Sacrifice me for my Sins by Sleepless_Malice

---

Chapter 1

[written] - For the kink/ship amnesty night on tumblr; the request was Manwë/Mairon after an injury, hurt/comfort

0. I am so sorry that this took me a good while to complete this 1. I have to apologize for Mairon as he proved to be such a reluctant little shit and had completely other ideas with this fic. 2. At one point I decided to let him. 3. I hope you enjoy it nevertheless.

[warning for] - mentioning of past abuse, emotional manipulation

---

Sacrifice me for my sins

*

The wine of love, is o so sweet, but bitter is regret,
I knew at sunset I would meet the ascending veils of dread.

Before my eyes nocturnal curtains fall,
The dark and gentle haze of the night, greedily devours all.

"Woe to him whose heart is filled with bitter rue and who drowns in grief"

Empyrium

 

*

Mairon had always been a wild creature, untamable as the mighty wolf he had often disguised himself in later years. Free and wild, his mind cunning and incomprehensible, with obedience being certainly not his biggest strength as the years in Aulë’s halls had proven often enough.

He had always promised himself that he would belong to no-one, that he would follow no-one’s command; his own mind and ideas being his master. In the beginning, many years before he had left the Blessed Realm, it had been Melkor who had encouraged him to create, to strive for his own creations, to bring order out of the chaos that challenged his mind. Creations that had been close to godliness. He had meddled in things that did not fall into his responsibility – at all; he had brought lifeless objects into beings, and later he had corrupted so many souls that he had lost count easily. He had tortured, he had raped and murdered, often for his own entertainment alone. However,

On the rocking sea he has enough time to reflect on the words he had; he certainly had not stayed true to the promise he had once made; Melkor had seduced him, had put his spell on him and gladly he had followed his commands, for better or for worse.

Melkor had abused him, had beaten him – had raped him for all around them to see. He had screamed at him, had tortured him with burning irons he had crafted with his own hands, he had humiliated him so many times that Mairon had lost track. Yet strangely he had loved him, loves him still.

Over the many years their fates had intermingled, are inseparably connected even now, and faintly he feels his former master’s mind brush against his own. He cannot bring himself to deny Melkor his request, and therefore he opens his mind to him as he had done so often before.

It is the only way they can still communicate with each other being separated on two different boats; at least until Eönwë puts an end to it, robbing him off the last ability he possess as Maia.

Under his breath Mairon swears; they had been friends once, long before he had been seduced by Melkor, long before he had been lured out of Aulë’s halls. Long ago indeed, and right now he only feels loathing for Manwë’s shining herald. It had been him who had put him into those heavy chains that now bite his skin.

The journey across the sea is long and tiresome with nothing but the steady roll of waves ringing in his ears. Of course there are voices of those who are not condemned to a narrow cell below deck, tied and lain in chains as it is the case for him. He tries to shut his ears to their constant chatter, their laughter, and the cries of seagulls. For once Mairon doesn’t know what he hates more: the sea below him or the cursed birds; most likely it is both. Manwë’s birds – the thought alone makes him grimace.

 

*
Many spectators line the shores upon their arrival, mostly those who haven’t followed Fëanáro into exile, but not solely: those of his kind can be seen as well, glorious and threatening in their appearance.

Mairon feels like vomiting, like a caught beast showed off for entertainment.

Well, the truth isn’t far from exactly this: he is bound, immobilized, heavy chains are wrapped around his wrists and ankles.

When Mairon’s gaze meets the eyes of his former tutor who stands amidst the crowds he quickly looks away, unable to stomach the millennia old accusations that still linger there. The iron collar around his neck bites into his skin, and more than once, a fierce pull at the chain attached to it makes him walk through the crowds. The sun shines brightly down on him: mocking and challenging, burning in his eyes that are still used to twilight and endless darkness.

Excited chatter on the quiet reaches his ear when he passes by, ‘traitor – foe – scum’, are certainly the more flattering words he hears. Like an animal on the leash he’s presented, still not knowing where exactly he is lead. The Máhanaxar he suspects, counting the marble tiles on the street as rage gathers itself anew within him. He is not looking at them, still he feels their accusing eyes on his skin like burning flames, hears the excitement in their voices.

This public parade is the peak of humiliation!

Time becomes a blur in his troubled mind and he fails to recognize where exactly he is led; every now and then he feels the faint brush of another Maia’s mind against his own, but he does not answer the silent words, doesn’t even know if he still can. Instead, he walks on and on, thinking of what exactly his punishment will be, what Melkor’s punishment will be.

At last, he comes to a sudden halt, bumping into Manwë’s herald who leads him through the crowds.

It isn’t him who speaks to him then, but Manwë himself, but only faintly the Vala’s words reach him as his mind is too occupied to take in the sight a few meters away; Melkor, with the heavy chains of Angainor still tightly wrapped around his trembling form kneels on the cold floor, eyes cast downwards onto the floor.

His former master does not plea for mercy, not anymore, eyes dull and lifeless, and his skin pale and lifeless.

A lump begins to form in his throat as his gaze switches between Melkor and the door through which dark clouds stretch out their fingers.

“Melkor,” Mairon whispers aloud and tries simultaneously to restore their mental connection despite better knowledge, and after several tries Melkor at least tilts his head and regards him through tired eyes; where once flames had burnt so vividly only dullness remains.

With words and pleading looks he tries to encourage him, trashing against the chains that hinder him from running towards him.

Why, above all, doesn’t he fight? Doesn’t even struggle?

Subtly, Melkor shakes his head as if he wishes to tell Mairon that it is over; he is robbed off his strength and determination, has surrendered to his brethren’s punishment. A smile of triumph flashes across Námo’s features when he steps closer towards the spot where Melkor kneels in defeat.

Too late Mairon realizes why they had been brought here. Too late he realizes what his part to play in the dreadful game is.

He shall never see him again!

“Watch, Mairon. Watch closely,” a voice that either belonged to Eönwë or Manwë himself says, but the words are drowned in his screams.

Tulkas steps forward and grabs Melkor by his throat, hauling him upwards to his feet.

The cloudy fingers stretch out to brush against Melkor’s skin, cold and threatening.

Mairon screeches in futile hope and despair. Later, he doesn’t remember what exactly he screams, for what he pleas, what he offers in return if only Melkor would be spared the eternal punishment. Sweat beads his brow as he struggles against the chains, as he struggles to reach the one he proclaims to love. Many years with his master had schooled him in containing his emotions, yet now he forgets everything he had ever learned, his nerves of steel dissolving.

Close and closer still Melkor is brought towards the Door of the Night, and with a triumphant laughter Tulkas makes him take the final step under the mighty lords’ watchful eyes. Darkness enwraps Melkor’s body as he floats out into the Timeless Void and into the Valar’s laughter Mairon’s sobs of agony and despair twine.

Without a trial he is cast out into the everlasting darkness until the world is made anew.

“No!” screams Mairon, and it feels as if a part of his soul dies forever.

Again and again he screams until no breath is left in his lungs, eyes fixed on the Moritarnon.

He shall never see him again, and for the first time since he had left the Blessed Realm behind he cries; bitterly so, sobs of loathing, hatred and sadness. His eyes are soaking wet, drowning the sparks of flaring anger as he falls onto his knees with his hands covering his face.

“Melkor,” he whispers to himself and the smell of the forge fills his mind; the unique smell of Melkor – metallic and musky.

Over him storm clouds gather in the sky, but he is so occupied with the clashing waves of agony that crash down on him that he fails to notice anything around him. Darkness enwraps him, swallows him, and for moments he thinks he is granted to follow his master into the endless vaults of darkness.

Of course he isn’t.

 

*

When he comes back to consciousness there is nothing else than the cold floor that welcomes him – and darkness everywhere.

“Melkor?” Mairon asks quietly.

Before he can say more, darkness is swiftly replaced by a white glow.

Mairon rubs his eyes in disbelief, and lets his gaze sweep over the marble chairs which are empty. Immediately, he is aware of two things: one, where he exactly is as this is unmistakably the Máhanaxar where he crawls on the naked floor, and second, that he is covered in tears, and dirt and sweat. His surroundings begin to glitter like sparkling diamonds and faintly he feels the presence of the Valar gathering themselves around him. One after one takes seat on their marble chairs, golden gleams twinkling around their heads as they grimly regard him. Disdain arises and he glares in their direction, cursing every single one to the Void where Melkor now has to abide his judgment.

The heavy curtain of silence is pierces by Námo’s strong voice. “What do you have to say in your defense?” he asks, emotionless and devoid of even the tiniest note of empathy – just as always.

“Nothing,” spits Mairon in defiance. After what he just had been forced to witnessed he doesn’t feel inclined to even speak with them.

“Mairon–” Manwë tries to resonate him with a soft murmur.

The words, and especially the gentle tone, make bile rise at the back of his throat, and he glares, seeing Melkor’s face in theirs stead. “No, not Mairon, be nice, Mairon do as you are told,” he screeches in response, his temper flaring. “What is it that you want from me?”

Marion looks into their expressionless faces when silence falls once more.

“We wish that you reflect upon your deeds and ask for our forgiveness. Your cause is not entirely lost,” states Manwë with an understanding smile.

Mocking laughter spills from Mairon’s lips. “O, is it not – and you do? Please tell me, why should I do such a foolish thing after you have let me witness such cruelty not so long ago? Shall you promise me heaven when only hell awaits me, say? Your hopes are spoken in vain.”

“Incurably,” Námo throws in to interrupt Mairon’s speech of hate, arms crossed before his chest. “Defiant. Just as I have told you. He should have followed his master’s example. There is no cure for him on this world.” An iron gaze pierces Mairon where he stood. Mairon, however, doesn’t flinch but holds Námo’s gaze steadily.

“Let this be my concern,” states Manwë, a notion which earns him immediately a sigh of disapproval from Námo.

For once, Mairon is beyond thinking reasonably, only able to act on impulse. The way forward is obvious, the way he always chooses when cornered and the longer he looks at them, more and more snippets from past encounters with them twine.

“Please do, I ask thee,” Mairon says with a mocking bow. “I will not crawl on my knees before thee, nor will I lick your feet as so many others do. Throw me out into the Timeless Void, just as you have done with your own brethren just a moment ago.”

“Mairon–” Nienna tries to intervene, but her words are interrupted by Mairon’s verbal outburst.

“Aren’t you of his kind? Aren’t you responsible for the fates of all, I ask thee? Alas! The mighty lords of the West how you love to meddle in affairs that are not your own: empathic, understanding, and caring for the problems of the world. O, what a sweet lie,” Mairon spits, looking up into their bewildered faces. “Let me elaborate on this further,” he continues to rage, forgetting everything around him for once; the heavy chains that bite into his skin, the warning glances he receives; no, he wouldn’t be silenced. “Say, when last have you stepped down from your lofty thrones to aid those you proclaim to love so dearly, those you have cursed for all eternity to dwell in the shades of the world until it is remade, the moment they have rebelled against your laws and judgment, against your thralldom. Pathetic!”

“Enough!” thunders Námo, rising his hand to enforce the requested silence. Mairon does not even think about shutting up, now that he finally is given the platform to voice his accusations for all ears to hear.

Another cascade of curses falls from Mairon’s lips as he squirms against the restraints. “Pathetic! That is exactly what you are. You punish my master for keeping thralls in his halls, when you keep an army of thralls yourself in these lands! Elves, Maiar, hounds and other beasts, acting on your will!” Slowly Mairon lets his gaze wander: over Eönwë, over those Maiar assigned to Námo and his halls of twilight, over Nienna and Vairë, over Arafinwë and Ingwë Ingweron, fey laughter spilling past his lips. “No, no, of course these are no thralls of yours, O mighty Lords of the West, who deem yourselves better than us. Malicious, fey and incapable of kindness, you say our deeds have been. Alas! Where was kindness when Melkor sued for peace and pardon, I ask thee, king of all?” [1]

Mairon wrings his hands in hate and agony, cursing the chains for his inability to physically assault them. “Say, what payment in kind do you accept to alter one’s fate? Surely, those standing before you are not without fault themselves,” he rages, eyes fixed on Eönwë whom he suspects to serve Manwë in more ways than one.

“Mairon it is truly enough,” says Manwë with wavering voice, an edge to it which Mairon fails to decode.

For him it is yet another challenge. Smirking, he shifts his gaze towards the Elder King, his golden eyes burning as bright as flames. “O, Lord of the Winds,” he says, the mocking words dripping from his mouth as slow as honey, “what dost thou think to command me? I am not your lackey nor do I lick your feathers as the rest here does. What is that you want? That I bow before thee, take my place in your legions of thralls? I never shall! Throw me out into the Void if it pleases you, lay me in chains if you will – I will not bow before thee!”

Wave after wave of blinding light washes over him, then, keeps crashing down on him until he feels like drowning in the endless sea of white; he floats – and after the light darkness comes and swallows him. Through the endless sky he floats, with stars around him everywhere; above him, and below, so close that more than once he reaches out to touch them.

Before his eyes the stars fall from the northern sky like shooting stars crashing down on earth, one by one. Faintly he remembers the constellation which crackles now, a crown of seven stars, with one star shining brighter than all the others.[2] Lights of all colors dance merrily across the dark sky, playful streaks that snake across the darkness; in his golden hair the shimmering incandescence catches itself, the streaks of colors blinding in their intensity, and as he watches the lights dance, his entire life seems to pass by.[3] Rising laughter in the skies where his fëa had often ventured long before ought else was made; Aulë’s forge with the first circlet he had ever crafted; the arrival of the first Elves who he had regarded so curiously; eyes so bright that they had taken his breath away, skin framed by black curls that almost shimmered blue in the gentle torch light; darkness and poisonous fumes; erupting earth, and the stench of burnt flesh; cries of agony bleeding from his lips, and in these memories his own name merged: ‘Mairon. Mairon.’ A voice faintly calls, reaches out to him, yet he fails to identify the bearer of the voice as in his memories fire-breathing dragons soar high up into the darkened sky – before they fall, crashing down into the dark towers.

It is the end, Mairon knows, and with the dragons and the stars he crashes down onto the burning plains. The world as it had been once is no more, exchanged to a world that is made out of death and blood and loss. His master’s face at last he sees: burnt and bleeding, his cheeks and lips covered with ash, with cracking stones coming down from the ceiling all around him. Amidst the terror he sees himself, kneeling beside the Vala’s form with his hands twined with Melkor’s own.

‘Go now,’ Melkor whispers with the last glimpse of strength, the words nearly drowning in the bile and blood that gurgles up his throat. ‘Go now, while there is time. The enemy is within, Mairon, go now, I release thee.’ [4]

With the last words bleeding from Melkor’s ashen lips, the burning flames dissipates from his master’s eyes and they become nothing more than hollow spheres. ‘NO!’ Mairon screams, and to his master’s chest he clutches instead of leaving; he feels as if a part of him dies when Melkor closes his eyes at last, and for the first time in all the years he gravely defies his master’s orders. He stays until the bitter end, until Eönwë comes and lays them in chains.

 

*

With a howling shriek ripping from his throat Mairon’s mind snaps back into reality and instead of darkness and burning flames, bright sunlight greets him. His mind feels strangely empty, as if a part is completely missing; only faintly he recalls where he is and why he is there where he thinks he is. Well, in truth he has no idea to which fortress the tapestry adorned walls belong to.

Voices echo up the tall tower from below, sweetly so, and under his breath Mairon curses, his hands covering his ears – too soft and merrily the voices are. With a loud groan he sits up, letting his gaze wander over paintings depicting the sky and soaring eagles. Everything is a lovely shade of blue, as pure and gentle as the early morning sky, so very differently to the blackness that had surrounded him for so many years.

“It is done, Mairon. You are free at last,” a familiar voice says, one he recognizes as Eönwë’s after a while.

‘Done,’ he mumbles to himself. What is done, finally?

He doesn’t trust his memory anymore, yet at the same time he doesn’t feel inclined to ask and show his weakness. Where his memory had left him, the pride apparently had remained.

“My lord demands your presence, and this time you better listen to what he has to say,” Eönwë states, his voice devoid of even the smallest glimpse of empathy. “Or else, the Void indeed awaits you.”

With the word slowly memory begins to return to him; of humiliation, of biting chains against his skin, of him being robbed of his abilities, and only then he realizes that the chains are gone from his body.

“What if I do not feel inclined to follow his request?” asks Mairon, defiantly.

A heavy sigh leaves Eönwë’s lips. “Then I shall bring you right before him in heavy chains as I have done already once before.”

“Fuck you,” Mairon spits. He might be robbed of his abilities as Maia, yet he surely hasn’t lost his temper, as everything came crashing down on him. The misery, the emotions, the hatred he had felt, and still feels.

“Mairon,” sighs Eönwë, “I thought we are over this.” Simultaneously he shakes his head upon Mairon’s blatant defiance.

The smile Mairon gives him is radiant. “Thinking has never been counted among your strengths.”

 

*

And so it comes that Mairon, once more laid in chains, is brought before Manwë’s throne in the highest tower of Ilmarin. The frilly ends of the robes he had been offered by Eönwë drag behind him as he is lead through the empty halls and corridors. Brightest marble greets him, intricate craftsmanship, and chirping birds outside. O what would he give to strangle at least one of the forsaken creatures.

“Do not even dare to think about it,” threatens Eönwë, knowing all too well that it is too late for this already.

“I think what I wish,” states Mairon. The marble feels cold and strange against his bare feet, and through endlessly seeming corridors he is brought, until at last, Eönwë opens the massive door and leads him inside before he disappears immediately.

Gathering all his strength he diverted his gaze from the floor and takes in the scenery; the hall is painted in silvery blue, with a silver throne at the far in which the Elder King sits stoically with silver locks cascading down his shoulders. Mairon’s stomach lurches abruptly; he doesn’t know what to make out of this, doesn’t know why he was brought here – isn’t everything over?

Much to his dismay, Manwë looked striking in the iridescent robes of blue and silver silks, a snowy white cloak over it, long fingers adorned with sapphires, which catch the filtered sunlight. Mairon knows beauty when he sees it – if he likes it, or not, so it always was.

Yet Manwë’s beauty is not exactly what troubles him; it is the look in his eyes, something akin to pity.

In silence the Vala regards him, and exactly that is what Mairon finds utmost unnerving, because he fails to interpret the meaning of the awkward behavior. With the persisting unease rage begins to twine anew, and his eyes begin to burn a little brighter. He, the king of all, who now looks at him with compassion had sentenced his master into the Everlasting Darkness, ordered him to be chained with the crown they had beaten into an iron collar, had made him watch his master’s death.

At last, and rather gracefully the Vala rises from his throne and steps down the stairs towards where Mairon stands. “Mairon.” Manwë simply says, and upon the mere word rage sparks in Mairon’s eyes, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“What do you want?” Mairon sneers matter-of-factly.

“That you finally understand–” Manwë’s voice is like the whisper of water against the sandy shores that preludes wave after wave. Soft and gentle, yet able to rise to a thunderous inferno.

“Understand what?” snaps Mairon, interrupting Manwë’s sentence. “That you are incapable of forgiveness, of understanding? That I have understood long ago. That you proclaim that you are better than us, when we both know you are not? Why have you brought me here, I ask thee. To show me his punishment – again. And again?”

A heavy sigh falls from Manwë’s lips, one Mairon takes as encouragement to proceed. “I will not beg for your forgiveness. Never. Like it – or not, I won’t.” He is repeating parts of what he had said earlier, yet he cannot be bothered to stop. What they have done to him in the name of ‘good and justice’ is unforgivable.

“I have not summoned you to torture you further,” states Manwë and at the same time he removes the iron chains from Mairon’s wrists and ankles. “Nor have I summoned you to let you recall your own evil deeds.”

“Than what for am I here?”

Without answering him, the Vala takes his hands into his own.

Mairon’s eyes widen in shock. “Get your hands of me,” he demands in disgust, yet strangely soothing the touch against his skin feels and for the blink of an eye he even thinks to let it happen – before he takes a step backwards and eyes his hand suspiciously.

“Mairon, we had to make you watch. Otherwise you would have never understood that it is finally over, that you are released from all the bonds you have shared with my brother. It is not so that I do not understand your hurt and betrayal.”

In anger he rises his fists high up in the air. “You understand nothing! What if I do not desire to be released from the bonds as you prefer to phrase it?” hisses Mairon through gritted teeth.

“Alas!” says Manwë with a laugh. “You have been treated well throughout the years, now haven’t you?”

For the first time since many years, Mairon finds himself rendered speechless for the blink of an eye before he lashes out; despite better knowledge he snarls, “Yes.”

It is a lie, and nothing else.

Fey laughter slips from Manwë’s lips, and Mairon’s face pales. Right now, the Lord of the Winds sounds exactly like his brother. “Of course. Haven’t your found yourself more than once at his will and mercy in one way or another?” he inquires with brutal honesty, and all too well Mairon knows to what exactly he is referring to.

With every word Manwë says, images Mairon just recently relived float through his mind; of flames, of lust, of horror. “Stop it,” Mairon demands, pulling his lips between his teeth and taking another step backwards.

Manwë continues to flood his mind with horrid thoughts, entirely unimpressed by Mairon’s request. At first, Mairon sees himself amidst black silks, naked with a generous smile on his lips, his hair pooling around his head like a golden halo, but then the image begins to blur and his once perfect skin is marred, covered in blossoming bruises and blood.

“No, just no. Stop it,” he pleads, desperately so. The memory depicts the very first time Melkor had beaten him unconscious. For so many nights he had futile tried to chase the memory out of his mind of how pain sang along his nerves as his skin splices beneath his own drowsy gaze.

Again, the Vala nods in approval. “Is that what exactly you name ‘you’ve been treated well’? Mairon – we all have been tricked, deceived by my brother, but nobody had to suffer under his wrath as much as you.”

In despair Mairon shakes his head, again and again. “Why? How do you know? Why do you show me all this again, and again. Do you take such great delight in torturing me?” he asks, weakly.

Manwë’s eyes bear wisdom as he speaks. “No. I merely want you to understand at last that my brother has become a monster.”

“So am I,” says Mairon defensively, and he means it. In every evil deed Melkor had been accused of, he had played a specific role, and often he had tortured for his own delight, more cruelly and cunning even.

“You are no monster, Mairon. In your quest of acceptance and love you’ve been corrupted. You have fallen under his spell as so many others. Parts of yourself might be monstrous, grotesque even, yet the part of how you have been at the beginning of all things has survived somehow.”

It is certain what Manwë is speaking of: the part of him pure of heart and intent, devoid of evil and malicious currents, something he had buried so long ago.

“No.” he growls in annoyance. Partly because he truly thinks that is what he has become, partly just to let his natural defiance soar before the one he accuses of so many things, casting Melkor into the Void above all else.

“You know, you did not have to give yourself to him, completely,” Manwë states.

The words sting with such violence that Mairon nearly stumbles backwards and his mouth drops open. He didn’t know that their unhealthy relationship is common knowledge and part of the Valar’s daily gossip. Apparently, Manwë’s knowledge runs deeper than he had expected as so vividly he sees Melkor’s face floating before his inner eyes, his sparkling eyes, his dark hair – the lifeless expression the moment before he had been casted into the Void. Again he was close to sobbing, yet he holds back the tears with all strength he can muster. He doesn’t wish to give Manwë the gratitude of seeing him so weak and in turmoil.

A wave of agony rips across his face, and he inhales shakily a few times before he feels himself able to speak. Too fresh the wound of having lost Melkor forever still is. “Can you protect me from what I have become?” asks Mairon, voice thick with suspicion. Alas! So many things those gods had promised to their countless thralls, and he isn’t tricked so easily.

Manwë nods. “I can, if you just would allow it. Please do not fight, Mairon. Not now, not anymore.” There is a gentleness in the Vala’s voice that makes him feel warm, and tingly.

Mairon, unused to things given without the expectation of a return service, narrows his eyes immediately. “Why would you?” he inquires.

For a second, Manwë just regards him before he finally answers his question truthfully. “Because I care for you, have cared for you throughout all the years. The choices you have made were yours alone and meant to be made, no matter what I thought of it.”

Oh yes, the tale of the lost son – he had heard of that before, and more than once he and Melkor had laughed merrily upon the notion. Now, he snorts in disdain.

The Vala’s expression changes from one of sorrow to immense affection; Mairon doesn’t know which one is more unbearably. “Believe it – or not.”

Certainly, he believes only half of it, if even. “But–” whispers Mairon, almost in defeat. Yet the pathetic feeling remains and he bites back the tears which threaten to fall. Without asking for his consent he takes a step forward and catches Mairon in a solid embrace.

Manwë silences him with a finger laid across his lips. “Mairon–”

Mairon cannot explain why all of a sudden he feels so at home in a place he had loathed for so many years, a place so differently compared with his previous home; lofty, high up in the clouds with shimmering light spilling through the windows above them. A place where warmth and comfort reign. Fingertips graze along his lips, his cheeks, his throat, and before he knows what exactly happens, he is caught in a torrent of emotions. He wishes to flinch, to run away, yet he feels unable to, doesn’t even struggle. The intimacy of the Vala’s voice twists his heart, and the last strings of control seem to slip out of his hands. He holds back a gasp when Manwë’s fingertips touch him so softly, his eyes sparkling and looking at him somehow knowing. A tingle coarse through his body and with dismay he notices that he grows hard, embarrassingly so.

“Stop it,” he pleads, not exactly a whisper but for Manwë’s ears alone. Mairon swallows hard, his eyes aching from the bright sunlight with tears beginning to gather themselves slowly in the corner of his eyes. No, he won’t cry, he hadn’t done so for years before the recent events. Instead, he lowers his gaze down to the floor, partly to escape the Vala’s fingers as with the touch memories arose once more.

“Why do you always have to struggle against everything?” asks Manwë, searing him with the beauty of his voice. Soft and gentle, cold and affectionate alike.

He wishes to lie, wishes to say that everything Manwë says is untrue, but he knows that it would be a fruitless effort. He knows. He knows everything.

Hesitantly he shifts his gaze from the floor again. As spellbound he stares into the eyes that reflect the cloudless sky, shimmering in different nuances of blue, catching the soft golden glow from the sun.

“I feel .. “ Mairon tries, yet he cannot phrase what he truly thinks. As always, it is his pride that holds him back.

What is it that he feels? He asks himself, and more: why does he feel just as he does?

Again, he drops his gaze and rolls his head to the side when tears blur his vision. He had hated him, hates him still, doesn’t know what to answer, how to response to those advances he curses and indulged in alike. Without much thought he digs his nails into the palm of the other hand, hard enough to draw blood just like he has done so often when he doesn’t know what else to do when his body threatens to betray him. The solid embrace feels better than much of what he had felt in more recent years.

Mairon can hear Manwë’s shallow breathing close to him, the sound almost like a never-ending lullaby in which he could so easily lose himself; if it isn’t for the last sparks of defiance that still soar through him. He clears his throat as if to say something, yet he remains silent, not knowing what exactly he should say.

Manwë’s lips brush against his ear, a coarse voice stirring long forgotten emotions within him, emotions he had thought dead the moment he had embraced and welcomed the darker side of his mind frantically. And then, he is gone, taking a step backwards.

The touch of Manwë’s fingertips against his own draws him from his thoughts. Mairon struggles to articulate, to choke out the words that gather themselves on his tongue; snippets of bitterness, of self-loathing and despair, words and thoughts he certainly does not wish the Vala to know (which, of course, was ridiculous in itself as most likely his mind was an open book to read). The end of the Manwë’s long hair brush against the back of his hands, soft and delicate like strings of silk. Many a moment he contemplates his options.

Would it be truly so horrible to simply let it happen?

Mairon doesn’t has any strength left to fight, to spit out yet another insult; he doesn’t even know if he wants to as perhaps for the first time in his life he feels secure and protected, and for once he wishes that he could simply embrace what the Vala offers so freely.

Why does he always be so defiant, so unaccepting and ungrateful, Mairon asks himself, wondering who exactly had planted such thoughts in his mind.

Surely, that isn’t him, or perhaps, it is? Perhaps those are traits which now resurface when everything else is buried and burned to the ground? Or is it because he’s not used to soft words and gentleness anymore, seeing deceit and hurt behind every prospect?

“Because that is how you are. I can protect you from yourself if you desire so, but I cannot alter your personality – nor do I wish to.” So tenderly Manwë brushes his long fingers against his swollen cheeks, exactly like Melkor had done the morning after yet another violent assault.

Mairon knows that tone of voice, a susurrating lullaby, and in response his eyes widened. He tilts his eyebrows upwards and searches for Manwë’s eyes. The Vala doesn’t answer his challenging stare. Instead he slips his fingers into Mairon’s golden hair that glows in the filtered sunlight like Laurelin had once shone.

“Mairon,” he asks quietly. “May you not stop struggling?”

Never would he say so aloud but the touch does not feel entirely uncomfortably, quite the contrary. It feels like years had passed since anybody had touched him with such an affectionate gentleness.

Mairon’s voice begins to fray at the edges. “Manwë, please. What are you doing to me?” He had not used the Vala’s accurate name once, when usually he had referred to him with a slur of insults. Why does he ask? Doesn’t he already know what he is doing? Momentarily, his mind goes astray, and he already hates himself for such ridiculous thoughts.

“Stop playing your idle games with me,” he mutters, weakly so.

“I am not playing, Mairon.” Simultaneously he took his right hand in his own and brought it to his lips, kissing it softy. Under his breath, Mairon curses and tries half-heartedly to flinch away as another jolt of pleasure course through his body.

What madness is this?

Everything around them is quiet, and strangely peaceful, something that is so foreign to Mairon that he feels his mind searching for the slightest hint of betrayal. Of course, there is none to find.

Everything is over now, and for once the voices in his mind slow down before they begin to disappear completely. Later, he cannot remember what happens first, if he had replied – or not; he feels Manwë’s fingers against his chin, shifting his head so that he has to look at him.

His body reacts fiercely to the gentleness, and whilst parts of his mind still bid him to run, he doesn’t listen anymore, standing still as if he is rooted to the ground. The chemistry of emotions is as complex as anything can ever be, yet at the same time it is incredibly simple. Deep down in the darkest pits of Angband he had spent countless hours to extract the essences of fear and agony, of joy and arousal from the blood of those held captive there. For countless hours he had studied the expressions of those being at his will, just as he now studies Manwë’s face. The Vala’s eyes are wide and dilated, lips slightly parted – Mairon knows exactly what this means.

He knows what is going on in his own mind, he knows that tiny molecules rushing through his veins that his brain had just released are responsible for how he feels, triggering yet different molecules which enable countless cascades.

But why does his brain produce the original transmitters? Why are they there? Doesn’t he still hates the Elder King with all his heart, now doesn’t he? Not quite: how should he when those fingers felt so wonderful against his skin with their bodies so close that he can feel Manwë’s body heat, his breathing against him? Those are chemical messages, nothing more, nothing else – nothing real, he keeps telling himself, keeps lying to himself.

Mairon starts to open his mouth to say at least something to disrupt the persisting silence, however, not a single word comes to him. It nearly is as if he’s not himself anymore, rendered speechless by such innocent affections.

For once, he is not rebellious, he isn’t defiant – he does not struggle and sneer, he is exactly doing nothing. Taken him by surprise, Manwë takes another step towards him, now standing so close that Mairon inhales the faint scent of fresh air from the sea, and beneath that the undertones of his skin. Before he has the chance to gather his thoughts, to break the contact – given he’s not entirely comfortable with it, Manwë’s hand brushes against his cheek and treads into his golden hair. Now, that he is so close, he can hear his pulse too, silent words of affection ringing in his ears.

Tears which he had held back for so long, finally fall, running down his cheeks like streams, wetting his skin and Manwë’s own. The thundering of his own heart drowns out all other noises that seep into the chamber, and simultaneously tingles shoot across his chest, his arms, his neck.

“Why?” at last, Mairon asks, their lips so close that they are almost touching. It would be so easy to lose himself in the sky that is reflected in the Vala’s eyes, to accept everything without a struggle, without yet another question of which Manwë perhaps doesn’t know the answer himself. Perhaps he does; is it undisguised desire in his deep blue eyes?

Indeed it is, the following words affirm as much. “Because I desire so.”

Mairon’s eyes widen in surprise and his breath catches in his throat, as certainly he has not expect such a brutally honest response, and with the answer so many other questions arise. The Vala’s words send a surge of lust all over his body; he hates him, yet at the same time he wants him as well. However, he doesn’t get the chance to utter the questions as Manwë leans in and covers Mairon’s lips with his own.

Mairon’s heart beats wildly in his chest, hands trembling, and in silence he prays that Manwë does not notice how exactly his body reacts to the innocent kiss. Indeed, he is anxious of what might happen next.

Despite the adrenaline which soars through his body, Mairon remains passive, yet he does let it happen without complaint, and without another word, Manwë closes his mouth over his once more and starts to kiss him deeply, in earnest; with teeth and tongue and his hand against the back of Mairon’s head.

Mairon responds with a low moan in his throat, something that makes his anger coarse.

‘Fuck it.’

He doesn’t respond, not actually at least, yet his lips part on their own accord and his eye-lids flutter close; half-heartedly Mairon wishes for restraints so that he could indulge in the illusion of lack of consent, his train of thought an incomprehensible mess already. Manwë’s hand rub against his chest softly, drawing circles against the silken fabric that covers his body. Gentle but still demanding. Questing. From nowhere the words he had previously spoken in pure mockery now ring in his ears again: ‘Say, what payment in kind you do accept?’ He had never even dared to think that he had hit a mark when saying so.

A sigh tumbles from Mairon’s lips, one that is certainly not carrying the subtle notes of annoyance. Hesitantly he bring his hands upwards and weaves them into Manwë’s silvery hair.

At last, it is over.

With the realization energy begins to soar through him, warm and deceitfully familiar, and with it the ability to communicate with his mind alone comes back immediately. Now, with their lips moving against each other, Manwë gives his abilities to him back freely, and involuntarily Mairon’s heart leaps in frantic joy.

Before he knows what is happening he finds himself against the nearest wall; pinned but not struggling. Instead, his eyes flutter close and he lets the sensation of being kissed breathlessly and bruised wash over him, kissing back with the same fierce intensity, rather biting than kissing.

"What do you want?" Mairon throws in the moment he has the chance to, voice and breath rattling.

“You. Unconditionally.”

It is over, and instead of hiding in darkness his fëa soars high up through the cloudless sky.

 

*

---

Chapter End Notes

[1] “There Morgoth stood at last at bay, and yet unvaliant. He fled into the deepest of his mines, and sued for peace and pardon; but his feet were hewn from under him, and he was hurled upon his face. Then he was bound with the chain Angainor which he had worn aforetime, and his iron crown they beat into a collar for his neck, and his head was bowed upon his knees.” The Silmarillion - Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath"

[2] “And high in the north as a challenge to Melkor she set the crown of seven mighty stars to swing, Valacirca, the Sickle of the Valar and sign of doom.” The Silmarillion - Of The Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor. Well, the stars do not come down from the sky the moment Melkor is cast into the Void, yet I wish they would (because it would make so much sense).

[3] Based on the term ‘merry dancers’ which is used on the Orkney Isles for Northern Lights

[4] Taken from Blind Guardian’s song “War of Wrath”.

***

4. yes, I always wanted to use some Blind Guardian lyrics in one of my fics, especially parts of the ‘War of Wrath’. 5. Also: Mairon/Chemistry is sort of an OTP I fear.

ubeta'd

[General] - Feel free to contact me on tumblr: feanope

[Disclaimer] - The Valar/Maiar are (unfortunately) not mine. They belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Estate – I just like to explore their lives a little further. No money is made from this story.