firelight by hanneswrites

firelight

Read firelight

Mairon wakes just as the sun begins to sink past it’s peak, on the cusp of a chilled winter afternoon. It’s a bit earlier than he had planned on waking and he wonders absently what exactly had woken him. 

 

“My lord?” A voice calls for him on the other side of his chamber door, one that he recognizes as his second in command, Dekvor. 

 

“What?” Mairon groans, rolling over and pulling the blankets up to his chin.

 

“I’m afraid there have been a few...complications.” 

 

“Complications?” Mairon begrudgingly sits up in bed and pulls a robe over his shoulders before making his way over to his vanity in the corner of the room. He snaps his fingers and the door to his chambers creaks open, revealing a rather flustered looking Dekvor standing in the hall. He looks almost pained as he steps into Mairon’s sitting room and quietly shuts the door behind him. 

 

“Yes, my lord.” Dekvor says, nervously shifting in place, “We’re not sure what happened, but...it would be better if you just came to see it yourself.” 

 

Mairon makes eye contact with Dekvor through the mirror of his vanity and sighs, setting to work on getting ready for the day. 

 

“Can you not simply fix whatever has happened?” He asks, though he thinks he already knows the answer. In one quick swoop, Mairon applies his eyeliner and Dekvor fidgets in place behind him. 

 

“No, my lord.” 

 

Mairon frowns as he runs blood-red rouge over his lips. He’s spent the last few weeks preparing for today, making sure everything would run smoothly from the moment he would wake until the ceremony that would be taking place later tonight. Dekvor knows this and has helped him with a majority of the preparations up to this point, curating every detail according to Mairon’s wishes, which also included coming up with multiple ‘what-if’ plans, just in case something were to go wrong. 

 

The news that something has gone wrong is not entirely unexpected, but the news that something has gone wrong to the point that Dekvor has no means of fixing it is both curious and quite frustrating. Mairon finishes his makeup and pulls on one of his more formal sets of robes, before waving his hand to gesture for Dekvor to show him the way. 

 

As soon as they step into the hall, Mairon is hit with a strong scent of lingering fire-smoke - something that would not be odd if they were closer to the forges, a few floors down. Dekvor quickly leads him to the large feasting hall next to Melkor’s throne room - the place where they would be having the ceremony later tonight. 

 

When Mairon had gone to sleep the previous night, the servants had just finished decorating it. Rich red velvets had lined the tables, tapestries of red, gold, and black had hung proudly on the walls, and trinkets of gold and iron had been placed carefully all about the chamber. Everything had been in its place, ready and waiting and perfect .

 

Dekvor takes in a long breath before opening the door for him, regret clear in his face, but Mairon doesn’t quite care. The door cracks open and the lingering smell of fire-smoke gets stronger, curling around him as he enters the hall. 

 

The first thing Mairon notices is the faint layer of ash covering nearly all of the surfaces in the room - the tables, the seats, the floor, everything is covered in light-gray soot. He steps further into the room and approaches one of the tables. The golden candelabras that had been sitting in straight formations down each longtable the night before have been deformed, their arms sticking out in odd and impractical ways and their stands melted permanently into the velvet cloth lining the tables. The velvet cloths themselves seem to have tiny burn marks and holes scattered chaotically about them and the tapestries look much the same - tiny embers still flickering at the ends of the ones hanging nearest to the door.  

 

It is clear that this is Melkor’s doing and Mairon almost laughs as he brushes a fingertip over the charred end of one of the tapestries. Just burnt enough to be noticable, not enough to ruin the integrity or original design of the decoration. Melkor’s sigil is still embroidered proudly next to his own on the cloth, unmarred by the ash and embers around them. 

 

Mairon smiles and turns to Dekvor, clapping his hands together, “Clean up as much of the ash as you can, but leave the rest as it is.”

 

Dekvor noticeably relaxes at this, “Of course. I will see it done.” 

 

Mairon leaves Dekvor to sort out the details, following a tiny but noticeable trail of barely-there ash footprints that lead out of the feasting chamber and down into one of the secret passageways Melkor likes to frequent, just around the corner. The footprints lead him all the way back to Melkor’s chambers, something that Mairon had expected. Mairon doesn’t knock and when he opens the door, Melkor is sitting on his bed, waiting for him. 

 

Melkor grins at him, wide and wicked, and holds out his hand for Mairon to take. 

 

“Did you like my gift?” He asks, as Mairon slots their fingers together, “I think it looks much better that way.” 

 

Mairon hums and steps closer, cradling Melkor’s head with his other hand. Melkor leans into the touch and Mairon lets the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile as he leans down and presses a light kiss upon Melkor’s forehead. 

 

“I wish you would have told me beforehand,” He says, slowly brushing his fingertips along Melkor’s jaw until they meet the back of his neck and tangle themselves in his hair. Melkor chuckles at him, wrapping both arms around his torso to pull Mairon fully into his lap. 

 

“It would not have been a surprise, then.” 

 

“I do not like surprises,” Mairon counters, tugging playfully at Melkor’s hair.

 

“You liked this one.” 

 

Mairon simply hums in response and rests his chin on Melkor’s shoulder. They remain that way for a long while before Melkor shifts, laying back and bringing Mairon along with him. He rolls them, swift and precise, until Mairon is splayed out beneath him. He presses him down into the mattress, grinning as he captures Mairon’s lips in a long, searing kiss. 

 

“I have something for you,” Melkor says, brushing his lips over Mairon’s jaw, “An actual gift this time.” 

 

Melkor retreats suddenly, stalking off to one of the adjoining rooms in his chambers, leaving Mairon alone, sprawled out on his bed, and more than a little frustrated and inconveniently aroused. A little while passes and Mairon rolls onto his side, closing his eyes, trying to imagine what manner of things Melkor could be retrieving from the next room over. He’d already given him pretty much anything he could ask for at this point; he’d showered him in precious golds and silvers, mountains of uncut gems for him to meld into whatever he wished, fine cloth of any material he could ever hope to adorn himself with, and he’d even presented Mairon with an entire floor of workspace in the lower levels of Utumno.  

 

Mairon’s eyes snap open as he hears Melkor’s footsteps re-enter the room. He sits up and turns toward him, mind racing through a million possibilities of what Melkor could have in his hands, only to stop dead in his tracks when he sees it. 

 

There, in Melkor’s hands, is a very distinct circular object that has been crudely wrapped up in dark silk cloth. It can really only be one thing and one thing alone.

 

“I was going to ask this earlier, but it wasn’t finished until this morning.” Melkor begins, carefully placing the bundle on the bed next to Mairon. He takes Mairon’s hands in his own once more and brings them up to his lips, brushing a soft kiss along each of his knuckles, “I know how particular you are, my treasure. It needed to be perfect before I could show it to you.” 

 

Mairon has not often been nervous in all of the long years of his life. Even when he and Melkor were fooling around in Aulë’s halls, the constant pressure of the possibility of being caught, being punished, had never made him nervous. But as he takes the bundle into his hands and feels the solid, smooth metal through the thin cloth, he feels his heart beating faster and faster in his chest. For all of the promises made, all of the vows exchanged - of service, of fealty, of love - neither of them had ever broached the subject of what Mairon’s title would become after this night. 

 

He unwraps the cloth carefully to reveal a divine circlet of woven gold, inlaid with red gems. It mirrors Melkor’s own crown, but with distinct touches that are purely meant to embody Mairon’s essence as well. It also feels deathly cold in his hands, even through the cloth, as if it were made of pure ice. He stares at it for a long while, taking in every tiny detail, and mulling over the palpable offer that had just been presented to him.

 

When he finally looks up to meet Melkor’s eyes once more, his master looks certain - unabashedly unconcerned - as if he knows exactly what Mairon will say, exactly what he will do. As if he has no doubt in his mind that Mairon will simply say yes. Trust. Suddenly his mouth feels absurdly dry, as if he’s gone weeks forgetting to drink. 

 

“ Mairon,” Melkor brushes the line of his jaw with his fingertips and comes to cradle his head in his hands, “my light, my flame, my treasure, my Consort. ”

 

Melkor pulls him into another kiss, deeper this time, and much slower. He can feel a wellspring of built-up emotion filling his chest as Melkor tenderly takes the diadem from his hands and sets it ever so gently upon the crown of his head. 

 

“My King,” Mairon breathes, burying his hands in Melkor’s hair and melding their lips together once more. 

 

=-=

 

It is late into the afternoon, just on the brink of nightfall, when Dekvor knocks on Mairon’s chamber door once more. Two light knocks followed by one hard one. It’s a signal that the ceremony is just about to begin, that everyone is where they’re supposed to be, and that Mairon should be ready by now. And he is, almost. Quickly, he redraws his eyeliner for what seems like the fiftieth time, because Melkor had smeared it earlier and he can’t seem to get it to be as symmetrical as he’d had it earlier in the day , and rushes out the door. 

 

All of Melkor’s generals and commanders are gathered for the occasion, standing in neat lines on either side of the hall as Mairon enters. The red and gold robes he’d had tailored specifically for this day flow behind him like molten lava on a dark mountainside. 

 

Melkor stands at the end of the long walkway in all of his dark splendor, iron crown sitting slightly askew upon his head, but the thing that Mairon notices most of all - the tiny detail that has him trying to remember how to breathe as he takes that first step down the walkway - is that Melkor is wearing the first gift Mairon had ever given him, proud and open around his neck. It’s a tiny thing, a simple iron chain that hangs down to Melkor’s mid-breast with a small black diamond pendant on the end of it. Mairon can’t take his eyes off of it. 

 

When he finally makes his way to the platform Melkor stands upon, his lord, his master, his soon-to-be husband, holds out his hand once more and Mairon takes it ( he’ll always take it ). Melkor’s hand is cold against his, a welcome and familiar comfort that Mairon revels in as Gothmog begins the ceremony. Mairon does try to pay attention to what Gothmog is saying, he really does, but the words seem to pass over him without much notice. All he can see, all he can think of is simply Melkor, their hands entwined, that tiny black diamond Mairon had shaped with his own hands so very long ago, sparkling in the torchlight as it rests against his love’s chest. 

 

It’s not as if this ceremony matters to Mairon, anyway. Their union will not actually be complete until much later tonight, after all of the celebrations have concluded and they’re finally alone, and that is what he truly cares about - their fëar bound, whole, together, complete, finally, complete . This ceremony, on the other hand, was more of a formality than anything else - a way to establish their union in the eyes of those who resided in Utumno. 

 

Mairon is broken from his train of thought as Melkor gives his hands a light squeeze. Their eyes meet for a long moment and Mairon nearly gets lost in the deep black ink of Melkor’s irises. 

 

“Yes,” Melkor says, and it is at that moment that Mairon realizes that Gothmog has asked them a question. He’s poured over the ceremony’s script so many times that he knows what Gothmog is likely asking - 

 

“Yes,” Mairon repeats, and Melkor smiles at him. His hair is braided back with silver twine, and it reminds Mairon so much of the white-blanketing snow that falls relentlessly in Utumno over the winters. Gothmog steps back for a moment and allows each of them to present the other with their rings. Melkor slips a golden band studded with teardrop rubies onto Mairon’s right index finger and Mairon pulls out a band he’d crafted with his own hands, made specifically with Melkor in mind. A simple iron ring, hardened by dragonfire, and inscribed with the first lines of the music that had started all of this in the first place. 

 

Mairon doesn’t get much of a chance to enjoy Melkor’s reaction as Gothmog moves quickly beside them and presents a fraying black cloth. He wraps their joined hands in the cloth and ties it loosely.

 

“May this symbolize the union of our two great lords,” Gothmog booms, “and may we welcome a new age under the rule of the high king of Arda and his king consort!”  The hall is silent for a brief moment before the hall ignites in uproarious applause. 

 

=-=

 

The celebration lasts well into the night, with both ale and cheer running freely through the masses of Utumno. They feast and they drink, and apart from some, all things considered, rather awkward congratulations from some of the higher generals, they ignore most of what’s going on around them. Melkor sits upon a makeshift throne, well above the chaos carrying on below, and Mairon sits alternately upon the arm of the throne and in Melkor’s lap. In the end, they both end up drinking a bit too much, but it’s only Mairon that seems to be feeling the ill effects of the alcohol running through him. 

 

When the celebrations have died down almost completely and most of the orcs and balrogs have either found their way back to their quarters or passed out upon the banquet hall floor, Melkor draws Mairon up into his arms and slowly makes his way out of the hall. 

 

Mairon feels pleasantly warm against the chilled metal of Melkor’s formal breastplate. He only manages to make it halfway down the hall before he starts to feel the alcohol making him tired and sleepy. 

 

“Do not fall asleep on me yet, my flame.” Melkor says, and Mairon can feel Melkor’s smile as he presses a kiss into his hair, “We still have much to do on this night.”

 

“Wake me when we get to your chambers, then,” Mairon says, cuddling further into his husband’s chest and letting his eyes slip shut. He feels more than hears Melkor laughing at him and in that moment a strong sense of contentment settles over him - as if he could not want for anything more on this night - and he lets himself fall into a shallow slumber. 

 

=-=

 

Mairon wakes with a sudden start to the sensation of falling, and he slays his limbs out quickly, trying to gain purchase on something, only to hit the soft silk sheets of Melkor’s bed mere seconds later. He lays there for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest as his eyes flicker over to see Melkor full-on laughing at him. 

 

“ Bastard,” Mairon sneers at him, propping himself up on his elbows. He no longer feels as tipsy as he had in the halls and absently, he wonders how long it’s been since he’d fallen asleep. Melkor straightens himself, that shit-eating grin still plastered on his face as he moves closer, trapping Mairon’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. 

 

Mairon feels the cold bite of the iron ring on Melkor’s hand as he pulls him in for a quick kiss. 

 

“My sincerest apologies,” Melkor whispers against his lips, words dripping with playful sarcasm. Sighing, Mairon falls back into the bed and glares at him as he takes a step back and slowly unclips the clasps of his outer vestments, until he stands before Mairon in nothing more than a simple under-tunic and trousers. 

 

Mairon watches as he pulls his iron crown from his head and sets it aside, and then he moves to follow suit with his own, but Melkor stops him, catching his hands before he can even touch the curled gold of his circlet. 

 

“Leave it for now,” Melkor says, breathy and low, and Mairon obeys. He lets his hands fall back onto the bedcovers, and smiles as Melkor moves to divest him of his own outer layers. 

 

“Presumptuous,” He murmurs, and Melkor laughs under his breath as he slips Mairon’s outer robes off of his shoulders. 

 

“We’re married.” 

 

“Presumptuous, still, my dear king,” Mairon sits up just as Melkor slides his boots off, and he unlaces his trousers himself . He pulls Melkor down onto the bed and on top of him, thoroughly distracting the Vala by palming the distinct outline of his cock through his trousers. Melkor growls in his ear, deep and wanting , and that’s when Mairon takes the opportunity to flip them, pinning Melkor’s wandering hands to the bed and straddling his slightly too-big frame.

 

He leans down, slow and sure, and grinds his hips ever-so-lightly against Melkor’s. 

 

 “ What if this is all I’ve ever wanted? And now that you’ve given it to me, I’ve no more interest in entertaining you?” Mairon breathes, his breath hot in Melkor’s ear, and he can feel his lover - his husband - Mairon smiles as he reminds himself, grip his hips hard . 

 

“If that’s your play, you’re doing a piss-poor job, Mairon .” Melkor chuckles through gritted teeth, pulling him down until they’re melded together, chest to chest. One of his hands brushes it’s way up Mairon’s side and buries itself in his hair, yanking back until his neck is exposed enough for Melkor to sink his teeth into it. Mairon gasps, his hips stuttering against Melkor’s, and all at once he can feel Melkor’s essence, his spirit, his fëa surrounding him, drowning him.

 

Mairon stills for a brief moment, hazy in the intensity of Melkor’s power around him. When he finally finds his bearing, he takes a deep, concentrated breath and looks Melkor directly in the eyes. His love is smiling up at him, lips parted in a lazy grin as Mairon pushes his own fëa outward. Their fëar meld together, like fog mixing with summer rain, and Mairon can feel upon his being the sheer force of Melkor’s love, trust, and respect for him. And it’s almost too much - if Melkor’s physical body had not been gripping him so tightly, it may well have engulfed him. 

 

Mairon comes back into himself after a long while and collapses against Melkor’s chest. All of the nerves in his body feel like they’re on fire and all he can hear is Melkor’s quick breaths huffing out above his head. Mairon closes his eyes and he feels the world slipping away - he’s exhausted, much more than any time they’ve done something like this before. 

 

“ Mairon? ” He can feel Melkor’s fingers digging into his back as he flips them, and he can feel Melkor’s forehead rest against his, but he can’t quite open his eyes, “ Mairon?”

 

Exhaustion washes over him once more, and he drifts off to Melkor calling his name.  

 

=-=

Mairon wakes to the soft darkness of Melkor’s bedroom and he feels truly warm for the first time in a long time. He’s lying on his side, cradled against Melkor’s chest, his lord’s strong arms wrapped securely around his waist. Melkor’s face is buried in his hair and by the even shallowness of his breath, Mairon knows he’s asleep. 

 

Content and very, very sore, he burrows further into Melkor’s hold and winds his own arms around his husband. Melkor doesn’t stir and Mairon cracks a small smile at that, allowing a fond warmth to fill his chest as he buries his face in Melkor’s neck. He revels in the quiet of the morning, in the small pinpricks of sunlight dancing through the curtains, in the steady, sure rhythm of Melkor’s heartbeat thrumming in his ear, and he lets himself drift back off into sleep.

 

When Mairon wakes for a second time and notices immediately that Melkor’s warmth is no longer beside him. He rolls over, eyes scanning the dark bedroom, and catches sight of a note pinned beneath the diadem that Melkor had apparently taken off of him the night before. 

 

“Urgent business. Be back soon.”   is written in Melkor’s chaotic, scrawling script. Mairon sighs and sits up in bed, still aching from the night before, in more ways than one. 

 

=-=

 

Melkor sits upon his throne, looking over the newest report from one of the generals he’d sent to keep an eye on things in Valinor. This is usually something that Mairon would handle - paper correspondances and paperwork were generally more suited for someone who didn’t lose things the moment he set them down. He’s taken out of his reverie by a booming knock at the twin doors leading into the throne room and he knows immediately that Mairon has woken and come to find him.  

 

“Your husband asks for an audience with you, my king,” Gothmog calls, and though it sounds like a statement, Melkor can tell he’s asking for permission to allow him into the hall. He nods and Gothmog turns to the guards, gesturing to let him in. Melkor waits, with bated breath, as the doors to the hall creak open.

 

His eyes focus on Mairon the moment he steps foot into the room, his long golden robes trailing after him as he makes his way slowly toward the throne. Melkor practically digs his fingernails into the armrests of his throne as Mairon bows before him. He thinks he can hear Gothmog chuckling at his feet, but at this point he doesn’t quite care. Mairon looks to be in good spirits, all things considered. Melkor had briefly worried that he’d accidentally harmed the maia last night when they’d bound their fëar.

 

“My King,” Mairon purrs, ascending the few steps that lead to his throne. He positions himself gracefully on one arm of the throne and leans toward him. One of his hands cups Melkor’s jaw and turns his head so that their eyes meet for a brief moment before Mairon brushes his lips against Malkor’s own. He is soft and warm and as he leans closer, his breath ghosting over the point of Melkor’s ear, he finds himself shivering. Mairon smells delightful - like a roaring fire lit in the dead of winter - and Melkor has to stop himself from burying his face in the crook of Mairon’s neck.  

 

“I was hoping to treat with you privately, husband ,” Mairon whispers in his ear, soft enough so that only he could hear. In the distance, Melkor catches the creak of the tall oak doors once more. He glances over Mairon’s shoulder and notices that all of the guards that had been stationed had exited the hall. Even Gothmog is nowhere to be seen, but Melkor cannot bring himself to question it as Mairon slides into his lap, thighs parting to straddle him upon his throne. 

 

His hands immediately find the exposed skin of Mairon’s thighs as his robes part and he realizes as his hands stroke further up, thumbing over the supple skin of his husband’s hips, that he wears nothing underneath. Melkor smiles, wicked and wide, as Mairon’s fingers trail up the fastenings of his robes, releasing each clasp in a tantalizing game that reveals his bare skin to him so slowly that Melkor feels as though he may burst before he reaches the top. 

 

He doesn’t, and as Mairon unclasps the last holding, all of the golden shimmering fabric that had once adorned his frame falls from his shoulders and slithers down to the floor, and he is bare to the world, sitting astride Melkor’s throne. He is beautiful, everything Melkor had expected him to be and so much more, and in that moment he looks every bit like one would expect a queen to be. 

 

Mairon flushes under his gaze and as Melkor’s eyes trail down his body, he notices that Mairon’s cock is already rock hard and straining up toward his bare stomach. He wants to lean forward and taste him - wants to follow the lines of his collarbones with his tongue and bite into the soft flesh of his neck.

 

Mairon brushes his fingers over Melkor’s hold and draws his hands up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to each of his palms before he places his hands on his waist and leans forward. Mairon kisses him, lips melding into his own like they were made for each other, and perhaps they were, in the grand scheme of things. His tongue darts out across his lips and Melkor eagerly deepens the kiss, pulling his husband closer and closer until he is flush against his chest.

 

When they finally break apart, Mairon is breathless and smiling and Melkor feels like he can barely contain himself from capturing his lips once more. His hands find Melkor’s chest and his talented fingers tangle themselves in the laces of his tunic, tugging absently at the loose knot holding it together as he leans forward. Warm breath ghosts over his ear and even warmer hands make their way under his shirt, tracing over the flat planes of his stomach. 

 

“I’ve been aching for you all morning, my love,” Mairon sighs in his ear and Melkor shivers at the warmth of him all around him, “I was hoping you could relieve a bit of my tension .” Mairon punctuates the last word with a grind of his hips and Melkor can feel Mairon’s hardness pressed heavily against him. Melkor grins and grabs Mairon’s hips hard. 

 

Mairon makes quick work of the laces on Melkor’s trousers, pulling his cock out in one swift motion. Impossibly soft fingertips trail up the underside of his cock and Melkor lets out a long, slow hiss as Mairon locks eyes with him and lines himself up. And as much as Melkor wants to just fuck him into oblivion, going in with no prep is a bad idea, even for them --

 

“ Mairon-- ” Melkor chokes out, just as Mairon sinks down on him -- tight and hot and slick and entirely prepared . Of course. Mairon grins, wicked and wild, and licks his lips. He stills, deliberately, and then teasingly rises up, ever so slightly, before sliding down onto his cock once more. Melkor wants to wipe that smug look off his face more than anything else in all of Arda.

 

Mairon settles for a moment, fingers splaying across Melkor’s chest, and he pulls him down for a kiss, slow and passionate and just goddamn perfect. Melkor breaks it first, only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along Mairon’s neck as he starts to move again - slow, steady. 

 

A soft groan makes it’s way out of Melkor’s throat and Mairon smirks even wider, grinding down on him hard. And then Melkor decides it’s time to play dirty. He licks his way into Mairon’s mouth and wraps a quick hand around Mairon’s cock, teasing at the head with the end of his thumb. Just enough to get his hips to start stuttering off-rhythm, moaning obscenities and prayers into Melkor’s mouth like he’s shouting into the void, and just enough to catch him off-guard. 

 

Melkor flips their positions with a little magical interference and pins Mairon to his throne, their throne, Melkor thinks, as he fists his maia’s hair and starts pounding into him. 

 

“My king,” Mairon cries, heavy and breathless as his cock bobs helplessly between their bodies. Melkor picks up his pace, angling just right to hit that spot inside of Mairon that makes him see stars. He revels in the fact that Mairon’s smug grin is lost, and transformed into a choked-out prayer of his own name. Melkor, please, Melkor, harder, faster, more, his maia, his husband, his Consort, asks of him, and he obeys, fucking him harder until the stone platform around them begins to groan and splinter beneath their bodies. 

 

Melkor can feel the moment Mairon tips over the edge, in his body and his soul, with Mairon’s tightness clenching hard around him and his fëa reaching out entwining with his. It takes only a brief moment for Melkor to follow him, spilling himself into Mairon’s warmth. Mairon takes it, as he always does, with a hazy smile on his face and Melkor’s name on his lips. They lay, breathless, upon their now-cracked throne, and Melkor thinks that perhaps it’s time to remodel a bit. He looks at Mairon, the diadem he’d given him just yesterday knocked off-kilter on his head, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, two thrones would be more appropriate.