon. Sàratalma was not a balrog in the traditional sense, being a spirit of shadow but not fire. His appearance was ghastly, his solid form was always accompanied by a blackness that billowed about him like flames. His head held no hair, save it be swathed in writhing shadow and his eyes were black fading into a dark red at the edges. He was one of the few who had followed Melkor from the beginning, having added his voice to the discord. 

On this occasion, he had placed his weapon back on the rack mounted to the wall and turned to bid farewell to Lelyacalë, when he saw her swinging her sword back and forth, swivelling her wrist, her fingers releasing then catching the hilt. Her eyes were far away and her lips moved with the soft utterance of what seemed to be a song. He monitored her with interest until she suddenly snapped back to herself and caught him watching her. A flush of embarrassment crept into her cheeks and she hurriedly turned away, thrusting her sword at its place on the mount.

“Halt! What song wast thou singing just now? Let me hear it.” He moved towards her, blocking her exit.

She watched him for a long moment under a side eye, contemplating her next move. Finally, she relented, turning to him to answer his question.

“It was a song from my home, my past. I do not think it will interest you.” She refused to meet his eyes, a habit he was used to and never pressed. He was not unaware of his fearsome appearance and knew that even amongst the many followers of Melkor, his eyes were particularly disconcerting.

“I shall be the judge of that. Little music graces these halls, indulge me, I implore.” He was sincere in his asking, having a great love of music. He had often stayed hidden to listen to the elves make their music when out on his scouting missions. He did not regret joining Melkor in The Song, but hearing music again untainted by discordance reminded him of a beauty he still clung to the memory of, a whisper in his mind of what could have been.

“You do not truly wish me to sing, Sàratalma! I promise you, my singing voice is… barely passable.” There was nervous laughter in her voice that disappeared when she saw his expression unchanged and that he did indeed intend for her to sing for him.

She sighed in protest and swallowed her discomfort. Then she began, her voice soft and sweet and many levels above passable.

My swordhand is singing
Is singing for blood
My swordhand is singing for blood

If thou art my foe
Thy death it shall know
My swordhand is singing for blood

Thy end it shall feel
On red glistened steal
My swordhand is singing for blood

Then when all is done
My own life be won
My swordhand is singing for blood

My sword hand is singing
Is singing for blood
My swordhand is singing for blood

When she had finished she spared him a glance before looking at her hands. Sàratalma was smiling at her. 

“Thy voice is better than thou wouldst have me believe, Lelyacalë. Thou shouldst know by now, this is no place to sell thy talents below what they are worth. Utumno is for the bold.” He tilted his head to the side. “It is a good song. Where didst thou learn it?”

“From a friend.” Her voice was hollowed by sadness. “A long time ago.”

“Thou doth miss this friend, I perceive? Thy old life, also?”

“Melkor does not like me to speak of my past. He has told me to leave it behind, to forget. I do try.” She turned to look him in the eyes then, a move shocking but which was no doubt to show that her words were genuine. “I do try, but it is my past that will not forget me.”

“Mayhaps speaking your past aloud will free you of it.” Sàratalma suggested.

“Who would I speak it to? You?” Incredulity had crept into her voice. “I already told Manwë of my life when I was in Almaren, so I am not sure that telling it again will free me of it.”

“Thou art different now and much more time has passed, so thy grief has grown. If thou wishes, I wilt be an ear to unburden thyself on.” He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, it was slight under his palm, even under the armour she wore. 

She had maintained eye contact with him this entire time, which was astonishing in and of itself, and she did not shrug his hand off or recoil, despite them never entering into such physical contact beforehand. What he was offering would change the nature of their relationship, perhaps permanently. He had been open about his past when she had dared ask him about it, which had altered their relationship back then. He, however, had had nothing to lose by disclosing, she might fear he would use whatever information she told him against her, or else report back to Melkor.

“This will stay between us?” She asked, her eyes cautious.

“Unless My Lord Melkor asks me directly about it, wherein I shall not lie to my liege.” He removed his hand from her shoulder and gestured to an outcrop of rock, roughly made into a semblance of a bench. She nodded at him and they both sat. When she spoke, she reverted into a way of speech that Sàratalma supposed was how she had once spoken before she came here. The words flowed differently and her accent slipped into a dialect he was unfamiliar with as she herself slipped into the memory of who she once was.

“My friend’s name was Aman. He rescued me. There was a war going on, the entire world was involved. Everything was chaos. My husband had been conscripted into the army, as had my brother. My brother returned, my husband did not. Those who couldn’t fight were put to work in factories or farming, and that’s where I went, into a factory creating weapons. A factory is like a forge or workshop, I suppose, it’s where items are made.”

Sàratalma nodded that he understood, so she continued.

“The man who ran the factory I worked in…” She closed her eyes briefly, swallowed, then forced the next words out. “He was not a good man. He became obsessed with me and a few of the other women and girls that worked there. One day he lured us to an older, unused part of the factory on the pretense of needing us to clean it so it could be opened up once more. Then he held us there against our will for months.”

Her breathing was becoming heavier with emotion and she took a moment to calm herself down, leaning back against the wall. Sàratalma uttered no word to interrupt her, instead letting her continue at her own pace. That these memories should affect her so after centuries was testament to how traumatic they were for her. Lelyacalë had reached a point that she could not talk of. That she had already spoken of him had been strenuous enough. So she left out that part of her tale and moved on. 

“But Aman found us; found me. He was a soldier, not one of ours but an ally nation. He made me feel safe. He made me laugh. All of his family died in an attack so all he had were his comrades in the army… and then he had me. He loved to sing, he was constantly doing it. He had a lovely voice, but he could never quite hit the high notes.”

Lelyacalë paused here to issue a small chuckle at the memory before continuing. 

“Then I met Sophie, she was part of an intelligence group; she gathered information that we could use to help win the war. She was so clever, she spoke ten different languages and there wasn’t a mathematical problem she couldn’t solve. Other people found her standoffish and rude, but I could tell she was just shy and reserved. I would sit with her to eat and let her explain equations I had no hope of ever understanding. She became my best friend, I could tell her everything and anything, things Aman wouldn’t have understood. It became me, Sophie, and Aman against the world in the end.

We stuck together throughout the rest of the war. She got me and Aman recruited into her intelligence agency and we went on various missions together. The last mission I was on with them was to gain information on a new weapon, a bomb of sorts, that a splinter group had created. This group believed humanity no longer deserved the earth and that it was time to eradicate us all, that no one deserved to win the war. We had weapons that could do this already, but they wanted to ensure no one could survive, complete annihilation of the human race, so it was rumoured they had developed something different, or else something more potent, I guess. The details were vague, which is why we were sent in to investigate. There had been talk of creating black holes, messing with the Earth’s gravity. I didn’t understand any of it, personally. It was all too scientifically intelligent for me to comprehend, but Sophie understood all of it and I think she purposefully didn’t explain it to me so that I wouldn’t be as frightened, but I could see it written all over her, how scared this incendiary device made her. So I knew that if we didn’t stop this weapon going off, it could potentially be catastrophic.

Only when we got there to the site, we were too late, things had already been set in motion. We had no real idea what would happen when the weapon finally deployed. At least, I didn’t. We tried to stop it. Aman was frantic at the end. I can still see his face, eyes wide with panic as his fingers frenzied trying to dismantle - but it was no use. Sophie was yelling at us both that we had to leave, it was too late, we had to run now , and then…”

She mimicked an explosion with her hands.

“The world went white, then black. The silence was deafening and then the sound caught up and I was deafened all over again. I lost all sense of who I was or what was happening.”

She was still for a while, lost in remembrance’s tight embrace. 

“I should be dead, by all accounts. I have no idea what that group actually invented, but the way that bomb exploded was different to the others used in the war. Maybe they succeeded in creating a black hole, as apparently it ripped the fabric of the universe when it also blasted me to what should have been smithereens, and the light of creation bonded with me and knit me back together. So Estë told me when I was in Almaren. I’m not entirely sure how she knew this, maybe Eru enlightened her. Whatever the case, I was sent careening across time and space where I found Melkor in The Void. Or maybe he found me. Either way, now I’m here. I don’t know what happened back home, if Sophie and Aman survived as well, if the war ended, if the earth was destroyed, and I’ll never find out. Part of me wonders if I am actually dead and this is my afterlife. I honestly do not know how I survived, it should’ve been impossible.”

She looked at him then. “So, there you have it, the past that weighs me down, that won’t entirely let me go.”

They sat in silence as he took in her words, odd though some of them were to him, he understood most of her tale and the pain it held. He had not really comprehended what she was when Melkor had introduced her, sat on the arm of his throne. He had recognised she was human, but his understanding had ended there. He had not realised how separate from Melkor she had really been, that she had a whole past of loves and losses. She had been married and widowed, for Eru’s sake. Sàratalma thought he knew why his master had become so enamoured with her now, it was not just the light she possessed within her, it was her own strength, her own durability, her own resilience, her own adaptability. These were all qualities Melkor prized highly, if used for him, not against him. 

“Thank you. For listening to me. Melkor has seen these memories when he has probed my mind, but he has discussed them with me little. It has felt good to say them out loud again, to use my own tongue to unburden me.” She smiled at him, a small smile, then she stood. He joined her.

“I am sorry for the pain thou hast been put through already. Utumno is a hard place and thou already endure it well, now I perceive thou art stronger than I realised.” He turned to leave, needing space to mull over what he had learned. “Allies I have, but friends I do not.” He called over his shoulder. “Perhaps thou art my first, and I, thine?”

He left the question hanging in the air behind him, not needing to wait for an answer he was already sure he knew. Lelyacalë stood there a moment more before retiring to her room. She lay on her bed and contemplated everything. She was not sure what a friendship with Sàratalma would entail, or if it were real. Other than Melkor, he was the only one she felt any comfort being with, the only one who would listen to her. It had secretly delighted her soul that he had not only listened to her, but encouraged her to speak. However, she worried if Melkor, or worse, Mairon had put him up to the task. It would be just like Mairon to prey on her loneliness like this. Sàratalma was a dangerous maia, she had seen the torture he inflicted on the elves and also witnessed the brutality he was happy to display upon his fellow demons. It threw his kindness into doubt, standing out anomalously. Maybe she had erred in telling him her tale, no matter how good it had felt to relieve herself of it.

At least she had not told him all, she had not told him the atrocities that had happened to her while imprisoned in that factory. Those particular memories still tormented her. Lelyacalë laid on her bed, many thoughts swirled in her head, until sleep plucked them from her waking mind one by one to taunt her with them in dreams instead. 

She woke from those dreams, disorientated and muggy, the visions clinging to her as though they would keep her back in the realms of sleep. She sat up and waited until the chill air of her room forced her to true wakefulness, then she resolved to exorcise herself once and for all. She raised herself off the bed and made her way back through the corridors. She followed the scent of it until she found it, one of the lakes that populated the depths of the mountain. Many harboured the hideous creatures Melkor bred, others old beings she was not sure of their origin. This one was small and shallow and upon discovering it, she had come here to bathe. 

She knelt down and whispered to the water all that she could not tell a living soul. She let the words flow from her mouth into the pool below, rippling out to disperse until her burdens were completely consumed. She fed her demons to the water and it drowned them for her. She pondered if Ulmo could reach even these distant depths and would hear her horrors, feel her pain. It brought her some small comfort that he might, and with that thought, she arose and left, never returning to that place again. 

Chapter Text

Many things Melkor had achieved in those early days, great and terrible deeds. His corruption and enslavement of the elves was perhaps his most despicable, and he knew once The Valar heard of it, their wrath would be great.

Lelyacalë was as yet his finest creation. Her transformation had spawned a host of spirits to follow suit, roaming abroad and drinking their fill from all manner of life. Yet her light had become dim these past few years and he knew not how to bring it back to the illustrious glow he had first witnessed in The Void. He had taken her personally back out under the stars, despite his abhorrence of them and their reminder of Varda, but though her light had reached out to the ones in the heavens, it diminished once more on returning to the shadows of his realm.

The fear of her falling into the grotesque nature of his other conceptions and followers was great, coupled with a jealous anxiety that she would become powerful enough to leave him and choose to do so. His mind would then fall back to that time where they had bound themselves in blood together and his mind would be assuaged for a time.

To be united as such with her had been exhilarating, yet he had reeled at the vulnerability. Only Mairon had ever tasted him so, and it had been an entirely different experience. Their bodies were not the same. The feelings they evoked were not the same. Melkor had felt himself yield completely as he gave in to the pleasures of his corporeal form when he was with Lelyacalë, Mairon did not make him feel so headily out of control. With Lelca, the bond with his hroä had strengthened as the one with his feä had lessened. To give so much of himself, and also to receive in turn. He had yearned to restore that connection again, have Lelyacalë venerate him in that manner once more, but he had also feared it. To unite with her in this way led to less control over himself, he was forced to sacrifice one for the other. The chaos bubbling in his mind bid him relinquish control where it was not needed. There had been freedom in allowing her to take from him as an equal and he would feel that again too.

The first time he had untied them as one had been much different than the second. Having her acquiescent was intoxicating. Taking by force would not satiate him the same way, not now he had tasted her willingness. Yet he feared her refusal, even as he assured himself she was his, that she had committed herself to him. He feared The Valar would come to war against him and she would be taken from him, that he would no more bask in her pearlescent glow or see the emotions break in their waves in her ocean eyes. Of all the changes he had fashioned upon her, her eyes remained hers alone and Melkor found he not only forgave this, but savoured the fact. Still, his fears jaded him.

He remembered her blood-stained lips whispering his name, her eyes bright with reverential lust for him, and he had relented to his need. The time after he came unto her, he saw in her eyes she understood what he wanted but she had turned and walked away from him. For a while he had just stared at the space she once occupied, letting the rejection rollick in his stomach before the anger seeped in to subdue it and he strode after her. He saw her and her name was about to be hurled from his lips when she turned to him and held out her hand. He had taken it in surprise, curiosity dampening his rage, and let her lead him into the throne room.

I would have you on your throne this time, ninya melda.

Those words propelled him into a state of bliss, and joy screamed through his mind. She was not shunning him. She wanted him. She wanted him on his throne, to worship him as her beloved and her lord. Despite himself, it thrilled Melkor that she had taken control, as it had when she had bid him drink her blood. Now her mouth twitched into a small teasing smirk as she placed one hand upon his chest and forced him to his seat of dominion.

He had let her take him there, his body pressed into the hewn mountain of his throne as her small form pressed into the carved granite of his own being. Her fingers laced a crown in his hair while she kissed him as though she would consume him. Her body moving against his was a rhythmic prayer of the flesh that elicited a godly answer in its fervent devotion. His ecstasy echoed throughout Utumno; though all Melkor heard was the heightened rush of Lelyacalë’s blood as he buried his head against her neck, his arms caging her as she collapsed upon his heaving chest. They had stayed that way for what felt like a euphoric eternity; the devoted supplicant resting against their divine altar.

Mairon had been in illustrious fury when he found out, golden eyes harsh in their illumination of Melkor’s folly. Mairon, who was so self contained, who held all in the strictest control with meticulous thought, had erupted as a forest fire, his ire raging until it consumed all. Melkor had let his lieutenant burn himself out, yet his heat could marr even the mountain-like facade of his master and Melkor felt the force of it.

Mairon’s anger was as stunning to behold as it was deadly. Though that was Mairon all in all, deadly in his beauty. It is what had caught Melkor’s eye as he watched those of the Ainur that abode in Almaren. That he had been Aulë’s but was now his was a pleasure that little else reckoned with. But Mairon was of Eru’s thought as much as he was and while a light so beautiful choosing him was a much needed balm to Varda’s rejection, one he would be eternally grateful for, Mairon would never truly be his. Lelyacalë, on the other hand… her beauty was moulded by him and belonged to him alone. She was the ore melted by his desire and forged into a wondrous thing through his mind’s design and by his capable hands. He could not wrought such contrivings upon Mairon no matter how much he might wish to. He should know, he had already tried.

Melkor listened to Mairon’s admonishment, heard his advice, and dismissed it from his mind soon after. To Mairon he feigned consideration and discharged him. Mairon was wise in many matters, his overseeing of Angband was exacting in a way Melkor was incapable of, but in this he knew little and so Melkor’s regard for his words was little in turn.

Overseeing his dark domain was a ceaseless task that Mairon had taken the brunt of, yet Melkor found himself drawn into more dealings and he knew Mairon’s hand was in this. The more he was embroiled in his own machinations, the less time he spent with Lelyacalë. She, too, was not exempt from the toil, and weeks would pass that they would not be in one another’s presence, or else it would be fleeting glances through rooms, brief meetings in corridors. Mere drops when he craved deep draughts. Mairon knew his master’s mind and thus planned accordingly. Melkor chafed at the knowledge he was so susceptible to his lieutenant’s ploys that were conducted in such a way resistance was not only futile but detrimental to his own plans. Mairon’s cunning could well dominate him at this rate if left unchecked, Melkor mused.

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No one was more astonished than Lelyacalë at being summoned to Angband by Mairon himself. Thuringwethil had brought the message to her directly but with haughty disdain refused to elaborate further, claiming ignorance and indifference of Mairon’s intentions. Perhaps she was telling the truth, but the enmity Thuringwethil held for Lelyacalë was worn proudly and ever apparent. That Melkor attributed the rise in blood-drinking amongst his followers to Lelyacalë when Thuringwethil had been terrorising the creations of Yavanna as a great bat in that regard with no small following herself was a poisonous, injustice-ridden envy that stuck in her gorge.

It mattered not that Lelyacalë made no claim to what was Thuringwethil’s rightful boast; that Melkor showed such a pathetic creature not just favour, but one to rival that of precious Mairon, was enough to make Thuringwethil seethe from every pore.

“I will have to ask My Lord’s assent to leave before I may give my answer back to Mairon.” Lelyacalë spoke with no emotion. Thuringwethil may despise her, but she held no such regard for the other.

“Of course thou shalt. He is thy master after all.” Sneered Thuringwethil, saving most of her venom for the word master.

Lelyacalë did not reply but turned and glided out of the room, without a backward glance. She heard Thuringwethil’s indignant huff and hurried footsteps to follow her as she meandered to where she hoped she would find Melkor. Ever since the throne room, he had been distant. She knew not why. Maybe his work kept him in constant occupation, but she wondered if he was regretting his decision to be with her in that way again. In truth, she was questioning if she regretted it herself.

When he had first come to her and she had seen the hopeful desire thawing his frost eyes, she had been plunged into a torrent of emotion. Surprise, that he should want that again, especially after so long; exhilaration that he should want that again; lust, quiet at first but spreading at a pace that would soon consume her; shock and repulsion at her exhilaration and lust; and fear. Fear that she would displease him this time. Fear that she would not and what that would mean for the future. Fear that she wanted him in ways she should not and what that revealed about her. Fear that the pretense was unravelling to reveal true willingness. Fear that she was already lost, lost to this being who craved creation but issued destruction; whose downfall she knew from tales of her past and was powerless to either stop or save. Fear that they had found each other in The Void and that is where they would both end up; where they would both lose each other.

It was why Lelyacalë had initially walked away from him, she had needed space to breathe with her roiling feelings. Then she had heard him thunder after her and realised he would think her fleeing him a refusal when in truth she just needed time to collect herself. To explain this to one such as Melkor was futile though, so she had turned with a smile and offered her hand and watched the hurt-filled wrath shadowing his features melt away into curiosity instead. Time was not for her and she was forced to a decision she was not sure had been wise, but it had definitely been satisfying.

She would be lying if she tried to deny the feeling of self-satisfied pleasure that affixed upon her soul at the smile her words had provoked from him, the look of genuine joy that fell upon her from his eyes. She had known that one day he would wear a crown adorned with the most beauteous captured light, but in that moment she had given him a crown of her own, with her own meagre light. It had not only been the essence of him within her that reached back to its original source, all that she had of herself extended out to him in that moment, yearning for complete unison. Even then, she could not drown out the river rushing in the back of her mind, carrying the same message on its currents that this was wrong, wrong, wrong…

Melkor had been spending most of his days with Gothmog recently, so that is where she headed: Gothmog’s quarters. It was not a place she frequented and only ventured there out of necessity, usually in the company of Melkor. Gothmog terrified her and she was not afraid to admit it. Thuringwethil did not speak the entire journey, much to Lelyacalë’s relief. It was not unusual for her to issue taunts and jibes that Lelyacalë would do her best to block out with unhearing ears, but it remained tiresome all the same. They reached the flame-licked, smoke-hazed caverns where dwelt the greater host of the balrogs. Lelyacalë queried the sentry if Melkor was within and was affirmed he was with Gothmog in the great forge.

Lelyacalë disliked the great forge for it felt like Mairon’s domain and simultaneously reminded her of Aulë, and her time on Almaren. Any thought of The Valar filled her with sorrow and guilt so she preferred to keep them in the depths of her mind. It was also unbearably hot in the forge, a blistering contrast to the marrow-chilling constant of the rest of this accursed mountain that she had become accustomed to.

Melkor’s obvious delight at seeing her, which Thuringwethil had issued a low hiss at, swiftly vanished as she told him Mairon’s request. His brow had fallen into a scowl as he asked why Mairon should wish her at Angband. When she replied she did not know, he had turned to Thuringwethil.

“Mairon didst not inform me, My Lord, I am not party to his plans. Apologies, oh Dark One.” Thuringwethil had practically purred.

Lelyacalë had seen Melkor’s hand tighten slightly against the forge hammer he was holding. It was an imperceptible change, accompanied by a feeling that she knew well after endless moments together. His anger was imminent, if not already there in the room with them, a breath from being triggered. She may not have cared for Thuringwethil, but she would satiate Melkor if she could. Melkor’s wrath was mighty to behold and she would rather not witness it, as for now she was in a comfortable state of denial that all was well. Melkor treated her with deference. She had even grown used to Utumno. Melkor’s unleashed anger was always a violent dragging of her head out of the delusional sand back into cruel reality.

“My Lord, why not send me with Thuringwethil to appease Mairon’s demands, then you follow after? It would be a… welcome surprise for Mairon, I am sure.” Lelyacalë opened her arms, her hands splayed to intone her placating suggestion. Melkor looked down on her in contemplation then a smile befell his thin lips.

“Yes. Let that be the plan. Thou always thinkest the best for me, Lelyacalë.” He reached forwards and traced one finger across her cheek down to her chin. Not breaking eye contact with her, he addressed Thuringwethil.

“Thou, Thuringwethil, shalt travel with Lelca and ensure her safe passage to Angband. Thou wilt not tell Mairon of my coming. Hast thou understood?” His voice was laced with untold threat; it brokered no refusal.

Lelyacalë could not see Thuringwethil’s face clearly as the other stood some way to her side and she dared not take her eyes away from Melkor’s, the ice in them froze her in place. However, she sensed the great displeasure of her to-be travelling companion as she muttered a Yes, My Lord.

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Lelyacalë was forced to ride upon Thuringwethil’s back as she flew as a great bat over the landscape. The other made sure to dip and dive, nearly unseating her more than once. Lelyacalë was too full of joy at being out in the open air again to much care, however. She revelled in the bright stars above, drinking in their light once more. The more time she spent in their presence, the more she felt her bloodlust retreat, until it was a mere whispered thread in her veins. It was not gone, but she had feasted on starlight and would be filled for a while yet. Melkor had taken her out before but only for a short time and the light had barely reached her. Upon Thuringwethil’s back, the light was nearer and she had more time to revel in it. Even a reunion with Mairon could not dampen her spirits now, she was so happy for this semblance of freedom and she would enjoy it for as long as it lasted.

The fortress at Angband was formidable, guarded by all manner of evil creatures. They shied away from both as they landed, respecting Thuringwethil and fearing this newcomer who shone with a light to hurt their eyes. Thuringwethil shifted out of her bat form with such haste that Lelyacalë was forced to leap from her back before she was unceremoniously slid onto the hard parapet. The Maia glowered at her with hooded blood-moon eyes and beckoned her on with a sharp jerk of her head.

Angband would have been ominous had she not been living for the past thousand or so years in Utumno. She tried not to think of the passage of time too much as it gave her a queasy, off-kilter feeling. Humans were not meant to live this long. Then again, it could be questioned whether she was really human anymore. Brushing such thoughts aside, Lelyacalë turned her mind to what it was Mairon could possibly want with her. Except for her initial battle training, he had maintained a cold distance with her; whether from hostility, indifference or a combination of both, she was unsure. A thought dripped into her mind then and, like ink in water, began to dominate.

Mairon had visited Utumno from Angband soon after the incident in the throne room. Thereafter, she and Melkor had been kept busy and thus apart. Maybe Mairon knew what had occurred. Maybe Mairon disapproved. Maybe Mairon had orchestrated their separation to prevent any such happening taking place again. The more Lelyacalë considered the idea, the more it all fit together. She had been summoned to keep her from Melkor further, all while under the watchful eye of Mairon. He could not command his Lord such, so he resorted to her instead.

She pondered how best to play this out, whether to act ignorant or confront Mairon with her suspicions. She decided on the former course of action, as if Melkor arrived as planned, seeing Mairon’s face at his works undone would be extra delicious. There was also the chance she was wrong too, of course. She sighed internally. Life was draining enough as it was without having to calculate manoeuvres and counter-manoeuvres like this.

Thuringwethil led her down and then down further still, until Angband swallowed her into its depth as Utumno did. They seemed to meander for quite some time, and Lelyacalë began to wonder if her Maiar companion was not purposefully showing off her knowledge of, and ease in, the place she was a stranger. The styling of the stronghold was different to Utumno. Yes, it was dark and foreboding, but the layout seemed more ordered and there were design elements absent from Utumno entirely. It reeked of Mairon and his thoughts.

The sheer number of Uruk she passed astounded her. What had been started in Utumno was flourishing here. Hordes of them, legions it seemed to her, populated Angband. They passed over a training pit, though from what Lelyacalë witnessed the combat going on below was less structured learning and more a vicious free for all, when Thuringwethil stopped and Lelyacalë’s attention was ripped from the absonent melee below to the reason why.

Mairon was there, tall and cruel. Chiselled features nearly as sharp as the look in his fiery eyes. He was regarding Thuringwethil with a small smile that did not reach those eyes, before he turned them on Lelyacalë and the molten gold there hardened to cold metal. He thanked Thuringwethil and dismissed her, much to her obvious dismay. She shot one last generous glare at Lelyacalë before departing the way they had come, ensuring to cuff Lelyacalë with her wing tip as she sauntered past. Mairon watched her retreat before turning and lifting one side of his thin mouth into a callous twist that bared his sharp teeth underneath.

“Welcome to Angband.”

Chapter Text

“Why am I here, Mairon?” Lelyacalë could not be bothered with politeness, letting the exasperation shine in her voice.

The maia’s smile only broadened as he stepped towards her. He moved like fire dancing along oil, quick and mesmerizing. She was sure she had not blinked, yet one moment he was at the other end of the walkway and now he was standing before her in a close proximity that bade her body step back, but she would not. Mairon must never know of her unease around him, must never sense any weakness, for he would use anything against her that he could, of that she was certain.

She stared ahead at his chest, slim build hiding lithe muscle. He was dressed in deep crimson with gold trim, the colours accentuating his own natural fiery palate. She could feel his gaze boring into her, so she slowly let her eyes wander up to meet his own, her face remaining impassive. That irritating smirk still tarried on his face. Lelyacalë imagined smacking it off his annoyingly handsome visage and the thought nearly produced a smirk of her own.

“I hast brought thee here for I have a promise to uphold, long overdue in its delivery.”

She waited to see if he would elaborate, but he did not, so after an awkward pause she raised an eyebrow at him and prompted, “What promise and to whom?”

“All in good time, Lelyacalë, first I shall show thee my works here in Angband and where thou shalt be residing whilst here.” Saying that, he moved sideways and held his arm out for her to take. She stared at it incredulously, then at him, trying to determine what game he was playing. He did not let his arm drop, however, so she reluctantly slid hers through the crook of his elbow, linking themselves together, her hand coming to rest at his wrist. She could feel the rough pattern of the embroidery at the cuff of his sleeve under her fingers. Mairon did not move immediately, so she glanced up to see what was stalling him to find he was staring at her with a look she could not decipher, but which made her uneasy. She made to draw her arm back but he pulled his own in close so she could not, his other hand suddenly placed atop hers to prevent it moving.

“This way.” Mairon muttered and tugged her forwards. If his plan had been to bewilder her, he was succeeding. She could not account for his behaviour at all. She did not like that Mairon was making promises that involved her. That he was forcing physical contact between them, especially knowing how much he thoroughly disdained her, was disconcerting. He kept his hand on hers, slender fingers with calloused tips holding her in a firm grip, until they reached a large room populated with all manner of slavering beasts. They snapped and snarled but none dared approach. Some looked like great wolves, others like wolves bred with darker things, so that they were misshapen and grotesque. Mairon gestured to them and began explaining his experimentation to her, but Lelyacalë found she could pay little heed to his words as she was too distracted by teeth as long as her arm, glowing red eyes, and bristling pelts that appeared like shadow had taken on the form of fur.

No creature was chained, yet none advanced in their freedom to roam. Lelyacalë got the sense that they instinctively knew Mairon was their master and obeyed his every command. She became aware that Mairon had stopped talking and was looking at her expectantly. He had probably asked her a question and she had been too enthralled with her surroundings to hear it. All she could do was return his gaze with a blank one of her own and an apologetic smile.

“I am afraid I have not heard a single word you have spoken to me, Mairon, I was far too busy admiring these… creatures.’ She waved her free arm to indicate around her.

He grinned at her, seemingly pleased that his creations had brought about such a response in her.

“They are impressive, thou agreeth? I was explaining how I plan to train the uruk to ride these beasts into battle. Thou hast already seen the great hosts that now exist. Footsoldiers most shall be, yet I shall bring fear into the hearts of our foes with fierce riders.”

Our foes. A slip of the tongue, perhaps, or maybe Melkor’s lieutenant was accepting she had no choice but to be on their side. Maybe he was hammering that point home. On the other hand, she could be overthinking, but Mairon made her second, triple, quadruple guess everything. She did not answer, instead nodded her approval. Mairon gave her a sideways glance, gold eyes glittering with mischievous malice.

“I asked thee which one thou wouldst like for thyself?”

Shock sprang to her face, it widened her eyes and parted her lips before she had time to even think about concealing it. Her head snapped round and she pulled back from him, their arms released from one another at last. For a few spluttering seconds neither spoke, she at a loss for words and he revelling in her astonished silence. He was offering her one of these monstrosities, one of his own abominations. They may be fierce and hideous to behold, but the thought of commanding one, of riding at swift speeds upon the back of one, thrilled her no end.

“Why?’ She finally managed to issue the word forth.

“Why? For I cannot abide the thought of you riding upon my back again.” He grinned to himself whilst she rolled her eyes and shook her head, a smile threatening her lips despite herself. “Well, that and because thou wilt be in need of one for when thou leadest thine own battalion of uruk into battle of course.”

The enjoyment Mairon was experiencing over this whole encounter was clearly apparent, and this rankled her to the very bones. She had grown accustomed to her routine in Utumno, now here was this smirking, arrogant fiend pulling the rug from under her feet with snide smiles, strange gifts, and untold promises.

“You cannot be serious. I am no commander. I do not know how to lead in battle, I barely know how to fight!” She scoffed and turned away from him, folding her arms across her chest defensively.

Burning fingers stroked her cheek back into facing him again, fiery palm resting under her chin. Sunset eyes surprisingly soft in their appraisal lit her face. “We both know that last be not true, Lelyacalë. Even afore I left, thou wast a force to be reckoned with. I have the scar to prove it.”

They both looked to the place on his neck where she had torn his flesh with her teeth, the high hem of his robe not enough to conceal all the white mark left there. There was a moment then, when they both locked eyes again, where she felt a shift, as though they were both brought to a precipice in their relationship and they had to decide which way to fall. She was not sure what he was inviting her to do, what he was offering. Once again, he was leading her in a dance where she was always off beat, not sure where next to step.

“I would apologise, but I am actually proud I was able to issue that scar. I think we can both agree, I will never be able to do so again.” She stepped back to force his hand to drop from her face.

He chuckled, the sound spilling forth from his lips was unusual from one who found mirth in little. “If thou art not ready to choose one of these yet, we shall come back another time. Mayhaps thou needest to spend more time with them.”

She wondered at him moving on from that topic of conversation, maybe he feared she would be able to hurt him again, but before she could answer him, he had taken her by the hand this time and led her onwards. His grip was one squeeze from being too painful and her fingers began to throb lightly under the pressure he was exerting from his own. They were moving upwards, staircase after staircase until her legs began to ache. Finally he stopped in front of an ornately carved door. The lighting in this corridor was brighter, chandeliers adorned the ceiling instead of braziers set in intervals along the wall. The walls were hung with tapestries, all of which featured Melkor in various deeds. The largest one depicted him destroying the great lamps, a look of triumphant glee upon his face. The one opposite the door they had stopped in front of was a portrait of Melkor in dark splendor, onyx hair framing those high cheekbones and burning blue eyes, mouth set in a grim line of purpose, his armour gleaming black as he clutched his great mace. Lelyacalë had to stop herself staring at him, it was as though he could step out and join them. The workmanship was so fine as to nearly rival Varië.

Lelyacalë also noticed that a rug ran the length of the hallway and that it, too, was highly detailed in its design, though there were no scenes portrayed there, instead interwoven patterns in dark red and purple. She felt like she had stepped into an entirely different place from the dark, barren depths of Angband beneath her. Mairon reached forth and turned the ring-pull handle of the door, keeping a hold of her hand. The wood creaked against the hinges and scraped over the stone floor as he pushed. He drew her through into the room beyond, finally letting go of her hand so he could close the door behind them.

They were in a bedchamber. A bedchamber for royalty if the furnishings were anything to go by. The room was massive, housing a four poster bed that Lelyacalë was sure could fit four people in, side by side, judging by the width of it. A large fireplace was situated opposite, the fire within burning hotly so that the room was warm despite its large size and the coldness seeping in from the stone walls and floor. A metal bath sat to the side of the fire, that looked large enough for her to swim in. A wardrobe was set to the right of the bed, and to the left- Lelyacalë gasped. A window. Small, bearing thick glass, and with little to no view worth looking at beyond but still, a window to the outside world. The first she had seen in either Utumno or her brief sojourn around Angband.

“Is this Melkor’s room? I did not think he needed sleep.” Lelyacalë asked as she took it all in.

“No. This is thy room, Lelyacalë.” Mairon was leaning against one of the posts at the foot of the bed, eyes regarding her with keen interest. Him using her name again brought her focus on him sharply.

“Why?” Is all she could think to ask. It seemed she was asking him that question a lot since she arrived.

“Thou needest somewhere to sleep whilst here, and as Melkor’s… most prized creation.” His mouth seemingly fought him over these words as they issued forth gracelessly. “Thou shouldst have the best Angband canst offer.”

Lelyacalë had no words of reply for this. She was utterly baffled at how she was being treated, and by Mairon no less. The feeling that Melkor’s lieutenant had something deeply unpleasant in store for her was expanding in her core, filling her up with unease and dread. He was being too pleasant, verging on flirting, even. She knew he despised her and had no interest in her romantically or sexually, so his behaviour begged further questions as to his real intentions.

“I shall leave thee to rest, thou hast had a long journey and much to think on. I shall send someone for thee when it is time for thee to wake. Thou wilt find clean attire for thee to wear in the wardrobe and if thou wishes to bathe when thou wakest, I shall see to it that water is brought up for thee.” Mairon detached himself from the bedpost in one languid movement and made towards the door. He did not bid her goodbye, or goodnight, instead bestowing on her one more unfathomable look before leaving and closing the door with a firm click behind him. She listened to see if he locked it, but he did not.

Lelyacalë did not move for a few moments, her whirring mind rooted her body in place. Eventually, she walked over to the bed and ran a hand over the soft furs and woollen blankets there. How she was meant to sleep with her mind tying itself into more intricate knots than the patterns on the rug outside, she did not know. Not knowing what else to do, she clambered up onto the bed and snuggled down. She felt the most alone she ever had in that moment, laid in that bed. With a startling comprehension, she realised she actually wished Sàratalma was there with her, so she could have someone to talk through the mess in her head. Then another thought swam unsolicited to the front of her mind.

I wish Melkor was here.

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She was roughly woken by desperate hands gripping her shoulder and shaking vigorously. How long she had slept she could not tell, but whether long or short, grogginess groped the inside of her eyelids. She opened bleary eyes to peer about her and nearly screamed in surprise. Sophie. Sophie was at her bedside, shining dark eyes wide in frantic pleading. Her Sophie. Sophie from her human life. A face she had thought never to see again. Lelyacalë sat up, grasping her friend’s hand in her own, all sleepy fogginess banished to reveal astute wakefulness.

“Sophie!” She exclaimed in a hushed whisper, her friend’s demeanor prompting quiet caution. “What are you doing here? How are you here?” She was dimly aware that her English tongue had returned to her, though she had not consciously chosen it.

“I’ve come to get you out, to take you home.” Sophie was tugging at her to get out of the bed, her voice serious but soft.

“How- Sophie I’m confused.” Lelyacalë swung herself out of bed to stand next to the other woman. Her friend seemed smaller than she remembered, she was sure she had been able to look Sophie in the eyes whereas now she was peering down at the other woman, a good four or five inches taller. Had she grown taller in Utumno? Had one of the changes wrought upon her by Melkor been to increase her stature? Surely she would have noticed by now.

“I’ve found a way back, I can take you back, but we need to hurry.” Sophie had hold of her arm and was urging her forwards, towards the door.

Lelyacalë’s initial shock had worn off and was being replaced with unease. Sophie did not sound quite right, but maybe it had been so long she had merely forgotten what her friend sounded like. Besides, she did not know what Sophie had been through; she herself had been through enough to make her markedly changed from the woman Sophie had known.

“Sophie, slow down. I cannot just leave.” Lelyacalë grabbed Sophie by the wrist and pried her grip from her arm. “You need to explain. How are you here? Do you know where Aman is? What happened that day, the day of the explosion?”

“There’s no time! We have to leave now, please, Leah.” Pain and worry creased Sophie’s face.

At the mention of her old name, the turbulent sloshing in her mind stilled so that coherent thoughts could surface. The idea that she could truly be free once more and return home was not as tempting now as it would have been centuries previously. She was unsure what home she would be returning to. She was so changed now, no longer truly human, but some other immortal being that had no place on Earth. She would be a monster or a marvel, to be feared or dissected. Utumno was not homely by any means, but she was used to it and her life within it. A realisation slunk into her thoughts and settled uncomfortably in her belly, lying low in the waters of her mind as an unpleasant but very real presence. I do not want to leave Melkor. The realisation flexed, sending rippling afterthoughts. I know the pain it would cause him if I left and I do not wish to cause him pain.

The thought of never seeing him again brings sorrow.

I would miss him.

“Sophie… I cannot go with you.” Lelyacalë stepped back from her friend, apologetic. “My home is with Melkor now, there is no going back.”

Oh Lelyacalë, I shall be thy home henceforth and forever.

She inhaled sharply as she remembered Melkor’s words spoken to her with such certainty all that time ago. The accuracy of them now crawled into her chest and hugged her lungs, making each breath laboured under the weight of the truth. Melkor did feel like home, she could not deny it, even as it wrestled with a myriad of emotions as to why this should not be the case. She had played the part so well in order to survive that it was no longer an act. Her mind whirlpoolled with the failure to maintain her integrity as her heart sighed in relief at finally freeing itself from the lie that had once been its fortress of protection, but had since become a prison of pretence.

Sophie stood silently facing her, head tilted uncharacteristically to one side, her dark brown eyes wide but expressionless, her full lips were slightly parted. She remained vacantly impassive, despite Lelyacalë repeating her name or gently shaking her. The light in the room suddenly wavered and the shadows grew stronger, reaching out from the recesses of the room towards them. Lelyacalë noticed the door was open and was sure it had been shut a moment ago. The darkness pooled in from that open door and surrounded Sophie. Lelyacalë was not sure if she dissolved into the black or if it consumed her, but she watched in fascinated horror as her friend disappeared before her eyes.

She reached out but emptiness met her fingertips. Lelyacalë tried to hold on to the image of her beloved friend before she was gone; the curly black hair, the warm brown skin and the freckles delicately dotting the bridge of her nose. Still, the image in front of her did not seem quite right, though she could not put her finger on what was wrong.

Sophie opened her mouth but another voice rang out, cold and ominous. Thou wast given the chance. Lelyacalë thought she recognised that voice but was so disconcerted by her friend’s demeanour in that moment that her mind could not accurately place it.

A shriek emanated from the gathered shadows as the last edges of Sophie’s form dissipated and Lelyacalë fell back in her resulting startling, tripping over the hem of her nightgown and ripping it up the back in the process. She landed in an ungainly tangle on the floor. As she fought to right herself, the blackness appeared to rush at her and she was encompassed. For a moment she feared she was back in The Void as there was suddenly nothing, no sight, no sound, she could feel nothing beneath or around her. She curled in on herself and succumbed to the feeling of being lost.

Chapter Text

A knock reverberated loudly through her head. Lelyacalë opened her eyes and sat up in shock. She was no longer on the floor but in the bed, blankets neatly tucked around her as they had been when she went to sleep. The darkness was gone and the door was closed. She pushed the covers down and saw her nightdress was unspoiled, no tear in sight. She felt her breath rushing out of her lungs in heavy rapidity. It had not seemed like a dream, she had felt Sophie’s hand on her arm, had felt Sophie’s wrist under her own fingers. The knock resounded again.

Lelyacalë rose slowly and made her way over to pull open the door. Disconcertion would have made her legs shake, but curiosity was the stronger emotion and it held her firm. She knew not who would be facing her when she opened the door, or if she was caught in a dream. Reality refused to solidify itself for her but she would not capitulate to the unease gnawing at her insides. She grasped the handle, willing her hand to refrain from shaking, and forced herself to throw the door wide before she lost her nerve. Sàratalma’s swirling dark form met her on the other side, towering over her with a toothy grin that faltered upon seeing her face, which must have shown wariness.

“I wouldst have thought thou be more joyful to see me. I pleaded with Mairon to be the one to escort thee from thy rooms.” He sounded a little wounded, in truth.

Without further hesitation, she grabbed his forearm and yanked him into the room. His bare skin under her hand felt like grabbing coal, grainy and hard, and she almost expected sooty residue to be smeared on her fingers when she let go. She pushed the door closed and rested against it, watching his baffled expression with amusement. Sàratalma was not one to be caught unawares and it was the first time she had seen him so off guard. The shadows ever surrounding his tall frame sobered her thoughts as they reminded her of Sophie and how the darkness had taken her.

“I am pleased to see you, Sàratalma, I’m just surprised. Why are you here and not in Utumno?” She tried to keep her voice light, but even she could hear the strain underneath. She was nearly certain she was awake and all this was actually happening, her head was becoming less cloudy with Sophie’s visit, yet doubt still remained.

“Melkor didst wish for me to continue to oversee thy training. I hast also been transporting His Lordship’s personal effects, though keeping that from Mairon has been most arduous.” This last was said with slight sullenness.

Lelyacalë suppressed a laugh at the thought of such a powerful maia being valet to Melkor, no wonder he sounded put out. She shifted away from the door and beckoned him to follow her further into the room. If this were still a dream, she knew it would be for naught, but she had questions she would ask of him and she would prefer that no prying ears would hear them.

“Do you remember when I told you about my past, about my friends, Aman and Sophie?” She spoke slowly, carefully.

“Indeed. Though much time has passed since we conversed on the subject, I remember it still.”

“Have you told anyone else?” She was not accusing him, but she needed to know.

“I have not. Not least because none has asked me, but because thou bade me not to.” His voice was stern, he clearly did not like his loyalty being brought into question.

“I’m sorry, I-” She stopped, not knowing how to explain. Mairon must be behind this, toying with her head. That voice at the end had sounded a lot like his, now she thought back. He had seen into her mind before, though she could not remember how much he had actually witnessed, for it had been long ago. The more she thought about it, the more she believed Sophie had never been there. Mairon was playing with her, testing her, though whether she had passed or not, she was unsure. Mairon did not know Melkor was coming, so Sàratalma’s tale of hiding his master’s personal effects so Mairon would not find out soothed her mind that she was in reality now.

Sàratalma was looking expectantly at her, smoky eyebrow cocked and thick arms folded across his broad chest, so she quickly recounted all that had happened. His brows came down in concern and his arms relaxed from their defensive stance as she talked. She did not mention her suspicions of Mairon being behind the vision she witnessed, but as it happened, Sàratalma immediately brought forth the other maia’s name.

“This sounds like Mairon’s doing, he doth torment the elves and uruks with visions.” He spoke grimly, having no fondness for Mairon, though he respected his craftsmanship and close relationship with their master.

They both concluded that nothing would be said to Mairon on this matter, that Lelyacalë would shake off the dream and go forth as though she had received a decent night’s sleep. They would wait to see if Mairon alluded to it at all, or if the night torments would continue whilst Lelyacalë stayed in Angband.

Sàratalma waited outside the room for her to dress. She inspected the contents of the wardrobe and was shocked at the sheer number of outfits available for her. Where she had expected maybe one or two basic, everyday gowns and some training gear, she was met with a rung filled with dresses ranging from plain to sumptuous. Lelyacalë brushed her hands over velvet and silk and wondered where Mairon had acquired such materials. Her gaze fell upon a particular gown and knew it was the one she needed to wear for that day. It was of deepest black, long enough the trail behind her. The neckline was wide and scooped to show her collarbones and the back so low as to expose the length of her spine and wide cut to reveal her shoulder blades in full. The sleeves hugged her biceps then flared open at the elbow to trail down with excess material. Black stitch embroidery decorated the bodice in patterns of flame and spiraling smoke. She chose black to match her mood and her friend. Let them darkly come to Mairon in obvious unity.

Her skin shone all the brighter against the dark material and she brought her hair forward over one shoulder to expose her pearlescent back. She stood and looked down at herself, for there was no mirror to hand. She cut a striking figure, even she had to admit.

Sàratalma had told her that Melkor would be arriving soon and she relished the thought. Let him put Mairon back in his place so that he could meddle with her no more. She scolded herself softly as the thought of Melkor seeing her in this dress sent warm giddiness dancing in her stomach.

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He had planned on staying away longer, to let Mairon carry on with his schemes, but he felt the loss of Lelyacalë’s presence and her light keenly. He could still feel her in his mind, the distance not lessening the bond, and he could reach for her if he wanted to but it was not the same as physically being with her. It had been bad enough that they had barely seen or interacted whilst she had been actually in Utumno, now he was bereft of that too. His impatience to see her again and also discern his lieutenant’s true motives got the better of him.

Thus it was that Melkor found himself at the gates of Angband. He had sent his good servant Sàratalma on ahead not long after Thuringwethil had taken flight, trusting him with Lelyacalë more than anyone; more than Mairon, whom he trusted with all else. Nevertheless, it had not been enough to assuage his anxious mind and he had set off himself mere hours after Sàratalma, leaving Gothmog in charge of Utumno whilst he was gone.

Disbelief and disappointment crowded Mairon’s sharp features at the sight of his Lord. His eyes sparked as he openly admonished Melkor for abandoning Utumno for no good reason. Moreover, Mairon ranted, they were not ready to receive him yet, the time had not yet come for him to witness the great plans Mairon had been exacting on his Lord’s behalf.

Strong fingers silenced whipping tongue as Melkor caught his lieutenant by the mouth and drew him in. Who knew fire could be so petulant, Melkor mused, as he watched it simmer into reverence. Slicked pads slid over wet tongue to rest behind sharp teeth, pulling Mairon closer until the space in between sizzled as ice met flame. Melkor resisted the urge to have Mairon take his fingers down his throat, the image was enough to turn the punishment on its head. Instead he leaned down and whispered enough, cold lips tracing frost against stucco cheek. Mairon’s hot breath sighed across his hand as Melkor retracted his fingers to trace the residual spit along his lieutenant’s jaw. Mairon’s eyes were blazing once more, but with annoyance no longer. It was then that Melkor heard footsteps approaching and turned to see Sàratalma making his way towards them. Mairon stepped from him quickly to address the approaching maia.

“Hast thou not brought Lelyacalë with thee?” He attempted to sound authoritative, but the taste of Melkor still upon his tongue had discomposed him.

Sàratalma bowed to Melkor before turning to bestow a knowing grin upon Mairon, his black eyes gleaming with nothing good. He moved to the side with a flourish of his shadow-cloaked arm to reveal she who had brought Melkor here in such haste.

She was resplendent, a vessel of opal and obsidian through which her shimmering luminescence broke through in starlight splendor. She was more elegantly shaped than any work that had been wrought by him before. Radiant skin made all the brighter for its dark enrobing caught Melkor’s yearning, dragging it forefront. Knees threatened to stumble forward, fingers ached to caress the glimpsed nakedness revealed by the sheer cut of fabric as Lelyacalë turned to bestow a kiss on Sàratalma’s cheek.

Melkor felt jealousy join his desire. Those lips were for him and him alone and he would have them now. Throne room memories quivered his mouth in anticipation as he strode forward, his presence enough to push Sàratalma aside. The maia retreated several paces and Melkor discerned that many others had crept into the room, no doubt drawn in by his altercation with Mairon moments earlier. He cared not. Let all see their mutual devotion or none, for his little light was all that occupied his sight, his mind.

Grey-green eyes met his own; warmth emanating from their depths. She was elated to see him. Her shoulders relaxed and the smallest breath was released from her lips. She was relieved to see him. She curtseyed low, so that he could see more of that deliciously creamy skin so wonderfully bared on her back. The moment she had risen he reached forward to slide his hand upon the smooth ridges of her spine and simultaneously pull her in close. His other hand found the base of her neck, silky jet hair waterfalled over his fingers. She saw his intention and her lips stretched into a mirthful smile for but a moment before they softened into an open wanting. It was more than he could bear and his mouth was upon hers in an instant.

He heard Sàratalma gasp but Mairon remained silent in his seething. For Melkor could perceive his lieutenant’s fire burn suddenly cold at his actions, so his fury had been kindled. When Mairon raged it was usually with an intense fire to melt even the onyx walls of their stronghold, but when he was truly, deeply angered, his blaze turned inwards so all were left bereft of his heat and the resulting cold seared more for the sudden lack of flame. Melkor had only provoked Mairon to this once before and as great as he was, suppressed a shudder at the remembrance. Now the sweet warmth from Lelyacalë’s lips was enough to stave off any chill and he lingered in that kiss and would have dwelt longer there had she not pulled back first to murmur teasingly, breath brushing against him in the small space left between them.

“I have barely been gone for two days… It would appear you have missed me.”

“Oh? And thou hast not missed me during our separation?” Melkor leant back to look her in the eyes.

She shrugged with a small down-cast smile and nonchalantly examined her fingernails. "It's not as though we saw much of one another in Utumno anyway. Maybe I need reminding of what I should be missing." She was teasing him and he could stand no more of it.

“I have much to discuss with Lelca. We shall come find thee afterwards, Mairon. We are not to be disturbed.” On seeing his lieutenant’s features bear more resemblance to marble than flesh he added in mock joviality, “Think, Mairon! Thou shall have more time to prepare this way.”

With that, he took Lelyacalë by the hand and let her lead him back through the passageways. She moved with excruciating slowness as they walked up stairs and along corridors. Eventually the desire pounding in his head demanded haste and he brought her up into his arms, her small form pressed against his own spread the need within him until it encapsulated his whole being in an incessant drumming.

“You surely do not mean to carry me all the rest of the way!” Her stunned incredulity melted away as she saw his expression.

“Where is thy bedchamber?” He demanded.

They were there in moments, she clinging to him the entire journey was an added reward. Once they were at the door Melkor noticed it was open ajar, meaning he did not have to break it from its hinges as he kicked it open. He strode across the room to gently cast Lelyacalë upon the bed. She gazed up at him with expectant eyes as the door snicked shut behind them. She propped herself up on her elbows to watch him throw the heavy dark cloak from his shoulders to reveal a charcoal coloured fitted tunic underneath. Both were encased in black, subconsciously mourning the other’s absence.

He slid his hands under her dress to grasp her hips, feeling the softness of her skin under his fingers, and pulled her to him so that they met at the edge of the bed. Then he leaned down to kiss her again, languorous mouth becoming fervent as tongue slid over tongue and teeth marked lips. His hands remained at her waist as she lifted her legs to hold him to her, black material falling to spill around her, revealing her glowing skin beneath.

He broke from her mouth to place his lips to her newly exposed flesh, working up from her knee until he was at the sensitive inner part of her thigh. He heard her breathing get heavier and felt her fingers grasp his wrist with one hand whilst the other gripped the bed, digging into the blankets. She was a woman of water: tempest eyes and rippling hair like a dark river flowing around her, with a deep pool for a soul. He was a god in desperate need of quenching his thirst. So it was that he drew the ocean out between her thighs with gluttonous tongue until his drought was satiated and she was arching so beautifully before him.

He swallowed the waves she bestowed on him as he felt them wash through her in ecstatic ripples. When he finally rose, he saw the sea of her irises was pushed to the edges by the black ardour of her pupils. She was glorious. She was beautiful. She was his.

His tunic was quickly discarded in a rumpled heap on the floor, the bare expanse of his chest thrumming with the need of her skin against it. He rolled her over onto her front, exposing the lustrous expanse of her back. The dress truly accentuated her form perfectly and he took a moment to drink it in until the image of her laid there, long hair flowing across the bed, face turned to the side to reveal flushed cheek, and exposed skin framed exquisitely by the black flow of the gown was forever branded in his memory.

He cast off his other garments and with one hand gathered her silky hair and twisted it around his fist, forcing her head up. She gasped as his other hand grasped her neck and pulled her to him so her back was pressed against his chest, and she was forced to stand on tiptoe. He crushed himself to her as though he could meld their bodies into one.

He whispered in her ear, voice commanding but raspy with lust. “Say it.”

Then another word pushed itself forward, one he seldom used and had not in an age. A syllable that stuck to the roof of his mouth as he forced it out in a hoarse rush grazing his lips.

“Please.”

He felt her swallow against his hand and her breath quicken. For a moment he feared she would stay silent but then he felt her jaw move under his thumb as she uttered the words he desperately, soul-achingly, needed to hear.

“I am yours.”

With those words he released her throat and untangled himself from her hair. She turned to face him, eyes wide as they looked up at him. She slowly drew the dress down her shoulders, pearly skin revealed inch by agonisingly slow inch, until the material finally dropped in a dark puddle at her feet. His hands went immediately to her rounded hips and lifted her up against him before laying her back down on the bed once more, legs over the edge and him between them.

He needed more of her; he had tasted her depths and now he dove into them, again and again until he felt his own current called forth to join. The mountain trembled as it released into the sea and crashed upon the shore, letting himself be taken completely. The ocean enveloped him and together they rested in each other’s embrace as the world fell away and all that remained was them. Them. Them.

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Lelyacalë did not know how long they both lay there, tangled in their nakedness, drenched in their passion, but she looked over and noticed Melkor was asleep. His dark lashes were more prominent now they brushed his cheekbones. She had not thought Valar needed sleep, yet his steady breathing and deadweight limbs enclosing her suggested he had drifted off. Peace softened his strong brow and she realised this was the most tranquil she had ever seen him, in this moment. She soaked it in, not knowing if she would be privileged to ever see such an occasion again.

She did not quite know what to think or feel anymore. That Melkor wanted her in such a way and took great pleasure from her gave her a heady feeling of self-satisfaction. That she was equally enjoying it, all pretence finally discarded as her dress had been, left her conflicted still. Surprisingly, she realised one of the emotions warring for attention was happiness. She was happy in this moment, even as guilt grappled with that joy in an attempt to suffocate it. The depths of her brain tried to remind her that Melkor was her prisoner, that he had abused her; but in that moment all that seemed to melt away. These last few centuries, he had been, well, kind. He had appreciated her. He talked to her almost like an equal.

That’s only because you were doing everything he wanted.

She pushed the thought away. It was an uncomfortable truth that did not help her. She had had no choice - still had no choice - but to obey. If she had found pleasure along the way, why should she feel guilt about that? Surely she should take anything good from the situation that she could? If Melkor could make her feel any semblance of happiness, she should take that, for she had no other option available to her.

Though there was Mairon, of course. Always Mairon. That he detested Melkor’s regard for her, and her in extension of this, was obvious. Whether this was due to jealousy, annoyance at her pulling Melkor’s focus from other projects, or a combination of both, she was not sure. That Mairon admired Melkor was undeniable, the depth and exact nature of that admiration was unclear to her. Back home there had been theories as to the nature of their relationship, but it had all been speculation and what she had seen did not wholly lend to those theories, though it did not negate them either.

A hard knock sounded at the door, shaking her from her reverie. Melkor did not stir, so she carefully extricated herself and threw a blanket around her for modesty’s sake. She did not need it for the cold, her veins still humming with the heat Melkor flooded her with even now. She tiptoed towards the door as another rap sounded upon the wood. She glanced back at Melkor’s dark form and realised with surprise that the bed was now nearly a foot from its original position. She suppressed a giggle at what that meant.

She pulled the door open a crack to see a tall figure, dressed in black armour, with lank dark hair slicked back over elven ears to reveal a pallid face bearing many scars, long since healed. There was no mistaking those pale blue eyes though, even if they were now cast under a fierce brow.

Ilinhen stood before her.

Chapter Text

Ilinhen.

There was a name he had not heard in centuries. He had not been called by that name since he had fallen into shadow, for none had asked him it and so it had never been given. Hearing it again stunned him more than seeing her, wrapped in a blanket, her nakedness apparent beneath, her hair tousled, cheeks flushed, and her lips swollen. The door was only open slightly, yet he could see past her enough to witness the uncovered form of Dark Lord Melkor on the bed. Mairon had not told him, had not warned him…

“Ilinhen? How- why-” Lelyacalë’s shock robbed her mouth of words. Her eyes bulged slightly as she took him in. Mairon had not prepared her either. Of course he had not. 

“Mairon requests your presence.” He stared through her as he spoke, voice raspier than usual as he felt emotions he thought long dormant begin to rise within him. 

She did not answer him for several heartbeats then he saw her nod once, slowly, her eyes cast down.

“Give me a moment to dress myself.” The words tripped trembling off her tongue as she turned back into the room. He waited. She had not closed the door but he refused to spy, so resolutely faced his back to the opening. It reminded him, painfully, of their first meeting. He felt foolish, though it was not the first time Mairon had ensnared him in a trick. The maia had delivered on his promise at long last, but, as usual, it was with a cruel twist to ensure he remained in control and the ultimate victor. Lelyacalë had been brought to him, however it was becoming increasingly clear now that she was never to be his, that there had never been a real chance of that happening after all. A foolish hope, but one he had clung onto to endure the harshness of his life as an uruk. 

He felt himself begin to crack inside as the last of his hope finally burst in his chest. All of this, all he had given, for nothing. A distorted reward that felt like a punishment now. He tried to keep his mind from conjuring up scenes, but what he had already glimpsed was slotting into place to create a lurid picture in which he held no part. Lelyacalë was never going to be his, not in the way he had envisaged. Not in the way he wanted. The memory of her by the lake threatened to slip beneath the depths, pulled under by the master they were both forced to serve. Though by the way things appeared in that moment, he was unsure if coercion could be assigned to Lelyacalë’s servitude. Perhaps he was leaping to conclusions, he knew how much Melkor could take and take with no permission sought and no thanks given. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door closing so he looked back to see Lelyacalë stood there, dressed in a simple gray gown with green sash and hemming. She had combed her hair but the blush upon her face had not receded, or else it had reignited in his presence. He owed her as many answers as she owed him, he tried to remind himself, but the sight of her chilled his reasoning and he coldly beckoned her to follow him. He did not speak a word to her as they wound their way down and down, his mind was crowded with so many thoughts and emotions that he might as well have had none. Hundreds of years of faithfully following Mairon’s demands in the name of Melkor had hardened him, had bestowed upon him a tough exterior through which little penetrated, both from outside and from within. Lelyacalë’s presence was threatening that and the resultant vulnerability was nauseating. 

He found himself in a paradox of desperately needing to understand Lelyacalë’s situation, her thoughts, her feelings, whilst simultaneously fearing and abhorring the knowledge he sought. Not for the first time he regretted ever meeting her, regretted following her into this pitiless place. Regretted hoping for what he was never to receive. He thought of how his body had been abused for the sake of Melkor’s burgeoning army, but how he had willingly given it for the love of one whom he should have known better than to bestow his heart upon. Then again, maybe he and Lelyacalë shared that same fate, that same torment. Maybe she went to Melkor’s bedchamber willingly in the hopes of a better future. Still, the thought threaded ice into his veins and wound them tight around his bowels until he was a twisted frozen mess inside. He had to compose himself before they got to Mairon, who could perceive virtually anything, no matter how well hidden by himself. So it was with a great effort and strength of will that he forcibly cleared his mind and focused on a singular thought; he repeated the route to the throne room over and over in his mind until they reached the enormous double doors that announced the entrance. 

He rapped thrice, hard, on the wood and the door was opened inwards to reveal a vast hall, dimly lit by hanging braziers leading to an ornate throne upon which sat Mairon. The Lord of Angband was resplendent in shimmering gold. Gold adorned his fingers in various rings, his neck bore a thick band of the metal with matching bands circling his biceps and wrists. His lips shone with it, as though he had kissed gold dust and it clung to him in needful desire. His golden eyes were the brightest feature upon him though, and they watched keenly as the two made their way towards his seat. There was a playful edge to Mairon’s mouth as they approached, that only sharpened the closer they got. His eyes glittered with a malicious knowledge and he felt Lelyacalë sigh next to him at the sight.

“Âshûrzash! Prompt as always. One might even say… eager.” Mairon’s mocking tone sliced into the silence. Angband was not a quiet place, but the throne room was always eerily so, the thick walls keeping out the din of the stronghold.

Lelyacalë glanced sideways at him before returning her gaze to Mairon, who had gone from languidly lolling to leering forwards. He refused to look at her, keeping his eyes steadfastly on the maia in front of them. He bowed, short and stiff, but noted Lelyacalë did not, and nor did Mairon call her out on her lack of courtesy. Something else to think about; the nature of Lelyacalë and Mairon’s relationship, as well as the nature of Lelyacalë’s status under Melkor. 

“Lelyacalë, I doth hope Lord Melkor has not tired thee out with the… business he had such urgency to conduct with thee.” Mairon’s grin seemed painfully frozen in place at these words and Lelyacalë remained silent, so he continued. “Thou remembers that thou shall be leading a host of Lord Melkor’s army?” He paused again and after a brief silence, Lelyacalë nodded, her face remained impassive. 

Malice grabbed Mairon’s mouth and tore it open into a demonic smile. “Well, here is thy fellow commander, Âshûrzash. Thou shalt be leading a legion of uruk together.”

Âshûrzash was the name he was given by those above him, his betters and masters. It had taken him a while to become used to the crooked speech that Mairon introduced to the uruk. A bastardization of his native language, it did not flow as happily from his tongue but the words formed within his mouth just as readily now, after centuries of him forcing it out. It was clear to him that Lelyacalë did not speak this Black Speech as she had raised a querying eyebrow on first hearing his name.

Lelyacalë was staring at Mairon, her brow depressed into a slight crease of consternation. It was apparent they were all waiting for her to speak first. Finally, her face smoothed out once more and an understanding smile graced her features. 

“Of course!” She exclaimed. “How very kind of you Mairon. You know I have no experience or knowledge of leading an army, so you have gifted me a partner to aid in this task. Very thoughtful of you indeed.”

Mairon’s smile froze in confusement upon his face and she turned to address Âshûrzash.

“I look forward to working with you. I think I tell no lie when I say I can fight well, but I’ve never commanded anyone, so I will be leaning on your guidance heavily in that regard.” She maintained eye contact the entire time, but he could feel the strain of doing so practically screaming from her eyes. The moment she had ceased speaking to him, she immediately turned back to Mairon, who was looking decidedly irritated. 

“Dost thou not recognise Âshûrzash? Perhaps thou remembers him by another name?” Mairon sneered down at her. 

“Oh, yes, I remember him. Is this the promise you are fulfilling, Mairon? Reuniting us?” Her voice was light, conversational, yet her words hit the Lord of Angband as though she had hurled them at him in accusatory wrath. 

Mairon bared his teeth and burst up from his throne, towering above them. He was an exploded volcano and he slowly stepped down to them as lava that oozes down the mountainside. 

“Thou thinkest thyself so clever, Lelyacalë, when in truth thou know so little.” He had halted before her, toe to toe, and was glaring down his thin nose at her. She met his eyes with cool collection. 

“I know you well enough, Mairon.” She said calmly. 

He moved back and a grin lit his face once more. “Oh, is that so? Well, thou art correct that I promised a reunion between this elf and thyself. Though as thou seest, he is an elf no more but one of our Moriondor. Yet it was not all I promised him.”

Mairon spun to face Âshûrzash. He raised an eyebrow at the uruk and Âshûrzash realised he was expected to fill in the silence. 

“He promised me children.” It was an effort to get the words out and he hated Mairon for it. 

Now it was Lelyacalë’s turn to whip around to face him.

“Children?” Her eyes widened with surprise and sudden understanding. “My children. Our children.” 

He nodded.

“Sadly, that is one part of the promise I was not able to properly fulfill.” Mairon’s voice was all false sincerity. “Children I hath given unto Âshûrzash, but thine he shall never have.”

Lelyacalë was staring at Âshûrzash in open shock, her mouth slightly parted. He gazed back at her, his eyes betraying the sorrow he felt. 

“I should have known better, you belong to Lord Melkor.” He tried to speak normally, but his words came out in a gruff whisper. 

A blood-chilling laugh erupted from Mairon before she could reply. It was high and cruel and echoed back at them from around the hall. 

“Oh poor Âshûrzash, I forgot to tell thee! Whilst it be true that she is Melkor’s to bed as Our Lord seeth fit.” Mairon spat the words out. “She cannot bear children no matter who lies with her.”

He reached forth and with sharp nails and strong fingers, ripped Lelyacalë’s dress in one swift movement to reveal her pale, shining torso beneath, upon which sat a long puckered scar. The start of it was still covered by her gown, but moved up from below her navel and travelled to stop just above it. She gasped at the suddenness and indecency of Mairon’s actions, but instead of attempting to protect her modesty, she struck the maia across his face. Where his laugh had echoed moments before, now the sound of Mairon’s cheek being slapped reverberated around the hall. 

She had hit him hard enough to leave a print. Even after the ringing had faded away, no one spoke. Lelyacalë and Mairon silently snarled at one another, his cheek reddened by her palm, her cheeks reddened by his demeaning. Âshûrzash’s mind was in turmoil, not just at the new information but on how it had been delivered. He knew Mairon to be cruel, but that he could do this, to one whom Melkor overtly favoured, disconcerted him greatly. 

Finally, Lelyacalë tore her seething eyes from Mairon and looked at Âshûrzash, whereupon her gaze softened to apologetic and pained. She held her arms about herself protectively, less to hide the scar and more to hold in all the grief it gave her. 

“He’s not lying. I cannot have children. That part of me was… was broken before I ever met Melkor.” Her voice quavered only slightly before she turned to bestow a scathing look upon Marion. “Luckily, it is not what My Lord requires of me.”

“Indeed it is not.” 

Melkor had entered the room, though how long he had been there none of them knew. He was skulking by the entrance to the hall but now strode forward to stand beside his little light, seeming to fill up the space as he loomed over them. 

“What mean thee by this, Mairon?” His displeasure was edging on anger. 

Mairon straightened himself to his full height, his eyes burning with hatred at his perceived injustice. This had not played out the way he had planned, yet there was still a chance to move things back into his favour. He smoothed down his robes and toned down his pride. 

“My Lord, doth thou remember when thou didst let Lelyacalë out of Utumno accompanied by myself and she didst run away from me in an attempt to prolong her freedom?” 

Melkor’s face was stony as he looked from Mairon to Lelyacalë and then back. “I doth remember, though it be an age ago.”

“Well, on that excursion, she didst meet an elf and by and by he did follow her back to Utumno and now stands before thee as one of thy greatest commanders, one of the thirteen thou bade me choose.” Mairon gestured with a flourish at Âshûrzash. “I didst promise him that should he obey all thy commands, and be a good and loyal servant, he would be reunited with the lovely light he didst spy that fateful time. He hath indeed done all asked of him, he hath sired no less than twenty lines of uruk, seventeen of which have propagated further. He hath trained up his progeny to be fierce warriors, the best of all the Moriondor hath produced.”

Mairon’s praise was unnerving him, and Âshûrzash was struggling to maintain a steady posture under the heavy glare of Melkor. He had been in the Dark Lord’s presence but little, and never in such close proximity. His very presence instilled fear, let alone the searing chill of his icy eyes. The threat of such a being’s ire was enough to quail even the strongest, and Âshûrzash was one of the strongest. He had proven that time and again. Yet Melkor’s anger stalked within the god, begging permission to be unleashed, and Âshûrzash feared he would not survive if he was the intended victim. 

“That does not explain why thou hast attacked my Lelca so Mairon? Or why thou art talking of children? Surely thou didst not intend my Lelyacalë to lay with such a creature as this, no matter his loyal service and strong seed? As though she was some prize to be won? As if she were some mere breeding stock?” Melkor’s voice gradually increased in volume and outraged incredulity until it rang resounding throughout the room and caused the other three to involuntarily flinch. 

“Of course not, My Lord, but the elf didst hope for such in his foolishness. He has provided thee with many strong uruk for thy armies and so I thought it would be a small mercy to allow Lelyacalë to co-command with him, that in this innocent way they might be reunited and she would be mother in name alone.” Mairon’s tone was placating, indicating he had everything under control. 

“Innocent? Thou thinketh letting Lelyacalë and the elf that wishes to bear children with her work together be innocent? Besides, I hath not granted permission for Lelyacalë to fight.” Melkor menaced. 

“Wished. He hath seen the error of his judgement. Moreover, what better punishment, to be so close to thy desires and never possess them. It will be both gift and curse.” Mairon’s tone turned melancholy at these words, his eyes glazed over slightly as though he were elsewhere. He blinked and returned to himself. “Also why train Lelyacalë up if thou had no intention to let her fight for thee? Thou knowest she can even give thee pause in her skill. She wouldst be an asset on the battlefield.” 

“I would be happy to fight for you, My Lord.” Lelyacalë cut in. “It would be an honour.”

Melkor’s thunderous brow relaxed a little and he placed a hand on her shoulder, drawing her to his side in a protective embrace. Âshûrzash noticed Mairon stiffen at the gesture. There was possibly jealousy there then. Maybe when Mairon talked of being gifted and cursed, the maia had spoken from personal experience. It would seem Âshûrzash had become part of something more complicated than he could ever have imagined. 

“Thou art a credit to me, Lelca, but I doth fear for thy safety still.” Melkor replied to Lelyacalë. “Why didst thou not consult me on this, Mairon, before enacting thy plans?”

“I did My Lord, but thou were distracted, and it was forgotten.”

“Why can Lelyacalë not be paired with Sàratalma instead?” Melkor demanded. 

Mairon barely suppressed the urge to sigh in frustration. “Sàratalma shall be under the balrogs, not with the uruk legions. His shadow flame can cause damage to flesh to rival that of even Gothmog. Âshûrzash himself can testify to that.”

“So be it.” Melkor gritted out. “But we shall speak of this later, Mairon.”

“As for thee.” He bore down upon Âshûrzash. “Do not think I have forgotten thee. Thou who didst think to have a claim upon my Lelyacalë, to think thou mayest have children with her.”

Âshûrzash swallowed and knelt to speak at Melkor’s feet. “My Lord. I did not know she was yours. I did not know when I met her. I was foolish. I was enraptured by her beauty. I beg your forgiveness. My service is to you. I obey all your commands.” 

“And doth thou promise to forsake all indecent thoughts of Lelyacalë from thy mind? Doth thou swear to never lay a finger on her in lust?” Melkor’s voice boomed down on him. 

“I do swear.” 

“Good. Now, I shall give thee but a small taste of what shall come to pass if thou breaketh thy oath.” At the cessation of his words, Âshûrzash felt Melkor’s boot press upon his neck, forcing his head to the cold floor until he was prostrated before his Lord. The pressure cut off his air supply but just before he thought he would lose consciousness, it was removed and he gasped in lungfuls of needed air. Melkor leant down and wrenched the armour from his back as though it were spiderwebs and not metal, exposing his ruined body beneath. He braced himself for the beating or flogging he was about to receive, but before the first blow could fall, he heard Lelyacalë cry out. 

“Stop! Please.” He felt her kneel down beside him. “It is my fault he is here, he does not deserve this punishment, he has done nothing wrong. Please.”

The ensuing silence was more thunderous than when Melkor had spoken. It stretched on uncomfortably and Âshûrzash wished he could see the others’ faces. Eventually Melkor spoke, low and ominous. 

“Mairon, take the uruk and get out.” 

Âshûrzash felt himself being hauled up harshly by his arm and dragged from the room. He dared not look back, but he had managed to catch a glimpse of Melkor and Lelyacalë. The Dark Lord’s face had been obscured by his hair as he bent over her smaller form, now standing once more, and his hand had been upon her throat.

Chapter Text

Of course Mairon had waited until now to bring Ilinhen back into her life. Of course he had waited until she had put him from her mind and had resolved on devoting herself to Melkor to drag her focus back out. Guilt gripped her; both for forgetting Ilinhen and for being partly responsible for all that had happened to him. She was reeling from the entire encounter. She was struggling to comprehend whether Ilinhen, or Âshûrzash as she supposed she must now call him, had truly been that naïve to believe he would ever have been granted a future with her, much less children, or if Mairon had just been particularly cruel in his twisting of desires in this instance. Most likely it had been a bit of both. It would seem that the Lord of Angband was well on his way to earning the nomen of Gorthaur.

It would also seem that as with everything Mairon attempted to accomplish, as Lelyacalë remembered from the stories, it ended up backfiring, for now Melkor was enraged at him, her, and poor Âshûrzash. All Mairon had succeeded in doing was creating a complicated mess wherein all involved ended up hurt to some degree. She had no idea what she was to do about Âshûrzash; her instinct had been to run to him and embrace him but the part of her that chose Melkor flailed in remorse at the mere thought. Mairon had well and truly cursed her with her own folly and inescapable situation. She was damned if she did and she was damned if she did not. If only Ilinhen had never approached her at the lake. If only they had never shared a kiss. If only he had never followed her here. If only she had never asked Melkor to be let out. If only Melkor had never raped her. If only Mairon were not so in love with his master. If only, if only, if only. Such fallacy-driven thoughts were enough to hasten one straight into the arms of madness.

If only was not going to help her in the here and now, Melkor’s fingers tightening against her throat, his eyes an acrid mixture of injured and angered. Her actions had wounded him. She had pleaded for the very being who had wanted her, when moments before she had told Melkor she was his. Her weakness at not being able to stomach the image of Ilinhen - Âshûrzash - being flogged before her had put herself in a difficult position and no doubt him as well. She had not saved him, she had merely postponed his pain and probably doubled it. The whole situation had sent her off-kilter, her brain was refusing to function at its usual capacity and Mairon’s machinations always immediately fatigued it anyhow. She was desperately trying to think how best to play this but she was not even sure what outcome she wanted. Her emotions, where before had started to settle into a coherent picture, were now a jumble of jigsaw pieces in which the final image was changed to an incomplete one. Or maybe it was that there were now two competing images that could not join together, and she would be forced to discard those pieces that did not fit.

She had not dared watch Mairon haul Ilinhen - Âshûrzash - from the throne room. She had kept her eyes firmly fixed on Melkor’s own, no matter how much his expression tore into her. He had waited until they had both left, the door slamming shut behind them, before he spoke.

“Lelca.” Melkor swallowed and it must have been bitterness he forced back down as his face curdled in distaste. “Explain thyself.” He barely got the words out.

“I. Felt. Guilty.” She squeezed out. He relaxed his grip so that she could speak properly. She gulped in some air then continued. “I did not mean to bewitch him to follow me here. He didn’t know, he meant no harm. He lays no claim on me, he deserves no punishment.”

“Thou didst not tell me thou had met an elf.” He accused her. “Thou kept this from me. Thou and Mairon both!”

“Yes. I cannot deny it. I feared you greatly back then, you had already punished me for running away from Mairon when I was let out. You had… you had hurt me. It is different now, we are different now. Truth be told, I had forgotten all about him until he showed up again. I have chosen you, I am loyal to you. You have told me to let go of my past and so I have. He is a small, infinitesimal part of my past and I have long since relinquished thought of him.” It was not all lies, in fact, most of what she spoke was true. Now Ilinhen was back in her life again though, some of those truths were threatening to change. He had not been an infinitesimal part, for a long while their encounter had been the one happy memory she could fall back on. She had chosen Melkor, because that had been the only option available to her and because he was all she had. Now though… No. He was still the only option available to her.

Her earnestness and forthrightness relaxed Melkor’s shoulders and softened his eyes. There was still pain at the betrayal within them, but now there was hope. He wanted to trust her, he wanted to believe her. He needed to believe her. His heart demanded that solace. His mind demanded that assuaging. Lelyacalë realised he was panting slightly, with the effort of holding himself together, of bringing himself under control.

“Tell me. Tell me all that passed betwixt thee at thy meeting with him.” It was more plea than demand, his hand had slid from her neck to rest on the mark above her heart.

“He saw me bathing and thought me drowning so came to my unnecessary rescue. He asked where I was from and I told him, and told him how powerful and… formidable you were. I told him to avoid Utumno. He offered for me to live with him and his people and I rejected him, saying I could not. Then Mairon called for me and Il- the elf grabbed my hand and we ran into the woods. I told him Mairon would find us and it would not end well for either of us. He asked if this were to be the last time he saw me, if he might have a kiss. I assented, seeing no harm in it. I thought to never see him again and I was still hurt from you forcing yourself on me. At that time, I could not fathom us joining in blissful union and so that one tender kiss might be all I received my whole long life. I did not do it to hurt you. I did it for me. I did it for him. A small mercy. I was naïve to the repercussions, clearly, for here we are.”

She let it all out, every damning drop of truth. She recalled it as one recites facts, unapologetic and calm. Melkor’s fingers clawed their way up to her face, dragging against her lips. His forehead was now brought down to rest against hers and his voice shivered into the space between them.

“His lips touched thine.”

“Yes.” She breathed.

“These lips that are mine.” His words almost came out in a whine.

“Yes.”

“I should rip his mouth from him. I should force him to kiss forge-heated blades until he is left blistered and bleeding. I should-”

“Hush, ninya melda. There is no need. My mouth is moulded to yours, the taste of you is upon my tongue, the memory of you lingers upon my lips. Forget the uruk. He is not worthy of thy punishment. I am.”

Melkor lurched back at the last statement, confusion apparent upon his face.

“I have erred, I have hurt thee. Punish me. Punish me, My Lord. I will take it.” Her heart was hammering and she hoped that if Melkor perceived it, he would think it was out of passionate sincerity and not a thrilling fear. She perversely wanted this punishment whilst also dreading it. The chaos of Melkor’s soul within her laughed at the whole situation.

Melkor did nothing but stare at her for several long moments before finally commanding her to walk to the nearest pillar. She complied. He told her to face it, to press herself to it. She did so. The coldness of the quartz was a shock against her bared abdomen but she swallowed the ensuing gasp.

“Hide nothing from me. Gasp for me. Scream for me. I will have every cry. I will have all thou hast to give.” He whispered in her ear, his eagerness seeping in. She nodded that she understood and he tore the dress from her back and dragged it down so that it fell in a shredded mess upon the ground. She was bare before him. He took her hair and draped it over her shoulder to expose all of her gleaming skin. He ripped off a strip remnant of her dress and tied her hands around the pillar with it so that she was hugging the smooth rock. She heard him remove the belt from around his tunic and tried not to tense in expectation.

There was no warning before the first blow fell, a welt diagonally from her shoulder to the centre of her back. She gritted her teeth. Two more lashes came in quick succession, one across her waist and one down the length of her spine. This time she had to brace herself against her restraints, the hard stone uncomfortable yet steadying against her. The next stroke landed at the back of her thighs and she finally cried out, a small single exhale. Melkor did not respond with words but struck again, this time against her right hip. Her body rocked against the pillar as she was forced up onto her tiptoes and then back down again. Another lash across the back, one to her calves, one across her shoulder blades, pain thrust her upon the column each time and elicited further cries.

Melkor stalked into her view and slowly untied her bound wrists. He dragged a lazy finger from the tip of hers down and up her arm until he was behind her once more and his finger was tracing across her shoulder. She shivered at the delicateness of it, so juxtaposing to the whipping she had received moments before.

“Thou squirmed so beautifully, but there is only one mountain thou shalt writhe against.” His voice was low with plain desire. His feather touches turned into a claw as he gripped her shoulder and spun her around to face him, her stinging back now pressed against the smooth quartz. It was a merciful boon, that cooling rock against her raised flesh. Though she could already feel the wounds fading, healed by the light within her.

He let go of her shoulder to grip her waist in his strong fingers and she winced as he hefted her up so their hips aligned. Even though he was holding her steady and her back was braced against the column behind them, she instinctively wrapped her arms and legs around him. His girth was such that she could not even get her toes to meet at his back. He bent down and kissed her, hard, hungry, frantic. He stole her breath as he made to exorcise the memory of Ilinhen from her lips. The fabric of his tunic chafed against her exposed skin and her pelvis ached from clasping his breadth between her thighs, where Melkor was evoking a different, more throbbing ache that keened through her body.

She was suddenly wrenched from the pillar and carried across the hall. Melkor did not break from her lips. She did not know where he was taking her, she did not know what would happen next, but instead of the uncertainty filling her with fear, it filled her with excitement. She felt them collide with something, for Melkor stumbled and cursed against her mouth. He let go of her with one hand and she heard an almighty crash which caused her to jerk back from him to see what had occurred. Mairon’s throne was now at the other end of the room, severely dented, the back cracked down the middle. She turned back to face Melkor and he resumed his greedy exploration of her mouth as he lowered them to the steps leading up to where Mairon’s seat of power had just stood.

She was placed on his jutting knee, the solidness of him pressed into her causing tendrils of fire to snake through her body at every slight movement. His fingers were now entwined in her hair, gripping the base of her skull, his other hand cupped the roundness of her behind. His eyes bore into hers as he held her in place.

“Tell me thou art mine.”

“I have already told-”

“Tell me again. Until I believe it.” He cut across her, tugging her hair as he spoke.

She swallowed.

“I am yours.”

He rocked her forwards against his hard thigh and the feel of him rubbing against her caused a moan to slip out involuntarily.

“Again.” Another tug on her hair.

“I am yours.”

A second time he slid her up against him and back.

“Again.” His eyes never left hers, even as she was forced to close them as the friction between her legs threatened to ignite her fully. Her desire was already soaking his leggings, he was inviting her to drench him entirely.

“I… I am yours.” It was beginning to become difficult to concentrate on anything but the feel of him against her.

“Again.”

“I am yours.” Unadulterated wanting was beginning to slur the words on her tongue.

“Again.”

She could feel the dam within her about to burst and all that issued from her mouth was a breathy groan after he dragged her along the length of him once more.

“Again, Lelca.”

“I am yours. Please.” She begged him, though exactly what she was begging for she no longer knew. Her mind refused to cooperate and her body was pining at her for release.

The friction was delicious and Lelyacalë knew it would only take one more time of being glided over the firmness of Melkor’s muscles beneath her before she was undone completely.

“Again.”

“I am yours.” She practically screamed it in desperate anticipation.

“Good.” He picked her up as he stood and understanding flooded her where she had hoped ecstasy would.

“No…”

She could only stare at him and marvel at his cruel ingenuity. For this was worse than the flogging. Every cell within her coursed with the fire he had put there and now he was letting it fizzle out instead of igniting her to a blazing crescendo. There was no hiding her desire from him; he had her right where he wanted her and she was powerless.

“I would have thee wander naked to thy rooms as a final punishment, but the thought of any other beholding thy glory is not to be borne.” Upon saying this, Melkor drew his tunic from him and handed it to Lelyacalë. She pulled it over her head and was forced to hug it to her body as it threatened to slip from her shoulders entirely. Where it had fallen to Melkor’s knees, it brushed the top of her ankles. She offered a sarcastic curtsy, obsequiously clumsy.

“As My Lord sees fit.” She smirked to hide her disappointment, to grapple at some semblance of control in the situation.

Melkor moved towards the door in languid steps. “It is Mairon’s turn to face my retribution now. We shall discuss the matter further once you have both been duly punished.”

Lelyacalë watched him leave and wondered at what Mairon’s punishment would entail. She slowly made her way back to her room, refusing to engage any who crossed her path. Sàratalma was waiting for her, sitting upon the rug in front of the fire. He beheld her attire and cocked an inquiring eyebrow at her.

“Doth thou care to explain? For it would seem I have not been party to all the facts. Thou hast been keeping some details from me, my friend.”

She rolled her eyes but joined him on the rug, where she unburdened herself of all her relationship with Melkor, with Mairon, and with Âshûrzash.

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They clashed on the mountain side; fire and ice, gold and iron. Betrayal fuelled them both. Molten injustice was hurled by Mairon whilst Melkor bombarded with frozen indignation. The hills shook with their anger, they quailed with their hurt, until Mairon, pinned beneath his master, cried out “Is my flame not enough for thee? Will her light always be more precious to thee?”

“Mairon…” His lieutenant’s name slipped softly from his tongue as Melkor collapsed to the side of him.

In their anger, they had become elemental. Melkor’s huge form coursed in black cascades of volcanic rock and Mairon was his magma heart, burning, melting, moulding him. They flowed together down the mountain, dark and bright. Mairon was a bloody gash upon the snowy peak, a gash upon Melkor’s own being.

Lelyacalë and Sàratalma watched from the small window in her bedroom as legs entangled and lips sought out throat, shoulder, chest, in hungry adoration. The earth shook with passion once more, but now a happier one. They both turned from the window and made their way back into the room.

“Doth that not trouble thee?” The dark maia gestured to the scene outside. “That Melkor did bed thee and now takes Mairon?”

Lelyacalë tilted her head to one side in consideration. She gazed at the window, though from where she was standing now, all she could see now was a murky white. She found she was not possessive of Melkor at all, for she knew what they shared, Mairon could not hope to. She also knew, deep down, that what they shared was based on lies and imbalance of control, on abuse and subjugation. She did not like to dwell on those facts, however.

“I can’t afford to let it bother me. Melkor has always loved Mairon, insofar as Melkor can love anything. I’m surprised it has taken this long for anything of this nature to occur… if indeed it has not already occurred.” Here she glanced at Sàratalma who gave her a long, knowing look.

“I did hear rumours… I hath seen looks between them. It is possible. I remember when Melkor first beheld Mairon, he would not stop talking of him for seemingly endless time.” There was laughter in his voice at the memory.

“They fit well together, they complement one another. I believe they could make each other happy, if they let themselves.” She sighed.

“But what of thee and thy heart, Lelca?” He sounded genuinely concerned and even went so far as to place a hand on the other’s shoulder.

“Ahh well. Maybe I should just marry you, Talma.” She smiled at him with a sideways look.

He laughed, coarse and loud. “I hath always appreciated thy humour. But in all seriousness, what shalt thou do?”

“Nothing. What can I do? Melkor will do as he sees fit and we shall all obey him and stay in line. Mairon will not be pleased if Melkor continues his relationship with me, so I will have to bear his hateful grudge, which I would rather not. There is no future for me and Âshûrzash, I fear I will bring him only pain and misery.”

Lelyacalë gave her friend a considering look. “I’m surprised you care so much, Talma.”

He looked genuinely offended. “Why wouldst thou say such a thing? Are we not friends? Thou art all I care for these days besides serving my Lord.”

She raised her hands in apology. “I’m sorry, we have not talked much in this manner before.”

“Would it help if I confided my own heart to thee first?” He spoke more quietly than she had ever heard him.

“You don’t need to, I would never ask you to do that.” Now it was her turn to place a hand upon his shoulder, watching his black flames dance over her fingers. He was silent a while, then turned away to face the fire.

“I have no love for any being in that way. I have no wish to couple with anyone. However, I was bewitched by Arien, such a bright, strong presence… but she could not return such regard as I followed Melkor and she remained loyal to The Valar, to Eru. She enchanted many. In fact, Melkor didst seek her for himself but his attempts to claim her ended in torment for them both. He was a desperate being after Varda’s rejection. Mayhaps that is why Mairon choosing him over all else opened his heart.

I admire Arien still, but I know she shall forever be parted from me, for us never to be united in anything. I do not want her to wed, or bed, but she is forever on my mind. The closest thing to that sort of love I see others possess.” He shook his head. “I put such thoughts from my mind. I focus on serving Melkor. He is the reason I am here.”

Sàratalma’s tone turned sour at the end, the truth acerbic upon his tongue.

“I know what it is to love and hate Melkor both. I also know what it is to love that which thou cannot have, even if the love be different in kind.”

She looked directly into his abyss-coloured eyes. “Thank you for sharing, and I am sorry. I cannot say that I was ever in love with Ilinhen, we had one brief meeting after all. I could have loved him though. He was beautiful, kind, and sincere. Despite my better judgement and to the scorn of my past self, I do love Melkor. But it is a complicated love born of captivity and need. I do not think it is a healthy love and I do not think he returns it.”

“I would disagree. I hath known Melkor longer than thee and I believe he doth love thee. Though what manner of love I am no expert to comment upon.”

Lelyacalë stretched her arms up and swung them back down as she yawned. “Well, there is much to think about and I find I cannot be bothered to think about it right now. It has been a long, eventful day and I should rest, if I can.”

“Wouldst thou like me to stay with thee? I am happy to sit upon the rug here by the fire and ensure all is well.”

She nodded, her face crumpled with gratitude. “Thank you, Talma, I would appreciate that.”

He made his way to the fire and turned his back on her so she could disrobe, but she instead kept Melkor’s tunic on and held it to her, inhaling his scent. Even so, it was not Melkor that occupied her thoughts, but a pale, scarred face housing pale blue eyes.

Chapter Text

The pits were a frenzied tumult beneath him, a slathering, raucous, grimy, crushing havoc. Mairon’s joy at his reconciliation with Melkor had been cut short soon after the fact when his master had dealt him a devastating blow. The maia had asked, as Melkor held him in his arms, if he was done with Lelyacalë, if Mairon would be his alone now. His Lord’s response played over and over in his mind, a curse coursing through him that he could not be free of.

“Nay, Mairon, I shall have thee both.”

I shall have thee both. Mairon’s lips curled. He was used to leaving Melkor aching, but in more pleasurable regions than his heart. Not for the first time, he damned that wretched woman. He could not even kill her, for Melkor had made her invulnerable like unto himself. It was blasphemous, even if it was genius. There was also the fact Melkor would never forgive him he found out, and Melkor would always suspect, no matter how much of an accident Mairon made it appear.

Then there was the matter of the elf, now uruk. His plans there had not gone according to his vision, moreso because he had become fond of Âshûrzash. He was a loyal follower, a good soldier, a strong uruk, in mind and body. Mairon found he could trust him, he was dependable, reliable. He had also retained much of his beauty compared to the other Moriondor. Mairon enjoyed beautiful things, especially when their beauty was shaped by pain and by darkness. It is why Melkor had always fascinated him, allured him. He was the most darkly beautiful being in existence, crafted such by his own pain no less, which made it all the more delectable in Mairon’s opinion.

He could not punish Lelycalë, not in the way he wished. He could punish Âshûrzash, however, which in turn he knew would cause that annoying woman pain. The uruk had been spared punishment from Melkor, thanks to her intercession, so it was that he should face some form of retribution, and Mairon knew just how to do it. The idea planted itself as a small seed within his mind as he watched the uruk melee before him and only grew and grew, putting down roots. He viewed the cacophonous chaos below and a malicious grin crept upon his face. Yes. He knew exactly how best to punish the father of the uruk.

First, he would need to find Lelyacalë, for she would need to be witness to this. Yes, it was all falling into place. He turned to find Âshûrzash stood a few paces away beside him. The uruk inclined his head, eyes lowered, before regarding the fighting going on below.

“Gather your children, Âshûrzash, the leaders and the strongest warriors only. Have them assembled in the second antechamber. That should be adequate room to fit them all in. Do it now.” His cold voice carried over the din and he saw the other nod in acknowledgement before making his way down to obey Mairon’s commands. The Lord of Angband watched him go for a moment, before turning and making his way to Lelyacalë’s room. He shed his corporeal form in order to travel faster and only cloaked himself in flesh once more when he was outside her door. He opted for full battle armour attire, black, harsh, sharp. He wished to appear commanding and formidable, no flamboyant lord, bedecked in finery upon his throne, but a warlord, oppressive and cruel in his crushing dominance. He considered not knocking but deemed that act too petty even for him. To his surprise, it was Sàratalma who opened the door. He did not share Mairon’s shock, indeed, his stance and facial expression indicated he had been expecting his fellow maia to appear.

“Mairon.” Sàratalma spoke in way of greeting.

“Lord Mairon to thee, Sàratalma.” Mairon frowned.

“I suppose thou art here for Lelca.” Sàratalma continued, ignoring Mairon’s correction.

“Lelca? I hast only heard Melkor call her this. I didst think it was his pet name for her.” He sneered. “Doth our Lord know that thou also use it?”

“I have not the slightest notion, Mairon. I do not think he would care overmuch, I am no threat and have no interest in Lelyacalë in the way thou seems to insinuate.” He sarcastically stressed her full name.

“Ah no of course not. She is no Arien to behold, is she?” Mairon mocked.

Sàratalma’s red-black eyes betrayed nothing, then he threw back his head and laughed, a gurgling guffaw, harsh and loud. His arms remained folded at his chest, however, proving he was not as relaxed as he would like to portray.

“Thou art so amusing Mairon, in thy pathetic attempts at cruelty. I shall go awake Lelca for thee. Will thou wait, or shall I bring her to thee when she is ready?”

Mairon contemplated a moment before deciding. “I shall wait. Tell her to dress ready for combat."

When Lelycalë finally emerged, she was dressed in her black training clothes. Melkor had long ago commissioned Mairon to forge her some armour but he had recoiled at the very thought, so had kept putting the task off with the excuse of busying himself with other necessities. His handiwork did not deserve to grace her. That she would need her own proper suit of armour was a sticking point, however, and Mairon had been trying to find ways to definitively remove himself from the equation.

She was eyeing him warily, unsure of how he would be. Sàratalma had obviously warned her as she did not react to his foreboding aesthetic, glancing at his ornate armour with admiration rather than intimidation. The dark maia made to follow them both, but Mairon rebuked his actions and with cold triumph, commanded him to stay. He felt Sàratalma’s glare on his back the entire length of the corridor.

“May I ask what this is about?” She inquired as they made their way down and ever down, his armour clinking with each step, she moving noiselessly in comparison.

“It is time for thee to meet those thou shall be leading in battle. It is time for thee to meet Âshûrzash’s children… now become thine as well, of course.” Mairon quickened his step on finishing speaking to indicate he wished for no more conversation and so they continued the rest of the way in silence.

The uruk were restless when they arrived, fidgeting and murmuring. They were used to the strict schedule Mairon exacted for their endless days in Angband, and this was out of the norm, meaning they were on edge. Âshûrzash called for quiet the moment Mairon stepped through the door, his harsh voice cutting through the simmering noise until it echoed back to silence. The maia noticed Âshûrzash refused to look at Lelycalë as she entered behind him, instead facing resolutely forward towards the assembled uruk. There were around twenty, Mairon guessed, but bade his servant tell him the actual number and how many were leaders.

“Twenty-three in total, my Lord Mairon. Twelve are leaders of their own individual lines.”

This meant that twelve were Âshûrzash’s actual children, then. Excellent, thought Mairon. This plan was going to work out well indeed. He beckoned Lelycalë over to his side as he stood by his servant’s, so that they flanked him as an uncomfortable entourage. He could feel the woman’s unease as she scanned over the uruk before her, which only served to tug his mouth up into a bigger smile.

“I hath gathered thee here for a grand opportunity! I hath been placed in charge of building up Lord Melkor’s armies, of training his soldiers, ensuring they are battle-ready for when the time cometh that we should meet our enemies. There is place only for the strongest and most able within these armies, especially amongst any leadership. Âshûrzash has already proven himself time and again that he is a capable and fearsome warrior! Now it is time for thee, his children, to prove which of thee art the best!”

This speech was met with roars and chest banging. Feet stomped and weapons were drawn in ready anticipation of each uruk showing their mettle. Mairon noticed Lelycalë give him a side-eye laden with suspicion. It did not concern him, for she was powerless to stop him no matter her feelings.

“This is Lelyacalë, some of thee hath already seen her. She shall be leading thee in battle alongside thy lord father and so shall also be a part of what is to come.” The ominous tinge to his words had now gained him a look of concern from Âshûrzash.

“There art three and twenty of thee, yet only ten places have I that need filling to serve under Âshûrzash and Lelyacalë. As Lelyacalë knows not of thee, it shall be up to thy lord father to choose who amongst thee qualifies.” He gestured to the uruk beside him to begin.

Âshûrzash took his time. Each uruk pleaded their case to him, beseeching him to pick them, whilst badmouthing the others. Eventually ten were chosen and Mairon commanded them to stand to the right, with the other thirteen on the left. He smiled benevolently around the room.

“Very good, Âshûrzash, very good. I am pleased thou took thy time in choosing, to ensure thou had made the correct choice. Art thou fully satisfied with thy decision?”

“Yes, My Lord Mairon.” The uruk inclined his head.

“Excellent!” He looked Âshûrzash deep in his eyes and said softly. “Now kill the others.”

To his credit, the uruk did not react, he did not recoil in shock or stammer out pleas. Lelyacalë, on the other hand, had been close enough to overhear and her gasp of horror was most audible.

“What are you doing, Mairon? There is no need to kill the others, they are still fit for your armies, even if they are not leadership material.”

He whirled on her. “Quiet thy tongue, and do not question me again.”

She glared at him, but held her peace as he turned back to Âshûrzash, who remained expressionless.

“I must be the one to carry out this task, my Lord?” The uruk asked quietly.

“Yes, Âshûrzash, for I need to see that thy loyalty is to me and Melkor above all else.” His words slipped silky soft but deadly into the stillness between them.

Lelycalë watched on in distress as the father of the uruk drew his sword and approached the thirteen, who began shifting amongst themselves in consternation. He reached the first uruk and placed a hand upon her shoulder, looked her in the eyes and said I am sorry, my daughter before plunging the sword up into her heart. The uruk groaned and grasped Âshûrzash and he held her as he gently lowered her to the floor. None of the other uruk moved. They knew fighting back was pointless, not with Mairon there and this unknown female who glowed with a light that stung their eyes. Each uruk stood and let their father slay them; each one fell into their father’s arms and died there. He only faltered when he reached the last two, for these two were his direct children, his own sons.

“Adar, it is alright.” The uruk rested his forehead against his father’s before straightening up. “I am ready.”

Lelycalë strode over as Âshûrzash raised his sword, tears openly trailing down his cheeks. She grabbed his hand as Mairon called out for her to stop. She did not even spare the maia a glance.

“Let me.” She unclenched his fingers from around the hilt and slid the blade into her own hand. Âshûrzash stared at her, ignoring Mairon’s increased yells. She faced the uruk before her, apologised, then sank the sword into the other’s chest. She moved aside so Âshûrzash could still hold his child whilst they breathed their last. Mairon was enraged. He should have foreseen she would interfere in such a way, but he realised it presented him with another way to cause further pain and ensure Lelyacalë was at fault. He waited patiently until the last uruk laid dead at Âshûrzash’s feet before he calmly walked over to confront the pair.

“Well, thy disobedience shall have consequences. Now, thanks to thee, Lelyacalë, I shall have to destroy the other ten.” He coldly announced before abruptly making his way to the other side of the room.

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“What have you done?” Âshûrzash’s voice was raw with grief, but there was anger there also. She opened her mouth to speak, to say sorry, to say anything, but her tongue refused to comply. She gripped the hilt of his sword tighter as anger overtook her vision, tunneling it until all she could see was Mairon. Mairon, that slimy, scheming, cruel bastard. The ten uruk had seen him coming and foolishly raised their weapons to defend themselves. He slew the first two within a blink of an eye. Only Lelycalë did not blink. She ran. Mairon swung round to parry her, viper-strike quick as always, but she dropped at the last second, sliding in to slash at his ankles. She heard him crash down behind her as she scrambled to her feet. The sword could not slice through Mairon’s armour, but the sheer force of her cut had sent him sprawling. She rushed him, kicking him across the face before he could do much more than raise himself up on his elbows.

She knew he was quick, so she was determined to be quicker. She forced her fury to aid in her fight, not blind her, she used it to hone her attacks, add strength to her blows. Mairon was on his knees, his heavy armour cumbersome compared to her light training equivalent. She brought the sword down hard upon his back. His plating was thick enough to deflect, but she had stopped him from rising again. She spun the blade in her hand and brought it down with all her might onto his hand, splayed upon the ground. It sank through his flesh, gauntlet-clad though it was, pinning him to the ground. He huffed through his teeth at the pain and the look he bestowed upon her was one of unveiled hatred. He reached up to pull the sword from his hand, but she grasped his other gauntlet and slid it from him in one swift movement before backhanding him with it, leaving a red welt upon his cheek. He lunged for her, only for her to press down further upon the sword, forcing him to steady himself once more.

She slid his gauntlet over her own hand and he opened his mouth to scream at her, as he attempted to raise himself once more from the floor. She pounced. Her hand was in his mouth; cold, hard, metallic fingers pressed against his tongue, whilst the thumb cut into his chin. She smiled cruelly down at him as his eyes widened in panic. The smile evolved into a snarl as she yanked down, bracing one foot upon his chest as she did so. The crack as Mairon’s jaw dislocated was louder than any whip. Blood spilled from his mouth as she dug in with the sharp iron claws of the gauntlet. His scream was lost in the gurgle of the red liquid forced down his throat. She wrenched the sword from his hand and he collapsed, held up only by her hand in his mouth. She could tell by the frantic look in his eyes, that he did not know she was so strong. He had clearly forgotten Melkor was physically imbued within her, that the master he so loved was part of her and always would be. Melkor’s strength was her strength.

She kicked him over onto his back and grabbed his unhinged jaw once more and he scrabbled at her hands as she threw him across the room. He hit the opposite wall in a deafening collision. He lay there, pathetic and bloody, eyes glazed with a mixture of horror, pain, and loathing as she walked over to him. Mairon’s now severed jaw was in her hand, sharp teeth gleaming with ichor. She raised it to her lips and kissed it, smearing gold over her crimson lips, before dropping it unceremoniously on the ground before Mairon.

She caught Âshûrzash’s eye and the triumphant smile that had begun to adorn her face retreated when she saw his own wore a mixture of anger and dismay. All too late, the full realisation of her actions thundered through the righteous rage that had fuelled her. She may have won a battle, but in so doing she had officially declared a war, the consequences of which would no doubt be catastrophic for her and Âshûrzash. Mairon had authority, she had never been given such. Her status under Melkor was always unclear, treated more as a prized object than anything else. It dawned on her that Melkor might not permit her to oppose Mairon, especially in such an open and violent way. True, she had in the past and Melkor had praised her for it, now though… doubt seeped in to sit as a block of ice in her belly.

Panic was rapidly replacing her wrath, chased by an unhealthy amount of guilt. The combination, alongside the utter whiplash of emotions, sent her mind lurching and her stomach reeling. How had she been so stupid to do this again? She had become complacent and forgetful. She managed to mutter at the surviving uruk to get out and they obeyed immediately, no second bidding required. Âshûrzash was staring at Mairon, who was slowly making his way to his feet. Lelycalë decided it best if she did not wait around, so, as calmly as she could manage, made her way out of the room before she set off running. She ran with no sense of where she was going, only that she needed to get away. Her pounding footsteps gave her something to focus on. She made it to the top of a set of stairs and there was Melkor at the foot of them. He gazed up at her, taking in her frenzied appearance, the gold of Mairon’s blood streaked across her lips and stained the fingertips of the gauntlet she still wore. She was also still holding Âshûrzash’s sword. Neither moved nor spoke for a long moment.

“Explain thyself, Lelca.” Melkor’s voice was low, sending a shiver sliding down her insides. He already sounded displeased and she had no good explanation for him.

“I got into a disagreement with Mairon. Again.” She stammered out.

“Over what?” He stepped closer, making his way up the stairs.

“The uruk army leaders.” She dared not move.

“Whose sword is that?” Another two steps up.

“One of the uruk’s.” It was technically not a lie.

“It is his, is it not?” He was now eye level with her, despite being a few steps down.

She could not lie. Especially with Melkor looking at her like that.

“Yes.” The word issued softer than a breeze through willow branches from her lips.

“Thou chose to defend him, did thou not?” He was now looming over her, his voice hardening with every word. “Thou cannot have us both, Lelyacalë, and thou hast pledged thyself to me.”

“And you cannot have me and Mairon both!” The words burst from her in a desperate torrent. “He is making my life hell because of that. He is forcing my hand in situations that should not even be arising if it were not for his unbridled jealousy. Choose. Choose him for Eru’s sake and end this madness!”

She was panting by the end while Melkor appraised her coldly. “Thou wouldst give up what we have, for Mairon’s sake?”

“For all our sakes. I will still be loyal to you, serve you, be yours to command. But our relationship would be just that and nothing more. If Mairon is happy, we shall all be happy.” She sighed the last out in total resignation at the truth of her own words.

Melkor was being asked to make a choice he did not wish to make, that he did not believe he should have to make. One he had sworn never to make, in fact. The whole situation was a sticky, complicated mess with no easy, comfortable way out. Everyone lost something.

“Mairon did choose me of his own volition. Thy heart, I have had to win.” The sadness in his voice surprised her.

The silence after his words enveloped them as they beheld one another in all the truth borne of that conversation. Lelyacalë broke the silence first.

“Yet I did choose you, in the end. I still do.” Her voice was quiet in her admission.

“Thou also chooses the uruk-”

“Over Mairon, not you!” She cut in strongly, eyes blazing suddenly.

Melkor contemplated her for a moment before replying. “Clean thyself and then meet me in the throne room. I shall find Mairon. Go.”

She nodded and turned back the way she came, Melkor did not follow her though he needed to go the same way. He waited for her to leave before moving. She wandered through Angband, lost and dazed. The tide of her emotions that had rushed through her had receded, leaving her empty and washed out. Eventually she located a stairwell she recognised and made her way up and up until with heavy tread, she arrived at her room once more.

Chapter Text

She had not even fought for him. She had willingly given him up to Mairon, whom she held no love for. Melkor felt the ache of that action spread throughout him. He knew he should be more angry with Mairon, for pushing her to make such a move, but her weakness in not standing her ground grated against his very soul. He had succeeded in making her strong physically, but clearly she was still delicate in matters of the mind, of the soul. A rivalry with Mairon could have been a good thing for her, it could have pushed her to greater feats of tactical manoeuvres. Melkor cursed himself for not seeing this problem arising, but mostly for not taking advantage of playing both Mairon and Lelyacalë against one another when he had had the chance. Ultimately, it was Lelca who was forcing his hand, because Mairon would not. A cowardice of another kind from his lieutenant, though cleverly enacted.

He was sat upon the hastily repaired throne, which groaned under the vastness of him, while Mairon stood at his feet. The maia had managed to reattach his jaw and was well on the way to being fully healed. Melkor knew little of healing, he had never had much cause to do it, but as he looked upon his lieutenant’s face, he wished he held that power better. If he even held it at all anymore. Mairon had a glazed look about him that Melkor had never seen before and it worried him greatly. He had not spoken a word or even tried to since Melkor had retrieved him, which was most unlike him. The uruk he had not found, but he would deal with later. His natural instinct was to rip him apart, beat him to a blood-smear upon the ground, cut and hack at him until he was utterly obliterated; but he was going to take an approach more unto Mairon’s way of thinking and play a longer game. He suspected letting the uruk continue to live in the horror of his regime was punishment enough to start with. Let him think Melkor had moved on and forgotten him, only to be harshly reminded once his guard was down.

Melkor’s head was beginning to ache. He hated everything about this. The truth that he had only brought this upon himself was one he refused to accept, instead placing the blame on everything and anything else. He was being punished unduly, therefore everyone would be punished.

He heard the door open and watched as Lelyacalë walked in, head unbowed but eyes cast down. Her hands were placed one on the other in front of her and she walked slowly. She was wearing white, all white, so that her light shone all the more brightly from her. Mairon did not move. Not even when she stood to the side of him, he spared her not a glance, nor when she addressed Melkor, he did not look her way. Melkor shifted his gaze between the two of them, a finger rubbing absently against his lips as he contemplated how to begin.

“That it hath come to this, doth make me aggrieved and angered both. Am I not the mightiest of the Ainur? Am I not king of this world? Why then, must I choose only one of thee to bestow my love upon?”

He glowered down at them.

“Well?” His voice boomed out, causing both to jump. He turned to his lieutenant. “What have thee to say for thyself, Mairon? For Lelyacalë here is willing to let thee have the accolade of being my lover all to thyself, to step back and relinquish any such thoughts and deeds in favour of you.”

The glassiness fell from Mairon’s eyes as he slowly turned to Lelyacalë, a questioning look verging on incredulity upon his features.

“Be this true?” His voice was husky and awkward still from his injury, but even Melkor could hear the notes of hope and triumph within.

“Yes.” She faced him, eyes meeting his own with level coolness, voice low and calm. “I have said before I wish for no quarrel with you, and I mean it. If this will stop your vendetta against me, then it is a price I will pay.”

Mairon’s face attempted a victorious smile, but only managed a lopsided grin before it collapsed back again at the effort. Lelyacalë perceived this and cut in coldly.

“If it does not stop your personal attacks on me, if you move against me in any way to annoy, cause pain, undermine, or hinder me, then consider it null and void and if Our Lord calls me to his bed, I will have nothing holding me back. Do you understand me, Mairon?”

The maia appraised her for a mere blink of an eye before bowing his head and growling out that he did. Melkor decided it was time he took control of things once more. He stood suddenly, causing the others to swivel and crane their necks to look up at him.

“Lelca may be willing to let thee have me all to thyself, Mairon, but I am not. I shall have thee both and I shall have no complaint. Thou will not move against my little light and she will no more move against thee. Your rivalry ends here. Is this well understood? ” His voice echoed loudly as he crescendoed.

Mairon looked aghast, then angry, then defeated. He nodded. Lelyacalë looked unsurprised by his words and inclined her head.

“Thus, a contract hath been laid out. It must now be sealed. Do so… with a kiss.” He smiled cruelly down, knowing this would be abhorrent for both of them. Sure enough, Lelyacalë and Mairon physically recoiled at the idea. Neither moved to obey.

“Now.” Melkor commanded.

There was a tense silence before Lelyacalë moved hesitantly toward Mairon. The maia followed suit and closed the gap. He looked down at her. They both seemed to reach an unspoken agreement before closing their eyes and placing the quickest of pecks upon the other’s lips. They broke apart immediately and retreated back to their original standing positions.

“That was barely a kiss. Seal it properly, with a befitting kiss.” Melkor hissed out. The cruel smile adorned his face once more. “Kiss one another like thou wouldst kiss me.”

Mairon looked like he had swallowed acidic rocks, which is probably what his pride tasted of. Lelyacalë wore a look of resignation and her light visibly dimmed in dismay. They both made their way towards one another again. Why Melkor was doing this to them was beyond either of their guesses; he was jealous and possessive so why he would wish to see the two people he professed to love the most share any semblance of touching made no sense. In truth, it was because Melkor knew they hated one another and this kiss would humiliate and disgust them both, a befitting punishment. He knew there would be no lust, no affection in the motion. Besides, it showed how much he was in control, how much he could exact obedience even from his strongest followers.

Once more, they both came to a mental agreement and lent forward at the same time. This time when their lips touched they moved against one another. Mairon was surprised at how soft Lelyacalë felt against him and she marvelled at how his mouth was not unpleasant to taste. The whole experience was unusual, not entirely horrendous, but not one either wished to repeat. They broke with a gasp, both had unwittingly been holding their breath the whole time.

“Good.” Melkor enunciated the word. “Now it is time for me to bestow my punishments upon both of thee for this situation.”

“Both of us?” Mairon was genuinely shocked.

“Yes, Mairon. For thy jealousy hath brought us to this point, as much as Lelyacalë’s weakness in forbearing it.”

Mairon cowed himself and for the first time Melkor saw a flicker of fear cross his face. He had never shown fear of Melkor before, and Melkor himself was unsure how he felt about this. He expected fear from nearly all, required it, even. Not Mairon. Never Mairon. It gave him pause in his approach to punishment. Punishing his lieutenant had never been done in any real seriousness before, but Melkor felt that Mairon needed to know his actions had hurt him. He had attempted to rob him of Lelyacalë. True, he could have lied. He could have told Mairon he was all his and then have gone to her anyway. But she would have fought him, rejected him, scorned him. And Mairon would have found out. He always found out. Melkor stepped down until he was before Mairon.

“Look at me.”

Mairon obeyed.

“Thou shall never say no to me in anything ever again. I will be refused nothing from thee. No matter thy distaste of it. Thou will obtain permission from me in all matters, and if thou does not, I shall destroy thy projects.”

Mairon’s eyes were opened wide in shock as he took in exactly what was being asked of him. He swallowed clumsily and bowed his head, only for Melkor to grip under his chin, making him wince. Melkor raised his lieutenant's face and kissed him hard on the mouth. Then he dropped his hand, letting Mairon sag back into a more comfortable position and turned dismissively to Lelyacalë.

“As for thee, Lelca, thou shalt return with me to Utumno. Thou will train with Gothmog. Sàratalma thou shall see no more. The uruk thou shall see no more. Thou will accompany Thuringwethil and the other spirits of blood and plague the inhabitants of my kingdom, luring them in with thy light glorious only to drain them of all they possess. Freedom from Utumno thou wilt have, but to do my bidding alone. Thou will be cursed by all who meet thee. Thou shalt become mine weapon to wield against mine enemies.”

He could see her hands had begun to shake and that she gripped them all the more tightly. Tears were threatening to storm her eyes as she struggled to maintain eye contact with him. He knew she had hated being alone, so he would take her only friend from her. He knew she would miss the uruk, their connection, so he took him from her also. He knew she hated feeding on the elves, even if she needed it to survive, so he would send her out as a scourge. He knew Gothmog terrified her, so he would force her to be at his mercy, of which he knew the Lord of Balrogs had none. It was cruel, it was vindictive, it was justice.

He reached forward and placed a firm kiss on her trembling lips. To his surprise, she kissed him back and it was nearly enough for him to undo all he had issued as the memory of her and his feelings rose up within him. When he moved back from her, she did not look at him however, but at Mairon.

“This is your doing. I asked for none of this.” The words were hollowed out by sadness. Then she turned and fled from the room, her dress billowing behind her like a flag of surrender. Melkor made no move to stop her, but once she was out of sight he looked to Mairon. It was quite obvious to even the least astute that he would never admit that this was his fault.

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Lelyacalë ran all the way back to her room. Her mind was sloshing with thoughts and emotions. She had become too complacent, too used to life under Melkor and his favour to keep her guard up. She had not realised how much Mairon would move against her. She had forgotten Ilinhen to both their detriment. She had forgotten how quickly Melkor could change moods, even against those he professed to hold in high esteem. She had been a fool. An unthinking, careless fool.

The full weight of her future finally caught up to her and forced her to the ground. She knew there was no hope. For even when The Valar came and took Melkor away to Valinor, there would be no mercy for her, if they even found her. Gothmog would no doubt hide her up with the other balrogs, his to abuse and torment, in the name of training for war. Then Melkor would return, even worse than before. She would have no Talma to help her through. Then only Eru knew what Melkor was going to do to Âshûrzash.

The thoughts, fears, anxieties, and despair clogged her mind and she remained slumped on the floor, unmoving until the fire had burned low in the grate and all was cast into deeper shadow. Finally, her feelings demanded release and the tears came.

For the first time in centuries she cried. Tears of frustration chased tears of regret. Tears of anger mingled with tears of injustice. They heaved out of her in wrenching gasps. Torment sang throughout her and threaded itself amongst her. It took up her hand and grabbed the dagger she wore at her belt. It brought the sharp edge down, again and again. It slashed at her wrists. It jabbed at her stomach. It even sliced her throat. Nothing worked, she bled, she healed, she bled again, she healed again. There was no end. The torment tried to release itself from her and could not, it tried to cut itself out but its freedom was denied.

Thuringwethil found her, drawn by the blood that now coated her arms, her torso, her legs, her neck. It pooled upon the floor, a sea of grief mocking her continued existence. The demon fled, seeking her master, who appeared in haste. He was fully healed now and his mind was back to its usual manner of superiority and self-regard. Mairon loomed over her in disbelieving disgust, accusing her of foolishness and selfishness, aghast and perplexed by her utter pitiable state. His words fell upon her and dissolved in the acrid hatred of her blood.

Her emotions had consumed themselves and all that remained was a black hole of apathy. It swelled within her, growing and pushing out the last of her tears. It subsumed her torment as it spread and she was left hollow to her very marrow. The bloodied blade dropped from her hand and she sat there, undone. Unfeeling. Unthinking. Unhearing.

She was oblivious to Melkor, barging in as a charged maelstrom to survey all she had done. She did not hear him scream for everyone to leave. She did not feel him lift her up and cradle her, her dress beginning to stiffen with her drying blood. She knew not that he laid her on the bed and held her there, his tears soaking into the red stains as they turned brown. She comprehended nothing of his anger, his dismay, or his crushing pain at what she had attempted to do, at what she had managed to do in that attempt. That she had tried to flee him through death, that she had tried to devastate her lovely form, was a curse upon his very being. .

They stayed that way for quite some time, a bloodier mirror of past events, she unmoving while he attempted to elicit a response from her. No one dared disturb them, least of all Mairon. The moment Melkor had arrived he had quietly secreted himself from the room before Melkor had commanded it. Sàratalma paced around outside, anxiety fuelling his footsteps. He had seen Lelca through the doorway after following Thuringwethil back with Mairon and was the one to rush and tell all to Melkor. Horrors he had witnessed and been a party to plenty, but seeing his friend, his only true companion, butcher herself to the point the light in her was struggling to fully heal her had shocked and horrified him. At first he had assumed she had been attacked, but closer inspection proved she had done this to herself.

Sàratalma wished he could be in there to help her, but Lelca was Melkor’s and he had just been told by his master that he would no longer be training her. Indeed, he would never see her again. He hoped beyond all he had ever hoped before that their forced separation had not been part of the ruin she had inflicted upon herself. He found himself feeling negatively towards he to whom he pledged allegiance, which he had not done since he had learned about Melkor and Arien. For the first time, however, he wished he did not serve one such as him. These thoughts and feelings scared Sàratalma and he set them aside for the time being. This was no time to doubt his loyalty, he had to focus on Lelca and ensure she would be well. For now, all he could do was pace and hope and wait.

His heart groaned with grief for Lelyacalë and it slid from one of his eyes in a solitary moment. He had never wept before, not even knowing that he was capable of such a thing, yet a single tear rolled down his charcoal cheek for the love of his friend.

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Mairon did not know what to make of recent events. He had underestimated Lelyacalë to a dangerous degree. He could not move against her now, he had sworn it to and before his liege lord. He would also have to live with the fact Melkor would take her unto himself as well as Mairon too. He felt anger simmer briefly against his master, but it cooled as he realised that Melkor was a god, a god of all, and all belonged to him rightfully. He could take what he wanted and should. It was no fault of his own that he wanted Lelyacalë. It was her fault for existing in the first place. Were she not here, this conundrum would not have occurred in the first place.

So. He would have to bear the burden of sharing Melkor with her. He could not take her from him or him from her. He could, however, take the uruk from her… Yes. Âshûrzash was loyal to him and they had developed a stronger bond, with Mairon favouring the uruk above any other. Was he sometimes cruel? Of course. That was his job. Âshûrzash could expect no less; but he was also kind to the uruk. He graced him with confidence, trust, admiration. With a moment of shocking realisation, it struck Mairon that he treated Âshûrzash much as Melkor treated Lelyacalë.

Then it would be easy for Mairon to turn the uruk against her. After all, the maia was the uruk’s only true friend now. What had Lelyacalë done for him, except lead him here? If one really thought about it, it was her fault poor Âshûrzash had been put through all the torture and torment he had. Mairon had offered a way out, not Lelyacalë. Mairon had come to him and saved him from a worse fate, raised him up, and made him great. Mairon had saved him from Melkor’s wrath. Not Lelyacalë. She had done nothing. She had abandoned him to grace Melkor’s bed.

Yes. Âshûrzash would be his, not only this, but the uruk would come to hate the very being whom he adored enough to follow into darkness. Mairon knew Melkor meant to keep the uruk and his little light separated, but he also knew that would never happen. Especially not now. Mairon could orchestrate meetings anyhow, he specialised in manipulating events as well as people.

Nevertheless, he would have to be subtle. If he acted too brashly, too forthright, it would be seen as acting against Lelyacalë and thus breaking the covenant he had made with her. She was weak now though, that was plainly obvious from what she had done to herself. From the looks of things, she had nearly succeeded in taking her own life. Mairon shuddered. As much as he wished her gone, that outcome would have been disastrous for everyone, himself foremost. Her death would have been laid at his feet, despite it being her own doing and due to the penalties Melkor was placing upon her.

Mairon shook the thought from his mind. No point dwelling on what ifs that did not come to pass. He had been wandering somewhat aimlessly throughout Angband, but now he made his way to where he knew Âshûrzash would be. It was time to plant the seeds of his plan and give them a gentle watering.

Chapter Text

He felt them before he saw them. The Valar come at last against him. Panic and fear filled him, feelings Melkor had not felt much before the recent event of Lelyacalë attempting to end her life and he resented feeling them again now. He had been travelling back to Utumno, in much haste, carrying his precious, broken Lelca. He had needed to get her away from Angband, away from Mairon. He had needed to get her back home. He had been about to drag Sàratalma with him, but the maia was already waiting to come with him, no permission sought. Melkor had not had time to consider the audacity of such a move, or the utter resolve in his follower’s dark eyes, instead being grateful that Lelyacalë would have another comfort. 

He needed to return her to what she had been. He had pushed her too far. After centuries he had finally pushed her too far. His little light. She had been so close to death, despite his efforts, despite the light within her. Too late he realised he had never properly utilised the light she possessed, having focussed too much on the part of him he had bestowed upon her, within her. He had wanted her to be like him so badly that he had forgotten that his light and hers were different. His fear at losing her had quashed his dismay and anger at her actions and was what drove him on. Mairon be damned in that moment, she was all he could focus on. 

Utumno was in sight when he felt the first tremor through the earth. The unmistakable beat of Nahar’s hooves. The winds were picking up and dark clouds swirled in the sky, lightning crackling at the edges. Manwë. A boom echoed across the sky that could be mistaken for thunder; but Melkor knew better. It was the joyous laugh of Tulkas. He knew it would not just be those three. Indeed, he already felt Ulmo in the rain that suddenly gushed from the sky and time itself seemed to weave about him like Varië’s tapestries. The earth beneath him plucked at his feet and he saw Utumno before him assailed by vines snaking in to crack and choke, a sure sign Yavanna was nearby. 

He picked up his speed and Sàratalma followed suit. He hurled himself towards Utumno and practically broke down the main entrance getting inside, bellowing at all for it to be fortified, that their great enemies had come upon them at last. He himself fled to some of the deepest reaches of the mountain, down and down into the darkest of pits where Lelyacalë was the only real light. He did not know if they would be found here. He dare not go too far lest all his secrets be found. Though it pained him to admit, he had to plan on capture as much as evasion. 

Lelyacalë had not spoken the entire journey, but as he huddled there with her in the depths she broke the tense quietude that had befallen the trio, for Sàratalma had remained silent also. He had melted within the darkness around him and Melkor nearly forgot he was there until he moved closer to Lelyacalë and her light illuminated his shadowy form. 

“This is The Valar coming for you, is it not?” Her voice held no emotion but her weariness was evident. 

“Yes.” Was the only reply Melkor found he could make. 

“It was only a matter of time until they did so. We all knew that. Will they take me with you, do you think? Or will they destroy me?” She asked as though she cared not for the answer. 

“I will not let them have thee, to capture or destroy.” Melkor grimaced at the thought. As much as he did not wish to be parted from Lelca, the thought of The Valar getting their hands on her, to twist and turn her against him, was more than he could bear. Especially now she was in such a vulnerable state, more susceptible to persuasion. “I would have had more time to prepare for this event if thou had not assaulted thyself so. If thou and Mairon had not been at one another’s throats. If thou-“

“You would never have been prepared, ninya melda ,” Lelyacalë interrupted. “You had distractions aplenty without any interference from me. Mairon, on the other hand… he ensured you were kept busy so he could enact his own wishes.” There was a sharp edge to her voice now as she spoke. 

She paused briefly, though not long enough to permit a response, then asked, “You would prefer us to be parted?” Incredulity now crept into her voice. 

Melkor had no recourse to her rebuttal of his accusation, for she had been quite correct. His love and trust for Mairon had blinded him to much, and it was not something he wished to acknowledge internally, let alone publicly, so chose to ignore it and focus on her question instead. 

“Indeed not, but I wouldst not have those of my brethren lay hands on thee and corrupt thee.” His voice was dark with emotion. 

He saw her nod slowly. “But if you are gone, what place have I here? Mairon will take charge for certain, and I would not challenge him as I have no wish to lead, but if you are gone, he can and will do what he likes. No matter what he promised.” 

“He will not break his promise, of this I am certain. Mairon is loyal to me. Besides, thou shalt be second in command; Sàratalma is here to witness this edict I bestow.” 

The dark maia finally spoke at the mention of his name. “Wouldst it not be better for Lelyacalë to go into hiding whilst thou art gone, my Lord? Safe from The Valar and Mairon alike. I couldst tell Mairon she was taken with thee-“.

Melkor cut him off with unconcealed alarm in his voice. “And have her free to leave me? Never to return? Art thou mad?”

“You could find me anywhere in this world, Melkor, do not pretend otherwise. We are connected forever, you and I.” Her eyes blazed in the dark, cutting through him. “Besides, I have no place except with you now. For better or worse, we two together are an eternal inevitability.” 

She spoke the truth, yet it brought him no comfort for it drawled from her mouth apathetically. He found he could not speak for a great while and the three of them stood listening as The Valar moved ever closer and closer. Melkor could no longer take it, and he cut through the close atmosphere like a hammer upon glass, shattering it with his voice.

“I command thee to wait for me. For if taken, I shall return, Lelca. This much I promise thee.” 

She watched him, unmoving. “Oh, yes. You shall return, this much is true. You are far too cunning to stay hostage to The Valar forever.”

“And thou shalt be waiting for me, where thou belongest.” His voice was taking on a frantic tone when he had been aiming for a commanding one, but she was ignoring his request and he feared she would not make the promise and nor could he force her to, not now. Despite the connection they shared, despite him imbuing her with himself, she remained her own person and the strength he had given unto she had taken and made her own. She had been strong enough to try to leave him through death after all. 

She said nothing, but turned her head aside, as though contemplating her answer and stared down into the darkness.

One heartbeat. Two. Three. He could stand it no longer. That she had not readily agreed upon his insistence frightened him the most. He had no power over her now, she could be free of him and they both knew it. Even if he would always find her, even if he could drag her back to his side, he had lost her willingness and he craved that as much as he craved dominion over her. So it was that it clawed its way from him in desperation, dredged from the bowels of his fear and need. “Wait for me. Be there when I return. Please, Lelca.”

He felt more than saw Sàratalma’s eyes widen in shock, his jaw open slightly in astonishment, for his focus was all on his little light in front of him, his eyes fixed upon her face. One slender eyebrow had raised, but otherwise her face remained impassive as she returned his regard. 

“I will be there for you when you return.” She finally intoned and Melkor felt his body relax from a tension he had not fully comprehended himself holding. 

“Thou has my gratitude.” It was whispered from his lips, an honesty more raw than his throat felt. 

“I will have more freedom, however. I refuse to be cooped up under your lieutenant’s command. But I will stay because I do not trust Mairon. Someone has to keep him in check with his uruk and wolf legions. He has already shown he is cruel with them and they do not deserve such after all they have suffered. I will not abandon them to him. I will also stay for Sàratalma, he being the only one I can trust.” Lelyacalë added, voice resolute. 

At the mention of the uruks, Melkor’s mind went straight to the one who had dared to kiss his little light. His anger and hatred flared up within him at the thought that they could be alone together, without him there. He could not be sure the uruk would not make advances in his absence, despite the oath he had taken prostrated at Melkor’s feet. He could also not be sure Mairon would prevent such a thing. In fact, the maia might actively encourage such a dalliance to break Lelyacalë away from him, the one whom she should and had already rightfully pledged her love and loyalty to, so that he might have Melkor all to himself. 

He was about to speak when the foundations around him quailed and he heard his name bellowed aloud. Tulkas, that great buffoon, was having far too much fun in Melkor’s realm. It became apparent to the Lord of Utumno that he would not be able to escape the efforts of his peers to capture him. It was only a matter of time before they were upon him and his two companions. He made a decision. 

“Sàratalma, I will lead our enemies away so that thou and Lelyacalë canst flee unseen and unhindered. Keep her safe.” The last command was uttered in great solemnity. 

He turned to Lelca. “Lelca, stay with Sàratalma. Stay loyal to me. I do not wish for either of thee or Mairon to fight one another, I would not have Mairon abuse thee, or thee him. Be strong. Surprise me with thy strength on my return.”

Having finished his monologue to her, he reached forth and cupped her face, bringing his lips to hers in a farewell kiss. It was a kiss laden with remorse, longing, and desperation and he abode in it for as long as he dared, savouring her gentle return that spoke of sadness. When he broke from her, he immediately turned to leave, not daring to see her eyes again.

“Wait!” 

Melkor turned in surprise to see Lelyacalë approach him in the darkness. He faced her but otherwise dared not move. 

“They will take you to Aman in chains. To the Halls of Mandos. You will escape that place one day and come back to us, but do not trust the one called Ungoliant. She will seem like a helpful ally but she is not. You will witness many beautiful creations. Beauty can burn and mar those that have shunned the light of Eru. Also, not all jewels are worth possessing, for the cost is much too high.” She spoke hurriedly but earnestly. “Do you understand?”

“How doth thou know these things?” Melkor queried, for he had not perceived when searching her mind that she knew stories of him and this world from her home, the thought never crossing his own to think such a thing and therefore delve for it in her memories. 

“The Light shows many things.” She answered cryptically. “Do you understand what I said to you?”

Suddenly a light appeared and was growing brighter. They were here at last. A voice called out in triumph I see him below! and footsteps thundered towards them. Sàratalma grabbed Lelyacalë by the hand and pulled her down a tunnel as Melkor turned to flee in the opposite direction. They both spared a glance back at the other. She called to him in her mind as they made eye contact, using their connection to do so. Did you understand what I said? You must remember what I said!

I will try. Came his hesitant reply. 

Sàratalma was urging her onwards and she turned to follow him, knowing she could do no more to help Melkor. Unsteadily, for the earth all about shook greatly with the tumult of the great powers fighting, the two made their way up and out of Utumno. They ran at great speed away from that place as it was torn asunder, unroofed completely by those who created the world. The noise was deafening, the wrenching of rock, the crack of stone as it was rent asunder. Both she and Sàratalma fell several times as the foundations beneath them quaked violently. She wished she had gotten better at changing into her fëa only, but her body held fast to herself. She was grateful Talma did not leave her behind, despite the fact it would have been much quicker, safer, and easier for him to flee in spirit form. 

The Valar were ginormous now, and upon looking at them Lelyacalë saw them change from raw elemental form to more humanoid. Or elfanoid, she supposed. For it was the elves that they did model themselves mostly after in that particular form. They still maintained their monumental size, striding across the landscape. Melkor was as yet not with them and not all The Valar were present. They were glorious to behold, as they had been on Almaren and a part of her yearned to be with them; the light within her reaching forth towards the light they exuded. 

She noticed Talma did not look back, but faced steadfastly on back towards Angband. She grabbed him and spun him to face her. 

“We cannot go to Angband yet. We must wait for them to leave in case they see and follow us. As much as I’d love for Mairon to have to face Aulë again, it would be a betrayal of Melkor and, despite everything, I cannot do that. There are also those there that do not deserve such a reckoning.”

Sàratalma nodded in agreement and they both secreted themselves as best they could in order to watch proceedings but also remain unseen.

Her thoughts, feelings, and behaviour should have shocked her. She had a chance to undo Melkor’s works entirely. To perhaps work her way into favour with The Valar. Beg forgiveness, do penance, start by giving them Angband. In the beginning, when first captured by Melkor and on realising death would not be coming for her, she had planned on escaping at this point, if she could. In the beginning, she had feigned adoration and obedience to Melkor. In the beginning, she had been an entirely different person. But now… Part of her may hate it, however there was no use denying it; she was Melkor’s. Her actions could hurt Melkor and it was not even just the part of him within her holding her back in that regard anymore. 

She might have hated what Melkor had done to her, what he had threatened to do. She might wish life had gone another way. She might prefer freedom and relish it; but she would not be able to betray Melkor now. She knew his mind too well. Understood where he came from. She resented it at times, but love of him lay within her. Twisted, born of nothing good, and unhealthy, love it remained nonetheless, and it held her fast in place, stifling her freedom as much as Melkor ever did. 

Besides which, The Valar would also no doubt hurt Sàratalma. They would hurt Âshûrzash, and his children. She could not allow this; she especially could not be the reason this was allowed to happen. Sàratalma might be considered evil and probably did deserve punishment for his deeds, but she would not be the one to judge him, when he had been merciful and kind to her. His retribution could come when Melkor’s did; when his master was cast back into The Void. Furthermore, she needed Talma with her to withstand Mairon. If memory served her correctly, Melkor would be gone some three thousand years. Three thousand years with no ally against a being who loathed your very existence would be utter torture. So, for selfish reasons, she would protect Talma, even if this was not the morally correct thing to do. As for Âshûrzash, she owed him a proper conversation. She owed him a proper apology. She expected nothing from him, neither forgiveness nor friendship; but if she could at least stop him from hating her, that would be something. 

Staying for Melkor was wrong, the human part of her, sliver though it was of her soul, knew this. Choosing him was folly, surely? And yet… fear of what The Valar would think of her now, fear of what the elves would make of her, stalked her. Her past actions condemned her. Even if she had had little choice, she had still made the choice. The choice to not fight Melkor. The choice to not try and escape. The choice to feign love and obedience in order to survive only to be swept up in her own pretence. She was well and truly lost, as a person. She was morally at war with herself and whichever side won, it would still leave her with great losses, as all wars do. 

Sàratalma was eyeing her carefully and broke in on her reverie. “Thou doth love him, regardless of what he hath done to thee, dost thou not?” 

“You know me too well, Talma.” Lelyacalë replied bitterly, her mind forced back to the present.

“Thou carest for more than just he though?” His dark eyes seemingly glowed more red at the edges at the question. 

“If you mean do I care for you, then yes I do. You’re my only friend.” 

“I did not mean me.” His gaze intensified. 

She blushed. She knew who he was alluding to. It had clearly not escaped Talma’s notice that she had mentioned cruelty to the uruks and not abandoning them when agreeing to stay and wait for Melkor and who she had actually meant by that.

“This is not the time for such conversations, with the world collapsing about us and our Lord about to be dragged off.”

No sooner had she said this, than they beheld Melkor being hauled from the ruins of Utumno. He was bound in thick constricting chains, Aulë proudly holding one end whilst Tulkas held another. Despite them being a good distance from the place now, The Valar were so large in stature that their features were quite clear. All of them were there now, a heavenly entourage escorting their hellish charge. Both Lelyacalë and Sàratalma instinctively hid, peering out carefully. The Valar swiftly moved on back to Aman, but as they left one turned and looked directly in Lelyacalë’s direction. 

It was Ulmo. His eyes met hers, across the distance. Upon contact, he raised his arm in what seemed to be a salute of recognition. He smiled at her, sad and understanding, and waited, not moving after his companions. Lelyacalë was fixed in place, and she found herself shaking. Slowly she stood, despite Sàratalma hissing at her to stay down, and waved back at Ulmo. 

The god of water moved towards her then, and none of the others paid him heed, their entire focus being on Melkor. Upon reaching her, Ulmo issued Sàratalma a hard stare and uttered one word. 

“Leave.”

The dark maia did not need telling again, and fled in a flurry of black shadows. 

“Leah, I hast been doing my utmost to learn of thy welfare since thou were taken from us. It grieveth me to know that thou hast been under the thrall of Melkor this entire time. Thou canst come with me now and live in freedom in Valinor.”

His voice was gentle, like waves lapping a shore, and his eyes were earnest. It broke her heart. It should have been so simple, say yes and go with him and be free. Yet she knew that was impossible. Part of her screamed at her to go with Ulmo, but a greater part shrank back in fear and loyalty to Melkor.

“I… I cannot go with you. I vowed to Melkor to stay here and I cannot break that.” Her voice quavered, guilt ripping into it. 

Ulmo’s being darkened as a stormy sea. “That is unfortunate indeed, for I cannot liberate thee of any promise made to another. None of us can.”

“Valinor is not a place for me anyway.” She broke in, desperate to explain herself, to absolve herself. “I am no elf. I am a broken thing of Melkor’s.”

“Thou art not broken!” She nearly fell over at the strength of his words. “Thou hast the light within thee, Leah, use it. Melkor wishes to possess it, but thou art the true possessor. It is thy power alone. I canst see he has poured himself into thee, given to thee of himself and his might, but thou has thine own strength, thine own power. Use it. For thou art better than he.”

Unbeknownst to Ulmo, or anyone, she had been doing a bit of investigating as to what power this light that had bound itself to her could do, but she had done little. She had had no real time, her focus being forced on Melkor and Mairon’s machinations. Ulmo’s words seemed to ignite the light within her, however, it awoke at them and keened within her to heed them. 

She nodded. “I shall.” 

“I am sorry I come too late to save thee, my friend, but I pray thou doth not fall alongside Melkor. For I shall mourn it for the rest of time. I have no love for Melkor, and it pains me that thou shouldst be enslaved to him, but I shall remain thy friend forever. I hear thy pain, I see thy suffering. Speak, and the water will hear. Ask, and the water will give.”

He reached forth and with one tip of his finger, touched her forehead. The effect was immediate, a cleansing of the mind. She felt unblemished for the first time in centuries. She was reminded what the water had given her and knew what she needed to do, what she needed to focus on. 

“Where shalt thou goest, now that Melkor’s stronghold be utterly destroyed?” Ulmo seemed part curious, part concerned.

“Melkor’s reach was greater than you think.” She dared not outright lie to Ulmo, not least because he had consistently shown her kindness when he had not needed to. “There are places I can go.”

Ulmo nodded gravely. “He thinks to escape and return and has told thee to wait for him.”

She nodded. 

“I doth need to leave now, for Manwë would have us all present at Melkor’s reckoning.” 

“I will find a way to speak to you again, I promise.” She called out as he turned to leave and that’s when she noticed it, upon his wrist, not lost or destroyed after all. 

The bracelet she had made him all those years ago on Almaren.

Chapter Text

Mairon had been waiting for them, though he had not known who to expect. He had been waiting for word of what had come to pass. Everyone in Angband had heard the tumult and everyone had been hidden in the bowels thereof until such a time as it was safe to emerge. Mairon knew it had been The Valar and had cursed himself for his lack of preparation for their inevitable arrival. He resented his laxness, damned it. He was better than this. This was all her fault, she had distracted him when he should have been focussed on more important matters. It had felt like an eternity, cowering in the dark, worrying. He had hoped to see his Lord, but instead it was Sàratalma and her. Mairon had resisted the urge to spit at his feet at the sight of them.

She was dust covered, her dress torn and stained. Mairon scoffed internally. She looked little better than she had in her bloodied white gown a week past. And yet… Her fierce eyes and bold stance were wondrous to behold. No amount of dirt could conceal her beauty now, he hated to admit it. Sàratalma looked weary, his armour nicked in places and smears of grime coated him as well. They stood watching one another for a few moments before Mairon could stand it no longer.

“Well? Speak! What hath happened? Where is Melkor?” To his great annoyance, his voice was higher in pitch than he would have liked, betraying the panicked emotions beneath.

“The Valar attacked Utumno and completely destroyed it. The mountain is no more. They have taken Melkor in chains back to their land with them.” Sàratalma spoke grimly.

“And both of thou didst nothing?” His voice was scathing.

“Ah yes, we two who possess more power than all fourteen Valar combined!” Sarcasm drenched every word Lelyacalë spoke. “Besides, where were you? I don’t recall seeing you rushing to aid our Lord, do you Talma?”

She turned to her friend and he nodded. “Indeed not. Thou were hiding here Mairon, whilst we were commanded to flee by Melkor himself. He did not wish for his brethren to lay hands on his little light.”

Mairon was livid beyond anything he had ever felt. He could not deny their accusations and he hated that Melkor had wished to protect Lelyacalë, even if it was not surprising in the least. Still, he had not wanted her with him, he could use that to cause her pain. As if hearing his thoughts, Lelyacalë spoke up.

“It’s true. I did offer to accompany My Lord, but he wished for me to stay and wait for his return. I suppose the separation is made easier by the fact we are forever connected, that our minds, our souls, can still reach for one another with ease, even across the distance.” She spoke factually, but Mairon felt the boast in her words and it cut deep into his pride. Whilst he and Melkor could communicate mind to mind, they had to be in close proximity to do so. He had tried to communicate thus whilst in Angband and Melkor in Utumno, but to no avail, hence the need for Thuringwethil. He vowed that this was something he would rectify in future, should Melkor return. No. When Melkor returned. He would return. He had to.

Again, as if perceiving his thoughts, the hated woman continued to speak.

“Melkor will return, though it will not be for a great while. He has placed you in command in his absence, of course, and me as second in command. I did not ask for a leadership position, I have no ambition to lead or rule, I think Our Lord merely wished for us to cooperate whilst he is gone.” 

She saw Mairon’s face and issued a hollow laugh. “Yes, I agree. Melkor expects miracles, it would seem. For my part, I wish for no quarrel with you Mairon. I have said this before and I say it again. For reasons known only to himself, Melkor loves and values and wants us both. It does not matter if we like this fact or not. What does matter is doing the best by and for Our Lord while he is away and ensuring Angband is ready for his return. Do you agree?”

Mairon would rather have had Gothmog tear off his tongue and force him to eat it than admit Lelyacalë was correct, but he was also not foolish. Melkor had to come first and that meant, perhaps only temporarily, setting aside his feud with this woman. He had made a promise not to move against her and she to not move against him. If Melkor returned and found he had broken that oath, it would be irreconcilable. Melkor would never trust him again. Melkor would favour Lelyacalë over him for the rest of time, and would take her side in all things. No. Revenge was not worth that price. At least, not immediate revenge. Moreover, she had Sàratalma as a firm ally. Sàratalma who had never been against Mairon, but who had certainly never been for Mairon. He was Melkor’s servant through and through and now he was also Lelyacalë’s it seemed.

“I agree.” He amazed himself, and apparently both his fellows, by how easily the words fell from his mouth. He had been sure he would have to grit them out, but in the end, he let go in order to move forward. He and Lelyacalë would be alive a very long time, revenge could as yet be in his future for her. All in good time. She had her uses, this much he had to concede, so he would use her. It was time to be practical, something he was capable of and knew she was too. Find the common ground and work from there. This would not be easy, but it was necessary. For Melkor. For the god he adored. Setting aside his hatred and pride seemed easier to do once he remembered who it was all for. There was also a small part of him, an infinitesimal part, that wondered if they could have been on better terms. If she had not shunned him so, had cared for him more and Melkor cared for her less. There had been moments when he had wished they were not pitted against one another, that he could have one more beautiful, broken thing to call his own. To use and gaze upon. He doubted that would ever be the case now.

“I’m glad.” Lelyacalë issued a small smile. “Where would you have me start first?”

“Clean thyself up. Then go begin training thy new uruk leaders, show them how combat should be conducted. Now that The Valar are involved we need to be more prepared than ever. Our uruk are fierce but they have no real skill. Teach them what you can.”

She nodded but he continued. 

“Though, it is high time we get thee some proper armour to befit the left-hand of Melkor. I have put off the deed for quite some time in petty animosity, but we now need be united for Our Lord’s sake, so we shall. This shalt be my token of truce...” He moved closer to her, so she was forced to look up at him. “But I shall expect one in return.”

“And what token would you like, Mairon?” She was obviously taken off-guard by how quickly he was agreeing to peace between them, she had clearly expected more resistance, maybe even point blank refusal. Truth be told, Mairon was grieving the loss of his beloved and he was tired. He had no wish to fight in a war in which victory also meant defeat. Working with Lelyacalë was the only option that made sense, as much as he despised the fact. He did not have to be kind to her. He did not have to spare her feelings or ensure she was happy. He just needed to not fight with her, to not provoke animosity between them. This he could do. Especially if he could plan revenge at the same time, for a delicious later date.

“I leave that up to thee, to think of something to equal my offering.” 

She nodded. “Give me a little time and I shall come up with something. Where shall I find those uruk I should train?”

“I shall send Âshûrzash to bring you to them.”

Her eyes widened slightly but she made no comment, merely nodded, then turned to leave. Sàratalma turned to follow but Mairon stopped him. 

“Thou canst head straight to training and get the rabble into some semblance of order. A shadow thou mayest be, but thou need not be hers, thou agreeth?” Mairon teased the other maia, who remained expressionless.

“Rather hers than thine, Mairon.” Then before The Lord of Angband could make a retort, Sàratalma bled into the shadows and was gone.

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After Ulmo had left, Lelyacalë had found Sàratalma some miles away, waiting for her. He had looked relieved to see her, rushing forward to grasp her by the shoulders. He had demanded to know all that had passed between her and the father of the seas. He had seemed surprised at the honesty in which she spoke, she hid nothing from him. She only asked that he speak of it to no one, especially not Mairon. He had readily agreed. Ulmo terrified him, most of all The Valar. He avoided water at all costs, abhorring the sea in particular, just like his master. He also had no love for Mairon, and Lelyacalë had chosen to stay as Melkor asked, in spite of being offered freedom and protection under The Valar. He would keep her secret. 

They had both tried to prepare themselves for their encounter with the Lord of Angband, but in the end it had gone better than expected. Lelyacalë still did not trust Mairon and concluded that she had merely bought herself some temporary reprieve from the maia. He would no doubt be planning a painful vengeance for her some three thousand years from now. If he could even wait that long. Melkor’s return as Morgoth would change many things. Even with her warning to him, Lelyacalë held no real hope that Melkor would heed her and that they would eventually hear his degrading shriek as Ungoliant attacked him; that they would see three jewels beyond anything anyone had ever seen before adorn Morgoth’s dark head. Three thousand years with Mairon, then wars upon wars on Melkor’s return. 

Three thousand years with not just Mairon though. Lelyacalë smiled to herself. The water had gifted her Ilinhen and it was high time she respected that. Promises to Melkor aside, she owed Ilinhen - Âshûrzash - much. She could not undo the past, she could, however, decide the future. 

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It had not surprised Âshûrzash that Mairon had come to him. It had not surprised him that Mairon had refused to acknowledge that the cruelty he had inflicted on him was of the maia’s own volition. It had not surprised him when Mairon had subtly turned the conversation to Lelyacalë. This he had all expected. Mairon was nothing if not predictable in his methods and behaviours; years under his servitude had shown the father of the uruk that. 

Âshûrzash had not seen Lelyacalë since she had stopped Melkor from flogging him, or beating him, or whatever punishment the Dark One had planned to bestow upon him. Mairon had visited him constantly, more than he ever had, and always she became the topic of conversation. He only learned she had left Angband once the earth trembled and groaned and Mairon had hid them all deep in the belly of Angband, well beneath the surface. The uruk had asked where Melkor was and Mairon had told him that he had taken Lelyacalë back to Utumno, which now sounded as though it were under attack from the great powers. 

Now she was back, but Melkor was gone, taken. Âshûrzash felt hope rise within him, which he had quashed almost immediately. Melkor might be gone, but everyone was assured he would return. Mairon was less formidable perhaps, did not hold the same animosity towards him, but that did not make the maia a much more pleasant option as overlord in Melkor’s absence. Indeed, who knew what Mairon might become now he had full rein (and full reign, in fact) over proceedings. 

Mairon’s favour of him constantly set Âshûrzash on edge, even as he craved to please the maia. The deferential treatment came with high conditions that were never properly set out, meaning he would be gifted much at one point and not know the price that would be exacted from him or when. Sometimes Mairon would require nothing from him, which only unsettled the uruk father further and caused him great anxiety. The act of being Mairon’s most trusted, of appearing the willing obedient servant, a grateful servant, was exhausting. He could never relax. He could never have one day where he did not have to worry about what would happen next, and it had only gotten worse since the maia had fulfilled his promise of reuniting him with Lelyacalë. 

Mairon thought himself subtle, and in many ways he was, especially to those who knew him less. Âshûrzash knew better. He had fallen under Mairon’s spell one too many times in the past and he knew now to actively be aware of what Mairon could do. His silver tongue dripped poison and Âshûrzash had been building an immunity to it. 

Regardless, when Mairon had approached him and actually apologised for Melkor’s behaviour, for him letting the situation get out of hand, the accountability had threatened to pull the rug from under Âshûrzash’s feet. The maia had been all sincerity, pouting lips and pleading eyes, as if he had not brought this about by having the father of the uruk kill his own children in cold blood. True, Lelyacalë should have known better, surely, than to intercede as she had, but at least Âshûrzash could understand her motives. She had shown she cared, though that fact only hurt him more. It was too little too late. He had needed her earlier in his journey into darkness, instead he had been left to it alone. 

Whilst she frolicked with Melkor. Mairon’s voice purred in his ear. 

She may have saved thee from Melkor’s wrath, but she owed thee that at the very least, surely? 

She was assuaging her own guilt, not acting out of any love for thee.

She is the one who led you here and abandoned you. 

I have looked after thee. Promoted thee. I was here for thee. I fulfilled my promises to thee. 

It was a constant barrage of half truths mixed with lies, tugging at his emotions and clouding his judgement. The work Âshûrzash was put to as part of his normal routine also made it difficult to think at all, let alone rationally. 

The truth was he was angry at her. He was angry at Lelyacalë. He was angry that even after years of obedient servitude and torture he would never really be with her. He was angry that she was Melkor’s. He was angry that she tried to help him and only made the situation worse. He was angry that she still made him want her, even after all this time.

He had been asked to escort her once more and he had felt that anger, long stoked by Mairon, simmering beneath the surface. It did not help that upon reaching the gathered uruk, that his long-time torturer, Sàratalma, was present and waiting. The uruk had watched the shadowy maia warily as he glared over them, he had obviously gotten them into some semblance of order and had clearly not held back in doing so. Worse still, Lelyacalë had smiled at seeing the wretched demon. She had gone to him and spoke, as if they were old friends. 

This had continued for months, with Âshûrzash barely speaking a word, and Lelyacalë and Sàratalma teaching what appeared to be basic moves. He hated to admit it, but the uruk were slow to learn, their natural instinct was brutality, not finesse or well-thought out manoeuvres. He could sense Lelyacalë’s exasperation as she fought to teach. Âshûrzash could see the issue immediately, she was too kind. The uruk were used to harshness in all things, something her shadowy maia companion knew well and demonstrated. 

At one particular session, Lelyacalë had finally snapped. She half-screamed, half-pleaded for them to get in order, for Lord Melkor would not be so lenient with his troops on his return. It was the final strain against the dam within Âshûrzash, the name of Melkor on her lips, and the anger within him finally came spilling out after a year or so of it sloshing against his soul. 

“What is the plan then?” He barked over at Lelyacalë and Sàratalma, his face stony. 

Sàratalma merely raised an eyebrow and folded his arms at the question, but Lelyacalë approached him to reply. 

“It’s been over a year and we’ve barely gotten anywhere. So I’m going to try something new. To teach defense. They are good at attacking, they have the raw strength needed . They need to learn to defend against attacks they are unused to. The elves will not fight how they do.” Her voice betrayed no emotion. 

“Very well. I suppose he will be your sparring partner again?” He gestured with a sharp jerk of his chin to Sàratalma. 

“Indeed not, thou shalt, since thou shalt be leading alongside Lelyacalë. It is about time thou start working together.” Sàratalma sounded almost bored, which only increased Âshûrzash’s annoyance. “Besides, thou were an elf once, were thou not?”

Âshûrzash ignored the question and merely ground his teeth before spitting out. “So be it. Let us begin.” So saying, he drew his sword and took a stance opposite Lelyacalë. 

No sooner had she drawn her own weapon than he attacked. He knew he should be letting her lead but his rage fuelled him. He knew how the uruk fought but as an elf he had never had the need to fight. He did possess more mastery in the art of combat than his children, but now it was pure emotion that drove him on. 

She had not been fully prepared for his onslaught and so he was able to get a slash to her face. Only, when she turned back there was no mark upon her skin, when he knew that he had caught her. He swung again and again, frustration, injustice, but above all anger, surged in his veins. She parried him but made no move to attack, no matter how hard he came at her. Even he saw moments she could have taken advantage of. He had seen her fight before, she could have easily overcome him, yet she was choosing not to. This incensed him even more, he did not need her pity or her mercy. 

He was relentless, blow after blow he rained down on her until he realised with a lurching jolt that he did not really wish to harm her. That he harboured honest anger towards her, he could not deny, but his real fury was with his own decisions that had led him to the circumstances he found himself in. He had wanted to blame her, to pardon himself of any responsibility for where he had ended up, but he knew he could not. His wrath now emptied from his body, spent in each strike until he was left hollowed out, he stared at her, calculating his next move. 

He wanted to fall at her knees and beg for forgiveness. He wanted to claw at her and scream. He wanted to hold her to him and bury his face in her waist. He wanted to force an apology from her throat. He wanted to drag her to the floor and have her feel the weight of him. He wanted to kiss those heart-shaped lips and steal the breath they harboured. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted. 

But his children were watching. Sàratalma was watching. Mairon might even be watching.

He saw a change in her eyes as she regarded him and she bowed, a slight inclination of the head and sheathed her sword. She turned to the gathered uruk and spoke to them, wide eyed and confused though they were. 

“Âshûrzash has shown great skill in his fighting, but has demonstrated how a frenzied attack is not always the best one, especially against a more skilled fighter. We do not know how well our enemies will fight, but we must be prepared for great skill amongst some of them at least. 

Defending yourself is as important as attacking. Saying that, we should have superior numbers, so working together to take down an opponent of better skill will be crucial to success. Âshûrzash alone was a tricky opponent, but if he had had one or two of you aiding him, it could have tipped the odds in his favour.

For this session, split yourselves into pairs and one of you will focus on defence only, then we will switch so the other partner has a chance to practice. Any questions?

An uruk stepped forward, Âshûrzash’s oldest son, Bartaas (for he had entered the world with a roar), and boldly addressed Lelyacalë. 

“The one you call Âshûrzash we call Adar, for he is our father. Âshûrzash, he is called by Mairon as he was the first to father a surviving line, the first to gain the Lord of Angband’s favour. You are supposedly meant to be our mother, so what shall we call you?”

Silence followed his question as Lelyacalë stared first in surprise and then in contemplation. The uruk were finally giving her a name, this was progress in their awkward relationship. 

“I was named Lelyacalë by Melkor. That name in your tongue would be Mûkkaal, I have been told. If I am to be your mother in the same tongue Adar is your father then I would be Emel. I will answer to either.”

“Adar earned his name. Mûkkaal you shall be until you earn yours.” Bartaas replied unblinkingly, his words issuing a challenge.

Lelyacalë nodded. “That is fair. Are there any more questions?”

No one else spoke, so she bid them to begin. Soon the room was filled with the clanging of metal on metal and the snarls and grunts of combat. Lelyacalë moved towards Âshûrzash and stood by his side. 

“Am I to call you Adar as well? Or would you prefer Âshûrzash?” She spoke quietly, so that he was forced to focus on her words above the din in front of them. 

He did not answer for a great while and she did not press him to, nor did she move away. She waited patiently for him to speak and only broke her silence to order a switch in defender and attacker to the trainees. 

“Adar. Call me Adar. Âshûrzash is a name I am not fond of.” He smiled a little. “It does not fall as prettily from your tongue either.”

“Âshûrzash is a bit of a mouthful, it’s true.” Now she was smiling as well. “Well, Adar, I believe we are overdue a much needed conversation. We have much to catch up on. Tell me, when was the last time you went outside?”

Chapter Text

She had not felt this nervous in a long time. Melkor and Mairon made her feel anxious, worried, apprehensive, scared… but the creatures flying about her stomach were more akin to bats than butterflies as she contemplated the conversation she was to have with Adar. 

Adar. 

Father. 

She had to suppress a girlish giggle that threatened to bubble up her throat at the thought of calling him father . She felt incredibly human in that moment as jokes from her past life sprung into her mind, rusty and dust-covered, but humorous all the same. She tried to push them away, but the flutterings in her stomach were distracting her and she felt a bit dizzy with anticipation. Her nerves threatened to make her silly. She had always been prone to nervous giggling and, along with blushing crimson red all over at any embarrassment, it had always annoyed her greatly. 

Not that she had had that issue since arriving in Utumno. But that just made the situation all the more disorienting, being thrust back into your teenage and young adult self after centuries of being, well, whatever she was. It was ridiculous. She felt like she was being forced into an old outfit that no longer properly fit. 

Adar, it transpired, had not been outside in a very long time. She had bid Sàratalma finish the training, to which she had received a pointed look that meant she would be talking to him after this to explain herself, and she had led Adar along the corridors of Angband until they reached the outer door. No one stopped them. Outside was dark, shadows gathered to cover the stars, but it was still freedom from the stone encasing of the fortress behind them. 

They walked some distance until they came across the corpse of a tree, withered and bone-white in its death. They both looked up at the dead branches and mutually decided this was a good place to stop. Its trunk was wide enough for both of them to rest against it side by side and offered some privacy from Angband looming behind them. Neither spoke immediately as they leant against the smooth, barkless wood beneath them, simultaneously leaning into being alone together for the first time since the lake, all those many years ago. 

Eventually, it was her who broke the silence. 

“I’m sorry.”

“The fault does not truly lie with you though.” He sighed. 

“Some of it definitely does. I could have done more.” She laughed bitterly. “I could also have done less.” 

They both grimaced as they remembered her outburst against Mairon, in which she had ripped off his jaw. 

“Will you let me explain my time here? I’m not asking for forgiveness, but maybe… maybe it will help you understand? Then, if you wouldn’t mind, I could hear about what has happened to you?”

He glanced at her and then nodded. She folded her hands in her lap and began. She started at the very beginning and told him all about who she had been, her original human name, her old human life, how it was getting harder to remember it all now but bits and pieces flashed back from time to time. As she spoke, her hands came undone and began to pick at her clothes, the grass beneath them, one another. She spoke of meeting Melkor in The Void, again at the beginning of the world, her time on Almaren. She told him of her time in Utumno and how Melkor raped her in order to control her and how she had hated him in the beginning. She recounted their meeting at the lake and how Mairon had always disliked her, mistrusted her, resented her. How they had clashed many times. 

She regaled him with tales of combat training and years of obedient servitude, pretending to love and honour Melkor so she could live with the least amount of hardship. Any resistance had been met with punishment, so she had learnt to stop resisting. Then that hadn’t been enough, Melkor noted her obedience but sensed the reluctance, the lack of true willingness. So she had had to feign that too. It had worked, Melkor had favoured her more and had even been kinder towards her. He had also wanted her more physically. 

She admitted to him that the more she acted the part, the longer she embroiled herself in the pretence, the harder it was to see the truth. The false feelings became real. Lines became blurred. Wrong and right kept moving around, when before they had seemed so solidly in place. 

She told him of the sage blossom left on her pillow. Of how she had tried to find him but not nearly hard enough. How she had changed physically as well as mentally to the point she no longer recognised herself really. How she had fed on elves. How she had overseen torture and forced births. How she had been in charge of disposing of the babies who failed to thrive. 

She left nothing out. She spoke unapologetically. It was her truth and she was owning it. The mistakes she had made, the lies she had lived, the horrors she had witnessed and been a part of. The diseased love that had sprung up in her for Melkor. The shock of seeing Ilinhen again, so changed, a different person, a different name, the same feelings stirred up. The guilt. The regret. 

Adar realised how similar their stories were in many respects. How much both of them had had to give up in order to survive. He really had no idea who she had been when he had met her in the lake. He had had no idea what she was truly dealing with. 

After she had finished her tale, ending with Melkor being captured, she sat silent, waiting for him to speak. He had many questions, but he didn’t know where to begin. She looked at him askance but he remained mute, the torrent of information rushing about in his mind. 

“It’s a lot to take in, I’m sorry. I’m sure you have many things you wish to ask me, please take your time. We are in no rush.” She gently nudged her arm against his before returning the small distance between them. 

“Do not be sorry. I do have many questions, but my mind is too awash with them to pin one down.”

She laughed softly. “Understandable. Do you mind if I ask you a question then?”

He gestured for her to continue. 

“Why did you follow me to Utumno, even after my warning?” She turned to look at him then, eyes shining from the light she emitted. 

He could not hold eye contact as shame crept in, so he looked down at his boots. “I… wanted to see you again. I wanted to be with you, make sure you were well.” He swallowed. “No. That’s not the full truth. The real truth is I wanted you.”

She blinked at him, red creeping into her cheeks. She reached over and rubbed a thumb against the rough scars on his cheek bone, across and down to his jaw. She was cool and soft and where she had touched him ached with the need for more contact. 

“I’m sorry you found out in the hardest way I wasn’t worth it.” Her tone aimed for dark joviality, but the sincere sorrow underlying her words was plain for any to hear. 

His eyes snapped to hers then and his hand grabbed her own as she was about to let it drop back down. 

“That has yet to be determined.” 

His meaning was clear and the challenge of those words sent thrilling chills through them both. They had both made promises to stay away, to never be with the other in that way. In the way they had both wanted in that forest, huddled under a tree, centuries ago. 

She tried to speak, but words would not form in her mouth. They perished upon her tongue in twisted knots. Melkor had been taken from her maybe a year or so ago by her reckoning. Was she really willing to move on so fast, was she really willing to go back on her word to him?

It surprised her how little her body resisted. The thought of leaving or hurting Melkor no longer seemed to bind her the way it had in recent times. She realised she missed him less, especially in Adar’s presence. Maybe the only reason she had missed him at all, had come to love him at all, was because he had been all that was available to her, the only choice. Now she was being presented with options. Melkor did not have to be the only one in her life, the only significant one. He did not have to have a hold on her heart, or at least not all of it. 

Still she hesitated. She did not like going back on her word, her integrity winced at the thought. Suddenly, Ulmo and his gentle cleansing washed through her body once more as she remembered now what she realised back then. Any loyalty she had promised to Melkor had been done under coercion and any love she felt for him had been borne of years of mental and psychological abuse. She owed him nothing. He had used her and only given in return what he wanted, never what she needed. 

Then again, it was risky. If Mairon found out he would use it against them both. When Melkor returned he would be furious and the punishment severe. Unless… unless she could focus on strengthening her power. The one provided by the light within her and what Melkor imbued her with of himself. She had three thousand years in which to prepare. If she could convince Mairon it was for the aid of Melkor, then she could even go about this unhindered, perhaps. 

She had made up her mind and the light within her leapt at the choice. She leaned in and kissed Adar with all the tenderness, all the longing, and all the heartfelt apology she could muster. 

Last time he had asked to taste the starlight dancing on her lips, and the kiss that had followed matched. Now he feasted himself upon her own light as he pulled her closer and his mouth sought hers hungrily. Neither of them had realised how much they had wanted this, needed this, until it was happening. 

Melkor was a good lover, she could not deny it. She could not deny she had even enjoyed some of their dalliances. But this… Adar made her body sing in ways Melkor never had. Her heart felt happy, guiltless, and full. There was no river running in her mind telling her this was wrong. Being with a god reminded one of how small one was, how not in control. Adar matched her equally here. They fit perfectly. 

She wasn’t sure how far they should let this go, but his lips upon hers, his hand pushing into the small of her back so she was thrust against him, the feel of his skin under her fingers, was so intoxicating that she felt all reason begin to flee her body. 

The truth that she had wanted him and had for centuries and that he had wanted her and had for centuries pushed them on now it was freed. Both had been forced to be with others they had no choice over and now had the chance to be with someone they did choose, but they were out in the open, in view of Angband. If they had been seen already they were doomed. With great willpower, Lelyacalë broke from Adar with a small moan. 

“We can’t. Not here.” She panted, disappointment coursing through her veins. “We’ll be seen and we cannot afford that. If we are going to do this, it must remain a secret.” 

“You are right. Mairon needs to continue to think I detest you. That he has won me over in that regard.” Still he reached for her, holding her small, smooth-skinned hands in his own, larger, scarred ones. “Where can we go?” He swallowed, his voice becoming low. “I need you now, especially after I have tasted you once more, my whole soul cries out for more of you. I cannot wait any longer. Please.”

His pleading nearly undid her there and then, nearly sent her resolve and sense scattering abroad. She leant her forehead against his and thought. Her bedroom came to mind but she immediately recoiled. No. Maybe in the future, but she would not have their first time in the last place she had slept with Melkor. She wanted it to be outside. It felt right being with him out here, closer to nature. It was where they had met, in the beauty of Arda. But could they risk moving further away from Angband? 

She suddenly remembered the journey here with Sàratalma. They had been forced to run and walk over the terrain so she had paid more attention to it. If memory served her correctly, less than a mile from where they were was a small grove of trees with a stream running through it. She had wanted to stop to clean herself but Sàratalma had said the water was tainted by the works of Melkor and Mairon, and was unfit to bathe in. In truth they both knew it was because he hated and feared water. 

It would be the perfect place. Getting there unseen would be tricky though. The tree obscured them somewhat from the eyes of Angband, but if they left together, they would be in open terrain for any sentry to see. It didn’t help that she glowed like a beacon wherever she went. It made stealth impossible. 

A thought struck her. She had only tried this twice before and it had worked both times, but she had done it on a much smaller scale. Still, it was worth an attempt. 

“I know where we can go. But first, I need you to turn away from me and close your eyes. Cover them, to be safe.”

Adar looked quizzically at her but then obeyed. Once she deemed he was safe, she reached within herself and felt the light there, it hummed as she gathered it up and with all her might she blazed it at the fortress of Angband. The light spread forth in a curtain, pulsating in a dazzling display before gathering up into a ball and speeding off as a comet. She had never called forth so much light before and had never had the chance to do it outside either. She was relieved to hear cries coming from the stronghold, even at this distance. The light was enough to temporarily blind any sentry on duty and those not blinded would be too busy looking to see where it had gone as it streaked off through the sky. 

She had little time to be pleased with herself however, as time was of the essence, so she grabbed Adar’s hand and dragged him with her while telling him to run. He was fast, but she was faster and had to slow her pace to allow him to keep up. Still, as she ran, she smiled that her experiment had worked. The last two times she had done it had been in the throne room of Utumno. A vast space, to be sure, but nothing to the facade of Angband. That she had been able to conjure up such a great amount of light and then command it as she wished filled her with hope for future attempts at understanding just what she could do. 

“What did you do back there?” Adar called to her over the air rushing past them.

“I’ll explain later!” She replied. 

They made it to the grove and nearly crashed straight into the stream. Neither were particularly out of breath, despite the speed at which they had run. Adar’s chest rose and fell a bit faster but otherwise there was no indication the uruk had exerted himself. He was fit and strong, no wonder he had fathered so many uruk, no wonder he had managed to survive the torment of Melkor’s regime. His eyes were fierce upon her the moment they stopped and she felt her stomach begin to somersault within her at his gaze. Now they were here, shyness crept upon her and coloured her cheeks rouge once more.

She waved a hand around the small close of trees. “It’s not much but I hope it will suffice. It’s private at-”

She was cut off as Adar placed his hand under her chin and turned her face to him. She barely had time to intake a breath before his mouth found hers and she no longer cared where they were. He moved slowly, reverentially, even though she could feel the need thrumming beneath every move he made. He was forcing himself to slow down, to not rush feeling her against him. 

He trailed delicate kisses along the length of her exposed neck, nipping gently at the part where her vein ran closest to the surface of her skin so that she gasped in delight. With one hand he tugged her hair free of the plait she wore curled up on her head, the one she only wore for combat training. She felt her hair cascade down her back and Adar’s fingers ran through it until they came to the ends and rested upon her waist. His lips were now moving along her collarbone and back up to her jawline. She realised she was so focused on enjoying what he was doing to her, that she was doing nothing. She moved to rectify that immediately. 

She ran her hands up from his waist to feel the breadth of his back, whilst also pulling herself closer to him. He was wearing a leather jerkin, not the armour he most often wore, but it was still too thick under her fingers. She wanted to feel him. She moved her hands to the front and began to undo the ties there. She tried to steady herself so she would not fumble. Adar followed suit and began undoing the lacing at the front of her own jacket. He was the quicker this time and she was soon shrugging out of the unyielding material. He stepped back to admire her, now adorned only in a thin shirt, opening wide so it slid down one shoulder, and breeches. He walked behind her to kiss the newly exposed skin only pausing to shed his own cumbersome clothing. 

He, too, was wearing a shirt, similar to hers, she could see the black sleeves as he reached around her.  He languidly undid her belt, never stopping his attention to her shoulder, and slowly pulled it free. She kicked off her boots in anticipation and felt him tug the trousers down until she could step out of them. Now all that covered her was the shirt, long enough to cover her modesty, but short enough to reveal most of her pale legs. 

She felt his hand slide up under the front of the shirt, fingers tracing the scar on her lower abdomen, before he slowly made his way up to feel all of her. She felt him groan against her before moving away, letting her watch him remove the rest of his clothes until he was also only clad in his shirt that hugged his slim waist and barely reached his mid-thigh. 

They spent the next few minutes enjoying exploring one another’s bodies, every scar was kissed, every inch of skin was caressed, until they united together finally as one. 

It was two beings, who had been forced to use their bodies in ways they had not wanted, now being able to use their bodies in a way they did. It was two souls who had found and made a connection long ago and could now finally solidify it, seal it. 

Many times with Melkor, Lelyacalë had secretly thought of Ilinhen. Not once now with Adar did she think of Melkor. If Melkor was a mountain, Adar was the rich earth, grounding her and soaking her up. He was the petals of flowers and swathes of green grass, a soft, safe place for the raindrops of her soul to land. Ulmo had cleansed her mind, Adar now cleansed her body, her spirit. She let go of all the pain she had been holding and he took it all and buried it within him and he released all the anguish he held and she took it all and drowned it within her, and thus they were finally free to live again.  

Afterwards as they laid together, Adar finally told her his story. All he had suffered in Utumno. How he had seen her that one time down in the dungeons and how he wished he had called out to her. All he had been required to do under Mairon. How with each elf he was forced to procreate with, he told himself it would be the last, that soon he would be reunited with her. How seeing her with Melkor, knowing what they had done crushed him. How he had been angry and hurt and disappointed. 

When he had finished, they held each other in silence for a great while, enjoying the heat from one another’s bodies and the rise and fall of one another’s chests, the faint brush of breath across one another’s skin and the steady beat of one another’s hearts. 

“Why did you promise Melkor you would stay, when you could be free?” Adar whispered into her hair. 

“Ahhh. I thought I just showed you that? Or do you need me to show you again?” She dug her fingers playfully into his side. 

“I’d have no objections to being shown again.”

They both laughed, the first true laugh either had issued for a long time. Then she showed him again. 

Chapter Text

He had never felt this way before. He had never voluntarily given himself in this way before. He had never wanted to. He had never been given so much in return. The honest wanting matching his own had sent him into delirium. His mind could not comprehend it at first, he had wanted this, her, for so long and now she was here.

Before this moment, any form of copulation had been rape on his part. The female elves brought to him had been tortured to the point of acquiescence. They were promised an end to the abuse if they willingly submitted to coupling with him. This promise was upheld, for they needed to live long enough to give birth to the offspring growing within them. The consent, coerced though it really was, was needed to circumvent the fact elves could not survive sexual assault.

He had lain with hundreds of she-elves, he knew not any of their names and he tried to forget every one of their faces, yet still they haunted him. It had been mechanical, and by the fiftieth one, he had stopped apologising. Sometimes his body had not wished to perform, and he had been severely punished for that. Mocked and taunted by Mairon especially. He refused to think of Lelyacalë in those moments, refused to have her connected at all to what he was doing, even as Mairon teased him to think of her to arouse himself.

Now she was here and there was nothing mechanical about what they had done. He had savoured her, every inch of her, and revelled in the fact she reciprocated.

They had talked for hours after. She had explained her small experiments with the light within her and how Ulmo had told her to use it more. He marvelled at how she could have created such a great force of it and she agreed, she had never accomplished such a feat before, but nor had she tried to.

Neither of them had wished to return, but they had known they must. He had gone first, sneaking in a side entrance he had found years ago that was rarely guarded. They had agreed to stay apart for a while so as not to bring any suspicion, or increase it, on them.

Adar maintained his cold and distant demeanour towards her when they were together around others and especially in the presence of Mairon. When Mairon would ask him about her, he would feign indifference, saying her beauty was not as great as he remembered and certainly nothing to that of Mairon’s, that he had made an oath to Melkor anyhow and it was proving very easy to keep. Mairon would beam at him and Adar became his trusted confidant more than ever, more than any other Moriondor.

She had played her part likewise. Starting off with hesitant warmth and at each rebuttal, turning away sorrowful until she stopped trying and they fell into a mirrored rhythm of forced civility. Mairon did not hide his delight at this fact. To him, all was going according to his original plan to turn Adar against Lelyacalë. He had no idea of what they had done.

The only suspicion the maia had voiced was at the light Lelyacalë had thrown at Angband. She had openly admitted to it, saying she was practicing with the light within her. Melkor had bid her to use it more, and Sàratalma backed her up, stating the Dark One wished for her to use all her abilities against their enemies and in aid of himself. In actuality it had been Ulmo to request she utilise her own power more, but neither she nor Talma were going to divulge that fact to Mairon. She had apologised that this attempt had gotten out of hand, and she would endeavour to be more careful in future. Mairon had seemed placated and even offered to assist in overseeing some of her experiments, a fact neither she nor Sàratalma liked, but which neither felt they could refuse.

Still, even with no one the wiser to their true feelings for one another or what they had done, Lelyacalë had maintained her distance in private too. They had not spoken properly since the grove and Adar felt like she was avoiding him. There had been chances where they could have met in secret, but she had not taken them. Doubt was beginning to gnaw at him now. Did she regret what they had done? Was she scared of the repercussions? Or someone finding out? Of what this could become? He had felt all these fears himself. He even harboured some small guilt over lying to Mairon, though he knew this was folly.

Eventually he could stand it no longer. After one training session he followed her. She normally either stayed to talk to Sàratalma or left immediately with no goodbye. Sàratalma was not here this time so she fled before Adar could say a word to her. She was moving quickly, back up to her room. He followed her and waited outside her door. He knew she hated wearing the training gear and would change into more comfortable attire after each session before either debriefing Mairon or going out to feed. She did not need as much blood to sustain her now, but the need was still there.

He heard the door handle move and hid himself before following her once she left, until she entered a corridor that was empty save for the stairwell at the end. He ran forwards and grabbed her arm, spinning her around. She immediately twisted her arm from his grasp and looked around them wide eyed.

“What are you doing?” She hissed.

“Trying to speak with you.” He replied in an exasperated voice. “I feel as though you have been avoiding me.”

She did not reply, but refused to meet his gaze any longer, which was reply enough.

“Why?” Hurt added gravel to his voice, so that it came out raspier and raw.

She sighed. “It’s… complicated.”

“Tell me. Please. Do I not deserve to know?”

“Of course you do! Of course you do. I’m sorry.” She rubbed her forehead with her fingers, as though massaging a headache there.

They heard a noise, potentially someone coming their way. She grabbed his hand and they ran as quietly as they could back up the stairwell. She dragged him into a hidden alcove on the landing above, obscured by a tapestry so that he had not known it was there. The space was rather tight, so that they had no choice but to be touching one another, even as both pressed their backs to the walls behind them.

“I found this place by accident. I tripped one time over a dress that was too long for me and fell against the tapestry and then kept falling. I’m not sure why it’s here.” She whispered into the gloom.

“A useful place to hide.” He conceded. “If a bit… cramped.”

“Sorry.”

“I do not mind.”

The light that constantly glowed softly from her skin meant he could see her quite well, and so the blush that rose in her cheeks did not escape his notice.

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

“Guilt, mainly.”

“For Melkor’s sake?” He could not hide the pain and disappointment in his voice.

“And for yours. I still have feelings for him and that isn’t fair to you. Being with you… it revealed so much truth and that has been a lot to process. My own feelings, my relationship with Melkor. You’ve helped open my eyes and now I can never see things the same way again.”

He mulled over her words. They made sense. He had been naive to believe their situation would be straightforward. After all, he felt guilty at his past actions, there was a part of him that felt he did not deserve happiness, did not deserve her. Maybe he had expected too much of the pair of them.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you.” She continued. “All of this is terrifying. I have more freedom than I’ve ever had and after years of having virtually none, it scares me. Keeping you a secret scares me. The risk scares me. Hurting Melkor scares me. Melkor in general scares me.”

“I am sorry for pushing you then. I will not do so anymore. I expect nothing of you, it was unfair of me to.” He made to leave but she grabbed his arm.

“No, it was not unfair. I made the first move. I led you to believe we had a future. You had every right to expect, at the very least, an explanation.” She moved her hand down his arm to grasp his own, her small, gentle fingers wrapped around his long, damaged ones. “I want us to have a future, but I don’t want to hurt you, or be the reason you get hurt.”

“Oh Lelyacalë, have I not already proven to you that you are worth all the hurt in the world?”

At first she did not react, then she turned away and covered her face with both hands and he felt her shake as a sob escaped her mouth, and then another. He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms about her as she stifled her tears against his chest. He held her until she was done, then he held her some more.

“We need one another, Lelya, that is the truth of the matter.”

He felt her nod against him in agreement. “It is not safe for us to develop too deep feelings for one another though. We can find comfort, but I think it unwise for it to go any further.”

“Yes. Becoming too attached could spell disaster.” Adar replied.

She moved to look up at him. “It will take me a while to untangle all the emotions I hold for Melkor. I cannot lie and say I do not love him, even if I can also admit that that love is not right.”

“I understand. Even if I do not like it.”

She reached up to kiss him then, a soft press upon his lips. “Thank you.”

“Will we… Can we meet like this again?” He did not know how to ask what he really wanted without being crude.

She was no fool though and understood what he wanted to ask. She smiled broadly and this time when she kissed him his lips were crushed under hers in her fervidity and she did not let him go until they had thoroughly tasted one another. The small space they occupied now felt hot despite the cold stone surrounding them.

“I will meet with you as often as I can. I will hide no more from you. This is a comfortless place, so let us seek comfort often. If we are to hurt, let us hurt together. If we are to heal, let us heal together.”

Adar thought his heart might burst. “Do you promise?” He murmured against her lips as he brought his back to hers.

“I do.”

He felt the need for her surge within him. “So do I.”

He lifted her up then and braced her back against the wall, she had just enough room to wrap her legs around his waist, feet braced on the opposite side. She had changed into a deep blue dress that shimmered like stars and he gathered the material in his hands, pushing it upwards so he could expose her legs. His hands gripped her tightly as his mouth sought hers hungrily. He cursed that he was still in his armour, breastplate stopping him from feeling the softness of her against him. She obviously felt the same as she quickly undid the straps and it fell from him with a clatter. They both stopped, listening, before he kicked it to the back of the alcove and she held onto him as he pulled down his breeches.

Last time he had savoured her, this time he devoured her. Uniting with her was ecstasy in itself, hearing her gasp with his movement was well-nigh enough to tip him over the edge. He didn’t want it to end, but he didn’t know how much longer he could keep going, the desire in him was screaming to be unleashed. He could hear her getting close to her own release and that made it doubly as difficult to hold on. Eventually his name issued from her in a delightful whine and she attempted to silence it by pressing herself into his neck, biting down in what should have caused pain but acted as his undoing. He gripped on hard as he shuddered into her. They leant against one another until he heard her exclaim an apology.

“Oh I’m sorry!” She was wiping at the base of his neck where she had bitten him. Black blood seeped there and also lightly glazed her lips. “I bit you rather hard, I didn’t mean to.”

He slid her to the floor and pulled his trousers back up before inspecting the wound. It was not deep and the blood issuing forth was little and sluggish.

“Do you… need to feed?” He asked hesitantly.

“No, no. I fed recently, so I will be fine for some time yet.”

“I would not mind, if you ever did need to use me for that.”

An impish smile crept into her face. “That’s very kind, Adar, but I’m afraid your blood tastes vile.”

He laughed, louder than he probably should have. “Is this why you never feed on the uruk?”

“Indeed. Your black blood tastes… decayed.”

“Charming.” He smiled down at her. “Where were you headed to just now?”

“You mean before this welcome interruption?” She grinned up at him. “I was heading outside. To practice using my light.”

“May I accompany you?”

“Ah, well, maybe another time.” She began twisting the the long sleeves of her dress in her fingers. “I’m not sure I’m ready for an audience yet.”

He kissed her forehead. “Very well. I shall see you at our next combat session then.”

He let her leave first and watched as she hurried along the corridor, smoothing down her dress and combing through her hair, patting it down to appear less ruffled. As he watched her, the words she had spoken earlier swam into his mind.

It is not safe for us to develop too deep feelings for one another though. We can find comfort, but I think it unwise for it to go any further.

Well, he thought, as the last flash of blue material swept round the corner and out of sight, he had already failed in that regard.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lelyacalë felt lighter, weightless almost. Why she had evaded Adar seemed ridiculous to her now. Melkor would always be a part of her, whether she wanted him to be or not, but she got to choose how much of a part, how strong of a hold he had on her. She had merely needed someone else to show her that, to help her get out of her own head, to open her eyes to the truth. Everything looked different now and at first that had been disorienting, but now it filled her with hope.

She made her way towards the nearest exit and found Mairon waiting for her there, casually lounging against the wall.

“Going to practice thy light magic?” For once he did not sound snide, but actually as if he wished to start a conversation.

“Yes, I am.”

“How art thou finding it is going so far?”

“Fairly well, I think. It is hard to know. I have nothing to compare it to.” She shrugged.

“I will accompany you this time. Thou needeth proper guidance.” He gave her no room to protest as he reached for her and guided her out.

It was just as well Adar had not come with her, she thought. She was not sure how they would have explained that away to Mairon. She found she did not mind that the maia would be there watching her. She was used to him judging her, mocking her, but also teaching her. She had learned a lot under him when he had been her combat tutor, even if his methods had often been harsh and cruel. As a maia, he possessed magic of his own kind and since there was none other who was anywhere near his level of skill in that area, it did actually make sense to have his guidance if he was willing to offer it. Sàratalma had given what advice he could, but he was a much more physical being, better suited to showing her how to wield a mace or break a femur than how to bring forth her light to perform great deeds.

Mairon asked her what she had been working on recently and she said there had been two things that she could show him. The first she had gotten quite good at. She reached forth her hand and focussed on gathering the light there until it became a white flame in her hand. She blew on the flame and it leapt forth onto the grass. She drew a circle and the flame mimicked her movement, until she was encased in a ring of fire. Mairon was clearly impressed, his eyes had widened in appreciation and he approached the writhing whiteness with awe.

“Doth it burn like unto normal flame?”

“I do not know, it does not affect me. The ground is never scorched after though.”

He reached forth his hand and gingerly touched a flickering tip. He immediately recoiled and brought his hand to cradle against himself. Lelyacalë moved towards him, interested to see what had happened. Mairon had barely touched the flame yet his reaction had been severe.

“What happened? Are you alright?” She walked through the fire she had created and absorbed it back into herself. There was no trace upon the ground that it had ever been there.

“I have never felt anything like that before.” Mairon was in obvious pain. He carefully opened his hand so they could both view it and, like the earth beneath them, it was unblemished by the fire. “It maketh no sense. I thought my very soul had been touched by the flame, it threatened to flow within me and consume me.”

She had almost reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, but remembered who they both were and yanked her hand back down.

He shook himself from his reverie. “Let us continue. I would see what else thou canst do.”

“If you are sure… it will involve you again, unless we can find another living creature.” She looked around but other than some scant vegetation, the vicinity was decidedly devoid of fauna. Mairon obviously came to the same conclusion for he sighed and straightened himself.

“Proceed.”

She turned and walked away from him, creating some short distance between them. Upon facing him, she bade him move towards her. He began taking small steps in her direction when she reached out. Not with her hand, but with her light. She sent it out to him, connecting with the light he had, and once her light met his she enmeshed with it. Once this was done, she could hold him in place, controlling his own personal light that permeated his being so that he could not move. He struggled against the restriction and she was forced to concentrate on pulling at the light he held, keeping it bound to her own. He was strong, however, and she soon had no choice but to release him.

“That is most interesting.” Mairon was looking intently at her.

“You are obviously very strong and harbour much light, when I practiced before on rabbits and deer, they were easier to hold. I could even make the rabbits move how I wished. The deer were harder to do that to.” She met his eyes levelly, relaying the facts as she would debrief a report or mission. “Did it hurt at all?”

“It was uncomfortable, but no more than being restrained by physical means.” He closed the distance between them, his head slightly cocked to one side as he contemplated her. “Why hath thou never used these skills before now?”

She did not answer at first, collecting her thoughts. There had been many reasons, in truth, and she decided she might as well list them all.

“I suppose I was too busy using Melkor’s own strength that he gave me. I was also changing a lot, physically. Life in Utumno was exacting, it did not leave much room for personal experimentation. I did what I was told and it did not include using the light I hold, until now.” She shrugged.

Mairon seemed content with her reply, yet his brow was furrowed. “It would appear thou art more powerful than I realised. Or indeed Melkor.”

“Or indeed me.” She attempted a smile, but it faltered before it could properly materialise. “I’ve never wanted power, you know.”

“Yes. You have always lacked ambition.” That did bring a smile to her lips. There was the Mairon she knew. Jibing and insulting.

“People who seek power tend to find it, then lose it just as quickly, or else spend the rest of their lives in misery attempting to hold on to it. That has been my experience.”

His gaze was sharpened on her now. “Thou thinkest I live in misery?”

She blinked at him. “You think you don’t?”

They stared at each other for several heartbeats, until Mairon’s face softened and he cast his eyes downward.

“I am miserable without Melkor.” The honesty of his words caused them to quail slightly as they left his mouth.

“I know.”

“At least thou hath thy connection with him.” He issued bitterly. “Tell me, how is he doing?”

She hesitated, then decided since he was being honest, she would be as well. “He is in the Halls of Mandos, so our connection is blocked. I can feel it, but I cannot use it.”

Mairon’s gaze sharpened. “Why didst thou not tell me this until now?” He demanded.

“I did not see the point. Once Melkor is out of The Halls and in Valinor, I believe the connection will be restored. We shall have to see.” She did not want to give Mairon any false hope, but she also wanted it to be the case. It would mean she would have a better knowledge of what Melkor was up to and when he would be returning.

“And how doth thou know he shall be released from The Halls?” Mairon stepped towards her so he was now uncomfortably close, suspicion etched in every word he spoke.

“He is clever. He will feign repentance to get out. The Valar are naive of who he really is, who he has become.” It was not a lie, but she knew it would not be enough to quell Mairon’s mistrust. “Besides… sometimes I have visions. The light shows me glimpses and I have seen Melkor in Valinor, teaching the elves his craft in order to ingratiate himself with them. He teaches them the art of weaponry, which they did not know before.”

“Visions? Did Melkor know about these?”

“Yes.” Again, not a full lie, he had known about them in the moments before his capture. “They show futures but I don’t know in what order and some of them are mere glimpses, others are clearer.” Again, she was actually describing her memory of the stories she knew. It had been centuries since she had last read them and there had been a lot of names and places and events. She could not hope to remember them all and in any great detail.

Mairon looked away from her, out over the landscape. She dared not move, waiting for his response. Suddenly he snapped back to face her, his expression one of grim understanding.

“He shall teach them weaponry? So they canst bring war upon us.”

“Oh, he will definitely bring war back with him, Mairon, and he will relish the fact.”

A fiendish grin spread across the maia’s face. “We had better get to work then.”

Chapter Text

Despite her prior knowledge of things to come, of what the future held, Lelyacalë was not certain of anything or anyone. Her memory of events was not what it was. She could recall some names, some occurrences, but they were all jumbled up. There were some key happenings that stuck in her mind, a major one being Melkor’s return, which worried her greatly. At one time, she had balked at his absence, but now she was free of him, the weight of him over her was lifted and she could think and feel freely for the first time in centuries. 

She also had Sàratalma, whom Mairon had been unable to separate from her, and Adar, though they both were having to keep that fact from Mairon, who was thoroughly convinced he had turned the uruk against her. She was glad she had one more ally and friend, especially with Melkor gone. She had no favour with the temporary Lord in his absence after all, despite their truce, just a grudging tolerance. 

She also worried about who Melkor would be when he returned. Morgoth. His fair form forsaken. A war kindled. Jewels to lust over. What all these would mean for her, she could not even begin to surmise. She had tried to warn Melkor as best she could with what she knew. Whether he would remember or heed her counsel was another matter. She needed to see him again, their rushed goodbye and all the unresolved issues they never finished discussing weighed heavily on her mind. 

Added to that was the yearning that ached in her bones to be close to him again. She wished that yearning was not there, but the truth was that she had finally succumbed to him and now he had been ripped away. She was like an addict, the need within her was a dirty stain, a desperate cry in her veins for another hit. She had hoped being with Adar would help her in this regard, and it was to an extent, but Melkor was embedded deep within her and it might take her thousands of years to extricate him, if it could be done at all. 

She could still feel the connection with him with her mind, but when she reached out along it, there was nothing, a telephone wire unplugged, and as she knew he was in The Halls of Mandos, she supposed that was the reason why. She had told Mairon she no longer felt the connection, but not that she was planning on circumventing this if she could. She had told Adar, however, and he had supported her in finding out more. He knew the cost of acting as if all was well and hoping for the best. Burying one’s head in the sand regarding such matters always ended in despair. It was better to know Melkor’s mind than not, so they had a better chance to prepare for his inevitable return. He also understood she needed closure, to know where she stood with what was to come. He might not like the idea of her conversing or meeting with Melkor again, but Adar would never deny her absolution. 

She knew that even if Mairon permitted her to travel, she would be denied entry into Valinor and maybe even be captured herself. So Lelyacalë went there in her dreams. She sent her fëa out hurtling over the land, following the connection the two of them shared, as dark threads that pulled her on, until she stood upon the threshold of The Halls of Mandos. Nàmo and Irmo were there already awaiting her.

Ulmo spoke true. She lives still. Thou were also correct brother, she has indeed come to visit Melkor here in a dream. Námo spoke to the vala beside him, who watched her carefully. 

Thou cannot enter. Nàmo directed at her. 

He loomed, tall and foreboding, solemn and stern. She pleaded with him but to no avail, Nàmo would not be moved in body or mind on the matter. Irmo stayed silent and watchful. She waited there until waking drew her back to her bedchamber. She told Adar all and he was amazed she had met and spoken to more of the Valar, that they had expected her, even. She told Sàratalma as well, and he was less surprised at The Valar knowing she was coming. He and Adar both encouraged her to continue to try again to see Melkor, to find out what was happening and if he had a plan. 

So she went the next night and the next, for what felt like decades, until on one visit Nienna was there accompanying her brothers. Robed in the grey mists of dawn, her eyes veiled beneath a deep hood that only showed tear stained cheeks and sorrowful mouth, she was the original Grey Lady, forlorn in her loveliness. Lelyacalë pleaded her case as she did every night and this time Nàmo did not speak, but looked to his sister.

Let her enter in to see him. Nienna’s voice was as quiet as the tears that spilled down her cheeks hitting the floor in soft drops; not so much heard as felt. She deserves resolution with he who has taken much from her.  

I shall heed my sister’s counsel. Thou mayest enter this once, and this once alone. Then thou must never return here. Nàmo’s voice was commanding as he pushed open the doors to his halls and bade Lelyacalë proceed forth. He followed after but Nienna and Irmo said their farewells and departed. Irmo looked back at her once, his expression unfathomable, before turning to follow his sister. 

They wandered through the vastness until, reaching a room deep within the middle of the halls, she finally saw Melkor, sat chained to a pillar in the centre. His head was bowed, arms resting on bent knees, inky hair cascading in soft waves about him, obscuring his face. 

Someone had decided to enrobe him in white, which only stood to emphasise the shadowy blue hue of his skin and jet black hair. It was a jarring image, almost mocking in its depiction of a fallen angel. His blinding attire was more punishment than the chains, for they only prevented him from escape, the pure colour that was forced upon his skin was a constant reminder for him to repent, to become what he despised. 

He did not look up at their arrival.

What now, Nàmo? Thou comest to torment me in my dreams also? His voice was resignation tinged with bitterness.

Nàmo spoke not, but indicated that Lelyacalë should go forward and begin. She knelt opposite Melkor, close enough to reach out and touch him, though she refrained from doing so. She did not know his state of mind, whether he would be pleased to see her or angry, for he was shielding himself fiercely. He had retreated entirely within himself to a place even she did not know and could not follow, a place for him and him alone. Their parting had been difficult. She did not know how to begin, what words would be best. She had wanted this chance, this moment, for so long and yet now she was here, silence held her tongue and fogged her mind. Nàmo had left, closing the door behind him. Still Melkor did not stir.

Melkor? Her voice was tentative. Ninya melda? She tried, the words hesitant. 

His head snapped up immediately and those fierce blue eyes bore into her, freezing her in place. He did not smile and she felt her stomach drop. Perhaps coming here had been a mistake. He reached out a hand towards her, chains clinking at his wrist, and she reached back with her own hand, tentatively. Their fingertips met and she could almost feel him, the touch more like the memory of feeling.

Thou art not really here? He sounded sad, which gave her hope. 

No, this is a dream, remember. I have been coming every night since you were taken but this is the first time I have been allowed in. It will also be the last.

He grasped her hand then and pulled her forwards, dragging her knees across the ground until their noses were almost touching. Her breath caught in her throat at the suddenness. She had not even realised she could breathe like this. Contact was so different in dreams and yet he still held so much power in that regard. Her knees should be burning from friction, yet all she felt was a slight buzz that faded quickly. She knew their fëa could still touch, even in a vision, as Sophie had been able to touch her in the vision Mairon had sent her, but it felt different here. 

Why hast thou come, Lelyacalë? The way he asked it was more desperate than demanding, the ache apparent in his voice. 

I missed you. I wanted to see how you were.

He chuckled then, soft but sinister. Liar .

She pulled away from him, not in shock but in anger. She was not lying and she would not be accused of such. He saw the fury building behind her eyes and raised a thick black eyebrow in response. 

I offered to come with you here and you said no, you told me to run and hide. So I did. I obeyed. But I would have come here with you and stayed in this prison, chained with you. Her words seethed out between clenched teeth, she had freed her hand from his and on the last word had hit him in the chest, her small, closed fist a pebble hurled at the mountainside. He had stared at her, then at the place she had hit him.

Thou canst not hurt me. Not more than thou already has. His tone was cutting, though it did not mask the melancholy he felt underneath, that seeped from every pore in his being to blend with his wrath at everything and everyone.

Let us not talk of hurt, for you have bestowed enough of that on me also, for which you have never apologised for and I doubt ever will. So do not talk of hurt to me, Melkor, do not dare.

His eyes found hers at once, the ice in them thawing under her rage, cracking under the weight of her pain that rained down on him with her words. The sea in her eyes swelled with that pain and spilled over onto her cheeks. She did not move to wipe them away but turned aside to hide her face.

You need to repent, or at least, pretend. Make it convincing. Manwë is naive, he believes you are still capable of love. Convince him you are. Convince The Valar you will right your wrongs, heal the wounds you have caused. Play the part and then you can escape and come back. She spoke to the floor, her voice thick with emotion yet no less authoritative for that. 

Her words sunk into him with the weight of their desperation, but one part latched itself the hardest and he felt it uncomfortably drag against his soul.

Thou thinkest me incapable of love, then? Do I not love thee? He placed a hand on her cheek, soaking in the tears there on his palm and turned her face towards him once more. The pain was still evident in her eyes, accompanying sorrow.

I have not seen you truly love anything or anyone. She paused as a name surfaced to her mind . Perhaps Mairon. I think you might love him, even if you do not realise or want to recognise it.

Thinking of Mairon wrenched at Melkor, especially as he had been taken before they could say goodbye. They had not left on good terms either. There was as much unresolved there as with Lelyacalë. Whether he loved Mairon was a question he had never asked himself, but now that the notion had appeared, he realised it was a question already answered. Though the answer brought up more questions to make his head ache. He pushed those to the side for now, he would mull over Mairon later. He would have plenty of time, after all, locked up here with not much else to think on, save his resentment and hatred. He returned to the question she had not truly addressed, the one that caused the most chaos within him, writhing in thrashing confusion as unsought for feelings seeped in to make war with what he had taken for granted as his natural understanding. The question was enough to begin destabilizing the foundation of his being, he feared the answer could undo him altogether, that she would undo him altogether. Still, he must ask. He must know.

But I do not love thee? He asked as though her answer was the decider, the truth, rather than her opinion. 

Do you think you love me? She was half sad, half hopeful as she countered him, her voice subdued. Though whether she hoped the answer was yes or no, Melkor was not sure. 

He could offer no response, his mind was a battlefield, the jarring ring of one emotion on another mixed with the din of overlapping thoughts. He had thought life relatively straightforward. His wants, his needs, his beliefs had always been laid out so plainly before him. But Lelyacalë was a complication, and if he was being truly honest with himself, she had been from the beginning. 

I have tried. I want to. His words sounded weak to his own ears, stuttered from shuttered mouth, but they might have been six of the most honest words he had ever uttered. Lelyacalë looked at him again then. He saw sadness in those green depths, but there was understanding also. 

I think you love the way I can make you feel. I think you love my obedience, my deference, my worship. I think you love the light within me. But not me. Not really. You never loved Leah though maybe you do love Lelyacalë, but it is a covetous, possessive love, a conditional love. Maybe that still counts. But it is not the love The Valar have or understand and so you must pretend, emulate, mirror. Make them believe you, make you believe you.

Melkor felt a tear brim against his lashes, blurring his vision so that Lelyacalë swam in and out of focus before him. Her words were true and he hated them and himself. He hated The Valar, and the elves. But most of all he hated Eru. He could not hate his little light and found that nor did he wish to, no matter that she had hurt him in the past. She was his, willingly his, and she was here, trying to help him when she could have let him go and never thought of him again. Still his paranoia gnawed at his mind and the thought that had long bothered him finally came forth. 

Is that what thou didst? Acted the part so well and so long that thou began to believe the feelings thou pretended were true? 

She put her hand over his where it still cupped her cheek, her other one reached forward to catch the tear that finally spilled from him, her fingers brushing it into his hair as her palm rested against his cheek, so they were now mirroring one another. 

In the beginning, yes. Then, bit by bit, I found I was no longer having to act as much until there was no pretence left. I had not been pretending for a long time before you were captured. But you hurt me. I am your prisoner. It is not a healthy love. Still, I feel it. Loving you leaves me conflicted. But I think… I could have… I was fall- I was falling-

She stopped, the words refusing to be released from within her. A truth she could not bear to admit aloud for then it would be made real and solid and cemented. The pretence was now running the other way, backed by an unhealthy amount of denial. 

If Melkor had not punished her, if Marion had not let his jealousy hinder them, if she had not been freed from Melkor’s presence, if Adar had never been an option to her, if Melkor had been all she had had, then she would have fallen in love with him and truly been his forever. 

Still, Melkor knew what she had been about to say and the empty spaces those four words would have occupied haunted his heart from that day forth.

What of the uruk? Doth thou love him?

Melkor had asked before but he could not let it go. She would be alone with the uruk, with only Mairon to prevent anything from happening, if his lieutenant would even do that. He was more likely to allow a dalliance to push his little light further from him. His anxiety and jealousy of her being with another was an ever constant presence. Her body was his and his alone. 

She looked at him wearily, and with some disappointment. Clearly she had been expecting this unwelcome question yet again. 

A heart can love more than one and in different ways. Even yours. Think of Mairon. Have you not held a place for us both in your heart?

She could not deny that Adar and she had connected back when they had met, nor that they had formed a companionship since Melkor’s departure. She could absolutely not tell Melkor that they had laid together, had joined their flesh in blissful union. He would never understand, it would be the ultimate betrayal to him. No matter the imbalance of expectations or hypocrisy on his side. 

In truth, it would be better for her to love no one at all. That she felt anything like that towards Melkor was dangerous and damning; that she was beginning to feel that way towards Adar could be disastrous to them both. She could not afford to fall in love with the uruk, nor he with her. They both knew this, had agreed this, and yet… there was a comfort they both found in one another that no other could give. It was not just physical either. She felt safe with Adar. She had never felt safe with Melkor. 

Not that she would ever tell Melkor this. He believed she belonged to him and him alone, mind, body, and heart. Yet she could see a position in which she could love two people at once and she knew she could not, should not put herself there. Adar understood her bond with Melkor, for he had a similar one with Mairon, though they had never engaged intimately. She doubted Melkor knew this either, though it spoke volumes that Mairon had never dared cross any physical lines. No, better have Melkor nowhere near her messy thoughts and feelings on Adar, nor Mairon’s. Instead she changed the topic entirely before he could press further. 

I do not have much more time. I have given my advice. Mairon is running everything in good order, as you would expect, so all will be ready for your arrival back home, whenever that may be. I reiterate my advice to you before you were captured: do not trust Ungoliant and not all jewels are worth possessing. We should say our goodbyes, for we shall not see one another for quite some time. Though I do think that once you are free from these Halls, we will be able to restore our mental connection, for I could sense you up until you were placed in here. 

She leant forward to kiss his cheek, her lips featherlight in her dream form. He drew her to him, so that he could enclose her in his arms. He missed the real feel of her.

That is more incentive to leave this place than anything else. I shall miss thee every moment of our parting, my little light. But I shall return to thee triumphant.

Oh, of that I have no doubt, My Lord. He could feel the smile in her voice.

They held each other until her body recalled her to wakefulness and she dissolved in his arms. He awoke then too, the ghost of her tingled upon his skin and a salty track had hardened upon his cheek. He had shed that tear in reality as well. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lelyacalë woke to find Adar watching her. He stayed with her every night now, or she with him. 

“You finally got in this time, did you not?” He asked warily. 

“I did.”

“You spoke to him?” He sounded apprehensive, worried for what had transpired, but deeply interested all the same. 

“I did.”

“And? Did it help?”

She sat up in the bed and he followed suit. Tonight they had stayed in his rooms, she had snuck down after Mairon had left. Luckily, Mairon visited Adar less and less once he had seen the frosty demeanour in which Adar treated Lelyacalë when together. He seemed satisfied by her decreased attempts to form any sort of cordial connection with the father of the uruk, settling for curt nods and as few words as possible. Plus, Mairon was extremely busy with his own plotting. Angband’s army was growing bigger and so too was the space itself. Mairon was forever overseeing a project for more excavation, mines had to be built, more barracks for the uruk hosts, forges for weapon and armour construction. He was preparing for the inevitable war with the elves of Valinor or even The Valar themselves.

“It has left me conflicted.” Her voice wavered. “I wish I did not want him at all, but then when I am with him…” She buried her face in her hands. 

“I know.” Adar kissed the top of her head. “But thanks to you, I have almost completely overcome my desire for Mairon’s approval and favour. At one time it was all I craved, even as I knew it was not worth it, knew it was wrong. I am sure, given time, you can overcome your feelings for Melkor. Do not be hard on yourself, give yourself space to heal. Is that not what you told me?”

She nodded and leaned into him. “He’s an itch upon my soul and it feels like only he can scratch it at the moment. In many ways, it would be so much easier to give in to him again, which is making this so much harder to resist.” 

“Tell me what I can do to help and I will.” Sincerity rippled through his voice. 

“You’re already doing it.” She moved back to look at him in his pale blue eyes. “You’re helping to soothe the itch. You are the balm my soul needs and I am forever grateful.”

He kissed her then and she melted into him. His lips drew out her guilt and left her exonerated. His touch brushed away her self-condemnation and replaced it with forgiveness. The weight of him as he moved on top of her grounded her thoughts. The feel of his heartbeat through his chest reminded her that the heart was a complicated part of a being to decipher and could hold space for much. 

She looked in his eyes and saw it, bright and pure as sunshine, emanating from him to her. He opened his mouth to speak what his eyes had already conveyed but she got there first, the words craving to come out after being locked inside and denied for too long.

“I love you too.”

Chapter Text

Free!

He had thundered into her mind in a rush; an elated rockslide of triumph. Their bond had ignited in a blinding flash of lit magnesium that forced her vision to be his and his alone. 

I am free!

She had not realised the time had passed so quickly. Melkor was no longer in The Halls of Mandos. The Valar had accepted his repentance. She had shared her reflecting jubilation, for it was what was required of her, as the connection ebbed. The distance forced both to concentrate in placing words or images in the other’s mind and it was a tiring process. The feelings; they flowed more easily, soul to soul, loud and unrefined. 

She had been with Mairon at the time, observing the great wolf she had chosen. This was the second one she had selected, Mairon having kept his word on letting her choose one for herself, as her first had since passed away with old age. This current specimen was grey, flecked with white, and Lelyacalë had picked her out some years ago. Now the wolf, Dyevsta, had given birth to a litter of puppies. She had mated with one of the strongest wolves Mairon had ever produced, and the pups were much to Mairon’s liking. He had been commenting on how pleased he was that he now had nine new wolflings bred of the two best wolves he had ever raised and what this would mean for their future preparations for war, when Melkor had erupted in her mind, their connection blazing up so that all else fell away.

She had uncharacteristically grasped Mairon’s arm, stopping the maia mid-sentence. Melkor had chanted the words again and again in utter glee. She had managed to refocus her attention on Mairon, who was staring at her in atypical bewilderment.

“Melkor is free. He is free from The Halls of Mandos.” It had come forth in a shocked whisper. 

Mairon had apparently forgotten any distaste he held for her as he had gripped her hands and divulged an onslaught of questions, some directed at her, some at Melkor. It had been more than she could take and in an exasperated yell she had commanded them both to be quiet. To her great satisfaction, but also surprise, they had both dammed up immediately. 

What had then ensued was an awkward three-way conversation in which Lelyacalë was messenger between Mairon and Melkor. This had also proven a massive headache but she had been luckily saved on that occasion by Melkor needing to divert his attention back to his immediate surroundings. 

It had given her an idea of what to give Mairon as her token of truce though. For the maia had been true to his word and fashioned her a suit of armour that fit so perfectly she thought it was a second skin. It was exquisite to the point of giving her a goddess-like appearance when she wore it. He had not intended for her to blend in with her soldiers. Oh no. Where the uruk were clad in blacks and grimy greys, Mairon had put her in a suit of resplendent white and silver. The design flowed about her as light reflected on a flowing steam. She had been rendered speechless on seeing it the first time, much to Mairon’s great gratification, and Adar had found it hard to remain composed, letting his mask slip a mere moment, which had not gone unnoticed. Thankfully, Mairon attributed it to his great skill astounding the father of the uruk and not Adar’s genuine adoration at seeing the woman he loved adorned like one of the Ainur. 

Mairon had never pushed for her to reciprocate, especially as she had begged him for more time to come up with something to equal his own gift. She had feared she could not match him, even worse, that Mairon had intended this to be the case. An idea had struck her once Melkor had reconnected with her though. For what did Mairon crave more than anything? Melkor. What could she offer Mairon? Access to Melkor. 

How exactly she was going to accomplish this was still something she had needed to fathom. The thought of allowing Mairon into her mind simultaneously as Melkor so they could converse had caused a reaction of rejection so harsh she had nearly vomited. No thank you , had been her visceral response. Melkor in her mind was bad enough. Mairon in her mind was even worse. Having them both use her as a meeting ground would be sheer masochism. Adar had readily agreed. The other option had been her entering Mairon’s mind, which was nearly as appalling a thought as him entering hers. He would also have surely never agreed to it, even if it had meant speaking to and feeling his beloved master directly. 

So it was that she had come up with one last insane idea. Adar had been against it. Sàratalma had been against it. Mairon had had his reservations, but his eagerness at what she was offering had been apparent. 

Thus she now found herself standing on the shoreline of Belegaer after a lengthy journey with a companion she had neither wanted nor requested, who had also felt the same sentiments. Adar had known better than to ask to join her, though it tore at him that she would be separated from him for so long, and that she could be reunited with Melkor in person, should all go according to plan. He had rallied heavily against the idea, they had barely spent a night apart since they had come together and now they would be apart for who knew how long. He had questioned whether Mairon was worth it, he who she held no love for and who held her in the same regard. He had asked if there was not something else she could give him. She had retorted that she needed this as well, she needed this to convince Melkor she was still his, that she still wanted him. This had resulted in her needing to thoroughly convince Adar that she was not in fact Melkor’s, that she was his, had been for years, and would be forever more. That she had and consistently would choose him. The physical assurance had been an enjoyable experience indeed. 

Sàratalma had outright refused, apologetically so as he had wished to support his only friend, but he loathed the sea and would not risk being anywhere near it. He had also agreed with Adar that Mairon was not worth the hassle, but had conceded that a reunion with Melkor could be a good thing for both of them. Mairon would have travelled with her, but he needed to stay hidden, well out of reach of the Ainur. Besides, his absence played a key role in the proceedings. That had left only one real candidate, and they had been no one’s first choice, including themselves. 

Thuringwethil. 

The she-demon had been furious, rejecting the command Mairon had issued her, begging, pleading, cursing. She had promised to do anything, anything in return for not having to accompany Lelyacalë on her quest. 

Her pleas had fallen on a hardened heart however and she was forced to obey. Lelyacalë had even offered to travel alone, but Mairon would hear none of it. He needed someone to keep an eye on her, to report back if something went wrong, to ensure she would not leave and never come back. His anxieties were thoroughly unwarranted, and it was the only time she and Thuringwethil had been united in anything, attempting to convince Mairon of this. Eventually, it was the argument that news of anything going awry would be needed that silenced them. 

Lelyacalë had wanted to ride Dyevsta with her winged companion following in the air, but Mairon forbade it. He said he did not wish for the Ainur to know of the creatures he was breeding. Lelyacalë had not felt it wise to mention that she was sure Yavanna and Oromë already knew of them, as they still visited Arda. It mattered not anyhow as Marion had continued that having a great wolf would detract from her plan anyway, as it would link her to dark deeds. Lelyacalë had argued having Thuringwethil with her would have the same effect, to which the blood-sucking maia had readily agreed. Mairon was not moved, however. He demanded that Thuringwethil bear Lelyacalë upon her back and then hide herself when the time came. He did not intend for the bat-winged maia to enter Valinor, but to await for Lelyacalë to return and then carry her back to Angband. 

Thuringwethil’s dismay-riddled anger had known no bounds. It made no difference that Lelyacalë had been on her side and advocated for her, the she-demon hated her all the more regardless for having to accompany her anyway. Thus, the journey had been an unpleasant one in which neither travelling companion spoke much to the other. Lelyacalë had not been able to hide how much she missed Adar, though Thuringwethil thankfully thought it was pining for her master that she was hoping to see. 

Now she was free of the demon, left to carry out the next part of her plan alone. She did not know where Thuringwethil was hiding and nor did she much care. She was too focussed on what she had to accomplish next, for if she failed in this next part, the whole plan came undone. Part of her hoped this might be the case and she would not have to go through with this crackpot scheme after all. 

She strode forth into the shallows, the wind whipped her hair, the stars blazed above her, and the soft glow of what she knew to be the trees, Laurelin and Telperion, was just visible on the horizon. The light within her keened forwards. She heard a gull cry in the distance and a wave of nostalgia hit her so hard it nearly fractured her in two, leaving part of her here on the shores of Arda and a part of her back on the sands of Whitby. A part of her remained who she was now, Lelyacalë, centuries old and no longer human, a part of her became who she had been - child, teenager, adult Leah, human to the core. 

She clawed her way back to Lelyacalë alone, shivering off the warmth of her memories as they rolled down her cheeks to join the salty brine now lapping at her waist. She had been about to call his name, but apparently the god of the sea could be summoned with mere tears, for he rose up as a colossal tidal wave to tower over her. Fearsome he should have been and yet she found she was not afraid, just awe-stricken. He was as she had seen him on Almaren, a swirling mass of water that coalesced into shimmering scales of armour around his torso, hair and beard rippling in foamy majesty around him. 

“Ulmo. I did not know if I could reach you or if you would answer me.” She shouted up at him. 

“Thou shalt always be able to reach me and I shall always answer thee.” His words crashed down on her as a wave upon a cliff face and she nearly fell backwards as a result. “What hath brought thee to me?”

“Melkor has repented and is now free to serve the elves in Valinor. This much I know for he is bound to me and he can share these things with me, even though we are a world apart. It gladdens my heart he has turned back towards the light, and forsaken his evil ways and deeds.”

“It is true. It hath rendered me astonished, truth be told. Manwë is most glad and Melkor hath been faithful to his word so far. It appeareth to be a true repentance.” Ulmo moved towards her and as he did, he diminished in size so that they could converse more easily. He still rose above her, but she no longer felt the need to shout to be heard. 

“It is glad news. Melkor has relayed to me that he regrets leading so many astray and wishes them to repent as he has. Chiefly, he thinks of Mairon, he who served under Aulë. He was a great lieutenant under Melkor and now Melkor wishes for Mairon to learn of his repentance and likewise follow his master to return under Eru’s instruction.”

Keen interest lit up Ulmo’s features. “Be that so?”

“Yes. Melkor has told me he has made a gift for Mairon to show his sincerity and convince him. He wishes for me to find Mairon, give him the gift, and beg him to join Melkor on Valinor.”

“Thou doth not know where Mairon is?”

“He hid upon Utumno being attacked.” She had not lied, yet she had not answered his question truthfully either. Ulmo appeared not to notice, which made her feel all the more guilty. He did not expect deception from her. 

“What doth thou require of me, then?” Ulmo asked. 

“I was hoping you could either transport me to see Melkor to obtain this gift, or else transport the gift from Melkor to me here. I understand it is a large favour I ask of you either way.” She bowed her head humbly. 

“Not at all, for either task shall be easy to accomplish and I am happy to do so for thy sake and for the sake of helping Melkor heal the wrongs he hath committed.” Ulmo spoke kindly and bore a smile. “Which would thou prefer? To see Melkor or wait here?”

“I think, if you are sure you do not mind, it would sadden Melkor if I did not see him. I am curious to see him repentant as well. I think it will do us both good to reunite.” 

“I find I doth agree. He doth owe you an apology in person for all he hath done to thee. Come.” Here Ulmo grew to his monumental size once more and extended a hand to her. 

She was hesitant at first, feeling sure she would be plunged into the rippling waters that his body consisted of, yet as she climbed up onto his palm, he was solid beneath her. She could feel the currents of his being moving against her, but as she sat down she did not sink. Ulmo held her close to his chest so that she could see the whole sea displayed before her and Valinor in the far distance. The vala strode forward, the sea spraying up with each movement, until they reached the shores of Valinor in the Bay of Eldamar. 

Manwë had obviously seen their approach for on their arrival he was there waiting with Varda and also Melkor. It was clear that Melkor and Ulmo still held no great regard for one another, as evidenced by the polite but curt nod they bestowed on one another as Ulmo placed Lelyacalë upon the sand. Melkor’s delight at seeing her again was equally as evident, for he ran to her immediately and swept her up into a crushing embrace. 

“Thou art here! I canst scarcely believe it. Thou art really here.” His eyes shone with an adoration and joy so genuine that it nearly pulled her back into him. Her heart wanted to reciprocate. Her mind wanted to give in to his affection. She had to remind herself that he was not really repentant, that she was not really here trying to help him get Mairon to repent, that he was the same as he had ever been and was about to become much worse. He was overjoyed to see her because she was doing what he wanted, he thought she was still his, mind, body, and spirit. If he ever found out this was no longer the case, that his abusive hold on her had been broken, then it would not be joy emanating from his eyes but a threat. 

She laughed, whilst rubbing her ribs. “Yes, I am here. It is good to see you after so long.” 

It was good to see him. To see him in full pretence, on his best behaviour. To glean more information about him. 

“Sorry.” She turned to Manwë and Varda. “I was planning on greeting you first as courtesy dictates, but as you see…” She trailed off as she gestured to Melkor, who maintained an arm around her. 

Manwë smiled, warm and understanding. He seemed relieved at his brother’s contrition and welcomed this new version of Melkor. Varda likewise seemed to adopt her husband’s perspective, which made guilt grip tighter onto Lelyacalë’s insides. She should be warning The Valar against what was to come, not helping Melkor bring it about. 

She had gone over it so many times in her mind. She and Adar could escape Angband, start a new life together. She doubted any elven settlement would accept them, but that would be alright, they could live alone and be content. It would mean Adar would have to leave his children behind though and she knew this was something he could not do. Mairon was cruel to the uruk as it was, they had both seen how ready he was to slaughter them for his own malicious ends. If Adar left, Mairon would have no qualms in destroying every last one of his children and their lines. Adar could not bear the thought and whilst Lelyacalë had no great love of the uruk, she did not believe they deserved such brutal treatment and she certainly would never make Adar suffer in such a way. Besides, they were her children now too. She was still earning the title Emel, and as time wore on she found she wanted to. 

There was also the fact that Melkor would find them once he fled Valinor and he would ensure they both faced the worst punishment he could deliver. She could never escape Melkor now until he was thrust back into The Void. Even then, he might still have access to her through their bond. 

Which meant that if she wanted to be with Adar, which she did, with every single part of her being, she had to stay. Even if it meant working under and with Mairon. Even if it meant inevitably fighting against the elves, whom she had no wish to kill. Even if it meant returning to pretending to love Melkor and being his obedient little light. Adar was all she had. He was worth more than a place in Valinor. He was worth more than freedom and safety under The Valar. For he understood her, he had shown her how to free herself from Melkor’s hold over her, he loved her openly and honestly and she would rather have that than anything else this world had to offer. 

“Brother, mayest I have some moments alone with Lelyacalë? I hath missed her greatly.” Seeing Melkor beg permission with no reticence or anger at having to do so was unsettling to behold. He really did seem a completely different person. It was so tempting to believe it, for it was beautiful to see, what he could have been, what he could be. 

“Of course, we shall give thee some time and return here in due course.” Manwë held out his arm for Varda to hold and gestured for Ulmo to follow. Ulmo shook his head and retreated back into the sea, his eyes never leaving Melkor as he did so. 

Once they were alone Melkor bent to whisper in her ear. “Oh how I have missed thee, Lelca.” It came out in a lustful purr that sent panic running throughout her whilst also drawing her to him. He had missed her. But then, had she not missed him? 

No. Stop. This isn’t real. He doesn’t love you the way you deserve. 

He was gently spinning her around to face him, his eyes full of ardour as he drank her in. One hand was pulling her close at the small of her back, the other was cupping her face, turning it up towards him. 

“Hath thou not missed me?” His lips were so close to hers now. 

“Of course I have.” She whispered out. 

“Show me how much thou hath missed me, Lelca.” He pressed her closer against him. 

She should have known this could have happened. She should have been prepared, but she was not. She had been so focussed on getting here, on making the plan work, she had not considered anything outside of that. It had been a gross oversight on her part. Now she was trying to find a way to refuse him what he clearly wanted, clearly expected, and she was floundering. 

“I… here? We don’t know when Manwë will return.” For once she rejoiced in her furious blushing, as it only helped her cause of being coy. “Ulmo might still be secretly watching!”

Melkor laughed. “I care not. Let them see.

“Well I care!” She exclaimed, then suddenly thought to add. “That is for you and I alone.”

Melkor leant back from her to look her in the eyes once more. “Thou art right. My need for thee didst cloud my judgment.”

She tried not to sigh in relief. 

“Kiss me then. At least give me that.” He dragged his thumb across her lips, parting them as he did so.

She smiled, a kiss she could manage. She reached up and placed her lips upon his, her hands threading themselves into his hair. She had forgotten how wonderful it could be to kiss him, how tender he was capable of being. Old parts were unlocking within her, resurrecting themselves. He felt so good; gods, how had she forgotten that he felt so good? His taste upon her tongue, his teeth grazing her lip. Her mind was a whirlpool and she was struggling to not get sucked in completely. 

With more difficulty than she wanted to admit, she conjured up the image of Adar. Briefly, just to remind herself. She dared not dwell on it in case Melkor somehow perceived it in her mind. She tried to pretend it was Adar she was kissing, whose lips she was devouring more passionately as the kiss lengthened, whose hair she was entangling her fingers in. But Melkor was too much. He was the opium coursing through her, fogging her mind, robbing her senses. Her body and mind fell back into what they had been for centuries under him. She tried to fight it but he was intoxicating. She was forever chained to him, one way or another, it seemed. He would never leave her, not entirely. 

The sea rushed upon the shore and into her mind, clearing it slightly. She was suddenly aware that they were now laid upon the sand, Melkor above her, pressing down into her. She had no memory of getting into this position, she had been well and truly swept up in him. She pushed against him now, gently but firmly.

“No, we can’t. We shouldn’t. You agreed.” 

He shushed her with gentle caresses. “All is well, Lelca, do not fuss. Doth thou not also desire this?”

Yes . Sighed those parts of her that had refused to let him go.

No ! Screamed the rest of her. 

How had she not anticipated this? How was she back exactly where she had been before Melkor left? She should never have come here. She should have asked Ulmo to bring the gift to her instead of coming to retrieve it herself. She was a fool. 

But if she resisted, he would know something was wrong and she could not afford that, for her and Adar’s sake. 

Adar. 

Oh forgive me, my love. 

They were the last words she remembered before she disassociated her true self from what was happening. Melkor took what he wanted and she gave back, but it was not all of her and it was not the real her. That was the only comfort she could cling on to, the only thing stopping the shame from tearing her apart. 

Chapter Text

Here she came, wings of night rushing down to greet them, ruby eyes glowing fierce in a pallid face. Clutched in her clawed hand was the item he had been waiting for, longing for. It nearly devoured all his attention but an absence drew it back out. Thuringwethil was alone. No incandescent woman adorned her back. 

Where was Lelyacalë?

Mairon did not know whether to be concerned or annoyed, but as the latter came more readily to him he resorted to that. Besides, having concern for that woman made his lip curl in distaste. Thuringwethil noted his pointed look at her rider-less back and rolled her eyes in irritation.

“Do not lay the blame with me, Mairon, for she didst send me on without her.” The she-demon hissed.

“Thou shalt have to explain more than that, Thuringwethil.” Mairon’s annoyance was apparent.

“I didst as I was bid. I dropped Melkor’s precious little light a small distance away from the shore of Belegaer, letting her make the rest of the way alone, so that I couldst hide from prying eyes. I hid with a view of the shoreline, tucked into a tree high up on a neighbouring hill. I didst see her converse with Ulmo and watched as he carried her across the sea. Then I waited. I didst not know how long I shouldst have to wait so I flew and fed well before settling back to watch. I didst not have long to wait, however, before Ulmo brought her back. I flew down to meet her as she made her way up from the sands but she barely acknowledged me. I saw she had the gift Melkor hath made for thee but upon enquiring on it, she merely passed it to me in a stupor and bid me take it back alone and that she wouldst follow.”

“And thou obeyed?” Mairon was half incredulous, half furious.

“Obviously not at first. True, I do not like her riding upon my back, but that she would deviate from the plan aroused my suspicions immediately. I reminded her of what was agreed upon and told her she must accompany me back to Angband, but she refused. I asked her why and she told me it was none of my business! She wast… vacant almost. Hollow. Until I attempted to force her to come with me.” 

Here Thuringwethil paused and a look of fear crossed her features, which Mairon had never seen before. “She didst grasp my wrist most tightly and then my throat. Her voice wast still dead when she spoke, which only increased the malice. She didst tell me that should I attempt to lay hands on her again, she would rip my wings from me and force me to crawl back whilst she beat me with them.”

Mairon stared at Thuringwethil in shock. He knew Lelyacalë was capable of great violence, he had been the recipient of it after all. He had never heard her threaten anyone before though and to do so in such a circumstance… something was not right. The way Thuringwethil described her reminded him of another time she had been like this and his stomach blanched. Surely not. Surely he would not have done that. 

Of course he had done that. It had been foolish of Mairon to think Melkor would not have wanted that, would not have demanded that of her after so long a separation. It curdled his blood. More so because from what Thuringwethil described of Lelyacalë’s behaviour and countenance, it would appear as though she had resisted him and he had taken anyway. She was not at fault, even though he wished he could blame her, which only added to his continuing dislike of her. She had robbed him of the virtue of hating her honestly in this regard and he could not bring himself to hate Melkor, so now his hatred lingered unattached to either and gnawing away at his own soul.

“So I didst travel back alone, leaving her there to her melancholy moroseness. Thou surely cannot blame me!” She finished with a wail.

“Indeed not, thou hast done well Thuringwethil. Thank thee for bringing Melkor’s gift to me.” He held out his hand and she placed the item within it. It was an intricately carved box of a deep red wood, inlaid with gold. The real gift lay inside, but Mairon wished to reveal that in private, though he had no doubt that Thuringwethil had sneaked a look. As much as he was itching to see his gift and use it, he knew he needed to keep his focus on Lelyacalë and what to do about the situation pertaining to her. 

In spite of himself, he trusted that she would make her way back. She had always been true to her word and besides, she had nowhere else to go. She clearly needed time alone to come to terms with what had happened. She had kept her end of the deal, her token of truce, and ensured Melkor’s gift made its way back to Mairon safely. The kind, courteous course of action would be to wait for her to return in her own time. Mairon was neither kind nor courteous, least of all to that woman, so he was already deciding the best way to haul her back to Angband as soon as possible. He could not send Thuringwethil back, that much was clear. He could go himself… but he would much rather not. He did not like leaving Angband for any length of time, there was simply too much to do, to oversee. He had also done his fair share of ferrying her to and fro in the past and was quite happy to leave it there. He knew she was important enough to warrant his personal attention, but whilst Melkor was not there to enforce that fact, he certainly was not going to.

There was Sàratalma of course. He would be more than willing to do it. Happy to do it, even. But that would never do. She did not deserve to be rescued by a friend, she needed manhandling in by one who held her in low regard. It would be a mercy to send Sàratalma and Mairon the merciful he was not.

Âshûrzash. He could send Âshûrzash. It would probably do the uruk good to get out of Angband and get the lay of the land once more. It reminded Mairon that he really needed to let his forces understand the surrounding areas if they were to attack and defend them. He made a mental note to implement this in future battle preparations. But, yes. He would send Âshûrzash. If the father of the uruk was sent upon the back of Nyevsta, he would be able to track down Lelyacalë easily and quickly. Mairon could spare them both for a short while. Yes. Âshûrzash was sure to despise the order, but he was an obedient servant and the unhappier he was, the more he was sure to make that dratted woman’s life a misery. A fitting punishment indeed before Mairon could bestow his own on her return. He addressed the uruk, who had been patiently waiting at his side.

“Âshûrzash, as my most trusted servant, I task thee with bringing Lelyacalë safely to Angband. Thou wilt take Nyevsta, for she will be able to track her mistress down with ease and allow thee to travel with haste. She is strong enough to bear both of thee for thy return journey.” Mairon placed the palm of one hand on Âshûrzash’s face, thumb caressing his cheekbone. “I am trusting thee with this task, Âshûrzash, do not let me down and thou shalt be justly rewarded.” 

“I will do this for you, though I curse that she should inconvenience us all so.” To Mairon’s delight, Âshûrzash could barely contain his frustration.

“Excellent, excellent.” The Lord of Angband leant forward to place a kiss on Âshûrzash’s free cheek. “I, too, curse her.” 

He released the uruk’s face, making sure to brush his fingers through the other’s hair as he did so. “Go make thyself ready and I shall bring Nyevsta to thee at the entrance. Be quick.”

Âshûrzash bowed and left, long legs striding with purpose. Mairon sighed. He dismissed Thuringwethil and sank upon his throne. Finally, finally, he could open the box. Excitement hummed through him. Finally, finally, he would be able to talk to his beloved once more.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Adar’s insides were lurching. This was not good. Why had Lelyacalë not returned with Thuringwethil as planned? Something had gone wrong, something terrible had happened. Adar did not have many dealings with Thuringwethil, but what she had relayed had seemed truthfully done. Then again, the maia held no love for Lelyacalë, so maybe she would lie. Adar was in no doubt that his love could hold her own against an attack from the she-demon, but that did not mean Thuringwethil had not attacked and then fled, leaving his love behind. He knew Lelyacalë could heal all wounds, but the thought of her being left beaten and bloodied to heal alone tore at him. 

If Thuringwethil had been speaking the truth, then Lelyacalë’s absence was probably to do with what had happened on Valinor. Most likely, what had happened with Melkor. Naturally, Adar’s mind conjured up all the worst scenarios it possibly could and they plagued him the entire journey. Nyevsta moved with a speed he had never experienced before, wind belting him savagely and causing his eyes to water. The wolf had picked up her mistress’s scent almost instantaneously and so they had been travelling at this break-neck speed since the beginning. 

They finally came to a howl-filled halt at the edge of a lake, a fair few miles from Angband. It gave Adar a bittersweet sense of déja vu, especially once he saw her there wading into the water on the opposite side. She did not look up, though she must have heard and recognised the call of her own wolf. He nudged Nyevsta on around the lake, only to leap from her back and run as he saw the waters close above Lelyacalë’s head.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a strange thing, how patterns permeated history. For here she was again, at the water, hoping to drown out the drum of Melkor. A different lake, the same hurt to wash away. The same sequences. Her life was full of the same sequences. She was apparently doomed to repeat her mistakes for the rest of her long, neverending life. Maybe the water could wash away this particular pattern, erode it to nothing so she would not have to repeat it again. Maybe it could distort the pattern into something more benevolent so that the next time it played out, it would be more in her favour. But as the lake embraced her, entombed her, as she allowed the water to fill her, the past, recent and ancient, echoed around her still. Nothing could remove the stain of Melkor. All attempts were futile. 

The coldness of the lake turned into burning in her lungs. Her body cried out for air while her spirit whispered for oblivion. She let the weight of her drag her slowly down, away from the star-lit sky above, only to be wrenched upwards. Desperate hands were gripping her, pulling her away from the depths. She broke upon the surface in spluttering heaves, coughing and retching up water as she was carried to solid ground. She did not need to look to see who had rescued her, for she would know those hands anywhere, and would remember the feel of those arms around her forever. Besides, it would not be much of a pattern if it was missing one of its key components. Her mind was too hazy to worry about how he could be here and too grateful to care. She clung to him and he to her and they both let tears join the lake-water upon their faces. 

They did not move until Adar felt the chill begin to set in from his waterlogged clothes and he had to suppress a shiver. It did not go unnoticed by Lelyacalë and she apologised and said they should make a fire. He kissed her cold face with trembling lips and reluctantly let her go so he could scavenge for firewood. Nyevsta immediately took his place and gently whined as she wrapped her gigantic form around her mistress to keep her warm, licking the water from her face and hands. This managed to elicit a small laugh from Lelyacalë as she playfully told the beast to stop. Nyevsta ignored her until she was satisfied her mistress had been properly seen to. 

Despite numbed hands, Adar was able to get a small fire going fairly easily. It was a skill he retained from his time as an elf. The two stripped their wet clothes from them and set them to dry over a nearby rock. Adar had brought fresh garments as a precaution and he passed over Lelyacalë her set. He had been forced to bring some of his own as he had had no time to procure any of hers, so it was that they were both adorned in black shirts and breeches. They were too big on her and she was forced to punch a new hole in the belt to hold the trousers up. Then the two of them huddled around the flames while Dyevsta went on first watch, unasked, but knowing what was required of her. The beast harboured enough intelligence to know when her mistress would want some alone time. 

A quietude settled over the little camp as she leaned back into him and he hugged her against him, chin resting upon the crown of her head. There was only the sound of crackling flames and softly lapping water and two heartbeats finding the same rhythm. The weight of what had just occurred clung to them more tightly than their soaked clothes had. 

“Lelya… Lelya I will drag you up from the depths of your despair every time, but please, please….” 

“I know.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. 

“Help me understand.” He held her tighter and buried his face in her hair, the smell of the lake still clinging to the dampness there.  

“Well, firstly, we really should stop meeting like this.” Her tone held mocking bitterness as she gestured to the lake. 

“Lelya I’m being serious!” Adar’s voice cracked as he straightened from her. “When you did not return with Thuringwethil, I thought-”. He closed his eyes briefly and swallowed down the words. “I journeyed out here thinking of all the worst events that could have transpired, to make you send her on without you. Please, please tell me what happened.”

She twisted in his lap so she could look into his eyes, which were downcast and distraught. He was not angry at her, like Melkor had been when she tried to take her life, he was not worried for his own sake, but for hers. His wretchedness was mainly all for her, with only a little left for himself. She had not wanted to cause him pain, which was why she had tried to hide herself away longer. She did not want to tell him what had happened. She did not want to see the look in his eyes. She had been dirtied and she had betrayed him and he deserved better than her. She cursed herself, her own pain-driven ignorance, that the moment Melkor had taken her for his own again she would cause Adar pain regardless. There was no way of saving him from it, because he loved her. 

She so very much wanted to kiss him, but the disgust at herself firmly forbade it. She wanted to hold his face in her hands, but the repugnance at her own flesh restrained her. She knew what she had to say, but found she had neither the right words nor the courage to say them. 

“Melkor… he… we…” It was no good, the words would not come together for her. The truth refused to be formed and made solid and real. 

Adar, her saviour in all things it seemed, mercifully saved her from having to dredge up the account. It was the worst of what he had feared and watching his beloved unable to dispel herself of it was confirmation enough. 

“Melkor forced himself on you.” His voice was deadpan with pain. 

“I tried, I tried to stop him but he still thinks I want him so there was no good way to refuse him without him being suspicious, or angry, or both. I didn’t want it! I didn’t want it!” Her voice was high in hysteria as she nearly screamed the words at his chest. “Only part of me did, and I realise I’ll never be free of him. Part of me will always go back to him and I hate it!”

She abruptly stood up, shaking and backing away and Adar rose up instantly to follow but she screamed at him. 

“No! Don’t touch me! I am sullied and broken and unworthy.” She collapsed on the floor and folded in on herself, a high keen emanating from between closed fingers as she sobbed into her hands. “How can I ever earn your forgiveness?”

Adar felt his whole body go numb as his heart was pierced by her cries. She thought he should not touch her because Melkor had? She thought herself unworthy of him because her long-time abuser had his claws in her deeper than she realised? She thought he would care about any of that, would reject her and revile her? 

She was not broken, but she was breaking. She was wrestling to hold herself together. She was not broken, but parts of her were not working as they should. The fear and self-loathing borne of Melkor’s treatment of her were clouding her judgment, making her forget what she knew, closing her heart off from him. 

He knelt down beside her but refrained from touching her, though every fibre of his being longed to do so. He inhaled deeply a few times to ensure his voice was steady when he spoke. Lelyacalë did not move, but her crying had quietened. 

“I will not touch you if that is what you wish. But know this, Lelya, you are neither sullied nor broken nor unworthy to me.” His voice grew stronger in its conviction. “Melkor exacts much from us all, but you the most. What he has done to you lies at his feet and his alone. You require no forgiveness from me for there is nothing to forgive, Lelya, nothing.”

She raised a tear-streaked face to him, eyes red. She sniffled and wiped at her nose. 

He continued, the urge to reach for her hands nearly overtaking him. “I love you, no matter your past. I love you, no matter your complications. I love you, no matter your flaws. I love you, no matter anything. I am asking - no, begging - you to believe me in this.”

He felt tears begin to run down his cheeks once more but refused to break eye contact with her now he had it. He needed her to see the honesty behind his words, his soul-baring, vulnerable honesty. Her face collapsed into weeping once more and she turned from him to hide the unsightliness of her emotions. Not that it mattered to Adar; her face might have been made temporarily ugly through crying, yet she remained the most beautiful being to him. 

Eventually, her bawling subsided and after quickly cleaning herself up, she turned back to him composed. Her eyes were still puffy and her voice croaky, but she managed to finally  speak. 

“Thank you. I believe you. I’m sorry. For all of it.” Her voice wavered and she stopped to steady herself. “I love you too.”

“Please may I hold you?” He was desperate, the need to comfort her, to feel her, was overwhelming. 

She nodded and he practically lunged to drag her back into his arms. He worried he might be crushing her but she hugged him back just as fiercely. He would gladly bear her bruises if it meant she could hold on to him. 

He expected nothing from her, especially after she had been physically misused, assaulted, and disregarded, so when he felt her begin to pull him down so he was atop her, he made sure this was what she wanted. He had made certain she felt in control at all times. He let her lead. She needed for Melkor to not be the last one to have touched her. The water had not cleansed him from her and she needed to feel undefiled of his presence within her. Adar was more than willing to oblige. He would purify her flesh with his own as many times as it took to rid her of he who deserved her not. 

Chapter Text

They could have gotten back to Angband as quickly as Adar had arrived to find her, but they knew better than to waste this opportunity for some genuine alone time. They decided they would tell Mairon that she had still been at Belegaer, which would allow them another two nights without suspicion. Nyevsta did not seem to mind, in fact the great wolf enjoyed running free. She caught them a deer that first night, of which she of course was allowed the most part. Lelyacalë had been in the light of the trees and so her thirst was not as great as usual. Adar had insisted that she drink while the deer was still warm though, to keep her strength up after such an ordeal. He had brought rations for himself, but was very thankful to Nyevsta for the additional venison. 

They camped by the lake for two nights and headed back the third day. Adar relished being under the stars once more, he had missed their light greatly. When he lay next to Lelyacalë and gazed off into the twinkling firmament, he could pretend that nothing else existed. He could pretend that they could stay out here forever. That there was no Melkor or Mairon or Angband and that there never had been. There was just him, the woman he loved, and the stars, who shone down in neutrality on them. The stars did not judge. They did not expect anything from them. They gave their light and their warmth to the innocent and sinful equally. The two days out here in relative freedom were not enough though. No time would ever be enough, but he would take what he could. 

“You do know that you’re not getting this back, don’t you?”

She had been wandering around in just the black shirt he had leant her, even though her original clothes were dry. Her legs were still bare as she had yet to put his trousers on. It was time to head back but shockingly neither of them felt the compulsion to hurry. 

“Oh, is that so?” He grabbed the material and used it to pull her to him. “I suppose it does look better on you.”

He leant down and kissed her. “But you have so many clothes already, and I so few, therefore, I will be taking this one back.”

“Hmmm… no, I don’t think so. I’m rather attached to it, you see. It has sentimental value.” She teased. 

“Sentimental value?” His hands unbunched the fabric to slide up underneath it. 

“Yes, it belongs to someone I love very much and wearing it makes me feel close to them.” She tossed her hair over one shoulder. 

“If only you could be close to that someone in person.” His hands moved upwards, dragging the shirt up in the process. “Maybe then you could give the shirt back.”

“I don’t know, I think I’d prefer to keep it for when I cannot be close to them.” Her lips were brushing his now as she spoke and he moved forwards to press his mouth firmly to hers. He would never tire of kissing her, her lips upon his own was one of the few truly wonderful things to ever be part of Adar’s life. 

He was so lost in the act that he nearly forgot how they had come to this point and on remembering the fact it made him smile. She broke from him with a querying look to ask him what was so amusing. 

“No amusement, my love, only joy that we get to share these moments with one another. These frivolous, happy moments, free of anything or anyone else.” He stroked her cheek as she smiled contendedly at him. 

“The fact remains, however, that you cannot be seen entering Angband in my attire, so you will have to return it.” 

“Drat. You are right.” She sighed and stuck her lip out in mock petulance. 

He slid the clothing up over her head and suddenly she was naked before him, her light delicately shining from her pale skin to match the stars in the inky backdrop sky. She was so beautiful. She was so beautiful and she had chosen him. He threw the shirt aside and grabbed her hands, tugging her down as he moved to the ground. He threw off his own top and held her to him, his rough scars against her smooth skin. He lay them on the grass and kissed her, slowly. She tangled her legs with his and she deepened the kiss. There was no question that he would always enjoy their lovemaking, but this… this is what he loved the most. The quiet times where they just held each other. 

“We should not go back. We should run away.” He mumbled into her hair. 

“I know, I wish we could.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sàratalma had not liked that Adar had gone to fetch Lelyacalë back. Not least because he had wanted to be the one to do it, but also because their covert relationship made him uneasy. 

He did not disapprove of Adar. Of all the elves Sàratalma had tortured, Adar had been the strongest, the most enduring, the most interesting. He was a good leader. An excellent fighter. No, what the dark maia objected to was the relationship at all. Lelyacalë had made promises to Melkor and now she was breaking them. It did not sit right with him. Then again, he loved how happy his friend had become, the open joy in her features whenever she spoke about Adar to him. 

He could not deny that the uruk treated her better. He could also not deny the hypocrisy of Melkor having anyone he pleased yet enforcing monogamy on his lovers. There was added the fact that Lelyacalë had sworn those fealties in order to survive. She had had no real choice. Still, she should technically still be bound by them and yet she was thoroughly breaking them. 

It twisted Sàratalma up inside. Who was he more loyal to? The god he had followed because of his might and passion, the one who had inspired him with all that he could accomplish, or the woman he had come to love as his dearest companion, who never demanded anything of him and only ever gave. Her time, her attention, her friendship. She did not have to. She could have shut him out from the beginning but she did not. She had even been reluctant to tell him the truth about her and Adar because she did not want him to be implicated, to burden him with knowledge that would put him in such a quandary. She had also been thoroughly eager to divulge the facts with her only friend and confidante. 

In a shocking punch to his gut, Sàratalma had realised he would defend Lelca against Melkor, if it came to it. For she had been bullied and put upon for centuries with no advocate. He was a changed being. The thought of going against Melkor before had never even occurred to him. He could never have foreseen himself arriving at this place. 

Besides, she was still choosing to fight on Melkor’s side. She could have fled after he was captured, she could have given them all up to The Valar, but she had not. She was not against Melkor, she just wanted, needed, someone who treated her as she should be treated. Melkor gave her only what he deemed acceptable, he never asked her what she needed, she had to beg or let the situation become so dire Melkor was forced to listen to her. Melkor had not taken her initially to be his lover, but that had grown over time and became a new demand. One she had had no real choice but to comply with. 

Sàratalma knew the dangers of trying to refuse Melkor. He had only made that mistake twice, and that had been one time too many. Melkor was exacting and held no room for refusal. It was fine if you did not mind what he asked of you, but Lelyacalë had never wanted anything to do with Melkor. She had been a prisoner from the start. It was a miracle she did not hate Melkor as all the uruk did, resenting the master that created them. 

Sàratalma had no wish to switch allegiances to The Valar, but he realised with a surprising lightening of his soul, that he would gladly follow Lelca wherever she went now, even if that meant away from Melkor. She felt like home, not Melkor. He realised that this must be what Lelca and Adar felt for one another. After all, the elf had followed her to Utumno because of the attachment he had formed from their one meeting and she was risking everything by allowing herself to follow her heart for the first time in countless years. 

He would never betray her to his master. Her relationship with Adar would remain secret, nothing would pry it from him. Still, he did not like it. He did not like that she was having to lie. He feared for her at breaking such an oath to one such as Melkor. He feared Mairon finding out. He feared Melkor finding out. He feared for what would happen to Lelyacalë if Adar died in battle, her bereavement concealed from all but him. 

Adar was still unsure of him, Sàratalma knew, and had not wanted Lelca to reveal their relationship to him. The dark maia had attempted to become on better terms with the father of the uruk, but the going was slow. The fact remained that he had been a primary torturer of Adar for years, that many of the scars Adar bore were of Sàratalma’s doing. There was no apology good enough, even if Talma could have scrounged one up. After all, he was not sorry for carrying out Melkor’s wishes, for helping his master create new things, experiment and shape the world in different ways. He was only sorry that part of it hurt Lelyacalë. He was sorry on her behalf, not Adar’s, so any apology would have fallen flat. Nevertheless, for Lelca’s sake, he was cordial with the uruk in private and helped them keep up their pretence of cold cooperation in public. Adar mattered to Lelca, therefore he mattered to Talma. 

Thus, the dark maia could not begrudge Adar having the chance to spend some alone time with the woman he loved, free from the scrutiny of the hordes of Angband and its cruel Lord. Mairon would think Adar indignant and bitter at having to rescue Lelyacalë, as the maia was thoroughly convinced that the uruk now hated the woman he had once professed to adore. It was the perfect opportunity for Adar. 

But Sàratalma wanted to be with her, to know she was alright, to find out what had happened. He knew he could trust her with Adar, that was of no question, but jealousy and anxiety plagued him. He did not want Lelca in the ways Adar and Melkor did, so he had no qualms with sharing her with the uruk. But she had been his friend first. Their relationship of trust and shared experiences was longer. The thought of being set aside or left out purely because he was not bedding his friend left a sour taste in his mouth. His and Lelca’s relationship was just as important, just as real, as hers and Adar’s. He only hoped she knew that.

In the end Sàratalma could stand it no more and, not telling Mairon, set off to find the pair. He had no doubt Adar had found Lelca and was bringing her safely back, it was just that he could wait no longer to know all that had passed. He needed to know why she had not come back with Thuringwethil. He needed to know what had transpired on Valinor with Melkor. The ignorance of such matters itched under his skin. 

He encountered them a few miles from Angband, Nyevsta trotting along at no great speed. They were in no hurry to return and Sàratalma understood why. Adar was not especially happy to see him waiting for them, but Lelyacalë proffered him a warm smile. 

“Mairon doth not know I am here, but I wished to hear all before he didst get his hands on thee.” Talma grasped Lelca’s hand in his own, aware of Adar’s stare at the place where they touched, at how his shadow flames left no mark upon her skin.

“Do not make her recount it again, Sàratalma, for it was a painful ordeal.” Adar’s voice was hard.

Sàratalma looked worriedly at Lelyacalë, her eyes downcast and not meeting his own. He turned to Adar. “Do not make the mistake of thinking thou alone care for her, uruk, for Lelca is my friend and I care for her deeply.”

Adar’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed but Talma ignored him and addressed Lelyacalë, his voice softening. “I would not ask anything of thee that thou art not ready to divulge, however.”

“It’s good to see you Talma, thank you for coming to check on me. I will tell you all.” Her voice was quiet. 

“You do not have to.” Adar reached back to hold her other hand. 

“She doth know this!” Sàratalma felt exasperation grow within him. 

“Yet here you are forcing her hand!” Adar’s voice raised to match Sàratalma’s.

“That’s enough.” Lelyacalë cut in before the dark maia could retort. “I am not foolish enough to ask the two of you to be friends, though I would ask for some form of civility, but when it comes to me and my welfare, will you please acknowledge that you both have my best interests at heart?” 

She eyed the two of them meaningfully, adding under her breath. “I can do without a testosterone-slinging match every time we’re together, thank you.”

Sàratalma did not know what testosterone was and would be quizzing her on that remark later, but by the looks of things Adar was none the wiser either, which made the maia feel better about his ignorance. He nodded, somewhat bashfully, to acknowledge her request and Adar followed suit. 

“Good. Thank you.” She slid off Nyevsta’s back to land next to Sàratalma. “Walk with me and I’ll tell you.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It sat dead in his hands, mocking him with its silence. It was not working. Lelyacalë was clearly supposed to explain to him how to use it, but of course she was not here, damn the woman. 

It was breathtakingly beautiful, all silver-entwined iron and adorned with sapphires the exact colour of Melkor’s eyes. A ring to embody the master, the lover, he was separated from. Mairon knew Melkor would have a ring that was gold and fit with rubies to match him, so that when his master looked upon it, he would be reminded of his lieutenant. He wished he could see it. 

The ring fit upon his index finger perfectly. He had avidly slid it over his finger in anticipation but nothing had happened. He had twisted it, stroked the gemstones upon it, kissed it, whispered to it.. Still, the ring remained just a ring. 

His frustration had nearly caused him to hurl it from him but instead he had grasped it at the last second and held it to him, tears pricked from his eyes. Even these would not unlock the ring’s abilities. He just wanted to converse with the one he missed the most. It was right there, literally in his grasp, and yet he could not fathom its working. 

Where was that cursed woman ?

Ashuzash should have been back with her by now. Thoughts plagued him as to why it was taking so long. He screamed through his teeth in annoyance, the shriek had barely faded from the air when Sàratalma burst through his doors. Mairon turned scathing eyes upon him and was about to admonish the other for not knocking before entering his personal chambers when the dark maia spoke. 

“They are back.” 

Then without waiting for him to follow, Sàratalma turned and hurried back up the corridor. Mairon was hot on his trail, however, and only stopped to compose himself before entering the entrance hall. He strode in after Sàratalma, exuding all the unwieldy, fierce authority he felt, a fire upon which accelerant had been tossed. 

Adar immediately went to one knee on seeing Mairon enter, but Lelyacalë stayed on her feet, not even a whisper of inclined head to show deference. He wanted to bellow at her to kneel, but knew this would not achieve anything other than a smirk from her who stood so boldly before him. He would not have her mock him when she should be bowing before him. That she held his gaze irked him also, her calm green depths extinguishing his blazing ire raining down on her. He wanted to scorch her, blister her with his wrath, until she was forced to her knees in smouldering agony. 

“You have not worked out how to use it yet, have you?” Her voice held an understanding that sent the fire within him searing to the heavens. How dare she speak first? How dare she guess at the real reason for his anger? How dare she know him so well? She had no right. 

He could barely speak over the anger swirling about his mouth, a sulphurous poison dripping down his throat. “Where. Hast. Thou. Been?” The words were spat from clenched jaws, quiet in their deadliness, as they slithered from him to her. 

“You need to pour your fëa into it, to sacrifice part of yourself in order to make it work.” 

Eru be damned, this woman was foolish in her brazenness. To ignore his questioning and to act as though he had no authority over her. It was taking every ounce of willpower to hold himself back from lunging at her. 

“Lord Mairon asked you a question, wench, answer it. Or would you prefer me to?” Mairon’s anger was briefly superseded by shock, as Âshûrzash broke in with cold contempt. It made the maia smile. 

“Do not dare call her wench, thou lowly maggot! Thou slave of Melkor!” Sàratalma stepped forth. “She owes Mairon nothing, Melkor holdeth them both in the same regard and thou shalt not address thy betters as such!” He struck the uruk across the face before Lelyacalë grabbed his arm and pulled him back, telling him it was all okay Talma, there is no need Talma. 

Mairon had had enough. 

“Melkor doth not hold her in the same regard as I.” The insult was almost laughable in its utter discredibility. 

“Oh… but I’m afraid he does.” Her pitying tone finally set free the raging inferno within him only for it to drown into tendrils of smoke the next second as she moved. 

Releasing the cloak she wore from her shoulders, she revealed a pale neck and chest adorned by a necklace to match his ring. Delicate black iron links through which silver vines were woven trailed down to house a large icy blue sapphire sat in the middle around which tiny white diamonds swirled over and under. The light gently glowing from Lelyacalë’s skin caused the gemstones to shimmer into life. The piece was stunning by itself, but she made it extraordinary. 

No one moved or spoke, all three stood staring at the jewellery, mesmerised as she waited patiently for Mairon to respond. The Lord of Angband knew his eyes were bulging with admiration and jealousy and his mouth was agape in disbelief but he could not control his features. Melkor had made her something as well. She did not need it. They could communicate without aid. So he must have done it for the love of her alone, to show his affection. Mairon could think of no other reason. 

“I must pour my essence into the ring, thou sayest, for it to work?” He ignored the scene with his words, but he did not lift his eyes from the necklace as he spoke. 

“Yes. Melkor must do the same with the ring he bears. He knew you would wish to see the design of his matching ring, so he placed an illustration in the ring box.”

Mairon had missed that, so eager had he been to use the ring to talk to his beloved master. His heart swelled slightly knowing how well Melkor understood him, but it was not enough to dispel the hurt that glorious adornment caused, hanging from around Lelyacalë’s neck. It sealed itself into his mind so that its image was burnt upon his vision even when he looked away. Jealousy prickled along his skin seeking control of his limbs, his mouth, his eyes. It took everything he had to face away and head back to his room, he did not have enough in him to call out a farewell, his silence was his dismissal. 

He had a conversation to get to, only now his excitement was tinged with apprehension at what must be discussed. For he would be questioning Melkor about what had occurred and he would be asking about that necklace. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lelyacalë had not shown Adar the necklace. 

After Melkor had bestowed it upon her, caressing her neck in kisses as he fastened it about her neck, an act of giving to balance his act of taking, she had been so numb she had barely noticed it upon her. Her body had known what to do though and even as her mind had retreated into itself, her face had pulled into a gracious smile and her lungs had ushered forth enough to whisper a reverential thank you. 

But once she was free from his sight she had practically ripped it from her throat and would have hurled it into the sea, but she had dared not. Instead she had shoved it deep into her pocket and was almost disappointed that it had not fallen free in the lake after she had tried to drown herself. It was why she had been reluctant to wear her own clothes again, knowing it was sat ready to weigh her down. A thrall collar more than a necklace, ensuring her continuing enslavement to him who she should never have been with. The message was clear, despite its wrappings in silver and gemstones. She was chained to Melkor and always would be. 

Lelyacalë had known this would not be how Mairon would interpret the jewellery, however, so she had swallowed her displeasure and worn it hidden under her cloak in case she needed to wield it in her favour, which as it turned out she had indeed needed to do. The maia did not mask nearly as well as he thought he could, for one who was so fastidious about being in control at all times, and she had seen the hurt plain across his face. The hurt and the surprise. She cared not anymore. Mairon could go bellyache to Melkor about his grievances against her and leave her in peace. He was slow to learn, or maybe it was just that he refused to accept. Either way, he was a fool. Dangerous, undoubtedly, not to be underestimated, completely, but a fool nonetheless. He and Melkor both. She was sick of both of them. 

Lelyacalë had not shown Adar the necklace and as Mairon left so abruptly in a silence that screamed so loud it left an echo in the air, she could feel the turmoil of his emotions as they writhed within him to spill from his eyes as they bore into her chest. It was a judgement she was not ready for. She had already shared so much and she knew he deserved to know but right now she was exhausted and emotionally drained. She needed him to give her more grace. She needed him to not look at her like that. 

“Well, thou kept that a secret! It is most impress-” Sàratalma was cut off as she yanked the necklace from herself and threw it across the hall. 

“Thou dost not like it?” His confusion only served to irritate her.

“No, Sàratalma, I do not. Why would I like it? Why?” He stepped back at her words and she did not mean for him to actually answer as she carried on. “I need some time alone.” 

With that, she strode from them without a backwards glance. 

Chapter Text

That she had not told him about the necklace hurt Adar more than he wanted to admit, even to himself. Especially after what they had both just been through. He thought they were done with secrets, yet apparently Melkor would always hold a part of her from him no matter what. 

A sickly jealousy at not being able to provide his love with anything nearly as beautiful also lined his stomach as he thought of how glorious Lelyacalë had looked wearing the piece. He tried to remind himself that she hated it, had rejected it, but the fact it existed at all was an ache in his marrow. 

It took all of his patience to not run after her and demand answers. He felt the anger borne of jealousy and dismay begin to build within him and threaten to break forth in cold contempt. Eventually it was too much, after pacing back and forth and barking at anyone who tried to talk to him, and he gave in to his resentment and hurried in the direction of her room. Each step echoed with a thought thudding through his head. He deserved answers. Thud. He’d been patient enough. Thud. Why was she still holding things back from him? Thud. Did she not trust him? Thud. Had he not shown he was supportive enough? Thud. Faster and faster they came until he was nearly running with their momentum in his mind. 

He rounded a corner and there she was, hurrying in his direction. She stopped upon seeing him, and he similarly halted, nearly thrown off balance by the suddenness of the action. After a split second of shock where they both just looked at one another, Adar went to storm over to her again but before he could move she had run at him and thrown her arms about his neck, gripping him tightly. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, and I’m sorry all I seem to say to you is sorry and you deserve better than the mess I am and damn it I’m not trying to make myself the victim but I just feel so lost and not in control, and now I’m rambling because I’m scared of what you’ll say or not say. If I stop talking there might be silence and the silence would kill me as much as hearing how I hurt you so I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. And you looked so angry just now and even though you have every right to feel that way I’m a coward and not ready to bear that yet and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

Her tirade finally ended for all but a moment before she hastily added. 

“If you need to shout at me I’ll understand. I deserve it.”

It really was not fair, Adar mused. She need not have spoken at all, the embrace had been enough to quell his ire, but her honest and unfettered rush of words were so endearing, so completely her, so utterly the human side of her he had come to love more than the ethereal beauty that had originally drawn himself to her, that he found the heat of his anger replaced with a glowing warmth of affection. She often lamented how she was not human anymore, but Adar saw these moments and knew they must be what she had been like, for even though he did not know what a human was or how they were, these moments were so unlike her usual demeanor that he had pieced together that they were her human side surfacing.

He had no words to offer her in that moment, she had used enough for both of them. Instead he raised his arms and encircled her with them, one arm about her waist, another snaking up her back with his hand resting on her shoulder, pressing her more firmly against him. He buried his face in her hair and they stayed that way for some time, neither moving or speaking. Eventually he gave her one huge squeeze that forced her off her tiptoes and off the ground before gently lowering her back down and releasing her. 

He stepped back enough to rest his forehead against hers and sighed.

“I am angry, but it is an anger born of disappointment. I thought we were beyond secrets now.”

“I would have told you about it. I only wore it in case I needed to use it against Mairon and lo and behold I did end up needing to. It’s not how I wanted you to find out. I did not ask for it nor do I want it. I shall not wear it.” Her expression was earnest as she moved back from him to better look him in the eyes. “It’s coercive control presented as a gift. He couldn’t even stop himself using chains in the design, he made his point quite clear.” She added bitterly.

Realisation hurled itself at Adar so hard that he nearly dropped to his knees. It was a realisation that had threatened to intrude upon him many times before now, but he had found ways to ignore it, to pretend it did not even exist. Now though, there was no hiding from it.

“You will never truly be free of him, will you? You will never be fully rid of him. We will never be free of him. Him and Mairon.” His voice was strained with resignation. “In one way or another, they will haunt us for the rest of our lives, even if we were ever to physically leave.”

She held his face and kissed him gently. “Yes.”

He brought their lips together again, only he pressed more urgently than she had, as though he could kiss away the truth. His fervour backed her against the nearest obliging wall. He wanted to forget everything and just be here, with her, kissing her, holding her. 

“Adar, my love…” She had broken away breathlessly from him. “I can bear the ghost of my oppressor if I have you. But I am so scared- I’m so scared he will take you from me and I will be powerless to stop him.”

“We have time, time to figure something out.” He stroked her cheek.

“We have roughly three thousand years. It will go faster than you think, the last three thousand have.” Despondancy clouded her tone. 

“You are stronger now than you were and you can become stronger still.” An idea struck him. “Convince Mairon you need to be strong enough to hold your own, if not defeat, a Valar in battle.”

“You want me to become strong enough to face off against Melkor?” 

Adar nodded. 

She continued. “It’s risky, Mairon might see through to my true intentions. I might need to leave it a while before broaching that topic. He knows something happened between Melkor and me in Valinor and I think he suspects correctly what happened. He will no doubt confirm it when he talks to Melkor.”

“If only those two would cleave to one another alone and leave us be.” Adar spat.

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Lelycalë laughed humourlessly.

“Come, my love, let us go to bed and forget our troubles for a while.” He placed a peck upon her forehead.

“Yes, let’s.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mairon had poured his fëa into objects before, but not like this. Whilst he was willingly doing so, it felt more of a drain, a tax. A sacrifice. His master exacted much from him for this small mercy of conversation; it was a price the Lord of Angband was more than willinging to pay, however. 

He waited patiently for his beloved’s response as he looked over the illustration of the ring Melkor wore. It was as he had guessed, made to resemble his own aesthetic, to be a reminder to his master of his loving and loyal servant. It also made him wonder if he had anything similar to remind Melkor or Lelyacalë, a necklace to match the one he gave her. It was a mood-souring thought and he pushed it from his mind. He did not want his Lord to find him sullen and sulking. 

Mairon .

His name blossomed in his mind in Melkor’s voice.

My Lord!

It is good to hear thy voice, Mairon. It is a shame thou couldst not also have met with me here in the flesh, but hearing thee will have to suffice.

Mairon closed his eyes and pictured his beloved, letting his words suffuse through his entire body.

I miss thee.

And I, thee, Mairon.

Before the conversation had begun, Mairon had so much he had wished to discuss, but now he found he had nothing to say. He simply wished to be with Melkor, to enjoy the small semblance of closeness this mind connection afforded. Melkor must have felt similarly, for they both took a few moments merely enjoying the other’s presence in their mind. 

How art thou enjoying thy repentance? Mairon eventually asked, a mischievous hint in his voice.

Melkor laughed. I doth not mind acting the part, knowing it is working to fool them all so well.

How long until thou canst come home? Mairon could not keep the desperation from his asking.

It will be some while yet. I hath been presented an opportunity to both observe and manipulate the elves residing here. I doth need to show I am serving them, like unto the other Valar. I will need time to concoct a plan, for I have no intentions of sneaking off without enacting some vengeance of which they shall neither see coming nor quickly recover from. 

I canst feel the disappointment in thy mind, Mairon, but it must be so. These things cannot be rushed and I shall return as soon as all is in order. I must choose my timing carefully. 

Mairon pouted and drummed his fingers against his chest. He was laying down, imagining Melkor lying beside him. His master made sense. He spoke true. It did nothing to make Mairon feel better about the situation. 

I understand. Though I do not like it. I wouldst have thee here. 

I know, but we have these rings now in which we can communicate one with another. I canst even show thee images of what I hath seen. 

Mairon’s mind was suddenly filled with visions of elvish males and females, children and adults. They were tall and proud, beautiful and noble. He hated them immediately. Mairon noticed that one elf was in clearer detail than the others, and seemed to be the focus in every changing scene Melkor presented to him. 

Who is that elf? The dark haired one with eyes of fierce thunder?

His name is Fëanor. He is considered the greatest amongst those that call themselves the Noldor. The Noldor have shown the most interest and enthusiasm for my teachings in the art of smithing and creation. 

He could not quite place his finger upon the reasoning, but this Fëanor gave Mairon a bad taste in his mouth. He understood why Melkor would gravitate towards him, it made sense. Focus on the powerful and most skilled to corrupt. It was a tactic Mairon himself would have employed. Still… he did not like his master’s regard for this elf. This most handsome elf. With eyes that bespoke of a fiery nature to perhaps rival even his own-

No. He must not think like this. To compare his own self to an elf was ludicrous. It was degrading. 

I wish thee luck with him, My Lord. A worthy project for thee, I am sure. 

Indeed. Earning his trust will be most challenging. 

What of The Valar? Have they all accepted thy repentance?

Mairon could feel the other grow tense and irritated. 

All except Ulmo and Tulkas. I had thought Ulmo was won over, but since Lelyacalë left he hath been cold. It is no matter. I care not for him and he doth distance himself from most of the elves anyhow. Tulkas doth grate me, I admit, but none of the others pay much heed to his counsel. 

This last was said with a mocking sneer. It was common knowledge amongst the Ainur that Tulkas was mighty in physical force, in laughter, in friendship… but not in mind. 

How is my Lelca? I hath tried reaching for her but her mind hath been closed to me entirely. 

So they were here at last. Mairon had hoped they would have been able to avoid mention of her, but he had known it to be a vain hope. A fool’s hope. He was a fool for Melkor though, even he could not deny it, nor would he wish to. Better a fool for Melkor than guileless under Aulë. 

She came back wearing the necklace thou madest her.

It was a deflection of sorts as he did not wish to divulge what had really occurred, did not wish to ask Melkor what truly burned in his mind, for he feared the confirmation. It worked.

Ahhh it looks glorious upon her, doth it not?

I prefer the ring thou madest me. He sounded petulant even to himself. 

Thou art surely not jealous still, Mairon? Melkor was laughing at him.

How can I not be? Thou wilt have us both, when I want thee all to myself.

Mairon. Enough. I will not argue over this again. It is done. Tell Lelca to open her mind to me once more, I have more to discuss with her. 

Yes, My Lord. 

Mairon did not wait for a response, he stopped the flow of his fëa and pulled the ring off his finger, only to immediately push it back on again, missing its feel upon him. A solitary tear slid down his cheek to pool in the hollow of his ear. He should not have cut Melkor off like that, but he could bear no more talk of her. She poisoned everything, even this gift she had brought was tainted by her existence alone. He wanted to reject it, but he needed that connection with Melkor. He craved him. If only he could be rid of Lelyacalë.

An idea struck him. Curses, but he had been short-sighted! How had he not seen this way forward before? Instead he had blundered on in the opposite direction; hopefully it was not too late to change course. It would be risky if Melkor ever traced it back to him, so he would have to be careful, nudging here and there, ensuring others thought the idea had originated with them. Yes. Patience and a steady hand is what would be required and he had time on his side. His beloved was not set to return for some while yet, and by the time he did return, Mairon’s plans would be complete.

It was time to cause a rift between Melkor and Lelyacalë that would ensure she would never be forgiven, that Mairon alone would retain his affections, his love. He had vowed not to move against the woman, but really he would not be. It was more of a move against Melkor. No. No he could not think like that, he could not move against his beloved, even if it was for his own good. It was a move for Mairon, and if Melkor would but open his eyes, it was really a move for his benefit as well. Mairon would just have to help him see, to understand. He had done it before, with other things, so surely he could do it with this as well. 

It was time to find Lelyacalë. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Melkor was disconcerted after his conversation with Mairon. He did not like that Mairon could not accept his love of him and Lelyacalë both, that it was still a sore point even after all these years. He did not like that Lelca had been distant from him after they had lain together on the sand. He did not like that she was refusing to communicate with him, that he had not heard from her in days. 

Worst of all, Ulmo had seen fit to pay him a visit. At first, it seemed he had only wished to convey that Lelyacalë (or Leah, as Ulmo insisted on still calling her) had been delivered safely to the mainland once more. Then the sea-god had lingered, and the look he had bestowed upon Melkor had been piercing and exacting. Melkor had held his gaze unabashedly, he had nothing to hide and nothing to apologise for.

“How long hath thou coupled thyself with Leah in such a physical manner?” Ulmo had finally broken the tense silence that had befallen them.

“What business is that of thine, Ulmo?” Melkor had retorted.

“I am merely curious, for it is an unusual thing for one of us to do. I also care for Leah deeply and would not have her be forced into something she doth not or can not consent to.” His tone showed his meaning more clearly than his words.

Melkor had flown to his feet and was mere inches from Ulmo’s face in seconds. He stood a little taller than the other vala, so that Ulmo had been forced to look up at him. 

“She is willing.” He had spat out, then added with a smirk. “Very much so, in fact.”

Ulmo had leant in a fraction further. “I doth not believe thee, oh mightiest of us all.”

Melkor had sneered down at Ulmo but the other had continued, leaning back again.

“Thou taketh and thou destroyeth, it is thy way or no way at all. She hath no choice, no chance. She is not willing, she is trapped. If thou art truly repentant, thou wilt let her go.”

Melkor had gripped Ulmo by the throat, digging his fingers in. “Do not presume to know anything, thou god of slime, and do not dare to tell me what I shouldst or shouldst not do. She is mine, willingly so. She hath pledged herself to me.”

Ulmo had melted into rippling waves, so that Melkor was left attempting to hold water in his fist. The sea-god had had the audacity to wash straight through Melkor before materialising behind him. Melkor had whirled round immediately to confront him again.

“Thou art jealous! Thou doth wish to have my Lelyacalë for thyself! Thou who succumb to the depths in thy loneliness and jealousy. The sea is made up of thy bitter tears. For there is no one to love thee and thou seest the love Lelyacalë hath for me and thou coveteth it.”

“Her name is Leah.” Ulmo had been infuriatingly calm. “And thou art a fool, Melkor, a blind fool, and thy lack of sight shalt lead thee into the eternal darkness once more.”

Melkor had screamed at him in frustrated anger, but Ulmo had merely turned and left.

Now Melkor was alone with his thoughts. He cared not for Ulmo nor his opinion, yet the other’s words would not leave him. That the sea-god had any kind of relationship with his Lelca made him sick in his very fëa. He already knew Ulmo had offered for her to come to Valinor when he was captured, and although the fact she had turned down his offer had assuaged him at the time, the fact it had been made and she could have accepted it ached within him. He already had doubts about Lelca’s loyalty; they never left him. The separation was feeding them. He needed to hear from her. He needed to hear her adore him again. 

He reached for her again and this time he felt her open the connection. 

She remained silent. 

Lelca. Why hast thou been hiding thyself from me?

He attempted to sound stern, authoritative, like a father scolding a child, but there was no masking the hurt underlying his words. 

I think you know why. 

He had not been expecting such a response. He had expected apologies, placating explanations, not this somewhat hostile rebuke. 

I… I do not understand.

For he did not. 

Therein lies the issue, My Lord. You never have and you never will. 

Lelca! Do not speak to me in this way! 

Then next time I say no, respect the answer and adhere to it! Her voice boomed in his mind. 

Where was this resistance coming from, this strength?

Thou doth not get to command me, Lelyacalë, it is I who command thee. His voice was cold, a frost tipped knife slid into her consciousness. 

She swatted it aside with as much ease as breaking a cobweb. 

Not in all things. Not anymore.

His hands curled into fists by his side. He was ready to retort, to remind her how very wrong she was, but even as he attempted to press her in her mind, he felt a forcible block like a white wall of flame, searing him momentarily and she continued on. 

I am no object for you to do with what you will. You say I am your best creation, well then, behold what you have created. I am strong. I am fierce. I am powerful. And I will only continue to be so, to grow more so. I am what you made me, true, but you will see that I am also so much more. 

Melkor shuddered. He had not foreseen this outcome, had not even entertained its existence, its possibility. Now he was blindsided by it and he had no one to blame but himself. So naturally he would blame The Valar for taking him away, for surely this outcome would have been impossible if he had never left. 

I set but few boundaries, My Lord, and I accept your ruling and station above me, but I am my own person with my own wants and needs and I will defend them, even against you. 

Her voice was calm, it was measured. She asked no approval, she stated facts. Melkor was dumbfounded. It mattered not if it angered or saddened him. It mattered not how he felt at all, for he could do nothing about it. At least, not yet. He had no idea how long it would take for him to leave Valinor, but he knew it was no time soon. Who knew what she would be when he finally returned to her. He already did not recognise her. She had never spoken to him like this before. So bold. So… unafraid. He had not realised how much he had relied on her fear in their relationship. 

The worst of it, he realised after he conceded to her terms in begrudging grimacing, was that he was to blame for this. That her heart was concealed behind walls he had helped build. It was a truth he refused to acknowledge, like so many others. 

Anger electrified him. First, Mairon sulking, then Ulmo accusing, and finally Lelca rebelling-it was too much. One was difficult enough for Melkor to bear, but all three and in succession as well… It was too much. He needed an ally who would not be so troublesome. Someone who truly understood him and would work in conjunction with him. Who would share his vision with no complaints.

So it was that he sought Ungoliant to sow the seeds of collaboration with her; Lelyacalë’s warning dismissed pettily from his mind.

Chapter Text

Keeping thy friends close but thy enemies closer had worked well for Adar and Lelya, for it meant that they could see that Mairon was losing his touch. It had been blatantly obvious, despite his great attempts at slight nudges here and subtle hints there, that he was endeavouring to change course and bring Adar and Lelyacalë together, to encourage them in a relationship. The fact he had changed course at all was enough to arouse suspicions and the fact that detail in and of itself had escaped Mairon’s notice further proved he was not thinking at his usual cunning level. 

They both knew why. Since reconnecting with Melkor, Mairon had been more possessive and mournful than ever. He questioned Lelyacalë over every conversation she had with Melkor, demanding to know how often they spoke and if Mairon had been mentioned. She never asked him about his and Melkor’s conversations, for Melkor always debriefed her on those anyhow and she also did not much care unless there was anything in them that would impact her and her life in Angband. It also mattered not that she did not wear the necklace Melkor had made for her, knowing it existed was enough to fuel the Lord of Angband’s jealousy. Sàratalma kept it for her, which proved wise as Mairon had ransacked her room once in search of it. Not that it could be definitively proved that had been the case, but it was the conclusion she, Sàratalma, and Adar had come to upon finding her room in disarray not long after she had shown the jewellery off. 

It was quite obvious now that Mairon wished to push Lelyacalë into the arms of Melkor’s most hated uruk and expose the relationship to his master, in the sure knowledge that Melkor would punish Lelyacalë and find solace in his one true servant, his one loyal lover. That it would also most likely mean the death of Âshûrzash was a sacrifice he was willing to make. It could not be helped. Melkor was paramount. He was the goal. Nothing else mattered, but he and Melkor ruling side by side. Of course he would try to save Âshûrzash as best he could, but nothing would be allowed to hinder or stall his ultimate aim. 

At first it had been amusing to see Mairon attempt to manipulate them both, but as the years wore on and they had both remained hesitant and resistant to his bidding, he had grown more and more abrasive to them both. They had become friends in public, but no more. They even went so far as to forgive one another in front of the host of uruk they served and Mairon, plus any maiar followers lurking around. It had not been enough for Mairon. The constant pressure from the Lord of Angband and his ever watchfulness also made sneaking around and maintaining their real relationship almost impossible, for the maia was desperate to catch them out in anything. It was a wonder he had not already caught on, though it was likely his hubris had blinded him previously. Mairon often saw only what he wished to see. 

Adar had been bearing it rather well, but Lelya was reaching the end of her patience. She wanted to call Mairon out on his obvious plan, have him admit what he was doing and air it all out in the open. Sàratalma was on her side, but Adar was afraid to irk Mairon more, to back him into a corner. The Lord of Angand did not need any reason to lash out at the best of times, there was no cause to give him a legitimate one if it could be helped, Adar reasoned. 

If she was being truly honest, Lelyacalë was ready to just announce her and Adar’s relationship loudly and proudly to all who would hear. She did not fear Mairon as she once had, more found him irritating and a nuisance, and she no longer feared Melkor. This was partly due to his absence. Melkor’s presence alone instilled great fear and that had been removed from them for over a thousand years now. The main reason for her lack of fear, however, was due to the fact she had gained quite a substantial hold on her powers to the point that Mairon was apprehensive of what she could do. She could cause real damage now, with the white fire she wielded and how she could pull and manipulate the light in others to have them do as she wished. She was learning new techniques and becoming stronger year on year as well. She would be able to hold her own against even Melkor, should she need to. 

Lelyacalë also assumed Mairon would tell Melkor they had been together regardless of the truth, so she saw it as futile to live in pretence. Mairon could hardly separate them. She would not let him. She also relished the fact of throwing it in his face that they had been together this entire time despite him. That he had failed in his original quest to turn Adar against her. Letting Mairon know of his failures was one of the few pleasures left to her outside of Adar and her friendship with Sàratalma.

Being less emotionally charged on the matter, Sàratalma had suggested they allow Mairon to think he had won. That way there would be no resistance to their being together and they could even lay some of the blame at Marion’s feet when Melkor inevitably came down upon them in his wrath. It would mean swallowing some pride and living a pretence of a different kind, but ultimately it might make the road smoother for the both of them, at least in the short term. 

Adar would rather continue on as they had been doing to avoid Melkor’s rage, as it would be him and no doubt his children who would suffer the most at the chaos god’s vengeful hands. He knew Lelya would do her best to protect him and them, but she could not hold out forever under one such as Melkor and nor would he wish or expect her to. 

So it was that they had all entered an uncomfortable stalemate, waiting for someone to crack and cave first. 

No one could have anticipated it be Mairon to do so. 

He had ordered the pair to attend him in his throne room, giving no indication as to why, but they had suspected. Talma had tagged along unbidden. Mairon sat upon his gilded chair with a downturned mouth and flickering eyes.

“I doth not understand. I hath offered the both of thee to the other on a platter, I hath let it be known in both subtle and less subtle terms that thou both have my blessing to unite in Melkor’s absence if Lelyacalë wilt only leave Melkor to me as much as he will allow thee to and Âshûrzash remain loyal to me first and foremost. But nay. Thou doth refuse this offer.”

There was no more delicacy or pretence at such, Mairon was, in a rare moment, fully honest.

“They doth not trust thee, Mairon. I wouldst have thought that much to be obvious.” Sàratalma lounged nonchalantly against a pillar, knowing he was uninvited and not caring in the slightest. 

Mairon glared at the dark maia but otherwise ignored his input. He looked at Lelyacalë and she shrugged a shoulder to indicate Sàratalma was not wrong. He finally turned his attention to Âshûrzash. The uruk held his gaze with a small smile. 

“You have given me no reason not to trust you. The truth is, I no longer want Lelyacalë in that way and have not for an age. If I were to open myself to those types of feelings again, it would not be she to hold them.” He did not break eye contact the entire time, to ensure Mairon understood his insinuations. 

It was not a tactic he had discussed with Lelya. He hoped she would see the lie for what it was but that it remained convincing for Mairon. That Sàratalma appeared to choke on his own flames in surprise showed his message had been clear at least. It was not as though Adar had not hinted at such things in the past. It was not even all untrue. Mairon was glorious to behold and anyone would be a fool to deny his beauty. Then there was the way he made you feel special, like you were the only one he cared for. Even knowing it was a lie, the feeling was addictive. 

The Lord of Angband did not appear shocked at Adar’s words, nor did he seem annoyed. If anything, his face softened and a somewhat faraway expression adorned his features for a few seconds before it was replaced with resolve. He stood from his throne and made his way towards the uruk, stopping only before he would have physically collided with the other. He reached up and traced a long finger through Âshûrzash’s hair. He was aware of Lelyacalë staring intensely at them both and that fact made his mouth quirk up at the corner slightly. 

Yes. It was about time she felt some jealousy.

Mairon’s finger had come to rest upon the spot above Âshûrzash’s heart and he now splayed his hand there, palm pressed upon the other’s chest. He could feel the uruk’s breath getting faster. Good. It thrilled the maia that he was eliciting such a response. They were so close that neither of them could focus on the other, it would take but a slight movement to bring them together. They teetered upon that moment for an excruciating time before Mairon could bear it no longer. If Lelyacalë would not have the uruk, why should not he? It was not as if Melkor would care, he thought bitterly. He had never demanded such loyalty from his lieutenant. 

He brought his lips down slowly to meet Âshûrzash’s and just as slowly they moved together. It was almost tender. It reminded Mairon of the first time he had kissed Melkor like this. Most of their kisses were driven by passion and need, but on occasion they shared more intimate moments like he was having with Âshûrzash now. The first time had been when Mairon was working in the forges of Aulë envisioning a new design. Melkor had sneaked in, on one of the rare occasions he dared, to come up behind him and softly whisper how beautiful his vision was, before turning his head and placing just such a kiss upon his lips. It was the first time Mairon had felt truly seen by Melkor. 

Suddenly, Melkor was in his head. The ring on his hand tugged at him to answer, the most urgent he had ever felt. Melkor was practically hammering the door down where usually he knocked and waited. How? How could he possibly know? For surely the intensity and suddenness and timing all added up to Melkor knowing. 

Mairon violently lurched back from Âshûrzash and made to hurry from the hall in order to answer Melkor’s increasingly demanding call, when his eyes flitted across Lelyacalë’s face. There was a satisfaction there bordering on smugness. 

“Thou? Thou told him?” He was too shocked to be angry just yet. 

“No.” She smiled at him. “I showed him.” 

Mairon’s mouth fell open in astonishment. He had no words. 

“That is the second time she hath had thy jaw upon the floor, Mairon, thou shouldst be more careful in future.” The enjoyment in Sàratalma’s voice was clear, as was his mocking. 

Lelyacalë let out a little laugh before adding. “Best not keep Melkor waiting, Mairon.”

Mairon wanted to scream, but instead he clenched his jaw shut and glowered at them all before fleeing to his private rooms. Damn that woman. He was done with being humiliated by her. Once Melkor was done with him, he would seek retribution. He cared not if it meant he was moving against her. He would make her pay. He would make her regret her actions. Then he would deal with Sàratalma. He was long overdue a reckoning as well. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So… who bestows the better kiss? Mairon or Lelca?” Sàratalma’s jovial mood was running high as he bent forward towards Adar. 

Adar ignored him and spoke instead to Lelyacalë. “How much did Melkor witness?”

“All of it. From the moment we entered the room. I was going to use this as an opportunity to prove my loyalty to Melkor but I could never have seen it turning out so well. Your move was a stroke of genius, though I cannot believe Mairon went so far as to actually kiss you.” Her eyes were wide with amazement and disbelief. 

“Nor did I. I am sorry I could not forewarn you of my plans. It had been a thought of mine to do such a thing if the need arose and the perfect opportunity presented itself.” Now he did address Sàratalma. “Your reaction was perfect.”

“I art glad I could be of assistance to thy scheme.” The dark maia grinned at him. “Thou didst truly take me by surprise.”

“Melkor will no doubt punish me for this.” Adar grimaced. 

“Not as much as he’s going to punish Mairon. He was furious. Besides, Melkor was always going to hate and distrust you no matter what, though at least now it won’t be because of me. Mairon is sure to pay me back for this, however. I shall have to be on my guard. You too, Talma. I think he will move against you as well.” She sounded tired, but not scared. She was done with being scared. 

“I canst hold mine own against Mairon. Do not worry on my behalf. I shall survive.” Sàratalma placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I shall be here for thee if thou needest me to defend thee against him though.”

“Thank you, Talma. It all depends on how he decides to counteract, I suppose.” She sighed. Then a smile tugged at her lips. “Mairon has kissed both me and Adar now, I suppose that it’s your turn next Talma.”

The dark maia appeared to go a shade grey and the shadows billowing about him became more translucent as he blanched at the mere thought. He suppressed a shudder. “When I said I couldst hold mine own against Mairon… I didst not envisage torture of that kind.”

Lelyacalë laughed then and even Adar felt himself smile. He had never answered Sàratalma’s teasing question, but Mairon was pleasant to kiss. He was softer than expected and something kindled within him from the fire of the other. Still, he would choose Lelyacalë’s lips upon his any time, for they brought true joy. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To fall back into bad habits was exactly what Mairon wanted to avoid. Numerous times he had pushed Lelyacalë into a physical confrontation over their disagreeing points of view or her inability to capitulate to him and now she was fully trained and strong, it always ended the same. She inevitably won. He rubbed his jaw then his neck in remembrance of two of the most prominent times. She now also could wield that white flame that caused excruciating pain as it burned the very fëa from him. No. He would not risk combat with her again. She had become too powerful and he had allowed her to be so. 

True, it would benefit them all greatly for her to be used against their enemies, but should she turn against them… he was not sure he could adequately stop her all by himself anymore. It would take several uruk to even slow her down. Balrogs would do the trick, but they had all gone underground after Utumno fell, even Gothmog. He had to find another way to cause her pain than physical attack, though his body yearned to strike at her again and again until his strength was spent. Getting revenge needed to be done by cleverer means, crueler methods. Exquisite and terrible, the perfect idea slunk into his mind. He wasted no time in executing it. 

It had taken him several days to recover from the onslaught of Melkor’s utter ire directed at him. He could not recall a time where he had made his beloved so angry before. They had had disagreements, they had both irked one another in the past, but he had never been chastised as such, like a child, when he should be treated as more of an equal. The worst part of it all was that whilst Melkor was dismayed at his lieutenant bestowing such a tender kiss upon “that uruk”, it was hearing how Mairon had been pushing Âshûrzash and his beloved Lelca together, to encourage a relationship between them, that had hurt the God of Chaos the most. He had felt more betrayed by this than the physical disloyalty of his lover. This knowledge had destroyed Mairon. 

Now Mairon was more recovered in mind and spirit and was ready to make that woman feel the pain he did, if not more. 

Meandering through the labyrinthine enormity that was Angband, Mairon made his way to the wolf-pits. Chaos and disorder might be the province of Melkor, but not so Mairon. He ensured that a schedule was in place. Routine was paramount. He was capable of some flexibility, on his own terms, but he ran things with a firmness Melkor could never have even envisioned. Therefore, he knew where that hated woman would be and when, for she was no exception to his rigid regime. 

He ensured to arrive before her and brought out Nyevsta and her long-since grownup pups and waited. He did not have to wait long. He heard the clack of her boot heels on the hard stone floor before she strode into the space and halted upon seeing him standing at the end of the room. 

“Mairon. You have emerged.” She sounded discomfited to see him there. Good. So she should, and worse. 

He remained expressionless as he walked towards her, through the throng of wolves weaving placably in between one another. He ensured to maintain eye contact with her the entire time and upon reaching her, raised his right hand and clicked his fingers once. The result was instantaneous. 

All of Nyevsta’s children turned and with menacing growls in their throats, attacked their mother. Nyevsta was old now and unprepared for the attack. Saddest of all, she would not properly defend herself against those she had brought into the world. She tried to get away, but she was encircled. Lelyacalë screamed in horrified protest and made to run forwards in defence of her wolf, but Mairon held her back in his iron grip, throwing her to ground. He grasped her arms behind her back and yanked her head up by her hair so that she was forced to watch. 

Immediately, white flames erupted from her, not just her hands, but every part of her so that Mairon was forced to let her go in a screech of his own. She scrabbled to her feet but it was too late. Nyevsta was all but consumed by her offspring. Her remaining corpse was little but tufts of fur and bone amidst a pool of blood. The frenzy was over and the attacking wolves came to themselves once more and their growls turned to whines as they comprehended what they had done. They nudged the brutal mess left of their mother and whimpered, the whimpering turning to howls of despair that echoed around the pits. 

A different howl joined them. It was Lelyacalë. Her head was thrown back and her own voice added to the choir of heartache. Mairon waited until the last howl had finished reverberating around the walls before he sauntered over to where Lelyacalë was knelt. The wolves all dispersed back to their sleeping holes as he approached, though he could feel their baleful eyes on him the entire time. He would have to breed out this familial love within his creations, for it was a despicable weakness. He stopped next to Lelyacalë but she did not look up at him.

“She was as much yours as she was mine. You cannot even see that your violence hurts you as well.” Her voice was low and hollow. 

Trust her to try to preach to him in a moment like this. She was truly insufferable. 

“Drink.” He commanded. 

She did not move for a few moments, then finally twisted to look up at him with utter incredulity. 

“Drink.” He enunciated the word harder this time. 

“No.” She replied, mirroring his enunciation, her facial expression hard. She started to her feet, but Mairon shoved her back down. 

“I said.” He leant down so his mouth was next to her ear, his hair falling against her face in a coppery waterfall. “Drink.”

Finally, there it was. Hatred. Thousands of years of well-maintained apathy or else weariness that prevented her from truly caring and he had finally brought forth her hatred. It bled into her eyes until it was all that was shining forth. He was overjoyed. Drinking in all the loathing she was now feeding him, he reached forth and dipped the tips of his index and middle fingers into Nyevsta’s blood and smeared them across her lips, tightly pressed in her seething. 

Lelyacalë jerked her head to move away from his touch, but he pressed harder, forcing his fingers into her mouth to coat her tongue. 

“Drink, thou blood-harlot.” He sneered at her. 

She bit down, hard, and he cursed as he quickly removed his hand from her mouth. He slapped her hard across the face and roared at her, “DRINK.”

They stared at one another for a few seconds, his face red with anger and adrenaline, hers with his handprint upon her cheek. Finally, she turned and slowly cupped some blood into her hand and brought it carefully up towards her mouth. A triumphant grin was already unfurling across Mairon’s face, only for it to be curdled into a snarl as Lelyacalë hurled the blood directly into Mairon’s eyes. He wiped furiously at his face as the liquid seeped in to blind him in a tirade of red. When his vision finally cleared, however, she was gone. 

Chapter Text

Searching back through her life, Lelyacalë could pinpoint a few occasions where she had been brought to severe anger against someone, to the point where she held genuine hostility towards them. Never had she hated before though. Not truly. She had thought she had, but that feeling harboured in past memories was nothing to what was coursing through every cell in her body now. She was fully ignited with it. It was empowering and terrifying. She felt destructive and not in control. It was a heady feeling and she was intoxicated by it. 

The hatred was everywhere. At what Mairon had done. At how she had not foreseen this outcome. At how he revelled in her open loathing of him at last. He had won in so many ways and that stung more than her slapped face. Mairon’s gloating expression replaying over the gruesome brutality of Nyevsta’s death haunted her as she fled the scene. How dare he. How dare he. Gorthaur he truly was. All of her past animosity that she had shoved down burst forth to fuel her new-found hatred. Though was it really new-found? More like finally accepted. Either way there was no going back now. Mairon was firmly her enemy, her nemesis. She was done pretending otherwise. She hated him. She hated him. She hated him. 

Against her better judgement, she decided to go straight for revenge. She knew this would begin a cycle of attack and counterattack that neither would break, but in truth, had this not always been the case? Now they were being blatant about it, instead of hiding behind promises or feigned apathy. Avoiding this violent inevitability may have been what she wanted to begin with, in order to survive, but now it was here she welcomed it. She no longer needed the same things to survive. She was stronger now. Better. For sure, she still needed to act with caution, to not allow herself to become puffed up in pride and vanity at her ever increasing strength and skill. She could not allow herself to become like Mairon, in short. Yet the blood dripping from her hand and smeared about her mouth cried out for vengeance and she was more than ready to heed the call. 

The truest way to hurt Mairon was to go to Melkor, but that would also hurt Adar, it would hurt herself. She would not whore herself out purely to cause that hated maia pain. It was beneath her. She contemplated destroying all of his wolves, forcing him to start again with the project, but even the very thought balked her. Whilst Mairon would not anticipate such a move, it was as cruel as he had been to creatures who did not deserve it. It would be a disservice to Nyevsta’s memory. Lelyacalë immediately pushed the thought from her mind. 

How, then, to best mirror the pain she felt? But of course, the answer was so obvious. Purpose now singing along with the enmity within her, she made with haste to enact her plan. The bastard wasn’t going to comprehend what hit him. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Upon stepping into his room, Mairon felt an unease. There was an air of something not quite right, of something missing. At first glance, it was as immaculate as it always was. Everything appeared to be in order. There was a slight change in the atmosphere that bespoke that an alien presence had been here though. He meticulously went around the room inspecting everything. His bed seemed untouched. His wardrobe likewise. His desk- here it was. It was completely devoid of all his paperwork. All his designs, his lists, his calculations - gone. He opened every drawer to find not a single piece remained. 

Lelyacalë. 

It had to be. Who else would do this? Who else would dare?

Although his mind could retain much and organise much on its own, he could not hope to remember everything. He needed his work notes to ensure Angband ran smoothly and that everything was accounted for. He tried not to let panic set in. He hoped she was holding them ransom in exchange for an apology or some other such pathetic scheme, and not that she had destroyed them. If she had destroyed them, it would take him years to recuperate all that knowledge and detail. It would set him back decades, even. Time he did not have to lose, for all must be ready in time for his master’s return. 

Damn that woman. 

He sat upon his chair and steepled his fingers, resting his forehead against them, and thought. She would not have been stupid enough to take them to her room. There were too many sheets and scrolls to keep upon her person, unless she had packed them into something. Even then, his whole desk had been filled to the brim, hundreds upon hundreds of pieces of parchment. She must have had help transporting all of it, and she could not have gone far. The throne room was the obvious choice. The image of her sitting upon his royal throne surrounded by all his paper painted itself into his mind and was enough to have him hurrying down the corridor to prove it. 

But the room was empty, as was his throne. 

He cursed. He should have gone back to his room directly after his and Lelyacalë’s confrontation. Instead, he had headed to the great forge to hammer out his anger and frustration. He had not cared about the blood upon his face or his hands, he had sweated it off, seared it off, worn it off as he struck metal again and again. Anyone else would have gone to bathe, Mairon went to work. There was no peaceful cleansing for him, instead masochistic purification. It had always been thus.

The ritual had proved more masochistic than he had intended, however, or now he was still suffering for it by chasing that dratted woman around his domain. He went everywhere he knew she frequented and even some places she did not. He even went outside. She was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she was in her room after all, then. Perhaps really she was that stupidly obvious. 

Wait. A thought hit him mid-stride.

Surely not. Surely she would not return there. He had thought she would avoid that place for some time to come. With growing apprehension that he consistently underestimated his opponent, Mairon raced back to the wolf-pits. Lelyacalë he found not, but the running of Angband in paper form and all his painstaking planning was arrayed before him. It was strung from the craggy rock roof to spell out a message in a language he did not know the alphabet of. Each page had been sewn to the next, some on top of each other in layers, to form the lettering. All were drenched in blood, so that the ink upon them was illegible, either smudged, blotted out, or dissolved into the red liquid. 

It was more diabolical than he could possibly have imagined. She had added insult to injury. It was obvious she had used Nyevsta’s blood, but also her own, for there was too much for it to be the wolf’s alone. She had bled to cause this. She could have burned the papers, but knowing that was Mairon’s talent had instead avoided this and leant into her own as the opposite. She did not try to play him at his own game with his own instruments but instead she used her own. No flame to singe his work from him, but rather blood to wash it away. It was ingenious. It was horrific. It was vexatious. He could not understand how she had accomplished this. Surely such a deed was physically beyond her. 

Damn, damn that woman!

He itched to know what was spelled out before him. For that he would need Lelyacalë, so to her bedchamber he went. Up, up, up, he forced himself to walk, to use his muscles to drag himself to her. He needed the rhythm of his footsteps to anchor his thoughts as he trudged upwards. He was not sure what he was going to do when he reached his destination. It would all depend on whether she was there or not. She had better be there. Each step he took thudded the need for confrontation into him until it was a pounding in his veins. It built up in him to the extent he did not knock, but instead blasted the door open in one ferocious kick.

She was not there.

Damn, damn, damn the woman!

All of his build up was leeching away, all of his drive for a face-off was ebbing and he clutched to it desperately. He needed it. He could not finally find her and be spent, a pathetic mess whom she could easily dismiss or deride. He had to be the one in control. He had to be the one who was the victor in the end. He paced outside the broken door before he noticed someone approach him. It was Thuringwethil. She skulked along the corridor, eyes raking the tapestries on the wall, wings twitching with a nervous energy. She stopped a short distance from him and inclined her head before speaking. 

“If thou art looking for Lelyacalë, she has gone from this place accompanied by that uruk leader and a small host of those that they command. I believe Sàratalma has also gone with them.” The bat-winged demon seemed hesitant to speak, unused to doing so unless asked first. 

She had left? She had actually destroyed years of his life’s work and planning and just left? With some of his uruk army and Âshûrzash? The sheer audacity was astounding. It was the ultimate offense. It forced Mairon to reconcile with the fact she was leagues away from who she had been when he first encountered her. How he could have been so blind to who she was becoming, who she now was, was a blow so deep that he felt it bleed into every part of him even as he tried to staunch its humiliating spread throughout his being.

“Where hath they gone?” He demanded, his voice hard and hoarse. 

“I know not, only that they were on some mission to ascertain the lay of the land. She didst tell me that the uruk deserved to know the land their master owned and that they would be defending.” Thuringwethil picked agitatedly at her wingtip. 

It was not the first reconnaissance mission Lelyacalë or Âshûrzash had been on, but they had always gone at Mairon’s behest. That she should lead her own party on her own terms, especially now, was yet another added layer to her insult to him. He wracked his brains to think where they could have gone. Somewhere he had not already sent them, that much was almost certain. West. They had not been sent west yet. There was so much land to cover though and he was heartily sick of chasing her around. He had lost either way, better to retain some dignity and stop the chase here. He would wait for her to return and in the meantime he would see what could be salvaged from his destroyed papers. It was a much more effective use of his time and far less demeaning. 

Thuringwethil was watching him carefully under her hooded eyes. It was clear she was waiting to be dismissed, despite being bold enough to approach and speak without permission. An odd creature, Mairon mused, but a very useful one. 

“Thank thee, Thuringwethil, for bringing me this news.” With that he turned and slowly made his way back down to the wolf-pits to retrieve his blood-soaked plans. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What did you spell out, with the pages?” 

They had finally come to rest in a valley several leagues south of Angband. Lelyacalë had put the group at a run in order to create a substantial distance between them and the fortress; between them and Mairon. They had skirted east and then south around the range of mountains there. They had been running for a couple of days at this point with only a brief stop to sleep and now she was comfortable they were in new terrain and decidedly far from Angband, she had let the group get the proper rest it deserved and needed. She had been impressed with how quickly the uruk had roused themselves and their obedience to the strenuous journey she had all but forced them on. She knew it was partly because they enjoyed any time away from Angband, it was not their home but their prison after all, she also knew it was because they had come to trust her at long last. The title of Emil was yet to be bestowed upon her though. 

She had been worried she would have needed to convince Adar more, but he had seen her blood stained attire and grim countenance and stayed silent. Sàratalma had insisted on coming along, for he had seen both Mairon’s and her handiwork in the wolf-pits and would have answers as well as being a comfort for his friend. He had attempted to get Lelyacalë to talk, but other than barking orders she had remained mute. He had wisely decided to leave her be for the time being and try again when she was in a better mood. Adar had known better than to ask her, but he had uncharacteristically gone to the dark maia and inquired if he knew what was going on and Sàratalma found he was quite eager to divulge all he knew. So it was that Adar finally approached her with the question. 

She was resting against a tree, blood now caked to her for she had not washed it off. “Talma told you, did he?”

“He did.” Adar confessed. “I’m sorry for what Mairon did. It was cruel.”

“Yes. It was.” She refused to look at him. Her eyes remained on the landscape before her, looking but not seeing. “But then Mairon is cruel.” 

“Is that what your message said?”

“In effect.”

Adar waited to see if she would elaborate. The silence stretched for a few beats and she shifted her face in his direction, her eyes on the grass beneath their feet. 

“It said ‘heartless’.” 

“An apt description of him.” Adar conceded, stepping closer to her. She returned to her original position of gazing unseeingly at the terrain. He reached forth and slid his hand over hers. Flakes of blood fluttered to the ground at the contact. “What is the plan, Lelya? What are we doing?”

“We will survey this area, a scout mission only. No attacking any villages or peoples. Then we will return.” She looked down at his hand upon hers. “I’m unsure if Mairon will have followed us or stayed behind. I don’t care either way.” 

“Very well.” Adar raised her hand and kissed it, blood and all. “Are you going to wash?”

She stared at her blood-stained fingers. “I suppose I should.”

“There is a stream not far from here, just behind that small mound and clump of trees.” Adar gestured to where he meant.

“Thank you. I’ll be back soon.”

She grabbed a cloth from the few supplies she had packed and wandered over to where Adar had pointed out. She heard the stream before she saw it. She would not bother washing her clothes, for they would have no time to dry and she had not brought any else with her. Besides, they were only going to get grimier as they progressed. She would clean them when she returned. Or burn them. Maybe it was best she had no reminder of this ordeal.

She stripped off and hung her clothes over an obliging tree branch. The air was cool against her skin, but the surrounding trees offered protection from the breeze blowing. The stream was decidedly cold, and she shivered as she scrubbed at her skin. There was more blood than she realised and it took her longer than she thought to wash it all away. She only stopped when her hands were red with rubbing rather than brown with stale blood. She moved onto her face next, scooping the water up again and again until it ran clear from her. She gave herself a cursory wash everywhere else and, with some reluctance, shrugged her still-soiled clothes back on again. 

She was suddenly aware of not being alone and spun around, expecting maybe Adar, or Talma, but instead found a woman she had never seen before. Her hair was as black as Lelya’s own and, save for Varda, she was the most beautiful being Lelya had ever seen. A name popped into her head then. Melian . It had to be, she was too glorious to be an elf, and there was a physicality about her that was entirely Ainur. She was decidedly other . Lelya did not know what to do next, if she should interact or leave, but the maia saved her from making a decision by addressing her.

“Who art thou, who soils this water with much blood?” Her tone was more curious than accusatory, yet Lelya felt scolded regardless. 

Who was she? She suddenly realised she did not know how to answer. 

“That depends on who you ask.” She eventually landed on. “Who are you?”

“I am Melian.” 

So she had been correct in her guess and it must have shown on her face for the other continued.

“Thou already knew this?” Her voice was calm and melodious, and bespoke of much wisdom. 

“I guessed.” Lelya shrugged. 

“Thou hast brought evil with thee. Art thou aligned with Melkor and his ilk?” Melian’s gaze was piercing.

“Yes… and no. It is… complicated. If this is your domain, I shall ensure to lead my party away from it. I am not here to purposefully cause trouble. Least of all with you.” She attempted a conciliatory smile but inside she was feeling greatly uneasy. 

“One cannot serve two masters.”

“No.” Lelya breathed out. “No, one cannot.”

They shared a moment in the quiet stillness before Lelya decided it was time to move on. She had nothing further to say and much to think on.

“I will leave you in peace.”

“Next we meet, I hope thou art in a happier place.” She sounded like she meant it. 

“I do not think we shall meet again.” Lelya offered a wry smile and walked away quickly without looking back. 

The conversation had unnerved her. Melian unnerved her. She had not spoken to anyone outside of Angband in over a thousand years, excluding Melkor through their mind connection. Even then, it was only really Ulmo she had ever spoken to that was outside of that bubble. She was so cut off from the world and those in it. She had never really thought about how others would perceive her, her whole focus had been Melkor then Adar. Or Mairon. Or survival. 

She had rejected Valinor partly due to how she thought the elves there would treat her. Now questions were arising in her mind concerning how the elves who stayed behind would see her. She had no idea of where they were on the timeline now. Was Melian married to Thingol yet? Surely she must be. She couldn’t remember. When were men waking up? Was that when the sun arrived? She couldn’t remember that either. So much she could not remember. So much that she did not know whether it was going to affect her. Names, events, places. How much would she play a part in their lives and she in theirs? She could never have foreseen an interaction with Melian, least of all like this. Who else from the great tales was she going to come across? Or would most of it pass her by as she was holed up in Angband or in a blur of metal and blood on the battlefield?

She felt shaken up. Between Nyevsta and Mairon and now this, she felt like she understood nothing about who she was or was supposed to be, or how she was supposed to fit into this world. Maybe she was never meant to. An outsider and outcast until the end. Whatever “the end” turned out to be. If Eru had any mercy, it would be her death. But Eru was the kind of god who sank nations for transgressions, mercy did not seem to be a word well associated with him. 

She didn’t want to think about anything anymore. Everything felt so raw and complex. She was not ready to untangle the shrapnel of her life just then, she craved oblivion. She wished to be alone but being alone meant the thoughts could creep in. She needed a distraction but she wished to talk to nobody, not even Adar. Not yet, anyway. 

The first person she saw on her return was Sàratalma, though mercifully he took one look at her and merely relayed that the camp was set for the night and that he was taking first watch. He bid her good night and dissipated into the night air. She saw Baartas staring at her, clearly wishing to say something but daring not. It was unlike him as he was a bold one most times. He was the fiercest of all the uruk and loyal to Adar, so she knew better than to slight him. She beckoned him over and bade him speak. 

“Mûkkaal. Will Lord Mairon punish us for this excursion?” There was genuine fear underlying his words. Baartas had witnessed and been on the receiving end of Mairon’s malice more than his fair share and so his apprehension was understandable. 

“Not if I can help it, and if he does, he will regret it.”

He looked taken aback by the steel in her words and inclined his head before retreating back to his fellows. She addressed the lot of them then, throwing her voice out so all could hear. 

“Sleep, as much as you need. We shall hunt tomorrow and feast. Tomorrow is a day of full recuperation before we survey the land. You have all done well, now rest.” 

This was met by a unanimous volley of raucous cheers that brought a smile to her lips despite everything. The uruk were brutish, violent, obnoxious, ugly, and often hateful, but the more time she spent with them, the more she understood they needed the same things as any other being in any other race: respect, understanding, rest, laughter, and love. It was beaten out of them, stripped from them, exhausted from them, yet it was still detectable and would bloom when given any amount of chance—familial love. Mothers wanted to bond with their children. Husbands wanted to protect their wives. The fact they had any sort of marriage ritual was testament to their clinging to their elven roots. The good seeped through the bad on occasion and Lelyacalё nurtured that as much as possible. She could not undo Melkor’s evil, but perhaps she could temper it.

Now, though, she was ready to succumb to the depths of sleep and hope she was not plagued by tumultuous dreams. She did not wish to talk, but she thought she would not object to being held. He was waiting for her to seek him out, patiently sat in the tent assigned to him. She had her own and she had made a brief stop there for appearances sake and to take off some of her outer clothing, but then it was straight to Adar’s setup. He knew her so well that she did not even need to explain what she wanted, he had brought her to the roll up on the floor, laid down with her and held her. He never spoke a word.

Chapter Text

The irony was not lost on him, how he could detest the light of Laurelin and Telperion, yet when it was encapsulated in those three jewels it became the most lovely vision he had ever beheld. He only wished he had been the one to achieve such a feat. Then again, Fёanor would not have gained half his knowledge without his teachings and aid, so in a roundabout way, the silmarils would not have existed without him anyway. He could stake a claim to them, when one really thought of it. Even if not, he lusted after them and would have them as his own. Their light, the way it shone forth in lustrous wonder, reminded him of his first encounter of Lelyacalё in The Void. It was one of his favourite memories, his most precious reminisces. He needed those silmarils. Especially now Lelca seemed changed to him. Their interactions were different now, he felt like she was no longer under his control as she had once been; worse still, he was not sure if he could regain that control over her once more. His need to possess was all-consuming and now extended to those delightful jewels oh-so mighty Fёanor had created. But Fёanor was as proprietorial of his works as Melkor felt, so obtaining them would be no mean feat. 

Thus it was that Melkor put a plan in place, one that included ignoring Lelca’s advice and seeking the allyship of Ungoliant. The great spider had been scared of him, wary of him, when he had first approached her and had been easily persuaded to his cunning and bidding; he had nothing to fear. He was in complete command of the situation. Still, he thought it best not to divulge his intentions to Lelyacalё or Mairon. His return would be a surprise, for he intended to steal the silmarils, destroy those obnoxious trees, and enter Angband in triumph once more. He needed it, that showmanship, that glory. He needed it for himself and he needed it for their sake; Lelyacalё’s and Mairon’s. They had managed nearly two thousand years with minimal issues and then the incident had occurred that launched them both into a fully-fledged feud from which there was no return or hope of reconciliation. Maybe if Melkor had never left, he could have maintained control over the situation, could have prevented their animosity from reaching such a crescendo. He had before he was taken, but with no one to mediate them, to govern and guide them, their clashing personalities had come to a head. Melkor knew in his heart, useless and defective as it was, that it was Mairon’s jealousy and need to have Melkor all to himself that was the catalyst behind everything. 

And the God of Chaos revelled in it.

He wanted them both and he would have them both and whilst keeping them under control could be irksome, the sheer anarchy it produced thrilled him. He had hated feeling forced to choose one over the other, but in the end he had not needed to. Now he had been physically removed from the situation and could watch it unravel from afar, it brought him perverse joy to witness. He enjoyed being fought over. He enjoyed seeing them dance their rivalry steps to the beat he was setting. He would need to enforce more of his will when he returned, however, for it had become quite evident that both of them had grown independent and rebellious in his absence, moreso Lelca. She was ignoring Mairon’s commands, disrespecting his authority, and giving herself freedoms he knew she would never dare if he were there. To sabotage all of Mairon’s works and then leave with a party of uruk… the insolence was unlike her. She had pushed back with him in her mind as well. Needless to say, he would be reminding her, forcefully, where she stood when he returned. He would have her, all of her, and she would give it to him uncomplaining and compliant as she once had. As for that uruk, well, Melkor would see to it that he faced a terrible death on the front lines of his army. For it was not just the silmarils he would be bringing home with him, but war. 

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Of all the things Lelyacalë had expected on her return, it had not been Mairon lounging casually against the entrance to Angband with an almost bored expression on his face. She had been prepared for his rage, for further cruelty, yet she was met with cold professionalism. He had wanted a debrief on their scouting expedition and once she gave it, he nodded, asked a few follow up questions and left. He had seemed genuinely interested in her interaction with Melian and she could see the cogs working in his mind as to how best to use this information, but then had not pressed further. There was no exacting questioning, demands for repetition, nothing. It had been painfully… civil. 

There had been no mention of what she had done to his work. No chastisement of her leaving without permission. Just a request of facts. It had been unnerving. She had gone to her room and noticed the door had been replaced, but otherwise nothing had been touched. She did not know what game Mairon was playing and she did not like not knowing. If it had been his intention to keep her on edge, paranoid about his next move, it was, infuriatingly, working. 

Adar and Sàratalma were equally as disturbed by Mairon’s seemingly uncaring behaviour, for it continued even now, months after the event. No retaliation. Not even cruel remarks or harsh tasks. If anything, Mairon acted as though he cared not what they did. His apathy was foreign. It left them all in a state of vigilance, wary he would turn at any second, or a secret plan would be revealed. They knew the rug was to be pulled from under their feet, they just did not know when or how. It was exhausting. Sàratalma suggested they carry on as though all were well, for what was the point in worrying about something they could not prevent?

Here was where Lelyacalë disagreed. She had not seen the death of Nyevsta coming and it had been soul-wrenching. She did not wish to go through something like that again. She conceded worrying about it was pointless, but she had predicted Mairon’s actions before and felt she should be able to again. She hated not being prepared, especially at all. Her apprehension was starting to seep into all aspects of her life in Angband though. She struggled to sleep, afraid of Mairon invading her dreams with tormenting visions or else conducting his revenge whilst she slumbered for her to awake to. She did not like leaving to feed as she worried what she would return to, so she barely sustained herself. She absolutely dared not continue her relationship with Adar in secret. At first he had understood and even agreed it was a prudent course of action but as the months wore on, he could no longer tolerate the abrupt lack of her, for she had retreated in all aspects, as though they were strangers. She avoided him at all costs it felt like, even where it was not necessary. He could not endure years of this.

He watched her grow more gaunt, more haggard, the dark circles under her eyes nearly the same colour as her hair and the light within her all but gone and he decided enough was enough. With the aid of Sàratalma, who was most willing and eager to assist, he staged an intervention. They ambushed her after a return from a hunt she was forced to go on as she had not fed in months. Sàratalma had ensured Mairon was busy at work overseeing the new mining operations that had only just begun so that they had no need to worry of him catching them in their scheme. Adar’s heart ached as Lelya’s face froze in anxious horror at the sight of them both stood in her room, waiting. It hit Adar that she would think they brought bad news, but he had not known how else to go about this. 

“Nothing has happened!” He began quickly, but this only served to change her expression to one of confusion and wariness. He realised he did not know quite how to continue, how to begin. 

“Look at thyself Lelca, Mairon’s inaction is causing thee more pain than if he had come to thee in open hostility.” Sàratalma took over, whether because he saw Adar faltering or because he was desperate to contribute, the uruk neither knew nor cared; he was grateful regardless. 

Now she looked dumbfounded. “What—what do you mean?”

Adar grabbed her and firmly placed her in front of the mirror in her room. Mairon had invented them, though Lelya had explained to Adar at the time that they did have them where she had come from. She had not told Mairon this, however, and had enthusiastically congratulated him on his brilliant discovery of adding silver to glass. It had been a moment of rare conciliation between the pair, a time when they could co-exist almost smoothly. Her hollow-eyed visage blinked blearily back at her. 

“Look. See . You do not sleep. You barely drink. Your light is all but extinguished. You would think Mairon had tortured you into this state in one of the dank cells below, but it is you who have done this to yourself. Mairon has won. This is his retaliation. He is letting you sabotage yourself.” Adar was aware of the desperate whine to his voice but as much as he hated it, he hoped it would strike the message home more, his being raw about how he felt. 

Lelyacalë touched her reflection in the mirror, then her face, letting her fingers explore the shadows under her eyes and the pinched aspect of her cheeks. Comprehension filled her eyes, swiftly followed by tears. She covered her face in her hands and her shoulders shuddered with silent woe. Sàratalma placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered that all was not lost and he would be there to help her regain her former self, but for now he would leave her with Adar. He nodded at the uruk and departed. Adar clasped her hands in his own and lowered them from her face, kissing them gently as he did so. Her eyes were big and round as they gazed up at him, tears brimming along her lashes. Her mouth trembled. She tried to speak but the emotions closing her throat prevented any words from forming. 

Adar smiled sadly at her as he brushed a falling tear from her cheek. He told her there was no rush, to let herself come to terms with the realisation, to allow herself to sort through her feelings. She released herself from his hands to sit on the edge of the bed. Adar did not move to follow immediately, but when she looked up at him, he saw the invitation in her eyes and sat beside her. They stayed like that for a while, silent, not touching, him waiting, her thinking, until she cleared her throat. 

“I am a fool.” Her voice was scarcely a croak. 

“No.” He placed an arm around her. 

“Yes. I allowed him into my head. I should- I should have known better.” She was worrying at the skin around her nails so Adar reached across with his free hand and stopped her. She sighed. “I don’t know what to do, Adar.”

“Sleep would be a good start.” He brushed her hair back to tuck it behind one ear. “I will stay with you, if you want.”

“Yes.” She turned to him with such gratitude in her eyes, such yearning that he felt his heart squeeze tight. “Please.” 

He nodded and she stood from the bed to wash her face and take her blood-stained clothes off. She wore the same couple of outfits for hunting to avoid them all becoming spoiled. The blood mainly came off but some feeds were messier than others and washing could be tedious, more so because she did the bulk of it herself. There were maia servants who could and would assist her, but as they answered to Mairon first, she erred on the side of caution and attempted to do most things herself. 

She plucked her nightdress from the modesty screen she had constructed and shrugged it on. When she returned to the bed, Adar was in his undergarments only, his chest was bare and he waited for her to invite him into the bed with her. She climbed in first then pulled the blankets back to indicate he could join her. She reached for him immediately and pulled him to her so that she was nuzzled against his shoulder. Neither of them said a word and Adar stayed awake until he heard her breathing slow and her hand on his waist slipped down as she finally fell asleep. 

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Revenge had been his first thought, of course it had. That was only natural, anyone would be able to agree, however Mairon was anything but natural. Oh, there was no question he would get revenge, but it would not be him who brought it about. He was going to wait for Melkor to return and let him deal with Lelycalë. He already knew his master was resentful over her newfound strength in rebuffing him, in daring to set parameters to their relationship, in maintaining any form of control. She was already in for a reckoning, he would simply add further reasons for it, encourage it to be harsher. It would be sweeter knowing he had manipulated Melkor into doing his dirty work for him than doing it himself. It would prove his relationship with Melkor was stronger than Lelyacalë’s and that Mairon held the most control. Control was key. The fact that damned woman held any at all was a disgrace and that she was gaining more control was abhorrent. She needed to be put back in her place, firmly under heel. 

Besides, it seemed his passivity was reaping rewards he had not planned for. He knew it would deepen her distrust in him, would even make her more cautious in her actions; he had not foreseen just how much it would gnaw at her though. In the last year or so she had truly changed in appearance and demeanor. She was a disheveled mess and it was delightful to behold. Better yet, she was doing this to herself. Mairon was keeping his distance and remaining aloof, neutral even. No praise, no condemnation, he gave her nothing. Yet this nothing was clearly draining her. It made him smile. Long may it continue. He wondered if Melkor knew how bad she had become, if he knew how pathetic she now was. Mairon wondered if he could tease it from his master. He had to be careful bringing up Lelyacalë when conversing with Melkor, it was a touchy subject given their history. He decided it was worth the risk.

He twisted the ring upon his finger and allowed his fёa to flow into it, unlocking it. He waited. Melkor replied almost immediately, much to the maia’s surprise. His master was often busy and would sometimes take days to reply. 

Mairon.

Master, thou didst answer quicker than I expected.

Thou caught me in a rare moment of solitude. Melkor sounded relaxed and happy. Things were going well for him then, it seemed. Mairon decided to get straight to the point, glad his Lord was in a good place emotionally to receive the news he was about to give.

I doth need to discuss Lelyacalë, My Lord. Mairon could feel Melkor grow tense in his mind so hurried on. Hath thou noticed a change in her, in thy latest correspondence with her?  

Melkor paused. She hath been… distant. And distracted. Why doth thou ask?

She hath not been herself of late. Mairon decided to reveal the truth, and let his master do with it what he would. Maybe having Melkor bring up that Mairon had noted the change to him would increase her paranoia over his actions even further. She is morose, emaciated, her light doth barely shine forth at all. Perhaps she doth need thy counsel, for we both knoweth she shall not bear mine.

This is grave news indeed, Mairon, I thank thee for bringing it to my attention. Melkor’s tone had turned solemn. I shall speak with her and ascertain what hath been troubling her to bring about such a change in her.

Very good, My Lord. 

There followed a moment of silence.

Was there aught else, Mairon?

Nothing of an urgent nature. I am beginning to regain all the work I didst lose, slowly but surely. Angband will be ready for your return, My Lord, have no fear.

Oh that is not something I have ever feared, Mairon, not with thee in command. 

Was that… warmth coming through in Melkor’s words? 

I see that hath made thee smile. 

Mairon started. Thou canst see me, My Lord?

No, but thou didst share thy expression briefly with me just now. We hast shared images in the past.

Indeed, but always it takes such effort and concentration.

That depends on the emotion behind the message. Melkor’s voice had taken on a slyness. Observe.

In Mairon’s mind he saw himself and Melkor. Melkor was dressed much like an elf, only all in black. His hair was longer than Mairon remembered and tied back in a fashion once again used by the elves. Mairon may have hated the firstborn of Illúvatar, but he had to admit that Melkor suited the style. No. He improved the style. He had taken what the elves designed and moulded it to be something greater. Melkor approached him from behind and Vision-Mairon did not move. 

Melkor reached forth and with a gentle hand, brushed Marion’s hair from his shoulder, baring his neck. Mairon gasped. He had felt that and more than in just his mind. It had not felt the same as if it had been physically done to him, but it was more than mere imagining. He was both watching this spectacle and taking part. Melkor placed a kiss on the curve of Mairon’s neck, simultaneously sliding a hand about his waist. It started feather light but then Melkor was pressing harder, his tongue running along that most sensitive flesh to send shivers up and down Marion’s spine. Melkor’s grip upon his waist also strengthened until he had spun his lieutenant around and turned his devouring mouth to Mairon’s eagerly awaiting one. 

It was not the same as feeling him in person, but the sensation was enough. It was more than they had attempted before. Mairon’s hands were undoing the neatly laid braids in Melkor’s hair as he dragged his master closer to him. He wished to consume and be consumed. Let them be one. One mind, one flesh. The next to go was Melkor’s elvish-inspired attire, Mairon ripped it from him leaving faint traces of his nails upon Melkor’s now bared skin. The vala groaned against Mairon’s mouth as a result, dragging the maia’s lip down with his teeth and digging his fingers into Mairon’s back to steady himself. They were in a frenzy. Lips gorging themselves upon one another, hands ripping off clothes, seeking out purchase on the other’s flesh. Pressing, grasping, closer and closer, moving as one. The friction borne of their frenetic energies soon had them both screaming out in unison as their ecstasy found them at the same time. 

They were left panting against one another, utterly spent in one way and yet Mairon would have gone again and again until they were truly drained. Oh how he had missed this, even if it was not truly the same. The thought of them repeating this in person was already causing a fire to burn within him once more. 

When thou doth return, My Lord, thou shalt have a welcome ten-fold to this. Mairon whispered fervently in Melkor’s ear. 

Melkor kissed him long and hard before looking him straight in the eyes. 

If that doth not speed me on with my plans, I know not what will.

It was only much later on, once Mairon had run through the entire experience for the umpteenth time, that his brain snagged upon something. Melkor had known exactly what to do, he had known that emotions could elicit such an outcome, which meant he had done it before.

And not with Mairon. 

Chapter Text

Laughter rang out in her mind, though he had not meant to send it. He could not help it. He was finally here, finally bringing his plan to fruition. He had the silmarils, at last, despite everything. He may have fumbled Fëanor before, but he had more than made up for it by playing the proud elf’s hubris against him. To think the damn fool had thought to deprive others of seeing the splendor of his precious creations by leaving them locked away at home. Now Melkor would truly deprive everyone of their glory, for no one on this accursed isle should ever behold them again. It was an added bonus that he had slain his father, Finwë. One less high elf in the world, let Nàmo enjoy him. That it was Melkor that had introduced death to the elves here in beautiful, peaceful, godly Valinor was one of his proudest achievements, and it was one he had not even forethought to accomplish. Greatness followed him anyhow, whether he attempted it or not. 

Now it was time to enact the final stage of his revenge. First the lamps, now these damned trees. The Valar really should have perceived such an occurrence. They had become complacent, however, blind to anything that did not fit the lovely vision Eru had shown them. Their naivety was pathetic. Melkor would no longer count himself as one of them. 

He had felt Lelca’s confusion at his mirth at first, but then sensed her growing understanding. This had slightly irked him, as he had wanted to retain the element of surprise and would not have her know his movements, yet it seemed she did, or at least guessed them. No matter, she did not know everything. She had been wrong about Ungoliant, who he was now skipping gleefully towards. She hissed in excitement, the great bulk of her trembled in anticipation of the delicious feast she was about to obtain. Melkor grinned at her and felt himself shift inside. He raised his spear and brought it down hard into the bark of Laurelin. Then again. And again. Each blow was accompanied by a thought of hatred. One for his brother, Manwë. One for Varda. One for Ulmo. One for Tulkas. One for every valar. One for his capture. One for his forced repentance. One for Fëanor. One for the continued rebuttal of Lelca. One for her rebellion against him. One for that uruk. One for Mairon’s jealousy.

Several for Eru. Several for himself. 

The shift within him grew greater and he felt his fair form fall away irrevocably. He was a dark lord now and forever, mighty and grotesque, powerful and hideous. 

Ungoliant threw herself upon the wounds and sucked greedily. She swelled larger and larger as the trees were drained of all their light. Monstrous and engorged, she was a thing of wonder to behold. All that light, subsumed to create the antithesis. For she was not just the absence of light, but a matter opposite, a true dark. They fled the scene and Melkor could not believe his great luck in how things were unravelling. He had won. He had won against the elves and The Valar. He would soon be back where he belonged, his kingdom, with his loyal servants. His happy thoughts were wrenched to a standstill as Ungoliant addressed him. The creature was still hungry. He was astounded. He watched as she devoured all the other jewels and precious items he had stolen and clutched the silmarils tightly in his other hand, though they burned through the box he carried them in and his own armour. She asked for his other hand and all it contained, as he had promised her. He refused. She lunged. He screamed.

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Nothing could have prepared her for it, though she knew it was coming. The moment she had heard Melkor’s maniacal outburst in her mind she had known it was time. Lelycalë had told Sàratalma and Adar what was about to transpire and they had all rushed outside, they knew not quite why. It felt better than huddling indoors. Lelya had asked Talma if he would go with the other balrogs to Melkor’s rescue and Talma had mirrored the question back to her. 

“You think I would be any help against a primordial spider being?” She had scoffed.

“Mayhaps. Melkor would be rejoiced to see thee come to his aid whether thou merely tended to him or joined in the fray.” Talma had given her a sideways look.

“You should definitely not go.” Adar had immediately combated with.

“Of course thou wouldst say that.” Sàratalma had dismissed him and spoken once more to Lelycale. “Thou needest to think on how thou wishes to go forward with Melkor returned. Going to him will show him that thou carest, especially in such a vulnerable moment. Mairon will not be there, thou shalt.”

She had looked at Adar, who she sensed could see the wisdom behind Talma’s words even if he disliked them. She did not much want to travel with a host of balrogs, nor be in the presence, let alone potentially face off, a humongous arachnid that wished to devour everything. Nevertheless, Talma spoke true that her being there would be a point in her favour. She had remained colder to Melkor in their correspondence, despite his many attempts at creating intimate scenes in their minds. She had only caved on a couple of occasions and immediately hated herself for it. Adar knew all and had been more forgiving than she probably deserved. He understood that she had an act to play and part of that was maintaining the pretence she was devoted to Melkor. Part of that devotion was, alas, physical. Carnal. She shuddered, it had been bad enough with it being in her mind, now he would be returned and would no doubt wish to resume it actually physically. She and Adar had discussed this already, it being a great source of apprehension on both their parts. They knew to put Melkor off at all would be dangerous folly. It would have to be a gradual process. They both loathed the fact. 

“I will go. If you will also go, Talma.” 

“I will go anywhere with thee, Lelca.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth that a sound so horrifying in its terror and despair rent the air. Even at this great distance did it pierce the ear to strike fear into the very marrow of those that heard it. It seemed to last a lifetime, the echo of it haunted the world for days. All three of them fell to the ground with hands clutched to their ears. 

Sàratalma had heard cries of anguish before, being the perpetrator of many of them, but never one such as this. He could not conjure up in his imagination what Ungoliant must be doing to Melkor, but it must be most terrible indeed. The sound had not died down and already another rose to meet it. Two in fact. One was a great rumbling within the earth and the second was battle cries. The balrogs had awoken and were coming to Melkor’s aid. 

“It is time we go.” His voice was grim. “Thou needest to hide and lay low.” This he directed at Adar, who nodded in agreement. 

“How will I keep up? I cannot move as fast as you or the other balrogs.” Lelyacalë bit her lip.

Sàratalma grabbed her by the hand and grinned down at her with a smile that did not inspire positive feelings towards his intentions.

“What are you-?” She did not get to finish her sentence as the world around her darkened and blurred. The landscape warped past her and her eyes couldn’t keep up. After a few minutes she saw fiery shapes mixed in and her brain took a few moments to realise they were balrogs, charging alongside her and Sàratalma. She was not entirely sure how they were moving, she could not have told you where her limbs currently were. She felt bodiless. 

They came to an abrupt halt and the first thing that hit her was the cold. It immediately enveloped her, causing her to shiver. The next thing she noticed was the great darkness before her, which after a few blinks resolved itself into the form of a huge spider. Her mind could barely comprehend what she was looking at. She recalled artist depictions of Ungoliant and truly none had done her proper justice. She was currently fighting off the barrage of whips that rained down on her from the host of balrogs that now swarmed about her great mass. Melkor had retreated to a safe distance, Lelyacalë noticed, cradling what must be the silmarils and what was left of his pride. 

Lelyacalë was going to ask how Sàratalma had transported them as he did and why he had not done so before now, but those questions had withered back down her throat as she surveyed the scene before her. Instead she asked what they should do, for Talma had no whip of flame and she was (drat the lack of foresight and preparation) bearing only her dagger. Talma was apparently too dumbfounded at seeing a creature darker than himself, a shadow made real rather than a mimicker of shadow like unto himself. It was up to Lelya to think on her feet. She commanded him to go to Melkor and get him away, in the same way he had just travelled them both here. Talma nodded and broke from his reverie. He made towards Melkor’s cowering mass upon the ice before thinking to ask what she would be doing. 

“Providing a distraction.” She grimaced. 

Ungoliant was managing to defend herself quite well so far, despite the onslaught, and her goal was clearly still Melkor and the jewels he possessed. She was putting all her energy into getting to him, rather than fending off her attackers to flee. Knowing she would probably regret it, Lelyacalë gritted her teeth and used the one weapon always available to her. She shot a stream of white fire straight at the great spider’s face. She put all her strength into it, ensuring the resultant flames were the biggest she had ever produced. She expected Ungoliant to squeal, retreat, and collapse. The primordial demon did none of these things, instead she opened her hideous maw wide and sucked in the fire until not a lick remained. It caused her no pain, she was not left writhing in agony as it ate her from the inside. If anything, the grotesque creature grew larger. 

It had worked as a distraction, however, for when Lelyacalë glanced over to where Melkor had been, he was gone, as was Sàratalma. It also provided the balrogs an opening to fully coordinate their assault, and soon Ungoliant had no choice but to fall back through the sheer force of the attack against her. But she kept her soulless, bulbous eyes all trained on Lelya. The hunger in them was evident. If The Void was incarnated as a being, Ungoliant was the result. Begging to be filled. Draining all life and light and proffering up only darkness. She was truly horrifying. On instinct, Lelyacalë blazed up. She became pure fire, every pore of her alight. She saw the great spider wince and attempt to cover her eyes whilst turning away, meaning the plan had worked. She had blinded the monster. 

Lelyacalë turned and fled, as fast as her frozen feet and stiff legs would carry her. She had never used the white fire as such before and it left her feeling empty and light headed. She had over extended herself and now she was exerting herself further. Adrenaline was helping, but it was not long before she felt herself struggling. The bleak, icy landscape seemed to never end. Helcaraxë. A place not on her bucket list and one she was heartily ready to leave. Only she was genuinely starting to worry she would not, for her run had slowed to a jog, then a walk, and now she was stumbling along at no great pace at all, fighting for breath that scorched her lungs with its searing cold. Would she even be able to die here? Or would she be trapped, holding on to life because death could no longer claim her, frozen, unmoving, and desolate? 

No. That could not be her fate. She would not let it. She could not let it be so. But she was losing hope as much as energy when she felt the air around her begin to heat up. The frozen ground beneath her quaked and cracked. The balrogs were returning on their homeward journey. She creaked her neck to look over her shoulder and saw a wall of writhing orange and black advancing toward her, complete with snarling faces and roaring mouths. She could pick out Gothmog immediately, for he was slightly ahead of the others and there was no mistaking his obvious prowess compared to the others. He was the largest, most fierce, and had an air about him that immediately screamed leader. 

She considered moving out of the way of them before they bowled her over in their stampede, but even as the thought formed in her mind, they were upon her. They parted around her, a river of flame flowing around a rock in the midst. Gothmog stood before her and she was forced to strain her neck in order to meet his eyes. 

“Thy aid in the fight is noted, oh small one, though it looks to have cost thee dearly.” His voice was a furnace at full force. “I shalt bring thee back to our master, for he would not look kindly upon thou being left behind to perish here.” 

She could not speak, she could just about nod stiffly. Not that Gothmog seemingly cared for a response, for he unceremoniously hoisted her over his shoulder and pounded off after the others. His fire might not have been able to burn her flesh any longer, but the heat was unbearable. The cold air rushing past her helped but as they left Helcaraxë and entered more temperate climes, Lelyacalë found herself most uncomfortable indeed. Not that she wasn’t grateful for this rescue of herself, even be it by one such as Gothmog, but it was almost as unpleasant as being left to the freezing cold of the barren landscape they had left behind. 

Despite the speed they were travelling, it felt an age before they reached Angband once more. They approached the gate and Gothmog set her down, a bit too forcefully for she nearly fell and he was forced to right her back onto her feet and hold her in place. He seemed amused by this, a malicious smile cracked his face as she mumbled her thanks and led them all inside. She did not like Gothmog, he was brutish and cruel and he loved no one and no thing. He served Melkor because their values, if they could even be called that, aligned and Melkor was the only one he respected. Even Mairon would not attempt to control or command Gothmog, he knew better. Lelya was desperate to get away from him and his legion of balrogs, but they followed her, far too closely for her liking, until they found Talma in a corridor, approaching them.

“Lelca! Thou hast made it back safely!” Relief resounded from him.

“Yes, thanks to Gothmog.” She bowed in the chief balrog’s direction. “How is Melkor?”

Sàratalma spared an interested glance at Gothmog then returned his gaze back to Lelca. “Come and see for thyself. He hath been asking for thee.”

“And what shall we do, Sàratalma?” Gothmog folded his arms. 

“Await Melkor in the great hall.” Talma was giving Gothmog a measured look. Whilst he was a balrog of sorts, he was not like Gothmog or the others that served beneath him. He had not been a maia of fire, twisted by Melkor to become the monstrosities that were the balrog race. He was his own being, but he did resemble a balrog the most out of all the dark creatures under Melkor’s dominion, he just lacked the fiery heat, the brightness that orange flame brings. As such, his relationship with Gothmog was a strange one. Sàratalma respected Gothmog’s authority in much the same way he respected Mairon’s - they were both lieutenants under Melkor after all and he was not - but he did not fully capitulate to him as the other balrogs did, he did not serve under him so much as he served under Melkor alone. But Gothmog was not a being to be trifled with or underestimated, he had no qualms about inflicting pain and damage to anyone but Melkor, and for very little reason. The question remained unimportant, for violence was the go-to answer for Gothmog.

The chief of the balrogs did not move. The air grew tense. Lelyacalë was fighting the urge to keep looking between the pair of them in their stand-off and to instead train her eyes on the floor. Finally, Gothmog unfolded his arms, uttered a terse “Very well” and pushed past Sàratalma , making sure to cuff him into the wall with his bulk. Every balrog glared menacingly at him as they passed, some even getting in his face to leer at him before moving on. Talma remained expressionless throughout, leaning against the wall and meeting their eyes every time. It wasn’t stoicism so much as resolution. Leylacalë knew that Talma had bested many balrogs in combat before, but with Gothmog leading them, they were emboldened and they had the strength in numbers to assert their intimidation. Not that it worked, for it was no act that Sàratalma  cared not one jot and shrugged the whole matter off the moment the last balrog had stomped past him. 

He grabbed Lelyacalë by the arm and hurried her upwards, towards her bedchamber. She was confused, surely Melkor would be with Mairon, in Mairon’s quarters. In fact, she was fairly sure Mairon had constructed Melkor some chambers nearby so they could be close, purposefully putting her at the very top to keep her out of the way. Still, Talma dragged her up until they were indeed outside her door.

“Wait, where is Mairon? Is he in there with Melkor?” 

“He might be.” Talma pushed her through the door and closed it behind her. She whirled around but it was too late, the door was shut and she heard Melkor call out her name. Oh, Talma would be hearing from her later, that was for sure. Making a move like that was decidedly outside the scope of being a good friend. He would be explaining himself. She turned back to face the room, her room, to see Melkor slumped against the bed. Armour was discarded haphazardly about him, creating a spiky black maze in which he was the centre. Mairon was nowhere to be seen. Indeed, the room was empty save for the two of them. Melkor’s appearance matched Lelca’s own. They were both spent physically and more than a bit disturbed by the most recent events of the day. Ungoliant had been more than either of them had envisioned and the fight and flight from the giant spider had exacted much from the pair of them. They stared at each other wearily for a few beats before Lelca moved towards Melkor, picking up and clearing a path through the metal debris around him. She saw the state of his hands. They were burned black and blistered, just as the stories told. It begged the question as to where the silmarils were now, for she could not see them about his person or in the immediate vicinity. 

“Your hands!” She placed her own underneath his as gently as she could, still he winced at the contact. “Sorry,” she mumbled, “would you like me to try to heal them?”

“Yes, if thou canst.” The exhaustion behind his words was evident.

She guided him to properly relax on the bed, propped up by pillows, and she sat beside him. He watched her the entire time and she tried not to feel too scrutinised. She had only done minimal healing of others in the past. Her body did it naturally for herself so it had taken some time to understand how it worked and how she could apply it to flesh that was not hers. She had only really practiced on Adar on the very few occasions he had required it and the uruk under her command. When she had been on Almaren, she had been taught somewhat to heal flora and fauna but she had never been especially good at it back then, though the lessons were still recallable to her mind. She brought forth those lessons now and all she had come to understand on the few successful attempts she had made at healing others and focussed on Melkor’s hands. He was truly an idiot for letting his need and greed hurt him so. 

She held his hands gently and reached forth with the light within her. She focussed on using that light to mend the wounds, to soothe the blistered skin back to smooth and knit what was broken back whole. The going was slow as the damage was extensive and whilst she managed to rid Melkor of the blisters, the blackened and scarred skin refused to yield much at all. She managed some superficial healing, to remove a lot of the pain, but his hands remained as though made from volcanic rock, rough and dark. More akin to Sàratalma’s hands, now she thought of it. She tried one last time, made one final effort, but ended with a sigh as naught came of it. She remained holding his hands and apologised that she had done all she could for now, but offered to try again later. Melkor curled his blackened fingers around her own pale ones and they sat in silence for a time. 

“I do not mind them. They art a reminder of all I have gained. These scars usher in a new era for me.” He stared down at his hands as he spoke.

Lelca brought his hands to her mouth and gently kissed each one before releasing them with a gentle squeeze. She raised her eyes to meet his own and offered a warm smile. She stopped as she finally, properly, took in his appearance. One of his eyes remained the icy blue she had always known, the other had turned red like unto magma. His features were become harsher, angles sharper, shadows deeper. She had not known what to expect now that he had lost his fair form, but to her he still looked fair enough. He was certainly not the hideous being some artists had depicted him as. Maybe his appearance would worsen the more he adopted his new self, the more he became Morgoth Bauglir. 

“You have a new name too.” She blurted out.

“Oh?” He was genuinely intrigued.

“Yes. Fёanor names you Morgoth and it is what all elves and later men call you from now on.” 

“Morgoth.” He sounded it out on his tongue. “Morgoth. Black foe. Dark tyrant. Yes, it suiteth me well.” He smiled and she saw the first true hint of the grotesque that lay in his future. He would choose monstrous ways and they would shape him until he knew not how to act fair in any way so all that would be left was foul. It was less about physical appearance and more about who he was, what he was. He had thrown off the pretence. He acted no more to fit in with elves or Ainur. He was his own being and that being was chaos and nihilism, pain and domination. She felt her heart sink. There had never been much hope, she knew that, had always known that, she was not stupid enough to believe she would or could ever really make a significant difference to one such as Melkor, and yet… there had been moments. There had been potential. Now it was rapidly slipping away and she knew there was no being or force in existence that could stop or change the course of what was to happen. Melkor had set himself upon a path that he would not deviate from for anyone or anything. 

Well. It was no use dwelling on such matters, so she shrugged them off and turned her mind to other thoughts that concerned her and to which she could get some resolution.

“Where is Mairon? I would have thought he would have not left your side.” She smiled wryly at him.

“I hath set him a most important task to which he hath put himself to immediately. Thou shalt see in due course. Now though, I shall rest a while.” He sank back further into the pillows and gestured to the space beside him. “Join me.”

It was not a request but a demand and she obeyed, climbing up next to him and settling herself down. He rolled towards her and pulled her into his arms, his head resting against her own.

“It is good to be back. It is good to be back with thee, Lelca.” He murmured sleepily into her hair as his breathing began to slow and his hold on her slackened slightly. She did not move or speak but silent tears slid from her eyes as her fatigued body finally succumbed to the sleep it so desperately needed and craved. 

Chapter Text

He would have refused; any other time he would have refused. But he could not, not with his beloved so proud and needing him so. Not with his beloved so weary from his ordeal. So Mairon had obeyed, unquestioningly, uncomplainingly - some might go so far as to say meekly, even. He had witnessed what those Silmarils had done to his master’s hands and so had taken the precaution to carry them in a sack held out away from his body. He despised them on sight. Oh, he could see why they would be coveted, the craftsmanship was sublime. No. It was the light within he had an aversion to. Far too much like the light his nemesis exuded. It was almost as if this Fёanor had inadvertently captured her in gem form. That was another thing, he held animosity towards the creator of these Silmarils; a creator Melkor had taken a keen interest in. Too keen an interest for Mairon’s liking. Now he was tasked with setting Fёanor’s greatest works in a crown so that Melkor could hold a coronation and pronounce himself king of the world. Love was all that was fuelling him at the moment and he hoped Melkor would appreciate it, even if he knew such a hope was utterly futile. Melkor took Mairon’s love for granted far too often.

Mairon had no issue with Melkor being king of the world. He agreed with the title. He ruled this realm that The Valar had abandoned - no one else. Petty elf tribes did not count. Melian and her realm did not count, not to his mind. The real power, the real control, was with Melkor and everyone knew it. Let them cling to their pockets in pathetic desperation. When the time was right, Melkor would swoop in and claim dominion over all the lands he wished to, and Mairon would be right by his side aiding him. So he had no issue with creating a crown, he wanted to, he relished being given that task. It was the incorporation of the Silmarils he took issue with. Their mocking glory, their hideously radiant light. Having her around the place was bad enough and he could avoid her if he wished, for he had no want to be in her presence. Melkor, on the other hand, Mairon wished to spend as much time in his presence as possible, especially after three thousand or so years of being separated. Now that time would be tainted by these damned jewels. He would gaze up at his beloved and have to see him under the shadow those gems created. Added insult to injury - his own skill would be marred by another’s craftsmanship. It was almost too much to bear.

Almost. But the adoration Mairon felt for Melkor was nearly as all-consuming as his need to order the world according to his will. Thus, he was in the forge crafting a crown that he had designed an age ago but had now modified to house three jewels. It would not be his finest work, but it would be fitting for Melkor, the new Melkor that had returned. It would speak of power, it would speak of malice, it would speak of darkness. A dark crown for a dark lord upon a dark throne. With those damn Silmarils reminding all and sundry how he yearned for the light and to possess it. The need for the flame imperishable had never left him and never would. His failure to find it then subconsciously drove Melkor now, in both cleaving to the darkness in bitterness at not being able to dominate the light and also seeking to possess any light he could to make it his own. Mairon had nearly recoiled at the sight of Melkor’s tears upon viewing the beauty of the Silmarils. He could see his master’s heart nearly turning to a path Mairon did not wish to go back to. Thankfully, Melkor had seemingly snapped out of this state and returned to his usual self. Mairon did not know what had brought him back, but he remained grateful to whatever it was. 

It was a crown of iron that Mairon fashioned. Iron and black gold. It was solid and harsh. Sharp and cruel. It was a weapon as much as an ornamental headpiece. The three radiant jewels sat in a small arc above the brow, with a spiked bit of metal towering above each one. In the gaps between each gem, a smaller spike pointed down so that the wearer would have their temples covered and their forehead down to the start of the nose. A snug fit. It would look painful to wear, as though the bearer was being punished for assuming such glory, and seeing what those hateful jewels did to his master’s hands, Mairon assumed it probably would be. It would not be the first time Melkor’s pride had pushed him into masochism. 

It occurred to Mairon that he had better be the one to crown Melkor. He would not stand for anyone else to do it. Not because he had made the crown, though now he thought of it, he would rather not see it in any other hands either, but because only he should have the accolade, the privilege, the authority to do so. He was the only candidate. 

Except her, perhaps. 

No. He would not entertain the thought and he would not allow Melkor to either. He also suspected that Lelyacalë would not want the honour of coronating Melkor anyhow, asinine as she was. She probably did not agree that he deserved the title of king, let alone be formally acknowledged as such. 

Why? Why did Melkor chase someone who not only refused to revere him as she ought to, but actively disdained him on most occasions? Why? When Mairon was right there. Devoted, doting, dutiful. 

Because she is beautiful.

Was he not more beautiful? Was he not enough?

Because the pursuit makes the capture all the more delicious. 

Melkor had enjoyed seducing him, it was true. He had not gone willingly at first. Melkor had persuaded most deliciously. She was only ever loyal out of fear, not love. It was not true loyalty. 

“Thou art correct.” A voice broke in on his reverie. He looked up, startled. It was Sàratalma. 

“What?”

“Lelyacalë was not given the same chance to prove or earn loyalty as thou were. As even I was. Melkor never treated thee as an object to be possessed, to do with what he liked regardless of thy feelings. Loyalty cannot be borne from coercion. Even these uruk he hath bred follow him out of fear. They hate him. But the fear is greater.”

Mairon stared at the other maia in bewilderment. 

“Thou-thou canst hear my thoughts?” He asked incredulously. 

“Nay, Mairon, thou were speaking aloud just now. Muttering with each hammer blow.” Sàratalma’s voice was uncharacteristically soft and non-combative. 

“And thou were listening in, unbidden and unwelcome?” Mairon narrowed his eyes. 

“I overheard the last, that is all. I didst not come to pry upon thee but see how thou were getting on. Melkor sent me to review thy progress.” 

Mairon straightened and rolled his shoulders. “It is going well.” 

“I shall let his lordship know.” Sàratalma turned to leave with a nod. 

“Wait.”

The dark maia stopped and looked back over his shoulder queryingly at Mairon. 

“Is she with him now?” Marion’s tone was sour. 

“If thou meanest Lelyacalë, then yes. She is. He didst ask for her.” On seeing Mairon’s expression he turned for to face him again and continued. “She did help save him from Ungoliant. She is owed thanks for that if nothing else.”

“I am sure the balrogs had it well in hand without her assistance.” Mairon grumbled. 

“And yet she assisted regardless… and even Gothmog hath noted her for her help.” Sàratalma raised an eyebrow at Mairon and left before the other could reply. 

Mairon was left alone with his unhappy thoughts and three gems to set into a crown of iron and black gold. 

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It was risky, but she had decided she needed to find Adar so they could decide what their next moves were. They had talked about this before, of course, but now that it was upon them and she had seen what Melkor was like upon his return, further discussion was warranted. There was one topic in particular that Lelyacalë knew Adar would wish to discuss even though it brought him no pleasure to think on it. They had to remain practical in such matters, there was no use pretending circumstances were not as they were just because one wished they were different. 

That particular topic was also why she had sneaked out before Melkor had awoken. There were answers to questions she would avoid for as long as she was able to. She was not prepared. It was one thing to demur in the mind, it was another to do so in the flesh. Especially now, with Melkor becoming darker and severing himself from all good indubitably. It would not do well to make an enemy of him or cause strife immediately, if it could be avoided. The fact remained she did not wish to continue on as before and Melkor did, if how he had approached her in her mind was anything to go by. 

She was a changed woman and she could not go back to who she had been forced to be. She would not. 

She would not. 

She found Adar with a group of uruk; they were having one of the few meals Mairon allowed them. Lelyacalë had attempted to explain properly-fed soldiers were stronger soldiers but Mairon’s cruelty was greater than his practicality in this regard and so she was forced to sneak extras to them when she could. It was better when they could leave Angband as then they could hunt without Mairon reprimanding them. It didn’t help that the uruk could withstand much callousness and still perform as needed. It was a brutal regime they were under and they only survived by matching the brutality. It was heartbreaking to witness. 

Adar saw her coming and immediately arose from his seat on the floor. No chairs and tables for the uruk, it was much too good for them. They at least had mats to sit upon, though they were grimy with grease and dirt. She beckoned with her head and he followed her to one of their secret rooms. It was a store cupboard of sorts, one of many as Angband was full of items that needed storing. This one was for brooms and buckets. The irony was not lost on Lelyacalë that she often conducted her secret affair from a cleaning supply closet. Of all the clichés that could have followed her from her home world, she would never have guessed it would be this one. Adar watched her but said nothing, waiting for her to begin the conversation once the door was closed behind them. 

“He has changed. He is darker and I can see that darkness overtaking him until it is all he is. His hands were badly burned, so much so that I could not heal them fully. He was exhausted. He fell asleep and I stayed with him and that was all. I stole away before he woke up. Before… in case…” She trailed off. 

“In case he wanted more.” Adar finished for her. 

She nodded.

“It is inevitable that he will. We both knew this.” His voice was sombre. 

“It feels different now it’s here though. I don’t want to be intimate with him. Even in a lie, even if it’s just a pretence on my part.” She began picking at her nails. 

Adar stepped forwards and grabbed her hands in his. “I know, love, I know. I do not want you to either, but we have been forced to do many things we do not want to do and have survived. Indeed, we have done them in order to survive. This is no different, though it is more difficult to bear.” He kissed her forehead. “If I had the power, I would stop this. But I do not, and nor do you. We can try to dissuade his interest, allow Mairon to take the place he so desperately covets, but only time will tell.”

She released his hands to wrap her arms around him. “And I will still have you.” She mumbled into his chest. 

“And you will still have me.” He tightened their embrace. She could not see the sadness that encompassed his face, for in reality, Adar knew this was the beginning of the end.

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The crown was ready. Mairon was not. He had stalled for as long as he could. Tweaking here. Embellishing there. Undoing his work just to redo it exactly the same. What should have taken him a week at most he had stretched out to a year. There were rumours that Fëanor and his sons were coming to reclaim the Silmarils that now adorned the headpiece Mairon clutched in his hands, knuckles whitening as they tightened around the cold metal. Part of him hoped they would succeed, if only to be rid of the damned things. But then Melkor would surely spend all his efforts in trying to get them back. No. They were a cursed item. Better that they had never been created. 

He had also been planning the coronation. Designing Melkor’s attire, planning on the decoration of the throne room, which he had expanded to suit Melkor’s grandiosity now he was the ruling lord once more. Melkor was excited, especially now he was over his initial fatigue of flight and fight with Ungoliant. He revelled in the armies Mairon had raised for him. The praise he had heaped upon his lieutenant had been great, the physical thanks had been most satisfying and, to Mairon’s surprise and joy, plentiful. There had been little mention of Lelyacalë as well, which had been an added bonus. When he thought on it, he realised he did not see them together much either. It made him suspicious and he had decided to figure out what was going on there after the coronation was complete. It did not stop him enjoying Melkor’s grateful mouth upon his own in the meantime. 

But now came the time of the ceremony and the beginning of a new era for them all. Mairon adorned himself in his best finery, reds and golds, a fire brought to life in material form. He was beautiful and terrible as befit the right hand of Melkor. Crowned by fire, it was only right. Mairon knew Lelyacalë would be a part of it all, he was not so foolish to think or hope it be otherwise. He still had time to turn his master away from, if not against, her. Now was not that time however. 

Melkor went first, down the grand carpet laid before him. His armour was black, with cruel spikes. His hair was long and loose about his shoulders. A black cloak embroidered with elven script (Fëanor’s invention, but Mairon let it slide as it worked well in this instance and if anything added insult to injury to that high elf) bearing his new name Morgoth over and over in interweaving pattern trailed behind him, carried by Lelyacalë. She was dressed in white, an odd choice to Marion’s mind but he had learned beforehand that it was not of her choosing, but Melkor’s. He assumed it was to have her light appear all the more glorious and to act as a juxtaposition between Melkor’s dark aesthetic and her own. Perhaps even to show that he possessed the silmarils and their light but that he already possessed her and hers. 

Melkor stopped at the throne, a newly devised seat more akin to what he had had in Utumno. Marion’s was placed to the right of it and there was a seat in similar stature to his own placed on the left for Lelyacalë. Mairon did not like it and had even tried to have her seat set lower down, but Melkor had moved it back so they were on an equal level once more. The God of Chaos turned to face his followers and those legions of uruk who Mairon had decided had best served him so far and Lelyacalë adjusted his cloak about him before he sat down. Now it was Mairon’s turn to carry the crown up. He reached the dais and bowed. Melkor smiled and for the first time, knelt before Mairon. The lieutenant of Angband savoured the sight and vowed he would have Melkor on his knees before him again, even if it killed him. He turned and raised the crown before the crowd.

“Here is crowned Melkor, newly titled Morgoth Bauglir, the one true god and king of this world!” His voice rang out to echoing silence until the crown was placed upon Melkor’s brow and the room erupted into thunderous cheers of approval. Stamping, hooting, crying - Melkor soaked it all in with a satisfied smile. The light of the Silmarils cast his face into shadow. He thanked Mairon and bent to place a kiss upon his cheek, soft and tender, not caring at all for who looked on. Mairon felt himself blush and saw Lelyacalë smile, a sincere one at that, as though she was genuinely happy at the affection being shown to him. Maybe she was. She held not the same jealousy he did after all. Melkor, once Mairon was seated, addressed the hosts before him.

“Thus brings in a new era! Our foes are coming but we shall pre-empt them! We shall go forth and seize this land that is rightfully mine once and for all. Let us prepare for war!”

Hollers and calls of assent met him. They were ready. They had been ready for years. He silenced them once more with a raise of his hand. 

“I cannot do this thing alone, of course not. I could not bring this about without my most loyalest of servants, Mairon.” He gestured to his right and beamed down at his lieutenant. “Nor can I do it without my little light at my side.” He turned and held his hand out to Lelyacalë, who took it and smiled graciously up at him. 

“To Mairon, I gift this.” He produced a necklace of solid gold from within the folds of his vast cloak. The band covered the greater part of the upper chest, clavicle to clavicle, in a semi-circle, finishing just above the nipple area. It complimented Marion’s current outfit perfectly. The metal was thin and sat surprisingly comfortably upon his person. It bore no markings or jewels, but was polished to a mirror-shine. Its simplicity was its beauty. Mairon received it with hooded eyes of desire, he could not wait to thank his master properly for such a gift. Yes. Wearing this and only this band. His mind was getting ahead of itself but not for long, as it was pulled to the present rather abruptly as Melkor turned and spoke more. 

“To Lelca, I bestow this.” He produced a circlet. Like his necklace, it too was bright gold and set into it were three white diamonds to mimic the silmarils Melkor wore. The light Lelyacalë exuded caused the diamonds to dance in mimicry of the stones Fëanor had produced. Mairon felt the world slow. He looked at the headpiece in Melkor’s hands, then at Lelyacalë’s face. She had been wearing a congratulatory smile aimed at him but now he saw it turn to sheer confusion as she also looked at the tiara. She glanced at him and her expression was all too clear: what is happening? Did you know of this?

She quickly discerned from the appalled nature of his own facial features that he had no clue that this was going to happen. Melkor placed the crown on Lelyacalë’s head. He was brimming with pride, it radiated off him in waves. He tilted Lelca’s stunned face upwards and placed a kiss upon her lips. Then he raised her by the hand so that she stood at the side of him. 

“A king needs a queen!” He boomed out. “Behold! Here is mine.” He wrapped an arm around her and drew her in close. “Is she not more glorious than even Varda herself?”

Mairon felt sick. By the look on Lelyacalë’s face, she felt exactly the same. They had both been outmanoeuvred, tricked, blindsided. Mairon had hoped she would have known, so he could hate her openly, could have come against them both for conspiring behind his back. Alas, she was clearly as dumbfounded as he was. He had thought the Silmarils would be the worst part of this ceremony, oh how wrong he had been. He hardly had time to bemoan the fact when it got worse. Melkor leant down to whisper in Lelca’s ear, but Mairon was close enough that he could hear every word. 

“I shall prepare a proper ceremony to formally wed, but I didst get the colour of the dress correct, no? According to thy human customs?”

Wed. Formally wed. She was to be his wife. Not just his queen, but his wife. 

Mairon could feel the bile rise in his throat. This was the last straw. That she should be wed to Melkor and he was what? A mere lieutenant. A most loyal servant. Did this officially put her above him? He was still placed on the right-hand side but it occurred to Mairon that Melkor favoured his left. The room began to spin. He just had time to hear Lelyacalë’s stuttered response that white was indeed the traditional bridal dress colour from back home before his mind fully dissociated. 

He took no part in the feasting or dancing. He excused himself and retired to his chambers where he stood gazing unseeingly around himself before the anger finally hit. He became a whirlwind, a tornado. Where once was meticulous order now lay strewn a tumultuous mess. He ripped, he clawed, he hacked, he scratched, he wrenched, he hurled, he smashed, until not one thing remained intact.

Except for himself.

He glared at his fractured reflection in the recently smashed mirror and tore at his robe. He seized it in handfuls and shredded it between sharp nails and strong fingers until he was bare. Bare except the necklace. He reached up to yank it from his neck but stopped, falling to his knees. His broken reflection fell with him and they both stared at one another until his other self grew blurry and swam in and out of focus. Mairon did not know what was happening until his vision cleared enough for him to see tears falling down his mirror-self’s cheeks. He screamed then fell in a curled up heap amongst the chaos he had wrought. He lay there, naked and emotionally spent for he knew not how long. No one came to look for him. So he stayed there, drowned in his grief, wallowing in his misery. He had never felt so low in his entire life. 

Eventually he felt a hand upon his shoulder, rolling him over so his face was revealed. Melkor knelt over him, his face one of concern. He was still wearing his crown. Marion averted his eyes. 

“Mairon. So this is where thou hast been all this time.” Melkor’s voice was unusually soft. 

“Where else wouldst I be?” He replied bitterly. 

“Mairon. Look at me.” Melkor stroked his face gently. Mairon refused to comply. Melkor sighed. 

“Thou art angry at my crowning Lelyacalë as my queen?” 

Mairon finally sat up and met Melkor’s eyes. “Of course I am. How could I not be? Thou art marrying her? Why, Melkor, why?”

He felt tears threaten to make an appearance once more so he turned his face away. He felt Melkor’s hand cup his cheek and turn him back again. 

“Oh Mairon. Thou wilt always be first. This marriage is to show I am equal to my brother and those other of The Valar. Woe betide Tulkas shouldst have a wife and I not! It is a show. It is also to bring Lelyacalë to heel. She has become… more independent since my absence. She needs to be reminded of her place. It is beside me, serving me. But thou, thou wilt always be first, Mairon. I would be a fool to have it any other way.” 

“Then why not include me in thy plans?” He asked accusingly. 

“For thou wouldst have disagreed and tried to prevent them. I could not allow that. Surely thou art a little impressed I was able to achieve this without thy knowledge?” Melkor leaned in closer. 

Mairon wanted to believe him. He so desperately wanted to believe him. Thou wilt always be first. 

“Prove it.” 

“I beg thy pardon?” 

“Prove that I am truly first.” Mairon challenged. 

Melkor grinned down at him. “It would be my pleasure.”

Chapter Text

He had been crowned and so it was time for his stronghold to follow suit. Thus it was that Morgoth went forth and raised three peaks above Angband to match the three upon his own brow, the monumental Thangorodrim. There was no hiding anymore, the mighty mountains were vast and high. The shadows they cast covered miles, the stars blotted out entirely behind them. His fortress befitting, Morgoth set about with the next phase of his plan: war. He sent out his hordes of uruk to attack Beleriand and bring it under his control. If - when - Fëanor and his Noldorian hosts landed it would be to a world already ruled in the name of Morgoth. So west they went, to conquer.

They came against the Sindar, and the Green elves, and the dwarves of Aulë that did live in the Blue Mountains. This was the First Battle of Beleriand and Morgoth did prevail much in the west, but suffered defeat in the east, to the point his eastern host was destroyed. He had stayed behind in Angband and kept Lelycalë behind also. He was reticent to send her forth, despite knowing she would prevail on the battlefield. He wondered if he would have had more success deploying her, for she might have brought him a full conquest. Still, victory was partially his and Morgoth gladly took it. His uruk wandered freely through Western Beleriand. Melian had created a girdle to protect her and her elven husband’s lands of Doriath but Morgoth had paid little heed to that as more pressing matters had arisen.

Fëanor had landed and was making his way to meet them.

And Morgoth was afraid.

Not that he would ever admit to this, but Fëanor was aptly named for he was a formidable being and his anger was kindled to the highest. He had sworn a perilous oath, triggered a doom from Mandos, slaughtered his own kin to obtain the ships to traverse the sea, and then burned those said ships instead of sending them back for his half-brother. This much Morgoth had found out from his own scouts and from capturing Noldorian strays and torturing the information from them. Fëanor was here and he was burning his way to the Silmarils; he would destroy Morgoth entirely if he could. After his near-defeat at the clutches of Ungoliant, Morgoth dared not risk harm to his person again. His balrogs had served him well against that primordial monstrosity, so they would do so in this instance as well. Let the world see how Fëanor fared against the best of his fiery demons. He would stand no chance.

It had taken eight of them to defeat him.

Eight. Including Gothmog himself. Morgoth had been astounded, and also relieved that he had not gone personally against the elf himself. At least Fëanor was finally dead and one less worry to burden Morgoth’s mind. Now he just had to contend with the seven brats left behind who were fuelled by the oath to reobtain the jewels adorning his crown. It was laughable, really. They would tear the world apart for three stones and he, Morgoth, would have to do little to aid them. They had cursed themselves better than he ever could and the irony was delicious. It was worth keeping those sons of Fëanor alive to enhance their suffering. To watch them fail again and again. To watch them commit atrocities in the name of jewels, just like their father. They would bring the destruction and chaos to the world that Morgoth craved and he foresaw that he would not even have to lift a finger in many an instance. Let them tear themselves and anyone who stood in their way apart whilst Morgoth used his strength to hinder them at every turn. For now though, he was their primary target and so war must be brought to them. He would rain terror down upon the Noldorians and show them who was the real power of this world.

Morgoth was no great warrior. Not like Mairon, not like Sàratalma. Not even like Lelca. He knew how to fight and he was strong and formidable, capable of crushing his opponents with force. He wielded his great war-hammer, Grond, smashing his way through the masses. His armour was thick and deflected many blows, attacking him was like attacking a mountain. He was slower to move and he waded through the battlefield after his lieutenants rather than leading the charge. In the First Battle, it had been Mairon who led the attack. He was still strong, but he was also much more nimble. He could crush, but also weave around the elven warriors to parry and slice. It was a beautiful dance to witness - Mairon on the battlefield. Beautiful and distracting. More than once Morgoth had found himself being assailed about his legs because his gaze had been far off, watching his lieutenant cut through a swathe of elves with such spectacular ease. Mairon was not here now though. He had sent a force of werewolves to cut off the Noldor advance but had been defeated, retreating back to Angband to recuperate.

The uruk had been no real match for the elven warriors, it was a sad fact. It was their sheer force in numbers that temporarily swayed the victory in Morgoth’s favour. They were fierce, they were tough, and some even had fairly decent co-ordination, but compared to the Noldor… it was nothing. The Noldor had the light of Valinor blazing from them and a true purpose to do battle. The uruk fought because they must, they had no choice, and whilst many might revel in violence, they did not freely fight for Morgoth but instead under fear and duress. They may enjoy taking life, but they hated having their lives in his hands. He cared not. Fear worked well enough for those creatures, he did not need their loyalty born of anything else so long as they remained obedient. It bothered him little to see them hewn down as there were always more to replace them. He did notice that the ones serving under Lelyacalë and that one, Adar as the uruk called him, fought better than the rest and suffered the fewest casualties.

He watched his queen with delight equal to watching Mairon. She was the perfect blend of Mairon’s teachings and Sàratalma’s, but conducted in a way that was entirely just her. The armour Mairon had made for her was truly a thing of splendour. Whereas they were all clad in black, with harsh barbed adornments, she had been a being of shining silver. The confusion amongst the elves had been utterly delectable. Who was this, so full of light, to be fighting with Morgoth, the dark foe? Some had even looked upon her with hope as she could easily be mistaken for a maia of Valinor, attired thusly. But then they had seen her look back to him, her king, and he had nodded at her to begin the charge and the hope shattered from their faces and was replaced with shock-filled horror and confusion. For darkness to fall against them they had come prepared, for the light to assail them, they had most definitely not. She might be his best weapon yet. He was glad he had saved her for this battle, and not wasted her debut on petty dwarves and star-lit elves who had never tasted the majesty of Valinor. It was only right that they come out together, him and his queen.

He thought back to the coronation and the aftermath. Mairon’s meltdown, whilst not unexpected, had irked Morgoth somewhat. He had known his lieutenant would not accept his marrying Lelca well, but he had not been quite prepared for how badly he had taken it. The marriage was more for show, a formality. For what did Morgoth really know of matrimony? By all accounts, how he and Lelca had lived had been no different to how Manwë and Varda did. Indeed, did they not engage in more marital affairs than any of the Ainur? Save Melian, whom Morgoth understood had birthed a child by her elvish husband. He had not thought such a thing possible. It had brought up the idea of him bearing children of his own, but that part of Lelca was broken, had been brutally ripped from her, so she could never bear him children. Perhaps it was for the best, for he knew nothing of how to be a father and the thought of sharing Lelca with anyone, even their child, did not sit well with him. Children were needy. Children expected things. That Fëanor had seven sons was bewildering to Morgoth. Seven claims to the Silmarils now. If he had had no children, the issue would have died with him. More was the pity. He had not broached the topic of children with Lelca as he knew it would be fruitless and the issue of their marriage had been caustic enough.

She had been nearly as displeased as Mairon had been. She had queried why she had not been consulted on the matter, then rebuffed his reply of her rejecting it with the fact it was not a true marriage if she did not consent to it. This had been a sticking point. For there had as yet not been an official ceremony to formally wed them, only a coronation to make her queen. She asked him again why he even needed a wife, could he not marry Mairon instead. He had openly laughed at this. No one would accept a marriage between him and Mairon. He knew that much. Besides, having two kings complicated things. A king and a queen worked. They would mirror his brother and his wife, only they would be greater. She had remained unconvinced. He had asked her then, dangerously softly, why she rejected his proposal so. Did she not love him? Had they not united in the flesh? Was his very essence not threaded throughout her? Was she not his, now and forever?

She had not answered for a few moments before looking him in the eyes with a challenge in her own. “If you make me your wife, you make me your equal. Varda is Manwë’s equal. Yavanna is Aulë’s. Even Thingol is Melian’s. You ask if I love you, but do you truly love me? Yes we have united in the flesh but not always for the good. Your essence may be bound to mine, but what of mine to yours? I cannot be your equal if you demand I be yours now and forever when we both know you are not, nor ever will be mine in like kind. Therefore a marriage is impossible and not even something you should want. You do not see or want me as your equal. You do not wish to give back or to meet me where I am and work together.”

He had scowled. He had not wanted the truth, he had wanted her acquiescence. Where was the Lelca who had taken him on his throne in Utumno and crowned him with her fingers laced upon his head? Where was the Lelca who had welcomed him so graciously to Angband? Where was the Lelca who had bid him drink her blood in exchange for his own? The truth was that he did not consider her his equal. From the moment he found her he had known that part of her, a part that had grown and strengthened, would always be superior to him. It was not just the light she possessed either. He looked at her and saw freedom, where he was bound. Even when he was Lord and she was his prisoner. He coveted her for everything she was. He needed her, he needed her to be his, not just her light but her whole soul. It was becoming apparent that he had never really possessed it nor ever would. It was not something to be forcefully taken, it had to be freely given and he felt that he had destroyed all chances of that happening now, after years of coercion and captivity. There had been moments, moments where she had given herself freely though. There had been. He remembered that night of shared blood and metallic kisses and how he had not wanted to force anything, but had been open and met her as she was. Truly vulnerable. He doubted he could let himself be so again. He was Morgoth now, true enemy to the light. The irony was not lost on him. He hated the light of Valinor and The Valar, yet craved Lelycalë’s own that he had first perceived in The Void.

As for the question of whether he loved her, well, they had been down this path before. He was incapable of love in the way it should be felt and shown, his own perverse desires, jealousy, and need for control had slowly eroded all chance of him ever loving properly. He could see how it should be done, he had spent enough time amongst The Valar and the elves of Valinor to see how love was meant to work and his heart could not comply. It tried. It tried for Lelca and it tried for Mairon but ultimately it fell short. He saw no point in love, it made one weak. Morgoth refused to be weak. Love would not help him conquer this world. Love would not help him break his enemies. It would only serve to distract him. Still, as he held her gaze as she waited for his reply, he saw all the times he had allowed himself to openly love her, those small moments dotted throughout their history together, and he comprehended how he could continue it if he tried. The fear of trying and being rejected jaded him though. Varda had rejected him. Arien had rejected him. Only Mairon had not, Mairon had been open to what Melkor had had to offer and joined willingly. He was not brave enough to trust Lelca would give herself to him willingly or completely. He wanted all of her, not only the parts she deigned to give.

Where, then, lay the solution? For neither would move. She had seen his consternation and sighed.

“Why don’t we leave this matter for a while? We should focus on winning this war that you are bringing about.”

“Very well.” He had waved his hand to dismiss her, but instead of leaving, she had walked towards him.

“How are your hands?” She had reached for them and he had let her.

“There is no more pain, but they will heal no further. Do not concern thyself with them.” His voice had sounded stiff and cold even to his own ears.

She had noted his tone and nodded, bestowing a quick kiss on his scarred fingers before retreating from the room. He had gone to find Mairon not long after, he had needed a win and he knew he would find it with his lieutenant. Mairon who would forgive him anything, eventually. For Mairon truly loved him.

Morgoth’s mind was wrenched back to the present. They had been fighting for days and his uruk numbers were severely diminished. His balrogs had been driven off despite managing to finally end Fëanor and he had been forced to retreat. He had planned his next move, an embassy to Fëanor’s eldest son and now leader of the Noldor, Maedhros. He had appointed Lelca as ambassador and he had been shocked at how she had offered up no resistance to his request. She had even told him he would need to double the numbers he planned to send as Maedhros would undoubtedly be bringing more than he promised in an attempt to regain all three Silmarils, and not just the one Morgoth was feigning to offer. He had heeded her counsel and now she was on her way, her objective clear: bring back the firstborn of Fëanor alive.

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It had pained her to kill the elves, especially when she saw the confusion in their eyes. She was no uruk, or orc as they called them, nor was she a balrog, or demon, or dark thing. She was an angel of light, in her white and silver armour, radiating forth in splendour. She could have been one of them. But she was a demon. The blood-enriched earth had cried out to her and she had drained more than one elf in the fight. They tasted like the sweetest wine compared to the elves she had fed on previously. She felt like she had never really fed before until she drank the first drops of blood of the Noldor. The light infused within them rushed to join her own and bolster it.

Ten days of battle had been exhausting though. Even Talma was struggling by the end and was relieved at the call for retreat. Adar she had sent back with Baartas and some others after the fifth day. She would not risk losing him, even if that had been Melkor’s intention. She knew Melkor would not kill Adar outright as she had made it quite clear that such an action would push her away from him, not towards him. She would never forgive him and it would forever cause a rift between them. Besides, he was the best leader of the uruk they had and he had more than proved that on the battlefield. They were a team, Mairon had made it so. When Melkor had asked if she loved Adar, she had replied yes, as a comrade in arms and a friend, much like Talma. It was not a lie, for she did. That she also loved him more than that did not need to be said. She was sure Melkor did not fully believe her but so far he had made no direct move against Adar and that would have to suffice for now.

She wished Adar could have accompanied her on this embassy, or even Sàratalma, but she was alone. Well, alone save for a force of uruk. She entered the meeting place on her own, her forces hung back, the majority of them hidden. She had been correct, Maedhros had brought more elves than he had agreed to in the treatise. He was bold with them, though, showing he had more than allowed with no qualms. His eyes had widened on seeing her, however. She was wearing the armour of battle, now cleaned, and she bore the crown Melkor had made her. Having feasted on Noldorian blood, she was more radiant than ever and she noticed Maedhros’s eyes flick up to the diamonds on her circlet.

“These are not they.” She addressed him.

“I see that now. Who are you?” His voice was deep and full of anger.

“The one Melkor -”

“Morgoth.” Maedhros spat.

“- has sent to treaty on his behalf.” She studied him carefully. “You and your brothers should leave, go back to Valinor. Nothing awaits you here but misery and death.’

He scoffed. “Do not counsel me, fiend, on what you understand not. We have sworn an oath. We will not leave without the Silmarils.”

“I have lived under Melkor’s rule since before your kind were ever upon the earth, child, I know about misery and death and what brings them about.” She stalked towards him. “I was there when Melkor destroyed the lamps and took me from The Valar on Almaren. I first met him in The Void before this world was even created.”

To his credit, Maedhros had the decency to look abashed. He took a step back and pushed one hand through his mane of red hair.

“As for the oath you swore, it is a curse, Maedhros. Your father should never have made it and never have forced you to swear it. He loved those jewels more than his own blood.”

“Do not dare speak of my father!” He yelled, retaking the step he had made backwards.

“Your father died in a fire of his own making and that same fire will find and consume you. Like father, like son, your deaths shall mirror one another. And all for three gems. It is pathetic.” Lelyacalë shouted back. “You are better than this.” Her voice cracked and Maedhros looked at her with a puzzled expression.

She shook her head. “Melkor was a fool to steal them. You are a fool to pursue them. I am a fool for thinking it can be any other way.”

“I take it Morgoth has not sent a Silmaril then.” Maedhros gritted out.

“Of course not, but you already knew that before you came.” She smiled sadly at him.

“Then what are we doing here?” He moved closer to her, menacingly.

“Taking you back to Angband, of course.” She lit herself up and the elf was forced to whirl away to protect his eyes. She reached forth and shackled him with a band of her light. It was not the fire that burned the very fëa from a being, but a cord of light that bound tightly like unto a rope. It was a relatively new skill she had developed and was immensely useful. She had given the signal and the host of uruk surged forwards to attack the Noldorian’s, who had likewise moved to defend their leader. She dragged Maedhros away as her forces annihilated the elven ones. She hated bringing about so much death, especially over something so materialistic as gemstones. Those elves did not deserve to die. Maedhros did not deserve to be captured. Melkor did not deserve those Silmarils. Yet here they all were, suffering this fate, and here she was, helping bring it about. She despised herself and her actions. But she had chosen this, had chosen to side with Melkor. She could not complain the bed was uncomfortable now she had made it.

Chapter Text

The chain binding him was thick and cold, biting into his wrist. Morgoth had chained him to the side of Thangorodrim personally and left him to rot. The one called Mairon had come to inspect him, his flame-red hair even more brazen than Maedhros’s own. He had said little but Maedhros had sensed that here was someone as evil as Morgoth himself, someone who certainly did not deserve to be named admirable. The way he looked at him with a cruel smile and wicked glint in his eye. This was the one who had sent those terrible wolves against them when they had first landed. He was abhorrent, despite this fair form he wore. Sauron. Yes, he had heard others name him as such. It was obviously a name the maia did not use here in Angband but outside he was bestowed it. It was fitting that as Melkor had been renamed to suit his new fallen state, so should his chief lieutenant. Maedhros refused to engage with him and was relieved when he left. The loneliness was awful, but it was better than having to be in the presence of either Morgoth or Sauron. He had hoped she would appear. She whose name he had never found out. She was not like any of the others he had met who served Morgoth. She had actually apologised for capturing him and had forewarned him of Morgoth’s plan of leaving him captive on the side of a mountain. She was beautiful in a way that did not make you think it was a trap, a deceit to make you at ease. He wanted to know more about her, to understand who and what she was. But he despaired of ever seeing anyone ever again.

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In hindsight, she could have warned them. Melkor and Mairon, that is. She had already warned Adar and the uruk, for she knew the sun would cause harm to uruk skin. Still, they had been caught unawares. Adar had led a group out only to be met with blinding light that scorched and burned his children’s skin. They had retreated immediately and Lelyacalë had rushed to heal all those she could. She cursed that she had not thought to send them out with the sun-shielding cloaks she had designed as a precaution.

“How long will that fire in the sky be there?” Wailed a female uruk, who had received nasty burns to her face that had taken a while to heal.

“A little while yet. It rises and falls. This is the day. When the sun sets, and is no more in the sky, then is the night. The night will have the moon, which reflects the light of the sun so is gentler. We shall be safe to travel at night, or in the dawn and dusk when the sun is at its weakest. Or if the sun be blotted out by dark clouds.” Lelyacalë explained as she tended the other’s wounds.

“How do you know so much about all this?” The female uruk asked suspiciously.

“It was how it was on my home world.” She shrugged. “So it is how I assume it will be here.”

This seemed to be a good enough answer for the other asked no further questions. The uruk were aware Mukkal was not of this world, even if she rarely spoke of her home. They knew that she was not like them, even if she was not like Melkor or Mairon. She was an anomaly they had come to accept.

After she had finished healing the injured, Lelyacalë ventured outside. The sun had moved so it was no longer at its peak in the sky, but was still bright enough that it took several moments for her eyes to adjust from the relative gloom of Angband to the pure light outside. The landscape was laid bare. The stars of Varda had allowed her to see much, but the sun revealed everything in starkness. There was nowhere to hide. It hit her then that it had been millennia since she had last seen the sun. She looked down at her body, locked in at around thirty-four years old and aging no more, yet in that moment she felt every year of the past several thousand. It nearly brought her to her knees. But then another sensation overtook her. It was the same feeling as when she had reached for the stars or when she needed to feed. She felt the pull towards the light, to embrace it and consume it. She opened herself to it and nearly drowned. The onslaught, she was gorged upon it. She quickly shut it off but had already gone too far, she was ignited. The light was pouring out of her from every pore to the point she had become a mini-sun. She could not return to Angband like this, she would cause as much damage as the real sun had. She would have to dispel some of this energy, use it up somehow.

Ever since the explosion that had catapulted her through time and space, she had felt the light within her had been trying to communicate with her somehow. It had always been too faint and too different for her to understand. It was more akin to how she had had to communicate with Melkor in The Void, it was not a language of the tongue, and with everything else that had been going on in her life, she had not ever given much time and attention to deciphering what the light might be saying. Now, she was flooded with it and it pounded throughout her, demanding to be understood. So she stayed outside and listened, with her whole body she listened, and by the time the sun had started to set, she had begun to understand. So she went the next day, and the next, until slowly but surely she began to understand. It had not escaped Melkor’s notice however, both the appearance of the sun and her absences to sit beneath it. He had instantly despised the great light in the sky, especially as it was pushed by Arien. He would be mocked by Varda at night with her stars and with Arien in the day with her sun. No longer. It was time to rectify that, the sun would not disgrace the walls of Angband or Thangorodrim.

He went outside, detesting the feel of the rays on his skin and how it revealed all his imperfections. He grew and his shadow grew with him covering his domain. He gathered clouds to his shadow and fixed them in place, thick and black so that only the merest of light could filter through. It would be eternal night over his realm, to protect his legions and to block out reminders of those who had humiliated him. Satisfied with his efforts, he returned to his stronghold only to find Lelca waiting for him, arms folded and an exasperated look on her face.

“Yes?” He was in no mood for her jibes or her sarcasm.

She did not reply, but turned and headed inside.

“Thou thinkest I shouldst have let the sun beat down upon us? Upon the uruk?” He accused, picking up his pace to reach her.

“No, you have protected the uruk. I shall just miss the light, that is all.” She sighed dejectedly.

“Thou art the light, Lelca.”

She swiveled to face him. “I am. And like cleaves to like, so I shall still miss the sun.”

“I cleave to thee and I am the opposite of light.” He countered.

“Well, opposites can attract as well.” She shrugged and went to walk off, but he grabbed her arm and looked down at her.

“I need thy light to fill my darkness, Lelca.” His voice was barely a whisper.

“I cannot be that for you. You would use me up until all my light was gone and your darkness would remain and I would just become another part of your darkness.”

“Thou makest me sound like Ungoliant.”

She laughed bitterly. “No, even you are not that bad.”

He gently gripped her chin to force her face to his. “Wilt thou reject me forever then, Lelyacalë?”

“Will you ever see and treat me as a true equal, Melkor?”

He slid his hand so that it rested on her throat. She did not flinch. “No one is my equal. What thou asks for is therefore impossible.”

“Well then, it appears we are at an impasse.” He felt her pulse quicken beneath his fingers as the words slid softly from her mouth.

“But thou art my queen, and I shall treat thee above all others.” He leaned closer to her, his hand sliding down further to rest upon the mark he had given her above her breast.

“Even Mairon?” She quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Even Mairon.” His lips were brushing hers now.

“Liar. You will have told him the same thing.” Her words were accusing but the tone showed she did not actually much care.

“Quiet.” He finally closed the gap to silence her. It was the first time they had properly kissed since his return, she had managed to avoid him in this manner so far, or else he had been caught up with Mairon, or war-mongering. He had missed this, her, the way she felt. He pressed harder and she gasped into his mouth, sending his senses reeling. He needed more of her. He needed all of her.

“Wed thyself to me.” He nearly added the word please but managed to drag himself from the brink of begging. Morgoth did not beg. He pressed his lips to hers again. He felt her resist briefly then give in, their mouths working together as if they had always meant to be connected. His hands moved to her back to bring their bodies close in a desperate crush. He wanted her to gasp for him again. He began to undo the lacing of her corseted bodice when he felt her push against his chest. She was trying to get him to stop, to escape. No. He needed her. How could she not see that? How could she not need him too? He gripped her to stop her leaving.

“Let me go.” She demanded.

“No. I need thee, Lelca. Let me in, it hath been too long. Doth thou not want this also?” He traced kisses along her neck.

“Not right now, no!”

“Then when?” He shouted, his hand hitting the wall behind them with enough force to crumble some of the rock away.

“Let. Me. Go.” She shoved him, hard.

“Let. Me. In.” He grabbed her hair to hold her in place. She stared up at him with anger but also disappointment.

“Are you going to take me against my will, again, Morgoth?” He sucked in a shocked breath at her use of his new name.

He could. He wanted to. Part of him, anyway. Had he not vowed to bring her to heel? Had he not vowed to have all of her? And yet… the thought of forcing her also galled him, whereas it never had before. He wanted her to want him. It was not the pleasure of the act he was seeking, or even the control over her that taking her by force would give him, it was that if she was not willing then he had no real power and they both knew it. The real power lay in her giving herself, not in him taking. He would not really have her if taken by force. History had proven that and whilst he may be reluctant to learn, the lesson had been repeated enough now for him to understand it.

“No.” He growled and let her go.

There were a few stretched beats where they looked at one another and then he saw something shift in her eyes, though he only had a moment to register it before she launched herself at him. Her mouth was hungrily against his own and her hands were ripping at his clothes. He did not have time to think on such a swift change in her as he was too busy enjoying the fact she was wanting him, needing him, willingly being with him. She was angry, but he would take her anger if it meant he could also take this. He just as eagerly rent the clothes from her, exposing all of her blinding glory. They collided in mutual frenzy and so the shadow made love to the flame. She filled him as much as he filled her.

He felt her burn through him, a white fire that tore at his very soul. The pain was exquisite as she pressed her palm upon the place over his heart. If he had thought the sunlight to be violent upon him, it was nothing compared to this. He was not sure if they were even physical beings anymore, or if they had shifted into elemental form, writhing together in opposition of one another, like unto that yin and yang symbol she had once explained to him. A bit of him forever in her and now a bit of her forever in him.

No one had ever touched him like this. He had never felt pain like this. Or pleasure. He wanted to become lost in this forever, but it was too much. He cried out for her to stop and with one last flash of agony, she did. He collapsed at her feet, shivering and sweating and aching. Only she had ever seen him like this. Not even Mairon had seen him so exposed. He had seen her at her lowest, her weakest, and now she had seen him likewise. Perhaps they were equal after all. She sank down to the floor next to him and he gazed blearily up at her. Neither moved nor spoke for several minutes as they both recovered from what had just come to pass.

“Is this not marriage enough?” She asked quietly.

In answer he reached for her and they embraced one another. He did not see the tears slide down her cheeks to dampen his hair, nor did he realise that her body shook of its own volition and not as a consequence of him also shaking so violently while holding her so tightly. They held one another until their bodies were at peace once more and Lelca spoke again.

“Mairon will be furious.” There was a note of humour in her voice.

“Mairon is always furious”. He countered back sardonically.

“True.” She laughed. “Still, I feel it is unfair to him. For I have no qualms with you wishing to have the both of us, I understand how someone could love more than one person. But Mairon does not share the same sentiment.”

“No. He doth not. Nor will he ever.” Melkor sighed.

“That is why I think what we have done here should be enough. We need no marriage ceremony. No official declaration. No paper signed. How could that seal us together more than what we have already done?”

“Art thou my wife now then?” He asked, a dark mocking tone to his voice.

“No. I think we both know the titles of husband and wife were never meant for us. We are something different.”

“Something more.” He added.

She did not reply. He could sense she was uneasy about the whole situation.

“I know this is not what thou had ever envisaged for thyself. But thou were always meant to be mine, from that moment in The Void.”

“And you, mine?” She countered wryly.

“Yes.” He nodded. “It was fated.”

She looked like she did not believe him, but she said nothing to rebuke his statement.

“Thou said thou understandeth how one can love more than one person.” He swallowed. “Thou doth love this Adar as thou lovest me, dost thou not?”

She gave him a hard, measured look, underlain with suspicion. “No. Not like how I love you. But if you are alluding to the fact I love him intimately, then yes.”

“Thou hast lain with him?” He could not keep the grief from his voice.

“Yes. As you have lain with Mairon.” She was becoming defensive.

“Thou promised to be loyal to me. Thou said thou had chosen me, that thou were - are - mine.” His hurt was turning to anger.

“All I promised was to be here when you returned. And I was. I was yours and you hurt me. I never had any real choice and you know it.” Her defensiveness was turning to anger.

“Be that as it may, now we art bound fully, thou must forsake him. I shall forgive thy past liaisons if thou wilt set him aside from henceforth.”

“As you will set aside Mairon?”

“Thou has already confessed thou dost not object-”

She cut him off. “Yes, but how is it fair that you being bound to me does not apply the same level of loyalty, of monogamy, as me being bound to you? Is it not the same binding? Either we both forsake all others or we allow one another to love more than each other.”

Her logic was sound, as it usually was, but that did not make him like it. Besides, he had told Mairon he would always come first. It had been a lie; well, more of a half-truth. In many things and ways, Mairon would come first. Counsel for war. Preparations for his armies. Organisation of his thoughts. But intimacy… he needed them both equally. He also needed his lieutenant to trust him. Removing the position of lover from Mairon could irrevocably sever that trust. He also had no wish to hurt Mairon in this way. Reading his thoughts, she held his face in her hands.

“You do not wish to hurt Mairon. Or break trust with him.” Her voice was gentle, understanding.

He nodded.

“Then let us love who we want, as well as each other.”

He gave her a baleful look. “But I cannot bear the thought of another touching thou as I have.”

She sighed. “Then what are we to do? This issue has once more brought us to a stalemate.”

They both stared at the other stubbornly. Neither would back down and neither believed they should.

“I may have a temporary solution.” Lelca finally broke the tense silence. “The sun has arisen and with it the second born of Ilúvatar have awoken. Men are here, in the east.”

This caught Melkor’s attention at once. “I could go to corrupt them to my side, and poison them against the elves. It hath long been in my mind to do so ere they should come into the world. I would be separated from Mairon so as to give me more time to think on this matter, or else delay a final response a while.”

“Just so. He would take command of the war in thy absence, being first in command. This will assuage the loss of you so soon after your return.”

Melkor’s eyes gleamed with relief before darkening once more. “But what of thee and Adar?”

“I could accompany you to visit men, then I would be separated likewise and it would be fair.”

“Then let us say our goodbyes and depart soon.” He rose to his feet, helping her up after him. He grinned down at their naked forms, his dark save for the fire scar emblazoned on his chest and hers shimmering white save for the dark emblem branded on hers. “Shall we?” He gestured forth and she laughed as she also beheld their nakedness, then followed his lead as they made their way back through Angband.

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Sàratalma had heard of the sun arising in the sky and thought little of it. When Lelca told him it was Arien that was in charge of it, however, he was determined to see it for himself. He felt the need to be in Arien’s presence again, even if it hurt him. It was a pain he would gladly bear if it meant he could behold her glory once more. So he had followed Lelyacalë out one time, unbeknownst to her. He had sneaked in the shadows and slipped out behind her. The sun was not yet that high in the sky and still it hurt his eyes to behold it. He had never seen so much light save for when Lelca had blazed up and even then, it had not covered a whole landscape so.

He stepped forth from the shadow of the mountain and felt the heat upon his skin. He basked in the rays, holding his arms out as though he could gather the sunbeams to himself. Sàratalma had never felt dirty, had never felt the need to wash even, as blood spilled upon him merely seeped into his skin and was subsumed by it. It joined the shadows that made him up. Now, under the light of Arien, he felt cleansed from a filth he had not known he was harbouring. He looked down upon himself and noticed the black flames that billowed about him had all dissolved away and he felt bare in the baptism of light. He wondered how he could ever return to the shadows now that he had witnessed such powerful brilliance.

He had been brought out of his reverie by Lelyacalë standing in front of him, mouth slightly open. She appeared to be about to ask a question, then she glanced up at the sun, back at him, and a look of understanding spread over her face. She said not a word to him, merely placed a hand on his shoulder briefly, then left him in peace.

He stayed out there until the sun had set. He would have gone back each and every day, but when he snuck out next, the sun had been blocked by choking black clouds. After all, Melkor was darkness and Sàratalma had chosen it and was now returned to it. He should have known better than to expect anything else. He forevermore felt the grime of Angband upon his skin after that though.

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The whiplash from going from the burning fire in the sky to near-total darkness had almost been too much for Maedhros. Surely he had not been here even a week and he already felt the despair set in. The chains would not budge. He was a son of Fëanor, the greatest smith of Valinor (save Aulë, he added quickly in his mind, for fear of blasphemy against The Valar. He may have turned his back on them, forsaken them, but he had no wish to incur wrath or further insult them), he should be able to do something with these chains. He felt the fire within him burn bright and whilst it was enough to physically keep him going, it did nothing against the metal upon his wrist. His arm ached, he was losing feeling within it. His sword arm. His good arm.

The bitterest part of his mind mocked him that mourning his arm was useless, for he was never going to be free of this place. He would hang here and he would die here and his corpse would be forgotten. He hoped his brothers fared better than he did. Maybe one of them would come to rescue him. Maglor, perhaps. They had been the closest. Though Caranthir was the boldest, after himself. It was too perilous and full of folly to attempt to rescue him though. A waste of resources. A risk too great. His bleak thoughts were interrupted by an approaching light. It was her. He lifted his head to watch her draw near. She stopped a safe distance from him, close enough that he could still ascertain all her features, but far enough that neither could reach out and touch the other.

“Have you come to taunt me as well?” His voice rasped over dry lips.

“No. I take it Mairon has been here?” She produced a pouch of water and stepped forward to hold it to his mouth. She forced him to take steady sips instead of letting him guzzle it as he craved to do. Once he had drunk it all, she retreated to her original position.

“Yes, Sauron has been here.” He muttered, wiping his mouth with his free hand.

“Sauron, eh? That name has found him at last then.” She smirked.

He did not understand her meaning, even though his mind had cleared a little more now he had had a drink.

“Why are you here?” He demanded.

“To say goodbye. I will be leaving Angband with Melkor to visit the race of men in the east. I shall not see you again, at least not here.”

“You mean not to return to this cursed place?”

“No, I will be returning, but you shall not be here. Your cousin, Fingon, will rescue you in due course. By due course I mean a couple of decades. Nothing to an elf, really. Blink and the time will have passed!” She had a mischievous smile on her lips that turned solemn as she stepped towards him once more. “I do not relish the part I played in your capture, or that I cannot free you. I can, however, offer you this.”

She reached forward and touched his manacled wrist with the tip of her index finger. A thin band of light encircled it and a matching one encircled her own. Both bands glowed bright for a few breaths and then sunk into the skin until they disappeared entirely.

“What did you do?” He asked perplexedly.

“You shall see. If it works. I’ve only tried it once before and it has never been tested. Apologies, you are my guinea pig in this.” She gave him a sheepish look. It seemed to Maedhros this was more her than ever, that he was seeing the real person and not the façade she put on to follow Morgoth. He didn’t know what a guinea pig was but his pride refused to allow him to ask, so instead he repeated his very first question to her.

“Who are you?”

“That depends on who you ask.” She sounded almost sad.

“What shall I call you, then?”

“Lelyacalë, I suppose. It has been my name for the longest time.”

She left him then and he did not find out her gift to him until Fingon arrived with the eagles as she had promised him nearly thirty years ago. Fingon was forced to cut off Maedhros’s hand, as the chain was impenetrable and unyielding, as was the rock face it was secured to. Yet as the sword fell upon him, severing his hand from his arm, he felt no pain and there was no blood. He was not to know that several hundreds of miles away, Morgoth was asking Lelyacalë what the matter was as she winced and cradled her right arm, blood seeping from the wrist as though it had been cut through.

Chapter Text

Naked and dumbfounded, Lelyacalё could not quite believe what had just happened. The sex she had known was inevitable, there was only so long she could have tried to put that off, but the way it had happened. He had not tried to rape her. Morgoth. Who stole and took and twisted. He had stopped himself, he had refused to take her by force when he could have so easily. True, they both knew she could now fight back, but still. It had unlocked something in her, seeing him let her go like that, to acknowledge and respect her consent. Her body had almost acted of its own accord. That need for him, that she thought three thousand years and a deep love of Adar had finally eroded away, had come back in full force. Adar. Oh what a mess this all was. The fact Melkor had not flown into a destructive rage and sought the uruk out to immediately eliminate him on her revealing the truth of their relationship was astounding. It was unprecedented. It was uncharacteristic. This was not the Melkor she knew, or the Morgoth she had read about. Then again, she had bound herself to him. She was within him forever more, as he was in her. His dark stain thread itself through her and her bright mark blazened through him. What had she done? What had they done? How was she going to explain this to Adar? He understood and forgave much, but this… this was surely too much, she had gone too far.

She stumbled dazedly into her room to find Sàratalma there. He gaped open mouthed at her, at a complete loss for words. He had never seen her naked before but she found she was not embarrassed and by the looks of things, neither was he. He glanced briefly in wonder at her body then stared at her askance.

“Melkor.” She managed to squeak out.

He nodded. “Shall I get Adar?”

“Please.”

“Art thou alright?” He asked worriedly.

“I… do not know.” She answered honestly.

He squeezed her shoulder on the way past and she went to dress herself. Her mind was awhirl with how she was to explain herself and the situation she now found herself in to Adar. She must be prepared for his anger, his disappointment, and she must take it with grace. He was owed that much. What a mess. Of all the scenarios to occur on Melkor’s return, she had never envisioned one such as this. For him to want to marry her- it was insane! For him to forgive Adar as her lover… she did not trust Melkor would not go back on his word or else change his mind. She needed to protect her love and she was drastically thinking of ways to do so. There was one idea she had been toying with, it was just whether she was actually capable of success, for she had never tried it before. Using her light. She could use it as a shield to protect herself on the battlefield, to some extent. It healed her quickly and took away much of the pain now. She wondered if she could somehow extend that power to Adar, to protect him against Melkor. She did not know how she would go about this, or even if it were possible. She needed to focus, one thing at a time, first was the explanation of what had just happened between her and Melkor. She needed to get through that and then worry about the next problem after.

Adar hurried through the door, slamming it behind him in his haste. He saw her pacing around the room with a look of consternation on her face and strode over to her immediately. She embraced him tightly, and he reciprocated. He pulled back first to scan her face, worry lining his own.

“Sàratalma did not tell me much, only that he found you naked and dazed arriving into your room.”

“Yes. I- oh - I don’t even know where to begin.” She could not meet his eyes.

She heard him audibly swallow. “I take it that what you have striven to hold off for so long has finally come to pass?”

She fought the urge to laugh at the delicate and diplomatic way in which he posed the question. Anything to avoid saying the blatant truth. Anything to avoid that blow.

“Yes.”

“Did he… was it…” Adar’s voice had begun to shake.

“No. No he did not take me by force.” She did look him in the eyes then. “I am as shocked as you are. I called him out, I thought he was going to, then he let me go.”

Relief flooded his face before realisation set in. “So then you went willingly to him?”

“I did.” Her voice grew small. “I’m sorry. I did not plan on this, on any of this.”

“You are still in love with him.” Adar’s voice had turned jaded.

“I have never been in love with him.” She countered, her voice firm. “But there is a part of me that will always be connected to him, and will want him. You know this. You’ve always known this.”

“That does not mean I have to like it. It does not mean it does not hurt me.”

“I know that, of course I know that.” She grabbed his hands. “I don’t expect you to like it and that it - that I - cause you any pain is pain to me also.”

“So what now?” His voice was hard, his hurt still apparent. Her stomach folded in on itself at the coldness of the reproach in his voice but she steeled herself and told him everything. The way she had bound himself to her. The conversation that ensued. How Melkor knew about them and their past relationship. How he had asked her to give Adar up. How she had refused, since he would not give Mairon up. The temporary solution of them both leaving to contact the humans now awoken in the east. Adar listened, his eyes downcast the entire time. When she had finished, he let go of her hands and turned away, needing time with his own thoughts. She did not push him for a response, though waiting only saw anxiety claw at her already twisted stomach. He stayed facing away from her.

“Is he still set on you being his wife?” His voice was almost emotionless.

“No, I think I have dissuaded him of this idea now we have equally marked one another.”

He nodded. “Do you trust him not to kill me?”

“Truthfully? Not really. I have been trying to think of ways to protect you, I may have come up with one-”.

“There is only one sure way, and that is to do as he asks and forsake me.” The words came forth hollow from him and yet they hit her like daggers.

“No. No, I cannot do that.” She felt the tears in her voice. “I will not do that.”

He finally swivelled to face her once more, pain and anger written across his features. “We always knew it might come to this, Lelya! We have had three thousand years together, but we always knew it might have to end once Melkor returned. It is time for us to face the reality of the situation.”

“But I love you.”

“It is not enough. You might wish to choose me but that choice is not available to you. You have to choose him. You always did.” He sounded like when he addressed the uruk before a fight. Calm, cold, practical. He was shutting himself off from her.

She fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. “You cannot want this.”

“Of course I do not want this!” She started at the volume of his voice, at the pure agony behind his words. “But what choice do I have? Do you want me to be destroyed? Do you want me dead?”

“No! No.” She sobbed.

“I do not fear death, Lelya, but I would rather be alive with the memories of you than have you watch him kill me and know you would have to live with that forever. I am doing this to protect you. I am doing this to protect my children, they need me.”

She did not answer him, she could not answer him. All she had left was a tearing truth and blinding tears. He knelt down in front of her and kissed her forehead, whispering sorry into her ear over and over. She grabbed his hand then and decided to try out her plan. He could sever their relationship, but it was no guarantee that Melkor would not try and murder him anyway. So she wove a spell, she poured her whole might into it, that any harm of Melkor’s doing against Adar would instead be inflicted upon herself. She felt the light within her thread its way through him so that they were bound to this promise. She had never attempted such magic before and she only hoped it would, one, work at all and, two, that it would be strong enough to hold against anything Melkor might bring against Adar. After it was complete, she let go of his hand.

“What did you do?” He looked shaken. She had no idea what it had felt like for him, but for her she felt a connection that remained. She could hardly explain it. She was aware of him now in a way she had always been aware of Melkor since he marked her, only it felt different. Less invasive.

“What I must.” She replied, not having the energy or want to explain fully what she had attempted, and hoped succeeded, to do. “Now go and be safe.” She stood and he rose with her. She spared him one last look in his pale blue eyes and then turned away. She did not want to watch him walk away from her, knowing they were done.

Sàratalma was waiting outside the door and he gave Adar one alarmed look before heading inside. He listened patiently as Lelca unburdened herself of all that had happened and when she was done, he sat with her and let her cry. Then he calmly stood her up and helped her pack and told her that he would keep an eye on Adar and Mairon in her absence, and wished her well with her envoy to the humans. He told her he was sorry that things had not worked out and he hoped there would still be happiness in her future, and perhaps a chance at reconciliation with Adar, but one look at her face had him drop that notion immediately. He did not like the situation one bit, but there was not much he could do about it. He did not like that Melkor was leaving Angband so soon or that Lelca was accompanying him, but again, there was nothing he could do. Mairon was going to be intolerable. He was going to miss his only friend. He hoped they would not be gone long on this expedition.

But they were gone longer than anticipated. Morgoth had been perplexed by men at first until Lelca had reminded him that she was the only human he had ever met and she was not even really human anymore. These were brand new, half of them male, and so it was no wonder they were different to what he had heretofore experienced or expected. Still, they had been easy enough to corrupt. He came to them in might and majesty, in fearsome dark splendour, teaching them about the land and sowing seeds of hatred toward the elves in the west. His ultimate goal was to bring men out of the east to fight with him in Beleriand. Through fear or genuine devotion, Morgoth succeeded in getting many men to worship him. It helped that he had Lelyacalё by his side. She softened the formidable about him, gave light where he only provided darkness. They saw her as a symbol of hope. The only thing that irked him was her refusal to be worshipped. She would dissuade it at all costs. She also would not speak ill of the elves as he would, though she was open in her condemnation of their pursuit of the Silmarils. She spoke of their folly, their short-sightedness, but did not repeat the lies Morgoth spread. When he confronted her about it, she said it worked better if one of them did not go so hard against the Eldar, that it made it more believable, more understandable. She had never contradicted his lies, she just never reiterated them.

The humans definitely liked her, either way. Morgoth did not need to be liked, he needed to be obeyed. He needed to recruit. He needed dominance through corruption, and he was so close. He held sway over many tribes of men now, and had bent their minds to his will, his way of thinking, when Thuringwethil appeared. She had sought him out in a private moment, hiding herself from the humans, and brought him news that the elves were regrouping and getting ready for an attack. Maedhros had escaped and joined forces with his half-uncle, Fingolfin, and their host was great indeed as they had been in talks with the Sindar and Green elves. Morgoth knew he needed to return to Angband and pre-empt an attack with one of his own. He contemplated leaving Lelyacalё behind to continue working on the humans but decided she would be more useful on the battlefield. Besides, he had grown accustomed to her being with him at all times, he would not bear a separation now. He liked knowing she was there, in reach. He had woken up to her every day and laid next to her every night and he would keep it that way. Moreover, she was not the only one he had taken with him. He had other servants who could carry on his work here in his stead. They would have to suffice, for the Eldar were the greater concern. A union of them was no good thing for him. He needed them divided and leaderless, not forming alliances to come against him.

Then there was the issue of Mairon, of course. The two had talked via their rings on the progress both were making in their respective missions, so it had come as a surprise that Thuringwethil had been sent with the news instead of Mairon telling Melkor himself. He had asked the winged demon why she had been sent and she told him she had not, that she had come directly from spying on the elves to Melkor himself, feeling the urgency warranted it. He had immediately contacted Mairon to announce his return and for his lieutenant to begin organising an attack. He hoped the impending battle would be enough to distract Mairon from any jealousy at having taken Lelca with him or from assaulting him with any prying questions. His lieutenant had been deliriously happy that Melkor had dropped the notion of marrying Lelyacalё, though that was because Melkor had not revealed the truth behind the matter. Mairon did not know of her marking him and thus binding herself to him as he had to her, all those thousands of years prior. Mairon did not know they were in truth more than husband and wife, that they had been intimate nearly every night since they left Angband. This had been a delightful bewilderment for Melkor. Despite their conversation, and what had happened after he had darkened Angband against the sun, he had no thoughts on Lelca wanting to be physical with him again. Naturally he had hoped and would have pursued, but for her to acquiesce every time he asked had been astounding. Some nights she had clearly been humouring him, but others, she had been more fervent than he had been.

Mairon was still under the notion that Melkor would always put him first, despite crowning Lelca his queen. It was a lie he should not have told, for to the God of Chaos, they both held an equal hold on him. He missed Mairon. He yearned to be with him again. He could not give him up, though he knew Lelca would then refuse to give Adar up. If he killed Adar, she would forever fight against him and be forever lost to him. He could also not allow this to happen. He knew what Morgoth would do. Yet when it came to Mairon, and now Lelyacalё, he found he could not. They were his weakness. He pushed the matter from his mind for now. First, deal with the Eldar threat in the west, then worry about his complicated relationship mess. It was almost laughable, that he, Morgoth, true god of the world, would have issues as mundane as love to worry about. If love it really was. In the meantime, they had both agreed to set aside Mairon and Adar on their return until they could properly decide how to move forwards with the matter. It was an easy promise for Lelyacalë to agree to as Adar had broken with her anyhow, not that she had told Melkor this. She could not bear to see his reaction of triumph. Or for him not to believe her.

Besides, Lelyacalё had begun to think maybe Melkor was capable of love after all. She had no other explanation. Unless he was acting out of fear. Fear of losing her, or Mairon, or both. He was not to know that the reason she had consented to lay with him night after night was because she was empty after the loss of Adar and he was all she had now. He was not to know that many nights she pretended it was Adar who she cleaved to and whose name nearly escaped her lips. He was not to know that part of her still enjoyed him and revelled in the fact she could bring out this softer side of a god whose sole aim was corruption and destruction. It made her feel powerful, if somewhat clichéd. Though she knew it was more than just the sex, for he would seek out opportunities to hold her hand, or kiss her cheek. He would stroke her hair or tuck it behind her ear. He would find a reason to stand closer to her. Sometimes it was just the way he watched her. It had altered from covetous to admiring. She had seen him look at Mairon that way before, behave like this with Mairon. Maybe he was capable of loving her after all, of seeing her as his equal. The idea was intoxicating and as such she stayed away from it as much as possible. Morgoth was a tyrant. He could change on a whim. He would change on a whim. She could put one toe out of line and his demeanour would change instantaneously. She was being amenable, biddable, therefore it was no wonder he was treating her better.

There was still the problem of Mairon and how his and Melkor’s relationship would continue when they returned. For her part, she knew Adar was lost to her forever, so if Melkor wished to continue a relationship with his lieutenant, she had no qualms about it. It would be Mairon who would have the issue with Melkor’s continued relationship with her, as had ever been the case. It was the same thing, the same history, repeating itself. Seemingly never to be broken because people never changed. She was merely unfortunate to be living long enough to physically see the same patterns over and over instead of learning it from history books. No new characters for the immortals, it was just them. At least mortals had the excuse of not living through or remembering past mistakes; what was theirs? Gods were no better than humans it appeared. The cycle could be broken if only either Mairon or Melkor yielded to the other, yet neither would. Their selfishness overrode all else. They were either blind to it or were insouciant about it. Either way, it was a cycle she was forced to be a part of but that she was powerless to break: caught in the power struggles of two beings who cared not for collateral damage, or indeed any damage it often felt like. So whilst the break from Angband had been a blissful putting off of the situation at hand, it now loomed once more on the periphery with no solution in sight. She now no longer had Adar as a solace either. She tried not to dwell on this sad thought, however, as it left her melancholy and morose and this did not go unnoticed.

They were preparing for departure when a girl approached Lelyacalё, her big brown eyes wide with apprehension. Lelca recognised her, she was the daughter of one of the chieftains; Morfen was her name. She was waiting at the boundary of their land for them to cross. Morgoth paid her no heed and she shrank back from him, but she attempted to stammer out Lelyacalё’s name as she approached. Morgoth turned then and was about to send the girl away but Lelca held up her hand to stall him and bade him carry on ahead. He did so, with some reluctance and a pointed look of disapproval. He glared once more down at Morfen who cowered under the piercing weight of his mismatched eyes before setting off once more. Lelca waited until his shadow was some distance away before turning her attention to the girl before her.

“Don’t mind him.” She smiled. “What can I help you with? Morfen, isn’t it?”

Morfen’s eyes shimmered with amazement that she knew her name. They appeared almost black in the dusk, but upon stepping closer, Lelyacalё’s light brought out the rich brown tones. A lot of the humans had brown eyes, compared to the elves who seemed to have blue or green. It made her miss Sophie and her dark brown eyes, so full of laughter and warmth. Or Aman and his lighter brown ones, that had honey tones if the sunlight hit his irises just right. What an age ago that was. Being around humans again had been very conflicting for Lelca, for it reminded her of who she had been and yet even then they were alien to her. They were not the same as she had been, even if she had landed here at this exact moment as Leah, she would have noticed significant differences to the people who had just awoken and were learning about the world. The sheer fact their world was so different to her own, their way of life much more primitive for one. She was doomed to be an outsider whatever the case. The similarities were enough to stir a nostalgia that paradoxically comforted in its hurting though. She regarded Morfen and saw a face familiar in many ways and yet foreign in so many others. Morfen did not see her as human and never would. How could she? Apart from some humanoid features including rounded ears, she bore no resemblance to a human anymore than Morgoth did. Her skin shone with the light of the universe, her eyes held many countless ages behind them, her teeth were the unsettling sharp of a carnivore, and her hair was the pitch black of the night sky. She did not fit with the typical human aesthetic any longer.

Morfen finally found her tongue and whispered out a sentence that escaped Lelyacalë’s ears. On asking her to repeat herself, the girl uttered a slight cough and tried again, a bit louder.

“Please- please may I come with you?”

Lelyacalё was stunned. “Why?”

“I want to be where you are.” Morfen was looking at her feet, but risked a small glance up at the end of her words before focussing back on her shoes.

Lelca could not believe what she was hearing. She knew she had gained some popularity amongst the humans and that Morgoth had brought many under his influence and control, but she had never expected this. The girl was so young, perhaps not even fourteen years old. It was hard to tell.

“How old are you, Morfen?” She asked.

“I am thirteen, your majesty.” Despite asking them not to, they all referred to her with this title. She supposed she was now queen of Angband to Melkor’s king, but it did not sit right with her being referred to with such deference.

“My home is no place for a human, least of all one so young as yourself.” She replied kindly.

“I could serve you! I could help you get dressed and do your hair and-”

“Morfen.” Lelyacalë cut her off. “Your offer is a kind one, but I have no need of a servant. Angband is a dangerous place and there are many who serve Morgoth who have no good will towards me. I could not guarantee that I could protect you if you were to be caught up in court politics or machinations. Besides, your family needs you here. You have a duty to them first.”

“But I want more than this life!” Morfen whined. “I want adventure and to see the world and to be more than a bidding daughter.”

“Then be and do all those things! The world is a vast place, go explore it! Just not Angband. It is not safe.”

“Even with you in it?”

“Sometimes because I am in it.” Lelca’s voice had become grim.

Morfen’s expression showed she did not truly understand but she questioned no further on the matter.

“Will we ever meet again?” She asked hopefully.

“I do not know, in truth. It will probably be for the best if we do not.” She smiled sadly down at the girl and her beautiful fawn eyes. “Farewell, Morfen, and good luck.”

With that, Lelca followed after Morgoth who she found waiting for her a few miles off. He was displeased at the interruption to their schedule but agreed with her decision to not bring the human girl with them.

“Mairon wouldst chew her up and spit her out.” He laughed cruelly. “If Gothmog didst not beat him to it.”

He leant in and kissed her. “Thou art merciful indeed.”

She scoffed at him as he led her on and she added another pair of brown eyes to her memory to torment her.

Chapter Text

It should have worked better than it did, Morgoth’s attack. The quakes that shook the foundations of the earth, the fire vomited from the Iron Mountains, the hordes of orcs that swarmed Beleriand. But Maedhros and Fingolfin were more prepared than their dark enemy had counted on, more fool him. They had fought back valiantly and repelled his army to the very gates of Angband. Maedhros scanned the melee before him, the slavering orcs with their brutal attacks, the demons, dark maia who followed Morgoth, and her. Lelyacalё. A bright star amongst the filthy tumult. She did not belong, she was on the wrong side. If only he could bring her to the elven side, he knew he could persuade her. He knew she did not wish to follow Morgoth. He knew that evil jail-crow had ensnared her in vile and cunning ways and now she was trapped forever more, a slave to his whims. One such as he did not deserve one such as she.

His concentration was broken by cries to his left. A dark balrog-like creature was cutting swathes through the ranks of both Sindar and Noldor alike. He was fierce to behold, with black flames writhing about him that scorched the skin of any who came into contact with him. Maedhros heard Fingolfin call for a focussed attack on the demon and a dozen elves charged. They were hewn down. A dozen more replaced them. Fewer were felled and more replaced the ones who were. Maedhros moved to assist, but before he reached the attack, he saw the demon go under a barrage of swords. Another victory for the elven hosts. A scream rent the air, causing all within earshot to stop as it screeched above the noise of clashing metal and death throes.

Talma!

Maedhros turned to see Lelyacalё running toward the fallen demon. She was a flurry of white fire and the first elf she threw off thrashed in agony as it consumed him. The others fell back as she went on her knees. The balrog-like creature was severely wounded, that much was plain to see, but he clung to life still. Fingolfin gave the command to continue the assault only the whole world went silent. Lelyacalё had opened her mouth in a scream as the first elf lunged forwards once more to deal a deadly blow to the demon, only no sound came from her. She reached forth her hand toward the elf and he was frozen in place. Another elf moved and was similarly held still. One came from behind and suffered the same fate. By the sixth attempt, they stopped coming. Everyone was watching. Maedhros dared not move himself, as though he were as trapped as his comrades were. He saw Caranthir give him a quizzical look, it would appear the whole battle had come to a standstill to watch what would happen next.

Lelyacalё’s eyes were a gleam of green fire. She looked down at the demon, whose chest was no longer moving. He appeared quite dead, having succumbed to his injuries at last. A noise arose then and it was coming from Lelyacalё, though her mouth remained closed. Maedhros could not place what it was, only how it made him feel. It was almost as if something was trying to speak, only in a language not made for tongues. He watched in horror as Lelyacalё closed her eyes in concentration, opened them, and the noise grew louder. As it did so, the elves she kept in stasis began to spasm as light flowed from them, was wrenched from them in great force and plunged itself into her being. She drank them up as one by one they fell, a drained husk all that remained. She was glowing as bright as the sun and all had to shield their eyes, not just the orcs who had retreated immediately. With a cry that was all her own and in a language they all understood, one of desperation and anger, she thrust her hands upon the demon’s chest and poured the light into him. His wounds closed, his flames returned, white at first to match her then his natural black flowed back in, and a breath escaped his lips. His eyes flew open and Lelyacalё smiled in relieved triumph before collapsing to the ground.

No!

It was Morgoth himself. He ran to her fallen form, knocking aside orcs and elves alike in his haste. He scooped up Lelyacalё in his arms, cradling her with a tenderness that Maedhros had not expected him to be capable of and yelled at the newly revived demon to follow him. Sauron had entered the scene and was dragging the now-healed balrog-like creature off behind his master. Both sides were so shocked at what had just occurred that neither moved for a good few seconds, until the elven host realised that the orcs were in retreat alongside their master. Maedhros shook himself out of his stupor and roused his army to pursue. He cursed himself that he had not gotten to Lelyacalë before Morgoth had. Though after what she had just done, perhaps he had underestimated her. She had destroyed six elves with some dread power never before witnessed, and all for a demon. Maybe he had misjudged her as well. Yet when he beheld her, he saw a soul in need of rescuing, a being who deserved to be freed so she no longer had to fight. She obviously could defend herself, could hold her own, but there had been something in her eyes that tugged at him, a weariness that bid him release her from that obligation. The same weariness he felt about the oath he was obligated to.

The battle continued for another hour until the orcs were either dead or fully retreated into Angband. Great though they were, the Eldar forces were no match for the stronghold. The Silmarils were out of reach. The leaders regrouped, naturally gathering around the six felled by Lelyacalё.

“What was that, brother? Was that she who you spoke of?” Caranthir’s fury was apparent in his entire being, as always, his voice rang with it and his stance screamed of it. Maedhros ignored it.

“Yes, that was she.” He replied nonchalantly.

“She is as monstrous as the one she saved!” Raved Caranthir. “And you would have had us take her back with us? Did she bewitch you while imprisoned? Or are you so easily taken in by a pair of pretty eyes?”

“I must agree with Caranthir on this. Lelyacalё, you said she is called? Light she may be, but there is naught delicate about her. She is our enemy as much as Morgoth is.” Fingolfin broke in somberly. “Look at what she has wrought against us.”

They all stared at the bodies at their feet. Fingolfin bent down to gently place a hand upon the breastplate of one and even that slight touch caused the corpse within to disintegrate to dust. He rose, aghast.

“She drained the very life-force from them. From all six, concurrently. What sort of power is that? We have never even seen the Ainur achieve or attempt something like this. What is she?” Maedhros was surprised to hear his half-uncle’s voice bear a slight tremor at the last question.

“She is a demon.’ Caranthir spat. “She is clearly a being of light that Morgoth has corrupted, has twisted to his will. Like he does with everything. Only she has kept her fair form to better deceive.” Here he glared pointedly at Maedhros, who just as pointedly continued to ignore him and his unsubtle accusations. It would be no use him telling his brother that he did not care for Lelyacalё in that way, that he had no interest in her as a wife or lover as Caranthir was clearly trying to insinuate, that he merely saw a soul who had offered kindness where they had not needed to and obviously held enough wisdom and personality to not be truly aligned with Morgoth. To him, that deserved kindness and understanding in turn. The Silmarils were the main objective and always would be, but she was just as worthy of freedom from Morgoth as they. She did not feel corrupted the way the orcs did, the way the balrogs did. Morgoth had most certainly abused and tortured her, but her mind had seemed her own whenever they had spoken. Either that, or she was indeed a master manipulator. It was not what his gut instinct told him, however.

“I do not think she even knows what she is.” He answered, truthfully. “I do not think she had ever attempted something like this before.” He gestured to the bodies at their feet. “Or even knew if she could. It felt… raw. Like when father fought the balrogs, pure emotion driven.”

“You dare to compare her to our father?” Caranthir hissed.

“Do not twist my words, brother.” Maedhros turned cold eyes and a colder tone towards the other. “But when father went up against the balrogs, when he pursued the orcs to the last, it was as though something else had taken him over. This felt the same. She gave in to something else. And it was not Morgoth. His reaction confirms as such, he was as astonished as we were.”

“This much is true.” Fingolfin replied before Caranthir could open his mouth. “If we could have her on our side, or at least deprive Morgoth of her, it would be a great boon indeed.”

Even Caranthir seemed to agree, for his mouth remained shut in a tight line and he made no move to argue. The conversation ended there and the setting of a siege of Angband began. Fingolfin headed west to Hithlum, Maedhros and his brothers headed east, with the lands in between were taken by Finarfin, Fingolfin’s brother and Maedhros’s other half-uncle. It was a strong siege, so much so that Fingolfin boasted that save for treason, Morgoth could never again escape nor come against them unawares. Maedhros knew better though, for the rear of Thangorodrim wherein lay wastes of the north, the Eldar held no watch and Morgoth would no doubt send his spies out this way into the world. He did not wish to dampen spirits, however, so kept his thoughts to himself and remained vigilant against any evil that might befall the Noldor.

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Mairon had never seen Melkor so panicked. It sickened him, not least because it was over her. He himself could not quite believe what they had all just witnessed Lelyacalё achieve. He replayed it over and over again in his mind. She had physically drawn out the life of six elves and drank it into herself and then transferred that self-same energy into Sàratalma, healing him and bringing him back from the brink of death. The sheer power terrified him. For if she had kept what she had drained, she would have remained bolstered and become perhaps the most powerful being on that field of battle. It also posed the question of whether she could take his own soul like that, or even Melkor’s. The very thought was abhorrent. For the first time, fear crept into his mind as he thought of her. The only thing to assuage him was that she had clearly never done this before and repeating it might even be impossible for her. To drain one elf would have been a feat in and of itself, to drain six and have the physical might to hold all that within her, was astonishing. Another emotion he did not wish to feel about her.

Sàratalma had made a full recovery, it was as though he had never been attacked at all. But Lelyacalё remained unconscious. Not only that, but when Melkor attempted to enter her mind, he was met with nothing, as though her mind had switched off. Yet she still breathed, so life was within her. Melkor did not leave her side and nor did Sàratalma. Melkor did not ask him to leave or blame him for what had happened, for even in his grief he understood that the shadow-balrog had not asked this of his friend, had not forced her hand. She had done this of her own volition. It had been one of the hardest things Mairon had ever had to do, support Melkor as he was forced to watch him cradle Lelyacalё and beg her to come back to him in desperate whispers. Months went by and then years. Melkor fed her on the blood of those elves captured by his servants. His spies dragged in unsuspecting Noldorians or else those who were rash enough to pursue the uruk for vengeance and Mairon interrogated them all in order to ascertain their skill, lore, tidings, and counsels. He had persuaded Melkor to participate in these interrogations after a few years of Lelyacalё’s condition remaining unchanged. Morgoth’s hatred of the elves was such that for some, the terror evoked from his eyes was enough to daunt them into obedience.

After about ten years, Lelyacalё finally stirred. Melkor had fallen asleep at her side and his crown had slipped so that one of the Silmarils rested upon her brow. Her body had greedily drunk in the light and her lids had fluttered. By chance, Mairon had been there to witness it and he immediately awoke his lord and explained what he had witnessed. Melkor placed the Silmaril to her flesh once more and again the light transferred from the jewel to her and this time a sigh escaped her lips. Melkor had looked at Mairon then with the first smile he had seen in a decade. The Silmarils were a finite source, however, and Melkor coveted them enough to not wish to drain them of their light entirely. Especially when he had another plan. He bid Sàratalma accompany him and together they climbed to the very highest peak of Thangorodrim. Melkor carried Lelyacalё’s prone form the entire way and laid her gently on the ground. He bid Sàratalma stay with her as he hid himself in craggy shadows, before pulling back a part of the thick cloud that shrouded his stronghold, just enough so that a few beams of sunlight could break through and fall upon where Lelyacalё lay. The effect was nearly instantaneous. The light flooded into her like water from a broken dam floods into a plain. She gasped and her eyes blinked open, blinded by the brightness that surrounded her. Melkor watched from the shadows and rejoiced. She was saved. She was back.

She saw Sàratalma first and cried out in delight. They both embraced and he helped her to her feet. Melkor closed the clouds once more and emerged from his hiding place. She saw him and his relieved expression and ran to him. She could run. She had gone from comatose to running, and just from drinking in the sunlight. She was truly amazing and perplexing and most importantly, alive.

Mairon secretly watched all this in disgust. He had hoped she would never have awoken and that Melkor would have moved on. A vain hope, as many of his regarding her had been. He left and practiced plastering a false smile of congratulations onto his face in his mirror. He hoped Melkor would be delirious enough on happiness that his attempts would be convincing. He waited a while until he heard Melkor striding down the corridor to his rooms, the door banging open and slamming behind him. He was in a hurry, so Mairon must be quick to catch him before he left again. In hindsight, Mairon should have known better, should have understood the true meaning behind the haste, the loudness of Melkor’s approach. For when the maia knocked briefly and then entered the room it was to find Melkor stripped to the waist with Lelyacalё’s legs wrapped around him and them engaged in a most passionate kiss. They were so enraptured with one another that they did not notice Mairon at all. He found he could not move, could not look away. He shook as Melkor kissed her neck down to her breasts and her head fell back, eyes closed but mouth open in gasping ecstasy as his hands supported her back. That was when he saw it, upon Melkor’s bare chest. There was no mistaking what it was. A mark. Her mark. White and glowing upon his dusky skin. It was enough to break him from his horrified reverie and he fled the room. Melkor had allowed her to mark him. No wonder there had been no need for wedding vows or rings, they had transcended all traditions by physically and completely binding themselves to one another.

He felt sick, to his very core. Thou wilt always come first. Lies! LIES. How could Melkor do this to him?

But of course. It was her. It was always her. She was the one doing this. This was entirely her fault, Melkor had merely been bewitched, as he had been with the Silmarils. It was his weakness, everyone had them. His master was not to blame. Mairon simply had to remove this particular weakness once and for all, to cure him of this sickness she brought about. He didn’t know why he had not done so before, in all honesty. There were some small details he needed to work out, but he knew he could bring about his aims quite easily. Oh yes. Enjoy him while thou canst, Lelyacalë, for thou wilt not be enjoying anything for much longer.

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The siege had dragged on another hundred years and so Melkor had put into motion a design he had long been dreaming of: dragons. He worked with some aid from Mairon and Gothmog to create the father of dragons, Glaurung. He was surprised, and also openly pleased, that Lelca was as equally fascinated by his newest creation as he was. She would sit and feed Glaurung, sing to him, and talk to him. She watched him grow and from her he learned speech the most. Melkor teased her that she would spoil him, make him soft, but she had waved away his words and told him he spoke nonsense. Glaurung was fierce and cruel and none would be able to withstand his piercing gaze or flaming maw. Lelyacalë noticed that the dragon would do a little jiggle whenever she praised him, a dance of sorts that he would stop immediately upon noticing Melkor watching him. It made her smile. Melkor had noted that she may not be able to bear him children, yet she was mother to his creations nonetheless and that was more than sufficient. The title of mother of dragons made her smirk and she refused to use it, for reasons she would never be able to properly explain to Melkor.

Mairon had been most impressed with Glaurung also, and was most excited to use him to break the siege when the time was right. He had been relentlessly breeding the uruk, using some magicks to ensure shorter gestation periods and multiple births, twins and triplets becoming the norm now. The army had not only regained the numbers they had lost, but had doubled them. She had seen Adar only a handful of times in the last century. He had remained distant but respectful. He served directly under Mairon now more than ever. She sensed a closeness about them that she had not before. It was in the way they walked together, discussed matters with one another, or looked at the other. She could not begrudge Adar for finding solace where he may, even if she thought Mairon was a foolish place to find it. Her heart ached every time she saw him alone, it practically shredded when she saw him with Mairon. She did not know how far the relationship went and did not want to find out. Ignorance was bliss, after all. Besides, she was a hypocrite. She had no right to anger or dismay when she had all but thrown herself back at Melkor and resumed her carnal relationship with him. So it had come as a complete surprise when Adar had grabbed her one day and dragged her into the secret alcove near her room.

“I cannot do this anymore.” His breath came out in heavy gasps. “I cannot watch you from afar and pretend I do not miss you, that I do not still want you.”

She was floored. Her heart swelled even as her mind reeled with the suddenness of the confession. She was all muddled up. She had forced herself to let go of Adar, to leave her love in the past and focus on Melkor, for he was her only future now. This change in the uruk she still loved, still missed and yearned for, had her at odds. On the one hand she understood keeping feelings pent up until they were forced to be released, but this abrupt outburst of emotion contradicted how they had left things and how Adar had behaved since.

“What of Melkor?” She asked. “What of Mairon?”

“What of Mairon?” He replied, momentarily perplexed.

“You seem particularly close, I wondered if…” She trailed off.

A smile she had never seen him wear before briefly adorned his features before he shook his head. ”No, we are closer than before, it is true, but nothing of that nature. He is not you. I long only for you.”

Her heart was beating fast. “There is still Melkor, I promised-.”

“I no longer care. Let us continue in secret as we did before. Please, Lelca, I need you.” He moved forwards then and kissed her, pressing her back against the wall. He was almost hesitant at first, but then midway through he seemed to find his resolve and he pressed against her harder to deepen the kiss. Her mind was whirling. She could not believe this was happening. Something niggled at her though, something did not feel quite right, but she could not think straight when his hands were running over her hips like that and his tongue was running over her lips like that. Had they really kissed like this before? Had it really been so long that she had forgotten the feel of him? Something about him felt off but before she could pinpoint what it was, he was ripped from her.

One moment there, the next gone. Her eyes shot open and she saw, to her utmost alarm, Morgoth. He was all darkness as he held Adar by the throat, but his eyes were trained on Lelyacalë and they were full of betrayal, pain, and for the first time, hate. He threw Adar violently against the nearest wall where the uruk crumpled into a heap and moved no more. Then he lunged forwards and hauled her out by her hair. He gripped her face in hard fingers and demanded she explain herself. But she could not, not in that moment. Everything was happening too quickly. She did not even know where to begin, his anger was too much. She had always known he could turn at any moment, even before becoming Morgoth, but it had been so long, now it was happening and it was worse than she had ever seen him before. Her silence had been her condemnation and he dragged her by her neck down and down to the deepest bowels of Angband. She knew where he was taking her and panic set in. She lit herself on fire and clawed at him, but his anger was greater than his pain, his darkness was a match for her light and so whilst he grimaced and they struggled, she only slowed him down and it did not ultimately stop him. He took her and cast her into the darkest cell in Angband, the most isolated. No light here except herself. No one around for miles. She was cut off from everyone and everything, deep under the earth.