Shadow'd from Heaven's Eye by kimikocha

Shadow'd from Heaven's Eye

In this semi-AU, the Valar engaged in sporadic battles with Morgoth during the Years of the Lamps. This resulted in several mass extinction events, culminating in an analogue of the Cretaceous–Paleogene extinction event (asteroid that killed the dinosaurs) when the Lamps were destroyed.

Read Shadow'd from Heaven's Eye

Mairon is far from home when first Melkor comes upon him, standing on a hill and holding a great insect in place with magic. A griffinfly, it’s called — a new creation, one Mairon hasn’t seen before. Boredom is an emotion which Mairon finds quite intolerable, and it’s also one to which he’s prone — so when he sees an opportunity to alleviate it, he pounces.

He’s already taken his notes on the translucent veined wings — well-designed, he thinks. At least this creature has far more freedom of movement in the air than do the yet-sleeping avians, which for the most part will only be able to propel themselves forward, not back. Now the insect’s legs twitch as he lays its body open — nothing more than an electrical impulse, of course. A reflex. It doesn’t hurt — creatures like this are more clockwork than anything. A few algorithms written in a primitive information processing unit, and a nervous system to carry its signals. Nothing more. And Mairon has a hold on what little ‘brain’ there is, and knows the insect feels nothing.

Inside it, he’s disappointed to find inefficiency. With a few changes, he dares to think, this creature could be greater than it is. A few changes to its respiratory system, perhaps the addition of something like a bellows within it to help the air move…

Mairon makes a half-hearted attempt to swat the thought away like a particularly irritating gnat. Like gnats, those thoughts have been multiplying of late. It’s not seemly to think such things, but…

But why?, inquires a voice in the back of his mind. Why isn’t it seemly?

If there is disorder and inefficiency, should we not seek to correct it?

Ridiculous, he dares to think mulishly, and further dares to consider bringing the insect home, to tinker with in his workshop. It will be better off when he’s done, potential brought to fruition, and surely that must be recognized as a good thing, no? Its exoskeleton will need to be reconfigured, the plates reshaped to accommodate the bellows…

Then a shadow falls upon him. Mairon scarcely has time to blink before a hand clamps over his mouth, another hand snatching hold of his wrists, pinning them to his chest in a bruising-hard grip, tearing at his clothing. A voice he knows, hissing words into his ear — how stupid Aulë is to let you wander so far, little one.

Startled, Mairon drops everything he’s holding and turns into mist.

One day it’ll come to be known as a talent of his, changing his fána whether the Valar will it or no, and other Maiar, like Curumo, will be jealous. For now, it’s the first occasion Mairon’s had to discover how far his talent goes, and he acts on pure instinct.

The Vala at his back spits out an oath at finding his arms suddenly empty. Abandoning notes, tools, and insect alike, Mairon flees over hill and dale, forest and sea, swift as the wind back to his home in Almaren.

There, he coalesces into the form of the slender youth he’d worn before, the one with hair as red as the fires which light Aulë’s forges, and applies the considerable talents of his mind to trying to figure out exactly what just happened.

What in Eä was Melkor doing? For it was Melkor who came upon him on that hill — Mairon would know the voice of the greatest of the Valar anywhere, the one who arose in might to hinder the work of the others. Though all others rose against him, still he brought their work to ruin. Mairon would know, for still he labors alongside his master Aulë to put things to rights — far more tedious a task than it need be. For Aulë, great as he is, cannot seem to see the value even in small changes which would make their labor more efficient. Little wonder, comes the small voice in the back of Mairon’s mind, that Melkor hinders you thus!

Yet none of that explains what it was that Melkor wanted — or why he would venture across the walls of night to get it. To abduct him, perhaps? Mairon knows well how skilled he is, second only to Aulë himself, and knows with perfect certainty that his service would be an asset to whomever he chose to grant it. But if he didn’t choose… is it even possible to force a Maia to serve?

Perhaps. It seems an unforgivably inefficient prospect, though. What sort of work would a Maia produce, if unwilling? It’s more a thought exercise than anything, but Mairon’s certain it’d be a pale shadow of what they could do, at best. More likely, the shade of their unwillingness would linger in the work, ever betraying the one who forced it. If that was what Melkor intended, Mairon might well have a few choice remarks about his intelligence — the problem is, the inference just doesn’t fit.

If Melkor meant to abduct him… why, then, did he tear at Mairon’s clothing, of all things? Not his bodily raiment, which would make sense enough, but the garments that body wore in turn?

Intelligent as he is, Mairon cannot make sense of it. Quite a novel feeling, that, but not an unwelcome one — for in the midst of his puzzlement, Mairon can’t help but take note of one overarching theme:

For once in his life, he is decidedly not bored.

What in Eä did Melkor want? Mairon is terribly curious. Doubtless it would be ill-advised to return to that lonely hill, and yet… what other prospect does he have for solving this mystery? And he does so dislike leaving mysteries unsolved. A strange shiver goes through him as he considers the idea, a frisson of something he’s not felt in years: excitement.

For one eternally, terminally bored Maia, that settles it.

*

All seems quiet when Mairon returns, shedding his misty form again for the one he’d worn before, yet he can feel the heavy weight of darkness watching as he stoops to retrieve his belongings. This time, he does not startle when a massive hand lands in his hair, hauling him unceremoniously up.

“How foolish of you to chance me twice, little Maia. Why have you come?”

Black and red-gold eyes bore into him as Melkor, clad in an ash-grey fleshly raiment, hauls him around to look him in the face. Bridling at the insult, Mairon glares back. He may be many things, but he certainly is no fool. He will not suffer himself to be called such.

“As you can clearly see, I left several items behind in haste,” Mairon replies, irritation sparking in his voice even as a strange sort of… delight?… sends a shiver down his spine. “I dislike leaving my belongings about in disorder, so I came to retrieve them. Have you some objection to this? If you are indeed so beggared as to have need of a few shrouds, I suppose I could be persuaded to leave them behind for you.”

For a long moment the Vala looks at him, implacable, expressionless, though the red-gold light in his black eyes flickers. They seem as if they were dark glass, lit by a candle from within.

Then — a sudden flare within them is all the warning Mairon gets before the Vala lifts him clear off his feet and hurls him into a tree at the base of the hill.

With a great splintering sound, the tree trunk snaps on impact. Mairon hits the ground behind it at an awkward angle, feels an elbow shatter against a rock. Then, he realizes with a surge of fascination that the spine of his fána is broken. Or at least, the spinal cord is severed. Or crushed? Somewhere in the lower back at any rate, because he can feel and move his arms, but not his feet.

Fascinating.

Pain radiates from everywhere, screaming through his fána’s nerves. It takes a conscious effort to suppress the urge to let it melt, to shed this raiment for something else unbroken. But oh, how Mairon wants to suppress that urge, because he’s never felt anything like this before — and as he always is when confronted with something he doesn’t know, he’s intrigued. Perhaps he could take a few notes?

No, actually. He can’t.

Melkor is there a moment later, slamming a heavy booted foot down onto his neck and grinding his face into the swampy earth, so hard the vertebrae in his upper spine creak in protest. Mairon spits blood into the dirt and tries to make a complaining noise, which devolves into a gurgle — ah, right. That would happen when blood is filling his mouth again, wouldn’t it? How silly of him.

The boot lifts from his neck, but before he can move, a massive hand tangles in his hair and yanks his head up, tipping his face back and forcing him to look into those now-blazing eyes.

They’re beautiful.

Oh, he could get lost in those eyes. As if from far away, Melkor’s voice rumbles. It vibrates through his shattered bones like thunder, saying something…

“…if you regret your insolence.”

“I don’t,” Mairon gasps, breathless, blood drooling from his mouth, utterly sincere. Why in Eä would he regret this? It’s the most fascinating thing he’s experienced in years, perhaps ever — it’s exhilarating. He’s never felt more alive.

Melkor regards him silently for a long moment, the firestorm in his eyes subsiding to a strange flicker. Then, without a word, the Vala lets go of his hair, releasing him to fall back down in the dirt. With a sudden motion, he stands, as if to— to leave? But why? So soon?

Mairon hears a strange protesting whine, and realizes with a jolt that it’s coming from him. “Wait—” he splutters and spits out another mouthful of blood. “What did you want?” At least he’d like to know that much before this is over.

The Vala turns, great black horns silhouetted against the sky as he looks down at Mairon. Questioningly, he tilts his head.

“You—” Oh, this amount of blood is absurd. Mairon spits again and, a little begrudgingly, changes his raiment. Something blond, this time. The damage melts away as if it had never been. He lists onto his side, looking up. “The first time. Before I came back. What did you want?”

“What did I want…?” Melkor repeats slowly, red-gold flickering strangely in his eyes like flame. With the weight of a mountain he kneels at Mairon’s side, extending an ash-grey hand to trace the lines of the face he wears. “Shall I show you, little Maia?”

Oh, there’s danger in that offer. He’d be a fool not to recognize it. Yet with that danger comes such promise, the siren song of things unknown and unexplored. Things he’s never even thought about, in all his eons of existence…

He could refuse. He could turn into mist again, right now, go back the way he came… but what fun would that be?

Mairon looks into the strange flickering candlelight behind those dark glass eyes, and lets himself fall. “Yes,” he says simply, his lips curling into a broad smile full of teeth, still stained with his last raiment’s blood. Perhaps in this moment he is a moth, drawn to flame — and if he is, he will throw himself into it, delighting as he burns.

---

Chapter End Notes

The griffinfly Mairon dissects at the beginning of the fic is a real insect, Meganeuropsis. Mairon's references to gnats are probably anachronistic for a fic set in an analogue of the Permian period. You can read more about prehistoric insects here and here.

This piece was originally written for the February Ficlet Challenge, Prompt 16: Candlelight.