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The hour grows late.
In the south, Illuin’s silvery light waxes. It slips through the windows of Utumno’s highest reaches, spills across floors set with richly colored mosaic tiles. It falls across the bed where the fortress’s master lies, illuminating crumpled sheets smeared with dark red blood.
Mairon, curled into the sheets, touches one of the stains and grimaces. Still wet.
Trust him to end up sleeping in that sort of wet spot.
There’d been… a lot of blood. It would be prudent, he thinks, to repair the damage now. The trouble is, that would require taking an inventory of exactly what the damage is, and he’s not sure he wants to know.
Minutes stretch on. Far below, Utumno’s factories churn forth clouds of smoke well into the night. Mairon listens to the faint sound of their engines and lies perfectly still, knees tucked toward his chest. If he could only figure out the trick for harnessing the energy which lies within the barest elements of metal, their operations could be rendered far more efficient. He ought to think about that tomorrow. Would the ninety-fourth element work? Perhaps.
The ache between his thighs remains persistent. Something down there feels… sticky. How distasteful. Is he still bleeding? Impossible. It has to be spend.
His own, or his master’s? It doesn’t matter. It’s all the same thing.
Mairon… really ought to clean himself up.
For long moments, he doesn’t move. Then, with sudden fury, the disgusting stickiness becomes intolerable. Unlocking his limbs, he slides from the bed and hobbles toward the washroom. Still no inventory of his injuries — he doesn’t want to think about it. But a washcloth, at least. His fingers are cramped and swollen, blood crusted under his nails from where he’d struggled in his shock, but on the second try, he manages the gesture that conjures flame to burn the cloth. Stained as it is, he doesn’t wish to see it. Much less send it to the laundry.
When he limps back into the bedroom, his master is awake. Mairon stops at the threshold, uncertain — was he not supposed to stay? — but his master beckons him back to bed.
Apprehension gnaws at him as he obeys. It doesn’t feel like there’s desire in the air, but he’d been taken by surprise earlier. The papers he’d been working on — they’re probably still scattered all around his desk. If his master wants that now… he should have repaired the damage from before. It was foolish of him not to.
Asking for mercy? That didn’t work earlier. He just…
Now the sheets are clean, he notices, as he crawls back into bed. That’s a relief. Mairon curls under the arm that opens toward him, buries his face against his master’s chest, and breathes.
“You are troubled, little Maia.” It’s not a question.
He stays silent. The maelstrom lurking at the edges of his mind is not something he has the words to express. Nor does he think he should.
Mairon can no more change his master’s nature than he can quench the Flame Imperishable, nor would he do so if he could. He knows what sort of master he serves. Glory and violence, majesty wrought in blood — Mairon fell in love with him not long after they met, all those millennia ago when Arda writhed in her infancy, and has loved him ever since. There is no disorder in the fact of his master’s violence turning now to him. Quite the opposite, in fact: it is to be expected. When he swore his service and allegiance, in a sense he agreed to this, whether he knew it or not.
All the same, his wounded heart twists in his chest as his master twines a hand into his hair to pull his face up. Gently, this time. It doesn’t hurt.
“What matters weigh upon your mind so?”
Many things, but a single question is what rises to the surface of his mind’s murky depths. The word leaves his tongue without conscious thought, soft and pathetic in its honesty. “Why?”
“Why what, little one?”
“Why did you force me? I…” Hurt swells in his throat, and the truth of his feelings chokes him. “I would have said yes.” If you’d asked.
Quiet and more ancient than the mountains which surround them, his master seems to ponder this. In Illuin’s silver light, the severe ashen lines of his face soften into something which appears almost gentle.
“Do you imagine I did not know that?”
“Did you?” he whispers, soft and plaintive. It’s dreadful, how pitiful he sounds. Surely contempt must follow such a tone, yet when he dares to raise his eyes he finds no sign of such. His master releases his hair; a hand comes up to caress his cheek.
“Of course I knew,” his master murmurs to him. In the darkness, the flame in his eyes flickers like candlelight. “There is nothing imperceptible in your regard for me, little Maia. It is an extraordinary thing, as great and terrible as the night which surrounds us. Is it so disagreeable to you to see your affections returned?”
There is no need to speak. The touch of his hands, the curve of his body pressed flush to the one who’d violated it earlier, are answer enough. If they are not, surely still the answer is known — for he dares to turn his face up then, seeking the indulgence of a kiss.
The one he receives contains all the tenderness he did not find before. “You are so bold, little one,” his master purrs against his mouth, that voice a low rumble that he can feel inside his chest. “Even in your wounding.”
It hurts a bit, the hand which cups his cheek. A spectacular bruise blooms there — he’d seen it in the mirror. Perhaps he’ll fix it before he attends to his duties in the morning. Perhaps he won’t.
“Why trouble oneself with pleasantries when the answer is already known?”
Why, indeed…?
The maelstrom at the back of his mind swells; the storm threatens to tear him apart. It will not — he won’t let it. I swear that I will serve my Lord with my whole heart, in mind and body…
He agreed to this. This is what he wanted. This is what he wants.
Mairon tips his head to the side and kisses the fingers that held him down not long ago. A transparent scheme to keep his silence, but it seems to work. Obediently, he opens his mouth to lap at the pads of the fingers that soon press against his lips.
Dismay twists his stomach when he notices his master’s arousal nudging against his hip. Now? Foolishness, such foolishness it was not to fix his broken fána earlier. It…
…In the morning, he should revisit his schematics. If there’s one thing his master has taught him, it’s that he can take anything apart. Apply the right force, and he’s certain he could break apart the smallest elements of creation. Do it the right way, in a controlled manner — find a way to harness the energy — and he could power the factories for a week.
This is something he enjoys. Creation. Invention. He…
He shivers as his master pulls him closer.