Tales of Fear and Woe by lightofthetrees

Chapter 3: The wild hunt

Mairon goes hunting.

“So it came to pass, some years ere the coming of Oromë, that if any of the Elves strayed far abroad, alone or few together, they would often vanish, and never return; and the Quendi said that the Hunter had caught them, and they were afraid.” (The Silmarillion: ‘Of the Coming of the Elves’)

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Mairon’s blood sang in exhiliration, thrumming through his veins, as he pursued the pair of Quendi. The sounds of their panicked footfalls, their ragged breaths, fell as music upon his keen ears, and he could taste the scent of their fear upon his tongue.

The first Quendi he and his master had taken had been easy to ensnare by guile and feigned kindess. Now the Firstborn were wary of the dark forests, and the gathering of specimens had become one of Mairon’s favorite games. He would watch one of their camps for a time, waiting, and when one or two wandered off alone, he would take on the shape of a great dark wolf, and the hunt would begin.

The two he was chasing now, he thought, must have been lovers. They had stolen off into the forest with laughter and whispers and soft touches. Perhaps he would take them both back to his master, he mused as they drew more weary and he grew closer – watching the reactions of one to the suffering of the other would make it all the sweeter. Or perhaps he would devour one now, leaving a bloodied corpse for the rest of the tribe to find, and take the other with him as they wailed for their lost love. He shivered in anticipation and ran faster still, letting out a resounding growl. Taunting, teasing.

One of the Quendi let out a cry, tears in the sound. The other spoke thin and trembling words in response. Mairon howled his laughter, and they fell silent.

They were deliciously close now. He could hear the clacking of the little wooden charms the smaller one wore in their hair, above the low drumbeats of their hearts. They beat so closely in time that he thought for a moment he only heard one. How fascinating. They seemed to be connected in some way, though they were only joined by a hand. He would have to find out more.

To his great joy and surprise, the Quendi stopped, one of them drawing in large, gasping breaths, and the other looking about with apprehension and trying to push their companion onwards.

It was time. Mairon pounced, quickly and silently. His teeth met soft flesh and he smiled around the wound, lashing out with his claws to bring the unwounded elf into line. The bodies hit the ground one after another, scrambling in vain to escape the inevitable. A warm satisfaction filled him as he lapped at the blood of the one he’d caught by the leg, restricting the thrashing of the other with the weight of a paw on their chest.

In that moment, he loved his lord more fiercely than ever. This was the true gift of Melkor: to be free, to have dominion over those lesser than himself.