The throne of Utumno was tall and jugged. Carved by no Incarnate hand, it erupted volcanically from the polished obsidian floor and froze into harsh, black splinters. It seemed lost in the shadows that lurked in that dark keep at the North of the world, lit by neither Lamp nor Tree. The only lights in that hall came from the Vala that occupied the throne and from the flame that stood before it. Little was the flame when compared to the twisted holy Light emanating from the mightiest of the Valar, but it burnt brighter than all the rest of the souls gathered around the throne.
It’s been years since the flame left to tend to the lesser fortress of Angband. The Vala didn’t spare him much thought while he was gone, beside the necessary amount of time spent issuing orders and evaluating the reports the Maia sent back. The Maia was diligent and his reports were long and exhaustive. Even now he was still talking, recounting yet again some of what he considered to be the more exciting details of his service to the Dark Lord. Melkor had heard all this before and wondered mildly why the Maia was bothering him so. Distracted, he turned his attention to his Lieutenant’s hungry gaze and the way he licked at his full, wide lips when he spoke.
“Mairon,” he said softly, looking the Maia up and down. The little flame was clad in flesh and that flesh was shapely, strong and flowing in a manner that was as earthly and metallic just as it was ethereal. The vain creature adorned his fána with intricate robes of black and gold, bearing the Vala’s emblem. Mairon spotted his eyes upon him and leaned back, showing off his beauty. Melkor’s voice hardened. “I did not summon you. Why are you here?”
Mairon seemed taken aback for a moment. He recuperated quickly, though, and lied through his teeth.
“I have important news for you, Lord. As I was saying earlier…”
“Cut the nonsense, Lieutenant. You’ve done nothing but rephrase and decorate what I’ve already heard before, and any new information could be sent the same way as always. Why have you come here in person, while you should be holding my tower against my enemies?”
A short silence followed in which Mairon shuffled uncomfortably. At last he whispered.
“You know why.”
Melkor let him dwell on his discomfort for a few more minutes, and then he smirked. “Everybody out.”
He didn’t need to raise his voice, nor lift his eyes from his Lieutenant’s. The Hall emptied around him, all except Mairon. His face was flushed now, his breathing quickened expectantly. Finally the great iron doors closed behind the last of the creatures that flocked to the Dark Vala’s side. It was time to play.
Mairon dropped to his knees at the Vala’s feet and looked up at him with open adoration. Melkor cupped his cheek and ran his fingers into his hair, tugging on it. Mairon’s golden eyes half closed with delight.
“I sense that you’ve missed me, Mairon.” his voice was velvety, taunting. He pushed the fingers of his other hand between Mairon’s lips and into his mouth. A shiver passed through the Maia and he began sucking on his fingers, running his tongue over their tips and in between them. Melkor drew a deep, slow breath as he recalled what that same sultry tongue did to other parts of his fána in the past. But the little fiend was not going to be excused that quickly.
“I asked you something.”
“Unbearably so, my Lord.” Mairon’s speech was slurred as he wrapped his words around his master’s fingers, but his intent was clear enough. So was the way his clothes seemed to tighten and stifle him. Melkor rubbed Mairon’s bejeweled ear and he moaned into his hand, low and throaty.
A wave of pain flowed from the fire-spirit and presented itself for the Vala’s inspection: the torments of drawn, hard flesh, solace-less and cooling off in the absence of fire; The hunger of a spirit reaching out and finding none greater than itself anywhere around – food enough for the imperious Maia’s pride, maybe, but famine for other, stronger parts of his soul that wept for Belonging to his Vala; The blinding crack of a barbed whip as the Maia sought to relieve his frustration on some miserable wretch’s back; Hours spent alone, whispering a single name again and again in a prayer unanswered. Melkor breathed in through the pain, relishing its poignant, succulent darkness. It was nothing short of exquisite.
“Mediocre.” He announced into the Maia’s astonished face and removed his fingers from his mouth, smearing the saliva across his cheek. “You bore me, Mairon. Leave me.”
“Oh no, no, no!” Mairon flung himself down, reaching for him. “Please, my Lord, I need you so much, I need…” he pressed his face to the hem of the Vala’s flowing robes and began kissing his boots. “I missed you so desperately. Please don’t throw me out just yet. Please accept me…”
“Really? A proud lord such as you are, Mairon, suffering yourself to be humiliated like that? Would you truly lick the boot that kicks you?” he demonstrated his point with a quick shove to the Maia’s face. Mairon staggered backwards but then came right back, eyes burning behind loosened locks of red hair.
“Humiliation is to bow before one’s lesser.” He hissed, letting the heat of his fiery soul sound in his voice. “You, my Lord, are my king, my God, my most dearly, utterly beloved. To be allowed to kneel before you is the highest honor anyone in all Creation could ever hope for.” His soul pawed at Melkor’s, pleading for admittance and for the all-consuming warmth of contact with a Vala’s spirit – no pleasure was sweeter than that for a Maia, no agony deeper than suffering existence without it.
Melkor burst into laughter. The heavy, thick sound rolled through the empty throne room, hitting the stone walls and ricocheting off of them. The various shades and beasts on the other side of the closed doors cowered away, bewildered by the unexpected explosiveness of such thunder. Some of the braver ones drifted back to press themselves against the doors to listen.
“Sycophant.” Melkor chided. “And yet, this is the correct answer.” An unexpected look of hesitation flitted across his face and was gone instantly, replaced by close scrutiny. Reaching some sort of a conclusion, he got up and walked towards the back of the hall, his steps echoing on the glassy floor. He rested his hand on an inconspicuous part of the wall and it gave way, revealing an opening. “After me.”
Only the demons pressing themselves to the doors could hear the chiefest of their siblings’ loud intake of breath as he followed their master out of the Hall. But then they heard no more: the wall was smooth and whole again.
Mairon followed him through the door and down a narrow, winding staircase. A sloping tunnel followed, its low ceiling only barely higher than Melkor’s head. There were no torches on the walls of the tunnel, but Mairon’s eyes required nothing more than the guiding brilliance of the Vala. It became gradually warmer as they descended into the bowels of the earth. Suddenly Melkor stopped and Mairon almost bumped into him. Melkor stepped aside and turned, colors streaming on his face. “Come in, little Maia.”
Mairon did, and his mouth hung open.
The cavern was very large. It was illuminated by phosphorescent veins running through its walls, and that cold light mingled with the orange-red light coming from open fissures where magma snapped and bubbled. Water pooled among the black stalagmites, boiled by streams of lava dripping steadily into it. The water steamed, gathered into clouds underneath the high vault, and came down again in a flurry of snowflakes. Mairon knelt by the edge of the water, running his hand over glittering, wet stone, and felt within his heart the Song which fashioned the place and gave it life. The stone was still humming the Song as if newly created, but Mairon knew that this place was ancient. Perhaps it was created even when Melkor returned to his Kingdom from the Outside, only to find it stolen from him by his brother and the rest of their siblings. How powerful was his Vala’s Music! It seemed that this place, like its master, did not care to obey the laws of Matter that were enforced elsewhere throughout Eä. It was a relic of a past that never happened, a reminder of what the glory of Arda might have been if it wasn’t for the cowardly and faithless Valar.
It was perfect.
“Do you like it?”
Mairon lifted his head. Melkor towered on the rocks above him. Shadows swirled around him, gathering into something resembling robes. He seemed gigantic to Mairon, his head lost in the dusk in the upper reaches of the cave. His blacker-than-black hair streamed down with the stalactites.
“It’s beautiful.” A snowflake settled on Mairon’s upturned hand and shimmered before sinking into his flesh, branding him with its frosty outline. He shivered with pain, and whispered. “It looks like you.”
Melkor chuckled, warm and soft, and desire twisted again in Mairon’s belly. “Attend to me, Maia.”
Mairon got up and padded over to him. He stripped his master with trembling hands, his breath catching again and again as more glimmering skin was exposed. Finally naked, Melkor threw an arm about his shoulders and stepped elegantly into the bubbling water. He sat down on some underwater rock, leaning back and making himself comfortable.
Mairon threw off his clothes hurriedly and came into the pool. Melkor drew him close and made him straddle his thighs.
Mairon could never get used to the feeling that threatened to overwhelm him when he was so close to the Great Spirit, especially when said Great Spirit was running his hands all over his body beneath the surface of the water. Mairon let his face fall on the Vala’s shoulder, his lips to drag across his neck, his tongue to lick droplets of hot water off of him. He gasped when those long, searching fingers found the delicate skin of his inner thighs, then moved on to even tenderer parts. A thumb ran up the underside of his erection and his vision doubled for a moment, then melted entirely away when the Vala’s lips claimed his.
The kiss was everything Mairon dreamt of during his years away in Angband. It crushed, suffocated him, it wrapped him up in a haze of pure joy. Mairon gave himself up completely, rubbing his entire slippery body against the Vala. He growled deep in his throat when he discovered that his master was just as aroused as he was and rutted against his hard groin, wrapping his hand around both their members. Melkor seemed pleased at first: he moved against his undulating hips, sighing into his hair. A finger pushed into Mairon, sending sparks throughout him. He felt his pre-cum start to diffuse into the water, hotter and more agitated even than this infernal pool. Another finger pressed in and he was about to open his mouth and beg to cum, when his blurry eyes noticed that Melkor was no longer content. He grew more and more demanding with every heartbeat, and then even irritated. Snapping back into reality, Mairon saw that his Lord was indeed bored with him.
Mairon was suddenly pushed away, toppled over. He flailed as he came crashing down, but couldn’t break his fall. A blind panic took over him when Melkor’s leg hooked over him, trapping him in the water. His fána reacted wildly, thrashing and kicking in vain against the Vala’s grip. His heart beat an insane staccato, his lungs filled with water. He could not leave his body. He could not stop what was being done to him. Then everything blackened.
Melkor held his Maia down as he struggled. A stream of bubbles came out of his mouth and nose, adding to the bubbling of the water and obscuring his face. He watched him for a while, but that, too, was not satisfying. He couldn’t see him well enough in the water, especially when his long hair floated around his face like that. When Mairon finally weakened, he pulled him out. Melkor signaled with his left hand and a large, flat stone rose from the bottom of the pool. He stood and picked Mairon up in his arms.
Mairon’s head swayed lightly over his master’s arm as the Vala walked over to the center of the pool, his feet barely touching the surface of the water. He could see nothing but the play of bright, godly Light among the shadows of Matter surrounding them. At last Melkor laid Mairon on the altar-like stone. When Mairon recovered enough, he was made to kneel.
“You said many times that you love me more than anything,” Melkor opened slowly. “Yet you always keep back, you struggle against me when I hold you too tight.” Melkor’s head tilted to one side. “Why do you deny me of my prey, Mairon?”
“I’m sorry, my Lord, I… I don’t know why it happened. It was the flesh, it…”
“The flesh.” He repeated. His voice was dispassionate and strangely empty. “Meat is but the vessel of the spirit, Mairon, a subject of its indomitable Will. The servant might be forgiven for the misdeeds of the master, yet what master is he that doesn’t see to it that his servants are subdued?”
Mairon cast his head down in shame. There was nothing he could say to excuse himself.
The snow flitted all around without touching Mairon before, but now a swirl of snowflakes lashed across his chest like a whip and he cried out sharply. A splattering of blue-silver bruises covered him where the snow hit. He peered up at Melkor in shock, but the Vala’s face was sealed.
The snow-whip slammed down again, and then again, from every direction. It hit his back, his belly, his face – no piece of skin was exempt. Each time it descended it burned through him with its frosty bite. It hurt far, far worse than it should have. Mairon bit his lips so he won’t wail and curled in tight, covering himself as best he could. This was no regular snow, he realized: it was not something he could tolerate. It was some element that was the opposite of his fiery nature and after slashing his fána, it went on to agonize his eala to the very Core.
Mairon couldn't understand why it was happening. Although he had seen the Vala punish some of his siblings (a sight too dreadful to dwell upon), he never hurt him beyond reason before. Did he really offend him so? Breath coming in short, labored gasps, he managed to glance up again: Melkor was looking at him through lowered eyelashes. The terrible flakes twirled in his hair like veil of lace and diamonds, danced around him to settle onto his perfect skin. To his surprise, Mairon saw that there was no anger in his face: instead, the Vala seemed fascinated.
"So this is what you looked like when you were pining for me, all alone in your cold tower? Your pain truly is beautiful."
Then Mairon understood. Lord Melkor was, after all, the Vala of Contrast. There were two sides to him: one was the molten, hot part, the one which nurtured Mairon’s soul with a richness that was far beyond anything any of the other Valar could offer. Mairon loved this side of him with all the innate fanaticism of his spirit. But then there was the Other Face, the cold and torturing one he always sought to avoid lest it destroy him. He could see it clearly now, mirrored in the Vala’s brilliant, icy eyes and in the cruel line of his mouth, and as always it terrified him. No longer sheltered from that frost and having to endure it fully, Mairon saw that despite the horror it provoked in him, his love for Melkor was not diminished. This was a part of his Vala, and as such he worshipped it as well. Adamant in his resolve, he forced himself to untangle his limbs and lean back, lie down spread-eagled and expose himself completely to the onslaught.
“I do love you, Light-bringer,” he succeeded to grind through his teeth before succumbing entirely to the blizzard. It still hurt but now the pain was good. It penetrated him and marked him with his Lord’s touch, cleansing and purifying his soul. Eyes open despite the cutting pain, he stared at Melkor and meditated on him. He could hear his own heartbeat and the howling of wind through his lungs. The sounds cradled him in a cocoon of yearning, permeated by the contradicting sensations assaulting his senses. The whirlpool of feelings twisted, expanded, peaked – and then broken. Mairon’s mouth opened in a silent scream of rapture. There was a sound like a bell tolling – could it really be just in his head? – and then the snow ceased.
Melkor’s eyes lighted up and he crouched beside him.
“So shiny,” he said, stroking Mairon’s cheek. “So beautiful. My precious.”
“Master…” Mairon whispered, reaching up to touch him. Melkor let Mairon caress him, kissing his bloodied fingers when they traveled over his mouth. Mairon was content to just lie there silently for a while, but then curiosity flared in him.
“Master, why did you bring me to this place?”
“I knew I’d like seeing you here,” Melkor answered. “You fit in, unlike everyone else.”
It was a temple, of sorts, a shrine to Melkor’s spirit, made in its likeness. Mairon’s heart skipped a beat when he understood that Melkor never brought anyone else to this secluded place, never even mentioned it to anyone. He was the only one to ever see it. But he was not allowed to muse for too long: Melkor’s hands left his face and flowed down, hot and greedy, and were soon followed by his mouth. Melkor’s lips erased the bruises covering Mairon’s skin, and his tongue closed the bleeding cuts. And when the Maia lay before him, hot and trembling and ready, Melkor’s long fingers caught his ankles and lifted them to rest upon his broad shoulders.
Melkor was just as generous with pleasure as he was with pain. And although the cavern was indeed well-isolated, Mairon was so loud in his pleasure that even the Quendi chained in the furthest, deepest Orcing-pits could hear his screams. They shuddered, misinterpreting them as stemming from something akin to their own torment, and held whatever remained of their hands for comfort. In the upper reaches of the fortress, the Maiar sensed their master’s mood and touched each other, letting his sensuality ride them into a mindless bacchanalia. And when he felt the first wave of ecstasy simmer inside him, as golden as his favorite Maia and just as wicked, Lord Melkor thought that perhaps there had been something more that he missed out on while his Lieutenant was away.
Chapter 2: A Rambling
In the Temple of Satan, one does not worship without sacrifice.
One worships on their knees, letting the blood of their heart flow onto the polished obsidian floors, their emotions flayed raw and bare for Him to inspect. Love itself is bound and stretched upon the altar, its juvenile fat all melting away in the fires of Gehenna that fill the hall. It is then transformed into a potion of pure poison, the only libation worthy of the King of the Earth. And He drinks, He drinks, until nothing is left but a sigh drifting between the columns of that chill, echoing stone heart:
"I am yours I am yours I am yours..."