Chapter Text
“Do you like it?”
The question is asked by Melkor, who gestures to their surroundings with a wild grin.
Mairon casts a sweeping glance across what will be, he guesses, the main hall of what is now a half-built fortress.
“It will no doubt prove to be an important asset,” he states, eyes narrowing critically. “Strategic value of this place is great, considering where it lies in relation to Aman. Not to mention the protection the mountains provide, making it impossible to be wholly surrounded,” Mairon nods to himself as he lists what he deems to be most important. “It should also improve the situation with our munitions significantly. We will soon outgrow our foundries in Utumno,” he concludes, pleased with what he thinks is a succinct and accurate summary of his thoughts.
But Melkor now looks less content, as he moves his arms to cross them in front of his chest.
“Yes,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “All that. But do you like it?”
Mairon frowns, then, blinking.
It is not his job to like or dislike. No, his job is to assess, analyse and provide feedback, so that his Lord can take it into account when making rulings and decisions.
Or not.
Void only knows Melkor can be… difficult.
Like right now, because he suddenly stands next to Mairon with a scowl as sharp as the spikes of his armour and points of his gauntleted fingers. Even despite his previous good mood.
Which is strange.
Just as this sudden, spontaneous tour of a fortress is strange. Mairon was all but yanked by Melkor from his forges this morning, without any prior notice whatsoever. (Which, in an impressive display of both strength and accuracy, threw a wrench in his entire list of plans for the day.) But his Lord’s command is his Lord’s command.
And as of late, his Lord’s commands are strange, too.
In the past weeks, Mairon found himself consulted not only about the make of this fortress, but also called to more council meetings than ever before. He has been asked about designating scouting routes, quelling a possible revolt of the miners, alterations needed in the training regime of their growing troops… And a sizable list of other things, very much unrelated to his domain – which were the foundries.
And it’s not as if Mairon doesn’t have ideas – he has many, but…
What on Arda does the Vala want to hear from him?
“This fortress,” Mairon begins anew, slowly, “shall be a sure testament to your growing power, my Lord.”
Apparently, it is not that.
Melkor makes a face as if he just ate something so sour, he decided to deem the taste a personal offence to his person.
And Mairon frowns at that, too. Because, insofar, he thought himself quite adept at reading his Master; and rather well versed in deciphering the intricacies of his moods and expressions.
“You are utterly impossible,” Melkor half-chasties, half-laments, moving past him with a swish of his dark cape.
He walks towards a table, one where the builders keep the plans, and starts digging through the tall stacks of maps and parchments.
"Forgive me, my Lord, but I do not understand why I was brought here,” Mairon decides to touch on the root of the matter. “Aside from, perhaps, providing my opinion on construction of the forges."
But they have examined far more than just the forges. They've walked through halls, armouries, storerooms, infirmaries, barracks – even the Void-forsaken kitchens! And Mairon was asked for his thoughts every time, and he dutifully provided them, but... At the end of the day, he is Melkor's forge master. He cannot fathom why his Lord recently seems to be asking him about scouting logistics, interior design or effectiveness of Orc combat training.
Of all things, it is his admittance of confusion that finally makes one corner of Melkor’s mouth drift up.
“Well then,” his Lord says, lifting something from the table. “At least I know there is one thing I succeeded at.”
He turns around and walks back towards Mairon, who thinks, somewhere in the back of his mind, that there is something in the thinly veiled smugness of the Vala, that reminds him of a cat.
“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to keep things from you?” Melkor leans down to be on the same eye level and jabs the air in front of him with the rolled parchment, before extending it for Mairon to take.
Which he does.
As the parchment unrolls in his hands, he is met with an image that is, in some ways, very familiar, and in others – completely new.
The plans of this fortress. Mairon has seen them many times, now.
But not this version.
No, this version has notes, jotted down next to different segments and floor plans, with arrows pointing towards things that need to be added, and ‘X’ marks put where something has to be removed.
Each such addition is completed with a short comment, written in Melkor’s own hand, even though his Lord has scribes who could have easily done it for him. But the fact that he didn’t call on their services is not what shocks the Maia…
What shocks him is the fact that it might be Melkor’s handwriting, but—
But the words are Mairon’s.
Those are all his suggestions. Every last one, added and annotated, making the plans amended to his exact say so.
Mairon holds a great deal of loyalty for his Lord. Mairon holds a great deal of admiration for his Lord.
Mairon… holds a great deal of many things for his Lord, which he dares not name at present.
But, in truth, he did not think him capable of such… meticulousness.
“You seem surprised,” Melkor comments, and Mairon doesn’t need to look up to know the Vala is grinning widely. “Surely, you have not forgotten all the feedback you provided me with.”
“I remember,” comes his reply, delivered in a voice that is deadpan and maybe slightly breathless. “I just did not think you would.”
The words fly out of his mouth before he realises they lack all proper courtesies, but in response, all Melkor does is chuckle.
And it is his warm and pleased chuckle, the one that Mairon likes, because it reminds him of all of their secret meetings, back when Almaren was still standing.
“Such insolence,” the Vala announces, but he sounds more amused than offended. “Though I shall let this one slip, on the account of today being a good day, indeed.”
“Very generous, my Lord,” Mairon whispers, though he does not mean just the pardon.
“Oh, I am,” Melkor proclaims, and sounds like he does not mean just the pardon, either. “But, before that…”
He walks up to stand in front of Mairon, fingers tapping the held-up parchment, as he once again asks—
“Do. You. Like. It? ”
Mairon looks at the plans again, then, at the hall they’re within.
This stronghold will be important. Important and grand. And Mairon will know he had a hand in its make. For his suggestions to be included like this, in full… To be treated by his Lord, almost as, dare he say it – an equal in the creative process? When, since the beginning of Time and Existence, all he wanted was to make things that are impressive and great? Admirable and Mighty?
Does Mairon like it, his Lord asks him…
He loves it.
“I… do,” he answers the Vala at last. “I really do like it.”
The smile that spreads on Melkor’s face is one of triumph.
“Glad I am to hear it,” he says, grin only stretching, as if that is, somehow, still possible. “And it is a good thing, too, considering…”
Melkor clasps his hand together.
“It is yours.”
Mairon gapes.
…His?!
No, it cannot be…
Aside from the far-off noises of the working builders, the only other sound in the chamber is the rustle of parchment, as Mairon’s hands abruptly drop down to his sides.
“What is mine? ” Mairon echoes, dumbfounded, one hand still clutching the plans.
Surely, his Lord doesn’t mean—
“Angband,” Melkor proclaims.
The Vala then raises both of his hands to gesture to their surroundings, throwing his cape back in a dramatic fashion before he continues.
“Yours to build up, yours to fortify, yours to command,” Melkor’s tone very clearly suggests that he’s drinking in Mairon’s shocked expression with absolute delight.
Mairon’s stunned mind realises that it is a good thing his Lord told him now, and not when they were still standing on one of the bridge-like walkways hanging above an undermountain chasm. He might have collapsed into it from the weight of the revelation.
He looks around again. All of this…?
His, his, his…
Such honour… What did he do to deserve such honour? Mairon does a lot, he knows, he knows. But that is not yet enough.
He is capable of more.
And it is his Lord he owes this realisation to. Because it was Melkor who plucked him from the limit that was Almaren. It has always been the greatest gift Mairon ever received from him – the freedom to burn bright in his darkness.
A gift that Mairon has not yet repaid him for. Not fully, at least.
Oh, the things he would do for his Lord, if he but let him…
There is gratefulness, pride, awe and an ardent sense of duty that flare within Mairon; and that mix turns out to be rather explosive, because it blows to smithereens the impassioned declaration of gratitude he was formulating in his mind.
What comes out instead, is—
“What… for?” Mairon’s voice is a near-whisper. “Master, why?”
“Why not?” the Vala says simply, pacing in a circle around him leisurely, almost as if he wants to examine the shocked silhouette of him from every angle. “I should think it only fitting… for you to have command of this fortress…”
And then, just then – Melkor’s next words crown all previous distinctions.
“… As my lieutenant.”
“My Lord…!” Mairon whips around to face him, the speed all but that of a raging tornado.
Melkor’s gaze is squarely on him now, and it is so, so abundantly clear how pleased with himself he is.
How pleased with Mairon he is.
And the questions – of whether he heard his Master correctly, if he understood the right way, if he’s not, perhaps, imagining things – all die in his throat, because the gaze of Melkor is proud, adamant and sure.
“The councils you had me attend…” Mairon suddenly understands. “The issues you had me look into. All of them…”
“Indeed. I had to be certain,” the Vala admits, before rolling his eyes. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. What was I supposed to do? When your expertise seemed to have exceeded just the matters of my forges…”
He looks at Mairon differently then, eyes going out of focus, and yet, somehow, still seeming as if they gained more intensity.
The look on his face is more contemplative now, almost as if he can see past the mere fana of Mairon. And it is in situations like this, where Mairon sees his Lord’s gaze pierce matter, flesh and spirit, when he is reminded, that – no matter the impatience, the pride or impulsiveness – Melkor is still, well and truly, a Vala. And thus, he is privy to the kind of primordial wisdom Mairon doubts any lesser power could ever comprehend or fathom.
“No…” Melkor says, voice thoughtful. “Smith or no smith… I would rather think it a waste – if a hammer was all you were ever destined to wield.”
Mairon briefly finds himself wishing he could transport himself back to the Timeless Halls, when the Music was still being fashioned – only so he can Sing into existence a word suitable enough to describe what he’s feeling right this very moment.
Lieutenant…
No greater honour has ever been bestowed on him – not when he was still in Almaren, managing the Halls of Aulë. Not when he was called second in skill to only the Smith.
Lieutenant.
Second-in-command to the One who arises in Might.
There would be no others above him, now, in the hierarchy of his Master’s court. No others, save for Melkor himself.
‘Oh, the things he would do for his Lord, if he but let him…’
Mairon falls to one knee – for how can he do anything else? And yet, even this gesture, the ultimate gesture of servitude, of loyalty, of reverence – does not feel like it is enough.
The things he would do for his Lord…
The things he will do for his Lord…
Where before lied the raging fire of the desire to repay him, and, perhaps, to prove himself, now arises a purpose quenched and hardened – like a freshly forged blade; a masterpiece, completed after a time of tireless toil.
“There shall be no force greater,” he tells Melkor, words full of gravity and fire, “than the strength of my oath, sworn to no one but you.”
And when they are back in Utumno, Melkor bestows the title formally, before his entire court.
“Build me armies,” his Lord commands him from the height of his throne. “Build me garrisons, strongholds, citadels and watchtowers. Build me cities; build me outposts and mines, dungeons and forges. Build me strength and greatness. Build me Might.”
Mairon rises in front of his throne with head held high, now bearing for all to see—
His pride, purpose and duty to the One who arises in Might – cast in gold, in mithril, in adamant.