Archive of Our Own

“It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another.” 

– Mary Shelley, Frankenstein. 

“And what rough beast, it’s hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?” 

-W.B. Yeats, The Second Coming

I. The Breaking 

I awoke this day to a gift from my lord—A spawn of Fëanor, to play with. He will be hung from the side of Thangorodrim he says, but for this time he is mine to do with as I please—I am thrilled. This fickle youth captured in an ambush, has for now, been quiet. 

This shall soon be remedied. 

O, Nelyafinwë, welcome. 

—

Little is known of the whereabouts of the remaining, foolhardy, Fëanorian’s. Lost, pacing widdershins in the labyrinth of this untouched and dark land. It is breathed upon by Melkor, and so that makes it holy, it is better than the Song. I am glad he has made me his soldier, I am glad to be at his side. 

When we find them, they shall be my worthy torments as well, for this one makes such sweet sounds. He speaks! He curses. But I see within him the knowledge that his flesh is mine, his spirits and blood will reign only on the lines in my palm–where now reside the names he was once called; King? Prince of the Noldor? Brother? There is little room for the sweet noise of epithets–save the names he swears–when I carve into him. 

He knows, now, he knows, naught but the cold stone will be his view for the remainder of his life. When Námo calls him home, when Melkor has found his use burdensome, some ages in the future, he will be less shell, less Elf, even before he presses into those halls.

I am getting ahead of myself. 

For now, he is living, breathing as a spluttering fool, battering against the manacles in some useless display of misplaced wishes. Should he get out and roam the halls of Angband–there are worse things in this deep than even I. 

I have imagined for a long while the greatest of battles with him in the center. I tell them to him and peer into his changing gaze, watching the vessels prickle crimson and the unimagined terror float along his body. I remind him of his Oath, of his Doom that spreads as fire to the host he arrived with, that has already spared his father from the worst this land can offer. 

I remind him he has not been spared. 

Doom is at hand, it is in my hand, and I am so very generous. 

—

The game is as I say. I am the master and the board, and the hand that moves the pawns. Nelyafinwë is not them, he is not the pawn, but he is the game itself. It is thrilling to toy with him. Far more to witness his mind tear him open from the inside–how strange it must be, to feel the pain and its aura before it comes upon thee. 

The game is like this–

I play within him, for it is useless to ignore me. 

He need not invite me in, for I always was within him; in Aman, I was there, on the ships, I was there–I inhaled the smoke beside him, I coughed the ash up like vomit, there, beside him. I remained a part of each and every memory, every crevice of his childhood, from the noise of his mother’s heartbeat to his first lover–it is I who stands on the edge of these things. He cannot escape me with avoidance, he has yet to learn this, but every time he enters a memory, I follow. 

Nelyafinwë often hides within himself, when the physicality of the pain is overbearing and worsens by the moment. The orcs stand on the sidelines, they taunt and they laugh, and sometimes they wince, for they were here too, once. 

In their memories, I remember–which is all the worse for the one who lays on the stone. 

It is mottled now, black and red blood mingling as the Trees once did. Crimson and soot, dried so it appears as the sweet drip off a brambles’ thorns. 

His skin was freckled, pale and shaking, marred by these hands. The symbols on his flesh are there for eternity, for the greatness of infinity cannot shed them from him now, so deep do they go, branded and burned, etched and embedded into the membranes, the very fibers of his skin and bones. 

If he escapes he will not be known, he is hidden by my creations, lost to the workings of my hand. It will always be seen, first and foremost, what I have laid upon his body. They will see me should they peer at him, should they peer into him. 

—

This day, Nelyafinwë tired of his weeping routine. He has accepted his place here, though he knows not of what will come to pass. But the fury of his father still reigns in his blood and it has taken him this long to retaliate against me. 

A mere strike on the arm, that is all. Though two orcs took the brunt of the resistance, death comes for them like lightning during a storm–quick and entirely expected. Of their flesh I care little; fuel for the fires. 

Afterwards, when it was handled he looked at me with such contempt I almost laughed. 

“Vile being,” he shouted. My hands had purpled the skin of his neck, and his voice sounded like stone grinding against stone. “Putrid! Abhorred! I knew you once, fool, and I know you are naught but his thrall.” 

I knew you once, too, Nelyafinwë, Prince and foolhardy son. 

“Cruel beast! Devourer of all things good!”

“Perhaps; but tell me, Nelyafinwë, why then have I not devoured you?” 

His face was crimson, as if stricken. I let him sit in that puddle until it soaked him to the bone. 

When the moments had dripped stealthy past, I spoke once more. “I am no fool, Maedhros,” I had said this name to disarm him. For who else had whispered it here but the slick throats of the wood folk? Who had said it also with hatred, with violence clambering up their words. 

“If you wish to kill me, do so, I fear you not, I fear death not.” 

“Should Fëanáro hear these words, I imagine his pride would falter. His heir, frightened into begging for death.”

His words were softer now. “I beg for nothing.” 

There was nothing left for me to say but: “very well.” 

—

Nothing I have given him. The walls of his cellar cave are drafty and empty. The worms feed among the cracks, eating soil and the scant flame that could stick its golden tongue within the stone. I left him to rot for years–solitude does worse things to the mind than pain. Darkness comes for him. Nothing comes for him.

Beg, Nelyafinwë, your wish is my command. 

—

Long ago, before I could know the mind of Melkor and my world consisted only of the heat of Aulë’s forge–the heat of his praise–I knew once of the learnings of Námo. 

Death is short and sweet, his Maiar would say. It comes quickly, too quickly often. But we deal with the aftermath, however, so we know very little in truth. We have seen it only once. Miriel, they reminded me, Miriel died quick in the end, though for years she longed for death, a drawn out inhale followed by a sharp, sweet breath; it happened so swiftly–like the flight of Manwë’s eagles. 

I had seen the eagles of course; I had seen their death spiral down upon the earth. In the mingling of the Trees it looked as if they held the light within their wings, made it themselves, the wind at their breasts moving swift enough to create the golden-silver glimmer. 

But I know much now. I know they are all fools. I know they have seen it at an uncountable amount since then. It must fly through their Halls now, swifter than the eagles, swifter than they can keep with. I know it burns them, death flying by until they are wind-whipped and red-cheeked. 

I know death can take all the time in the world. 

—

I am at my best when tormenting this one’s mind—in the depth of a stone walled cellar cave has I left him to rot. Meager portions fed to him so he is not capable of dying, though in truth I imagine starvation would be less horrific that what I’ve planned. The will is not within him, he is not as brave as he desires to be. 

When I pass him, as I do often, for it is much to my taste to hear him whimper and cry, I cloak myself in the visage of those he misses most. The game continues. He cannot see me, there are no windows nor bars, but when the mind is raging and the grief grows too much, any familiarity it like salt on the wound—I smell often of the soap his mother used, I sound much like his father when I can, I sing like his brother, and I laugh as his cousins did. In the confines of his mind it is as shadows, running from my sight, I am beginning to believe he is willfully hiding from me. I am the better at this, however, and no matter how hard he longs to forget, he never can. 

His memories are mine. 

This day, when I passed, I smelt of the smoke and burning bones of that little one on the ships—he wept so very little despite the vibrancy of his wails. I shall give him more water, I think. I wish for more of his tears to soak that cellar—they are sweeter than the wine. 

—

Alas—I have thought wrong of my Nelyafinwë, he fears not the closed gate of Námo, nor the distaste in his father’s voice should he be welcomed, should, as the ages run, he be re-embodied to his forsaken land. His willpower won through in the end. 

Nelyafinwë is gone. 

I returned early to torment him, and much like he asked of me, he has found death. Is it to his liking, I wonder? Have the halls welcomed him, as for so long he wished? Often, as I cut into his skin, as I dredged up memories and placed them out of reach, he would tell me, remind me, that I could never return to Aman, not as he. The gates have always been closed to me. Death will never provide me with another path. Death does not end my time here; I return, again and again. 

Returned to Námo is he, to be reformed there, under the skill of the Lord of Spirits–for as much as I wish, even the Doom will not keep the call from him. It is the way of the Eldar, always will they escape the foul and fell by hiding beneath the gown of Death, whimpering should the world and its violence close in. 

His time here did Vairë weave far too short. Too hastily did he flee. Did he will it? Did he run like a coward? I care not for the moments leading to this, not as I care for the aftermath. 

The skull was cracked open, his eyes were empty. His face was thick with the sheen of crimson; it covered him wholly, it covered him entirely, it has hidden what I placed there, it has eaten my work. 

Damn him! Damn them all! Those who flee, who find death where I do not give it. Damn them! 

I did not shut his eyes, I left him staring into the nothing for which he begged. May Námo keep him chained for ages to come, may the darkness devour him. 

Fool, fool, fool. The things we could have done. 

The lump of princely flesh will not burn. Melkor does not yet know; and he will not. 

—

But I believe I am not yet done.

Námo has not accepted him, it is the Doom that keeps him here, or it is his desires. His spirit lingers, passing through these sulphuric halls and whimpering as a child. But he does not go. 

It may be he does not know how– the call is quieter for him, the blood of his kin stop his ears—it will take me much to willingly let this one go, if he wishes to stay, so be it; but it will be in my realm, under my sight, under my hand. 

There is a way I can bring him to me once more—place him within that comfort of his body. It is destroyed by his own grief, his crown has folded in on itself, the red of his hair burning crimson with blood–but with tender hands I will bring him back. 

My beautiful Nelyafinwë, you cannot leave yet. 

II. The Crafting

That which is left unfed does not fester like a wound but eats and eats and eats all that it can, all that is within reach. 

So does Nelyafinwë, the tortured turned wraith, wailing for the return of his mind and body, weeping for the mist of his spirit. Melkor cares little for the orcs that disappear, but Nelyafinwë grows hungrier as the weeks pass; and I have yet to return him to his body. 

It has decayed, naturally, but much of it is salvageable. Left in the depths, fed to the cold and whispering frost that grows along it. I wove around him a spell to keep him from rotting. It is paler than before, but I have cleaned the blood from his face and wiped his hands clean. 

When the time comes, he will be ready. 

Admittedly, I am out of my element. Creation and the morbid fallacies of skin, bone, and tendon, belong rightfully to my master and love; Melkor knows what goes into the begetting of life, though he has corrupted more often than created. I lack conviction, perhaps, for what I make must indeed stray into perfection, while his need only breath and break the skin of our enemies. 

Better I am in the forge, pulling down force upon force onto orange-ringed metal. I have wrought sharp blades and crowns ringed in black metal; and on Melkor I have placed an ornament that sings with the vibration of my hammer, it does not let go of its creator, it does not willingly fall from the thrum which made it. 

Flame turns it malleable, flame makes it crave my molding—flame. 

Flame. 

—

I loved once with a maia of Námo long ago, and from him I learned much. The stretching of skin over bone is especially tricky. It is as tender as the spider’s web, too careless and it will crack. But in time—with my skill and determination and glorious talent—I learned. 

I came to Nelyafinwë in the night, as most things in Angband thrive in that dark deep. But this time, Melkor had held something of a soiree, a captivating dance and song that fit his tastes. It is always long, arduous, filled with the discord he loves more than anything–it beats through the fortress, combs through the stone walls, sticks its violent, singing tongue into each and every room. But not the dungeons, not in the deepest parts of Angband, not where I have placed Nelyafinwë. 

He rested in silence, in the darkness cloven by the paleness of his skin and the light beneath my hand. His spirit was restless, it passed the halls as a storm–a violent beauty hidden and unseen and yet devouring as it went. 

It would be deception against myself to write that I do not find this enthralling. The good son, the proper son, the prince of all Noldor who Manwë himself named blessed and noble. Killing without reason, consuming, hungry for the feeling of hunger–waiting in vain for the warm settle of blood within his belly. I wish, often, that I could see him. The eyes–they must be full of knowing monstrosity, the fear which takes hold of a person who cannot do anything but let the hunger pass. He eats, and eats, and returns only to the feeling of emptiness. 

He will not find it unless he has a stomach to fill. And it laid in front of me, this night, the skin of his stomach crawling backwards as if it wished me to view the vileness that lay there. The blood is almost black now, I laughed, I laughed until it hurt to. 

The days pass with our violence preying upon the world. Melkor destroys it, he fouls the rivers, burns the hills, and dismantles the mountains–it is one thing to destroy out of hate, it is another to do so out of love. 

I would rebuild this land, I would not let the darkness swallow it, I would not let the world bend to my will with fear of breaking. To wield such power would mean stifling the will of the many, for the many are fools, deception is their only hope. 

But I am not Beleriand’s master. I am his. 

Flame, I said last, and flame is what I shall use. It was flame that lay in Fëanor’s spirit, it is flame that would revive the son that laid before me. First, however, I needed to return the body to what it once was. To reforge his skull, weave him back together. It takes time, but the song went ever on in that dark, violent night. 

I placed my hands within him, he felt cold, wet as water, and my fingers grew slick with the dark wine-red of his blood. I repositioned, as I could, the placing of his organs, those that had moved, had run from the body when an escaped had made itself known I am very glad the cold of this depth kept away the worst of the rot, he had no maggots, as I have seen the thralls carry around in wounds. Nor did the overconsuming spread of rot claim him yet. He was well-preserved, and I thanked my quick thinking for the spell, and for placing him here and not further up. 

I had cupped his blood in my hand, like a pool of spring water. I had seen it often, had called for it and brought it to the surface to well from the carvings I made. For the first time, I felt a considerable urge to bring my palms to my lips and drink. I did not. Even I have my limits. 

The blood within him had lessened considerably, it would take more than I could gather to replenish, but less than I could spare. 

O, Nelyafinwë, you will never truly flee from me now. I am in you. 

But the blood will have to wait, I can funnel it into his veins only when the skin is closed and the temple of his body is returned to the glory of which there is no escape. To wait any longer would mean to risk far more rot, so I began swiftly. 

At once, I cradled his head, the hair had already grown dull–the soft color of Laurelin as it faded. Carefully I brought the bone of his skull together again, I was relieved to find his brain intact, the skull not fully shattered. I had taken with me a pail of metal nails, they smelled strongly of drink, and when placed along the edge of his fragmented bone, created a metallic stench that lingers under my nose even now. I pinned his bone together until the pink matter of his brain was no longer visible. I remembered the maia’s words, and carefully threaded the skin together until the paleness merged, just as moonlight mingles along the slopes of Thangorodrim. 

Nelyafinwë’s face was there, once more. I had missed it. 

Ungoliant had drank the light from the Trees, had sucked it from the roots and let the glimmer sit on her tongue as the leaves and limbs shriveled and the world became like her–dark, hidden, basking in the underbelly of the One. I wonder now, if the light felt like blood, thick and wet and warm. Did it move through her throat, travel down the esophagus, and coat her stomach with its glow? For a moment, did she feel the warmth of it and imagine she was the great, vast, blank sky, carrying the stars? 

Nelyafinwë, or a part of him, sat in my palms; and he–it–moved as the sea moves, as the darkness wells in the absence of light. 

But, as before, I placed it back–there can be little spared. I sewed his stomach up in the same manner, carefully, swiftly, careful to keep the skin taut and to keep the line of the thread center and straight. I wished for him to remain beautiful. 

He came together perfectly, terrifyingly ethereal. Only once had I been stunned before, in the depths of that forge with Melkor behind me and pulling at the hammer in my hands. The breath had left me then, and this night it left me once more. Perhaps, Nelyafinwë’s spirit had come and devoured it. 

I was done then, the pale body had been sewn back together. I had limited provisions, none too well for resupplying the body with blood, and so I went about it carefully and, perhaps not, innocuously. I did not wish to cut anymore, I did not wish to bleed him dry–my own veins provided a steady drip, and I inserted a tube to feed it into him. 

Eat, Nelyo, eat. 

—

For how long could he survive as thus? I worried, I will tell no lie, that the flame would blacken his skin and charr him, and he would not, as I hoped, take in a breath into those forsaken lungs. There was little time for experimentation, I relied on my mind and my faith that it would work. That regardless of my transgressions that are, were, and will be, some workings of the ether would light the elements within the flame and grace Nelyafinwë with the immortality he was born with. 

I thought violently of my years spent under the silver and golden light, in the midst of my own time under the dripping wings of Aman’s Lords and Ladies. One could not imagine the feeling of suffering beneath the glory and goodness of those with hands of stone and diamond, they rent the land on which I now stand and bend to my will, that with their stunning throats did mold into existence, for they were much beloved of their land and forgot, seemingly, the life which lived and breathed upon it. 

I hoped now, that in the meager light and under the shining dark, the One would persuade his tongue to speak and force his hands to conduct, and in some action of divine intervention, shake the life as if it were a tree and let the spirit fall upon the wind and settle in gracious return as a man from war. 

It would seem my worries were for naught, for in the early hours of the morning the flame met Nelyafinwë’s breast, it glistened against the shadow of his chest, and lingered as the light of Laurelin did at the end of the day. 

Nelyafinwë has been here for years, nearing a decade. I have loathed him and loved the taste of the loathing for nearly the same amount of time. I loved him here, I found, when the flame kissed his skin and returned him from the wrathful spirit that slouched through the black-dark of this fortress and devoured without end. 

III. The Creation

He was reborn screaming.  

The agony was burning, I imagine. His skin aflame in the new dawn of life. He could pin down the sensation’s origin only that it was everywhere and in everything. His voice grew hoarse until I put my hand over his mouth and he was left silent, silent in this aching oblivion, eyes glued shut like a newborn calf, mouth open in a silent wail, waiting for the executioner to realize their mistake. 

This did not come, he was soon to realize. My tender hand raked down the sides of his face, his skin wet with sweat and the substance of remaking. The scars I had created caught on my palm. His eyes could not unglue themselves to peer into my face, his recreator, his master–he who had put back together the hungry soul of Nelyafinwë; and watched as the eldest Son of Fëanor pulled himself from the stone work and flopped unceremoniously onto the gravel. Wailing like an infant. 

I was disgusted, at first. Violence churned in my gut, and I felt, horrifically and powerfully, the consequences of my wrongdoings. But, in time he quieted and his teeth nipped at his lips until blood, crimson, flowed strong as a river. He opened his eyes to the darkness of this world, with only the forge’s flame to wet his vision; and the fleeting wildness, the cowardly actions, passed from him as he took me in. 

Long had I envisioned what I would say, but in the end I only took his cold hand in mine. “You were dearly missed, Nelyafinwë.” 

—

It is much like the beginning, now. For his tongue is silent and his throat is full of nothing but dark slickness. I know he is not entirely unaware, for his eyes remain alert and they devour the sights as if never before. There is nothing beautiful in the depths of Angband, where flames change the shapes of the walls and weeping echoes as the wind whistles. Still, having been once in the realm of the spirits, I know the world appears as a wisp–the edges blurred and mingling like it had once been erased and re-written, the outlines wrong and strange. If he finds the world to his taste now it is only because he is no longer so hungry.

Well–he hungers as he had before, I feed him rough meat and bitter wine, and he barely perceives it before it is gone. Now, he is satiated. 

But I am not. 

He has grown, sure and stronger. Tall as he was before, but now it is monstrous. I feel grand, such a creation is greater than even that of Melkor; I have made a lovely thing, a creature that is malleable and powerful and beautiful all at once. Though I fear beauty will not make up for lack of intelligence. The creatures that crawl through this dark are monstrous, but they are dull, and in their dullness are therefore hideous. 

My monster will be quick-minded, bright, clever. I will wear him down, and as a precious stone he will come out glorious. 

—

I had taken to idleness, for in the silence of Beleriand and the running fear that coursed as blood through the veins and rivers and paths of this land, war was brewing but had not yet come to pass. In my idleness, I simply observed Nelyafinwë. It is as watching a beast in a clearing in the woods, clambering about–he so tall, straight and erect, that he connects often with the ceiling–marching along the stone floor, mesmerized by the way his fingers fold and flex, in awe of the bruises that swell and purple after he injures himself. He has yet to draw blood–as yet I have–and I do not wonder that when he does, he will smile and fawn, and the blood will be as a toy to him. 

Melkor had called me to the side of his throne more than once on this occasion. I believe he has grown interested now in what I have made–fascinated perhaps. Always is he ever-wondering on the threads of creation, ever since he first opened his mouth wide in the Before and let the Song flow as water. 

It was on one of these occasions that he had me enlighten him wholly on the death and return of Nelyafinwë. I found, horrifically, that I was reluctant to relinquish the tale. Since Nelyafinwë had broken himself, bashed his skull against the stone and seeped out to hide in the realm of Spirits, I had permitted none by myself to bear witness to his body. The only knowledge of him by the orcs and the thralls alike were the fables that ran through the deep, and, for the unfortunate, the meeting with his spirit, he was all mouth and no mercy–and those did not live long enough to return and give truth to the haunting stories. And after his return, I did not let any eyes perceive him, but tongues wag, and soon the tale made it to the Black Tongue; and he begged me to tell. 

It struck me, then, that never before had I wished to lie to my Lord. Deception was our love, it was our mirth, and often it ran itself up through our communal talks and into the lowlight of our intimacy. We engaged, often, in treacheries, violence, and subordination. But I knew better than the lie, especially considering the toy in which Melkor had bestowed me. To deceive on the behalf of a Son of Fëanor, a Noldor who coveted the light sitting now upon my lord’s brows, would not turn well in my favor–and I seek always to please my Lord. 

I relented, and in my relenting felt a wave of both anger and mirth. I wished for my creations to stay under my careful eye, but I was never more joyous to crow over what I had made—I considered Nelyafinwë, the monster I had formed him into, beautiful, and yes, perhaps, foolish for now, my greatest of creations. 

Once my Lord had consumed my tale, from fragmented skull to kissing fire, he smiled and pulled me closer. “Well done, Mairon,” he murmured into my ear. “Will you show him to me? This beast, is he as radiant as you say?”

“I deceive you not, Lord. He is beautiful as the night is long.”

Melkor ran his hand along the cloth of my raiment. Black were his hands, burnt, charred from the Silmarils that sat glimmering above him. “Mairon, my ghâsh, if Aulë could see you now he would fall to his knees. Wasted were your talents in that foul land,” his words were music. “Bring him.”

He gave no room for argument or my own discontent, and truthfully, my own desires were to present Nelyafinwë to the creatures that lingered in our halls eventually. The orcs would undoubtedly seethe at the sight of such loveliness–but I longed most for the faces of the Elves in the crowd, to see their own so morbidly morphed, radiant and diseased. Carved, chiseled, forged by the hand they had grown to loathe and fear. The Edain who held some foolish notions that if the foreign pale-faces, with their light, whetted blades and fierce intrepidness could survive this darkness and linger in the vastness without bending, then they could too–they must also be observed, for to perceive my creation would be to slash the notion entirely. 

I left the hall, face flushed from Melkor’s breath upon mine, but more so by the invigorating concept of a formal affair–an unveiling. Nelyafinwë would be seen soon. To me, this meant clearly that he needed to put aside the silence, the newfound dullness, the affinity for this rank and dark fortress. He needed now, more than anything, to be as kingly as he had in his first form; only now malleable, monstrous. 

—

My idleness fled. I poked and prodded Nelyafinwë, but he did not sing. The coarseness of this new form was welcome, for though stubborn as he was now, foolish and violent, it was preceded by dull childlike behaviors; and I was glad he was not kind. What could this world do with a kind monster? Did they not already have Eru Ilúvatar? 

If I wished for words to come naturally to his throat, I needed to speak more with him. As I write this, it has been less than three days–as I can tell in this festering darkness–since I spoke with Melkor on the matter. In that time, my days have stretched as webs between Nelyafinwë, my lord, and the gathering orcs. Though war does not break upon our gate, it will come soon regardless, and it would be on my shoulders should I not arm our armies; but my thoughts always return to my creation in the dungeons, chained and bitterly silent. 

Conversation, one sided as it may be, came easy. I spoke often of the wars that had raged, the blood spilled, but I spoke little of his life in Aman–if he remembered it, the damage could not be undone, but if his memories of then were shadowed and lost, it would be best. If I wished for his reckless and horrific violence to be unleashed upon the world it would do no good for him to know the enemy, for him to feel a renewed vengeance of mercy and turn from I, his creator, upon the battlefield. Blades would be kept from him, memories would be kept from him, and if they could not, they would be tainted; and I would have him know no peace but that which he found with me. 

I have told him my many names, I have awoken nightmares and placed them in his palm. I have eaten away at what he might have known; and in those empty corners I have given him new dreams. Bloodshed replaces names, fury replaces kindness. 

In the softness of his mouth he figures out what to name me–Mairon. 

“They call me the Abhorred,” I told him at once. I have peopled his mind with the strongest and most vile of visions, I have filled the river with pond scum, it has done me little or great good–I cannot tell. At my words he merely crooked his head; still he is foolish. 

Pale, lifeless lips opened for a moment, to reveal the scent of rot and the soft mutation of my dear words–abhorred, he said, feeling the word pass his tongue and teeth out into the word. 

Should he think that his name, I could laugh. 

I do not yet regret my past actions, but in my deepest hopes, I wish there to be some portion of the Nelyafinwë I remember; brilliant as the night is dark. I know there is, somewhere within him, I need only carve it out. 

But soon, as the words ran from my mouth to his, they prodded at his tongue and bid it move. His voice, unused for this long, half-rotted in the dungeon and trembling, mouthed which words I told him. 

It is thrilling now, and in my greatest creations always is the trembling excitement of the newness momentous. Greater and grander was this, to have remade this prince, this elf of noble lineage, and force upon him obedience. 

His mind, slow to work, is not as his body–which has returned to its former vigor. Muscular and tall, ribbed muscles and sinew moved without resistance under milk-white skin; and not grotesque despite the scars. I have given him some of my own robes, and he appears as some dark king–blackened gold cloth and hair of rust. 

He is much like me, this malformed soul, constructed with vengeance and grief. I believe I was made with corruption embedded in my very being, a spirit who my Lord had sung for his own sake. This before me, is my creation, my being poured into another—he is much like me, hateful and terribly beautiful, akin to my first form; with hair like flame.

The time for his unveiling draws nearer. I need him strong, I need him intelligent, monstrous but beautiful. Dawn comes for me now, I close here.

—

I hasten; and I loathe to hasten. As the words of Melkor bleed into my spirit I can no longer prod my creations, and hope as a child would, that speaking will bring upon him intelligence. He was intelligent once, I remember, in his youth and in the forests of Aman. 

Harsh were my days there, but beautiful did I find the land when it was under Telperion’s silver-white light. It was on one of these pale nights that I strolled from the yellow-dust of the forge out into the gardens of Tirion. The night was heavy pressing, and for the most part the inhabitants of that city were sitting tranquil in their homes, singing and drinking or dreaming of song and drink. I heard the light breathy air of poetry passing from tongues and saw, underneath the shadow of a golden oak, Nelyafinwë, young and lithe but grown full into that hundredth year. 

The poetry, I believe, was poor. A favored court poet of Nienna, but her weeping was natural and the verses were at times heavy. Yet, on Nelyafinwë’s tongue they laid themselves upon my then weary and suffering heart; and I felt my spirits lift. Long had I remembered this, long had I known the name of that Elf, but long had I also despised him for the joy he brought me. 

Neylafinwe was clever, well-read, capable of the charm I had thought only myself capable of. But I was discontented always in those lands, and the charm was mingled with hatred; and it came upon me quickly that I thought of that moment with much disdain. 

I think so now, as I write this. Though I know with this memory I can weave Nelyafinwë an appreciation for the foulest of poets, and press onto his heart darkness and despair in hopes his intelligence will bleed. 

I do not like thinking on my days in Aman–for they were thick as sap with misery. I was surrounded often with fools; and as fools do, they turned their back to the greatest of minds in their affinity for normalcy and peace. Mirthful were their halls, so long as the remainder of the world sowed the ground with blood and bones. 

The merrymaking welled as wine on their sacred tongues, so drunk with mirth were they, that they did not taste the discontent crawling through their populace, until indeed, Melkor had sewn it inextricably among them that they could not tell joy from hate, love from indifference. God from monster. 

Seduction is fairly easy, it is swift, it takes only a taste of doubt before the world grows monstrous and devouring. 

I was swift to follow him, my lover and my lord. In the dark and windswept places he led me safe from the heart of my suffering. I miss nothing but the sound of ungarbled cheer in the square, nothing but the smell of rain on the Trees. 

I am busy here, the war demands weapons and so in the depth of my forge I forge them. My creations soar higher than ever; even now upon Melkor’ head does sit my second greatest—his crown of black metal and ash, rent with the blinding light of the Silmarils. On his brow they mask his face in the beauty of shadows, trailing him like hungry dark tongues. 

All this to say, my world in Angband, in the forsaken lands of Arda, is brighter than ever. Nelyafinwë will soon see it as I do; the One cares little for his monsters, his Valar even less, it is only here where he shall find love. 

“Come,” I had said after he had eaten. No words did he say but he took my hand and let me lead him from the dungeons. Still, he looked about the blood-stained walls as if they were the new awe-inducing sun and moon. I will not show him that, it is blinding, it is bright, it would lead him astray as a moth flying swiftly into the mouth of a flame. But, Nelyafinwë needed to remember the world, and should the tortures of that dungeon subdue his memories, I resolved to strip him of that dark. 

With my blood coursing through him, he cannot be dull, he cannot be a fool. 

We went first to the hall in which the affair would be held. Rows of seats jutted out as sharp teeth would–those the thralls would be chained within, to watch us lords and ladies float about the floor. They could not dance, they would not be well-versed in our movements, nor would they, I imagine, wish to stay once their Lord was distracted. 

Long had I observed him, but at this point my eyes kept careful watch upon my creation. He was unused, in both his late form and this new one, to traversing the lay of Angband. He had arrived shackled and blindfolded, and he had stayed in the dungeons only for my amusement. 

I found Nelyafinwë stalked the hall as if he had come to take what was his. He stood tall, shoulders straight and forehead curved towards the roof lights. It was early dawn at this time, and the night sky was blinking the darkness of twilight. For a long while he peered into the dome of the earth, the stars spoke to him, I believe, in a way that both harmed and rejoiced within him. A memory, a piece of his life before, a dangling remnant he could not reach. These portioned gazes went on for the hour we remained in the hall–Neylafinwe wandering the floor, my robes bunching short around his calves. 

It was in these long, drawn out moments that, I admit, I felt my anger rise. Why could he remain so calm? So dull, even as I spoke with him–but he could stand sure in the light of the stars? It made me bitter, indeed. 

I followed behind him all this time, but at this moment I stopped him short with a tug on his arm. He gave an undignified grunt and turned to me confused. I had touched him, at this time, sparingly, and always light as a new lover. 

“Speak,” I commanded to no avail. He remained staring at me. I thought I saw the muscles of his throat move, perhaps the words hammered against him with a wish to escape. “Speak!” My voice had grown louder, it echoed across the whole of the hall. “Speak, speak! Curse you, Nelyafinwë. Speak!” 

It was in this that a breakthrough was found. In my final word I raised my hand, an attempt to scare him, yes, but I wanted him to bleed. I needed to witness that I was still within him, that I remained his master and no other element had soaked into him. I wished, as before, to find solace in the ruination of his flesh. This was not the case, I raised my hand to strike and in a terrifyingly swift moment he held my wrist in his palm. The fire coursed through his veins, his skin did not bite as chill would, it seared and burnt. It felt good and brought me down from my expanding rage. 

There existed a heavy breath of fear that reigned in this hall for a half-moment as Nelyafinwë peered at me. For in his gaze danced a monstrous hunger, ruinous and violent and all-consuming. 

I realize now, as I had not in that moment, that my earlier wish was granted. I had seen the insatiable need in Nelyafinwë, I had seen it and watched it gaze into me. I believed, foolishly, that he would devour me. 

It could not be done however. I held sway over him, more than he could know. 

Despite the hunger that welled in his eyes, he turned from my hand to gaze into my eyes, down from my face to the expanse of my throat and back again. As if watching the new sun slope down the horizon, Nelyafinwë’s eyes bled from ravenous to the warm, soft look of guilt; and beyond that the desire for forgiveness–perhaps punishment. 

I was, in my swift-footed fear, able to give it. In a movement, I tore my wrist from his grip and took hold of his own, pressing my fingers into his flesh until crescents formed themselves. Blood welled, bright and quick moving as water. Nelyafinwë slunk away from me, grumbling nonsensical noises and rubbing the skin smooth again. I could not help but notice how in this moment, like so many before–when I had punished him from his foolishness and depravity against my being–he had not spit at me, nor cursed, nor looked upon me with barely controlled anger. Rather, he looked…consoled. 

It was my actions, the pain I had caused him, I gathered, that soothed him. Pain upon pain. He was but a beast now, and he would seek it whither he went. 

Nelyafinwë peered upon me again, then, with shoulders rounded and face sallow. He tried, harshly, to smile. Managing only to bare his teeth. 

I am akin to hatred, to loathing and love alike, to the magnitude of those emotions exhibited often in the bleak underbelly of both Angband and Aulë’s forges, but what he harbors is the swathing tide of awe and alluring adoration. Delight is one name for what becomes me, vindication another. It is time there was something that saw me for the mastery of my hands and mind—a creation who can speak–in his own way, now–who sees me for what I am. 

Melkor once did, but the darkness of this world has dimmed his sight now. And his own creations glow beneath his hand brighter. 

There is still anger under Nelyafinwë, it bubbles beneath his skin like a furnace. He cannot hide much from me. It is a fool’s fury; anger without resolution or comprehension–the desire to hit with no knuckles to blacken. 

With my help, he will find enemies–he will know them only by the blood they spend upon our fields. 

As my mind envisioned the scene, the hall was filled with the thundering feel and sound of marching. Into the open doors came a group of orcs–four or five–armored in the metal I had worked for them. They were generals, and in the lead marched one whose name I could recall. Mugarod came forth and bowed before me. Nelyafinwë stood and stared, if he knew the faces and scarred skin of orcs–whether by sight or taste, it shocked him into motionless silence. 

“Lord Mairon,” Mugarod said. “Council, from the King, my lord.” 

“Speak it.” I wished for a swift word. I had, at the time, began to think up a multitude of “punishments” and methods of torment for Nelyafinwë. They would, of course, leave little hardship of his new body and would in the end leave him reveling in my mercy when I ended them. He would resolve to love my pain and my peace, and in time would not differentiate between the two. For now, I needed suffer through the disinterested groans of a general hastily turned courier. “What has the Great Death sent for me?” 

Mugarod bowed once again. So much fear in these ones, despite the bloodshed they had undoubtedly lived through. “The King of All, my lord, commands your appearance at the gate come dusk. That is all I was honored with, my lord.” The others behind him bowed at the close of his words. I merely waved my hand at them. 

I knew what Melkor wanted. For me to view the whole of the world, for his drawn-out speech on how he wished to desecrate it once again. He would remind me of his brother who made the wind which would blow through my hair, and his companions who had made the grass that crunched, charred, underfoot. He would remind me of his plans to destroy it all, until the world’s creations lay in a heap upon which he would lay the bodies of the first and second born. 

It was needlessly tedious. 

Mugarod took slow steps towards the doors; but I called for him. “Did you not notice him?” I nodded my head to Nelyafinwë, who still stood hunched and quiet. When my eyes took him in he looked into my face with great fear. My heart leapt. “Do you know his face?” I asked more. 

“No, my lord, other than he is an Elf.” 

“You have seen him. You were in the ambush, in your youth, some ten, eleven years past. When we captured this son of Fëanor.” 

“Aye, my lord. I remember now.” Mugarod’s eyes moved across Nelyafinwë’s frame. The recognition blazed in his gaze, aside from the awe, and perhaps, terror at what the mighty Elven Lord he once knew of looked like now. 

“Take out your blade,” I commanded. I was deliciously happy. I had experiments I wished to try and the opportunity stood in front of me now. 

“My lord,” Mugarod attempted to decline, I imagine, but I held my hand up once again. 

“Hold it to his throat, but do not let it cut into his flesh.”

Mugarod was slow, but soon he did as I said. Nelyafinwë shrunk back for only a moment but he looked at my composure and, I believe, assumed I would let nothing happen to him. He was right only this time. 

“Tell him your name–in your tongue.” 

The sound was guttural, but in its roughness beautiful in its own way. Nelyafinwë furrowed his brows and peered at the orc’s lips, trying desperately to decipher it. 

“Speak to him, teach him your foul tongue. All of you! Reach for your weapons, prod him as you would the wargs, curse him, wrench the prettiness from his mouth until he is corrupted.” I reminded them of their losses. Of the daughter Mugarod had not the body to burn on a pyre, of the Elven hunters who chased them as game, of the battles in which they lost–and I reveled in the rage as it rose swiftly among them. 

Though warned not to injure Nelyafinwë, the blades soon slicked and poked ar his flesh, drawing meager amounts of crimson blood. My blood. And it flowed down his pale body only to seep into my own cloth. They shouted, they raged, they thrust their armed hands forward. Their curses grew wild and grotesque, and Nelyafinwë bore it all. 

Until, as I had hoped, he had enough. A dagger had sliced down the side of his cheek and the blood dripped so it appeared as if he was weeping red, his mewls jumped to a sharp grunt, and through the crowd–his movements so great and thundering Mugarod fell upon the floor–Nelyafinwë ambled like a fearful beast to my side, seeking solace in my presence. 

The orcs meant to follow him but once more I raised my hand, palm facing them. “That is enough. Mugarod, return to the King and tell him I will see him at the gate.” To the rest, I said, "whet your blades, do not let them dull on monsters in the deep. War comes as a bird to land, quietly but surely. Go.” 

They went, much to Nelyafinwë’s relief. I gathered his mind returned at this moment, if only a portion of it. The orcs had feasted on his memories; for I had known that in the ambush they had tormented him much the same. On his way to Angbang they kept him chained, and in the night sliced him open and spilled their fell tongue into his soul. I wrapped my palm around his wrist, now, as I had before but with a gentler touch this time. 

“All is well, Nelyafinwë, my creation, my beast, all is well.” 

The remainder of his walk went frightfully quick, my mind was working. I hoped in my meeting with my lord in the night, I’d have more to inform him of. Surely, between his words on his plans, he would ask, would tell me the affair was set and need only my readiness. 

The dungeons welcomed Nelyafinwë, and in return he welcomed them. Upon entering, he crossed the threshold and fell into a heap upon the stone floor. It was hard, with his long, lithe limbs, for him to swallow himself, but he looked solemn and stared only into the candlelight. 

I began at this moment to pace. I needed to come up with a way for him to be ready to speak come the affair. I had known him once to be a lover of the written word, the insipid linguistic fascination of his father had molded with the lyrical genius of his dour brother. Nelyafinwë held his own genius, somewhere, buried deep inside him hiding as a child beneath his new flesh and my blood. 

If only I could pry it out of him! I knew, I knew violently what we could do, the two of us. My genius and his beastliness, but I needed, more than anything, for him to remember his mind. To know again words, and genius; and put aside his dullness for the wonders of intelligence. For in that only could we rule the world, could we pave the way for the greatness that in its core, Arda was meant for. 

As my pacing grew rapid, there came a great shock of sound through the dungeon. 

“You,” Maedhros had mumbled, still unused to the return of his tongue. “Afraid.”

I reached for his face, and claimed his jaw between my fingers. “I fear nothing,” I said. I aim not to question the veracity of this statement, I fear nothing, it is true, but in this moment I cannot help but remember that I was afraid—the raw power in my ability to corrupt this creature, to reanimate this son of Fëanor, was a gift bred in Melkor’s bloody waters. I feared, and I do fear now, the likes of which we can create. For Arda, it will be terrible, the beings we could send amongst the world would swallow more like that of Ungoliant tenfold. 

The idea itself makes my blood rise; but it is late.There is much work to be done. 

I return to my previous idea. It is the melancholic words of poetry and lyric that the Nelyafinwë I saw beneath the tree adored. This would, I know, take him back to that time, and perhaps, that mind once more. 

—

In the days past, that walked solemn and true to the night of the affair, Nelyafinwë has, in this new and obedient form, returned. The words in his throat are deep as that of Ulmo, but he speaks intelligent and forms his language as I have hoped. From a rescued book of poems, most sorrowful and praying, I read out into the dungeon and was relieved to find the words probed his mind–within a few turns of this new sun Nelyafinwë began to repeat the poems back to me. On his tongue they sounded as though they had crawled through pain unnumbered; and in time they sounded as my voice. 

I write this now with him at my feet, the dungeons carry not the beauty for him now, and for the affair that comes fast approaching he needs to be dressed as best as he can be. Bathed, perfumed, and cloaked in a raiment of gold–he will be better than this Arien, better than the youth beneath the tree. Beside me, we will appear as two divine forms. 

I am enamored by the way he moves, slow as the falling of snow but smooth and polished. Despite the covering of scars, and the paleness of his skin, he glimmers and glides. Despair rests heavy in his body, I see it take shape besides the fear and the confusingly powerful love for me. I believe it now, that when he first awoke with my flame in his lungs and my blood in his veins, he was overpowered by my presence; and upon taking sight of me he could do no more to resist my lure than a freezing man could resist sleep. With the return of his mind and misty memories, he cannot yet place me within them–I am there, and he does not know if he enjoyed my presence. 

Now, he rests beside me in patience, knees tucked beneath him though he is still beastly tall at this moment. I am the altar in which he prays at–his lips move quick with the words I have given him. 

—

Horror, despair, indignity, and most of all, the sweet taste of triumph flood onto my tongue and drown the taste of blood. The affair lasted until the hours of dawn bit at my skin with frost, at which I and Nelyafinwë returned to my rooms. 

I must begin first with the beauty in which was bestowed to my gaze. I dressed him in the finest cloth I had on hand, a long robe of gold with careful embroidery along the breast, under which he wore black tights stitched together with golden thread that traveled up the sides of his legs. He was, as I had said, a vision of divinity, his fearsome face and lithe body complemented his raiment; and he stood beside me grotesquely beautiful. 

It rained heavily this night, as if Manwë himself knew of what I had accomplished with his delightful Noldor, and as the thunder traveled along the air and the world lit in the silver-lightning, I took Nelyafinwë in hand and escorted him to the hall in which we had been but days earlier. He jumped often at the sound beyond our walls, the storm pressing into his bones–I wondered if he remembered who was in control of this storm, if he knew the face to connect with the torrential wind that battered against the windowpanes, whistling through the halls. But I knew truthfully he would not, and if he could the anxieties of this night would shadow the knowledge. 

The unveiling was anticlimactic, for we crossed into the hall and took a bow beneath the Black Throne, and the sounds of gasps at Nelyafinwë were short lived–the orcs had spoken, had confirmed the rumors, and as fire travels so do words, and none were too surprised at what I towed behind me–the creation. In truth, I was most delighted to see the recollection flood Nelyafinwë’s gaze once he took Melkor in, and most importantly, the Silmarils that stood as stars on his pale brow. 

The oath, I believe, transcended memory and death, and even in his new form he could not be spared from the insatiable lust for those jewels. He was tempered by my presence, by his love for me, he did not move forth to pry them from my lord’s crown–he only looked on with want and the sick desperation he had held for years now. 

We bowed low upon our entrance and I took to Melkor’s side, leaving Nelyafinwë at the center of the hall for all eyes to view him. I had taught him to stay tall, I did not need my monster to be so fearful–fearsome is what he had to be. He took my command to heart and stood there indeed, shoulders straight and arms behind his back as a refined Elf. Upon the crown of his head I had set a simple circlet of gold, which wove round his copper hair as a halo. 

As I observed the horror flit about the hall, Melkor turned to me. “You have done a great thing, my Mairon.” 

His praise coursed through me, alighted me there. I bowed to him once more. “I thank you, my king.”

“He is every bit as beautiful as you have said,” Melkor continued. “Dark and grotesque. I see a monster, I do, but I see also the Elf I had claimed in the ambush. He plots.”

“Perhaps, my lord. But he is obedient to me, like a hound, he recalls his wrath and desperation at my words.” 

“Does he?”

It was then that the night so early, turned its face to the crimson taste of bloodshed. This was not when my horror arrived, for I delighted in my lord’s actions, they were mine and mine his. With a hand he called forth a thrall to his left side. I did not hear what words were whispered, only that the thrall came away grim and frowning, with a sense of weeping cloaking him. 

I turned to Nelyafinwë, who as always kept his eyes on mine. The whole of the hall, from the manacled thralls to the orcs, Thuringwethil, the dark Elves, and the violent men, looked on him. Some grimaced, some smiled. My work was unveiled and I felt in this moment a great sense of pride. It consumed me. 

The night pressed on, surrounded by the sounds of thunder and chatter, the scent of fear coated in false joy. The music of Angbang was ever enjoyed by its inhabitants, but I knew some of the thralls could not help their winces once the drums began. It was not the honeyed music of their lyres and flutes, but the deep, thundering sound of drums and song from the beasts of our world. They sang and one could feel it in their bones. 

I knew not such pleasure as I felt in these moments, the beasts danced garishly, the orcs stomped their feet, Melkor sat high upon his throne, content to look down upon them, I stood beside him, my shoulder to the arm of his throne. I watched Nelyafinwë in the dancing crowd, he shuffled about, for the one fact of learning we had not made it to was the art of dancing–it mattered little in this gathering. 

Despite my joy, I had wished to possess each and everyone with the talents to dance beautifully. It would make this hall–this affair–all the more joyous if they could know how to move with ease and gentleness, something like nobility. 

It was not meant to be, not in this fortress. The night, nor the storm, nor the music, cared much for the jarring movements of the hall, it ate it as it would all sound and sight, and soon as the moon crested above the roof lights, the first thrall came forth. 

It was an Elf, a warrior of days long past, with dingy blond hair that fell down his back as a slip of water would. His hands reached for my Nelyafinwë out from the crowd, dark with soot and missing several fingers, imperfections stained my creation’s golden thread. 

I stood up, but Melkor bid me to the very foot of his throne. 

“Watch,” he said, his voice dark. “Watch your monster.” 

The Elf wove his hands around Nelyafinwë’s pale neck, it barred the scars from my sight–his eyes bulged and the fright within them was great. 

I know not, now, if the lust for violence was made by my hand, for if he could not speak or dance without my direction, how then could he kill? It must be that brutality of some kind was embedded within him at one point–be it in the first kin-slaying upon these now reddened shores, or from his birth. 

Regardless, there lay a half-moment in which Nelyafinwë understood the meaning of this Elf’s hands, their placement and the loss of breath. In that time he made the lone decision to unleash his full power, despite his unseen strength, he shoved the thrall from him. Claw marks remained on the sides of his throat, which made my creation roar in pain. The thrall clashed with the crowd, splitting it apart. 

I knew he was dead instantly, though Nelyafinwë seemed fearful he would rise and again place his hands at his throat. Under the thrall’s head, blood began to puddle, a sick mimicry of the flooding rain outside–the crowd gasped, most in excitement. 

From my peripheral, I saw Melkor wave his hand and more enslaved Elves parted the crowd. 

The thralls stepped forth, all with faces containing great sorrow and fright. To do as they had been told would mean certain death, to deny would bring it under great torment; in fulfilling this command they would choose the better, a swift death not by the Black Hand but by one they had once called their own–they did so under the fear of the Dread which haunted their steps, they did so because for them Death was not a friend, but a bird whose shadow cast their life in darkness, and with this command they could find the wings. 

Beneath their soot-soiled clothing, the remnants of their manacles shaded their skin purple and red, but in their palms each of them carried the hilts of blades. 

Blades crossed the border in which the gathering had made to distance themselves from Nelyafinwë. They fell upon my creation in swathes, glinting metal and grim faces, dark with pain and self-hatred. But they pierced, they sliced, they cut deep into the skin of his cheek and clawed at his garments. I wished myself to step forward and end it, only for them to not mar my creation more than he already was; and I believe in some way I did not wish to see him hurt by another’s hand. 

Melkor had descended from his throne and clasped a great hand onto my shoulder. “This is aid,” he murmured in my ear. I felt the heat of the Silmaril’s on the skin of my neck. I felt his presence within me, coaxing my submission. “He will seek peace from you and you will give it; and in this way will he learn violence is his birthright and comfort only you can provide.” 

My lord was right, in the greatest way did I wish for Nelyafinwë to learn that it was I only who could comfort his soul when his form was injured, could bring solace to his mind when the memories tormented him. I whispered my thanks; and despite the clang of metal and the great groans of death and fearful desperation, I knew he heard me. 

Nelyafinwë now held a blade in his own hand, fitted perfectly in his palm. At his feet lay the bodies of his adversaries, gored and shredded; and I wondered how many he had known in his youth–how many he had passed in Tirion, or had traded poems in the citadel, passing wine and words, gems and silver-light kisses. Had he known the dead? Had he loved them? Had they sworn with him and bore themselves upon the ships to this dreadful land? 

As I wondered, I knew not then that one thrall remained alive, that Melkor had sent him not to battle with my monster, but with me. 

Death has fought hard for me but I have not let it reach me, and should the thrall have come near me, his dispatch would have been horrific. Indeed, he did not make it within a few paces from me before it became clear to Nelyafinwë of his target. Amongst the crowd, he sought my eyes; and they were filled with more than fear, more than despair, but a thick feeling I cannot yet name. Nelyafinwë moved swiftly, swifter than an Elf could, and grasped the thrall by his nape, tossing him to the floor–the stone cracked under his weight. 

Pale hands enclosed full around his neck, and the thrall’s eyes bulged from his head. Blood welled at his lips, which moved urgently in pleas. But softly, garbled and harsh from the strangulation, the thrall called– “Maitimo! Know me, Maitimo!” 

Nelyafinwë’s grip softened, enough for the thrall to suck in a deep breath. The sound crackled and rattled. 

“Maitimo–” he said again. 

I stepped forth. “Nelyafinwë. Do not stop.” 

My monster looked to me, eyes blazing, face red with fury and deep lines of remembrance–tears rolled through the drying blood in valleys of clarity. I worried, for my command had not worked then, for his hands kept receding and the thrall looked upon the moonbeams with great striding relief. 

“Nelyafinwë,” I called again, my voice deep. I wormed my way into his mind, I stretched the limits of his skull and demanded submission. “Kill him.” 

“Do not stop–”

I walked forward, the sound in the hall was gone from my ears, my senses encapsulated solely by Nelyafinwë.

“Kill him!

“Take his life!

“Nelyafinwë! Do not stop!”

Once again, he tightened his grip and the thrall’s throat grew purple beneath his hands. He bared his teeth and he wept and he bashed his fists into Nelyafinwë’s unforgiving side. Moments passed of gurgling, before the thrall’s spirit vanished and his head fell back against the floor with a thud. 

Nelyafinwë bid my command, and did not stop despite the death. His grip did not slacken and he raised the Elf’s head before bringing it down roughly against the stone floor. The crack of the thrall’s skull was half-submerged in the gasps of the crowd, the wails of the Elves beyond. Again and again, Nelayfinwe lifted him and brought his skull to the stone, the back of his head grew misshapen and remolded by the brutality. The floor grew slippery with the red blood, it stained Nelyafinwë and in the crowd's eyes I watched him grow monstrous–I too was covered in the thrall’s blood, in his end. 

When he finished he dropped the broken body and slowly traced the Elf’s bruised neck. His thick golden sleeves swallowed the thrall’s face as a shroud would and he let them be seeped in his blood. He murmured something I could not hear–I think it now a name, the thrall perhaps. 

I crossed the divide, entering the circle the crowd dare not break. Blood was splattered across his face, drenching his circlet, seeping into the golden cloth across his swift-moving chest. Nelayfinwe’s eyes had lost mine, now they gazed upwards, and for the first time met with the moon’s. Ithil leaned in and kissed his face, glinting off the crimson that gathered there. He did not lose that light until I pulled him fully out of the hall. 

The quiet of the fortress swallowed us with its beating silence. We walked swiftly, our shadows passing behind us, the torches on the wall flustered by our wind. Nelyafinwë remained silent, his face hidden and his tongue struck. My hand had not left his arm, and beneath my palm I felt him trembling. 

My bedchambers welcomed us, and I threw him in before me, where he collided with the column of my bed and held on with all his might. The wood grew streaked with his grip, clawing as if he was some animal–I did not revisit the night yet, I did not wish to think of him as such. I had recreated an Elf, I had recreated a Noldorin, no animal, no lurking fox in the woods. 

To return his mind, I need to erase all reminders of this night. Nelyafinwë did not fight as I stripped him of my cloth, nor did he strain from the warm water as I led him into the bath. 

This was then, in the reddening water soaked with blood and herbs, that he spoke. His head hung low, I had brought a cloth to clean the blood from his cheek and in doing so grabbed ahold of his jaw to lift him. When our eyes met, the savagery had gone, replaced with great sorrow. I took hold of a cup to wash his hair. 

“What have you made me?” he questioned as I poured the cup over his head, bathing the blood from his body. 

“Better than before, better than anything this world could spit out.” 

“That is not enough—”

“Do not question me, I am–”

“My master. O, my master. My lord, my creator…” his words were warbly. “I have done a terrible thing this night. I have strangled the life from one I once knew, and the memory came only when the last breath had passed from his lips. Master, I have bludgeoned innocents, slain your thralls; and I do not yet know the taste of guilt, I feel not a lick of it. I did not feel mercy and I do not now feel shame. I know its name but not its taste.” 

I knelt beside him in silence. If he took my quiet for sorrow, he had made me, in his mind, a better being that I am. For I greatly rejoiced–I may not have created his brutality, but I have stripped him of his shame and that is far greater an accomplishment. To have a monster that felt no guilt, who could not give mercy, was better than a beast with a heart. My fear was quelled. 

I knew, however, that to show such joy would pull him from me forever. Nelyafinwë was sorrowful, not yet for the men he had slain, but for the lack of his own remorse on the matter. I needed him to know it mattered not. The dead will always be marching towards death, it is the way of fate, he is the only bringer of it. 

“Do not despair, do not despair,” I said. My hands wound around his head, holding him tight between my palms. His skin was wet with tears, blood, and bathwater; and it stained my palms. “It is not your wrongdoings. The world has taught us to hate ourselves; and you who were born from stone and fire, cannot blame yourselves for your rigid and violent ways. You were born wrong, but I have remade you, I have returned you rightfully to the gloriousness that resides dormant in your spirit. I have created you anew, I rule you, under my command and love this grotesque will, will bend. Your wrongness will flee, you are a monster, yes, but you always have been.” 

Upon his face was naivety and the breath of hope. Slowly, he nodded. “Yes, master,” he whispered. Over my hands he placed his, engulfing me in his palms. Whispering once more, he repeated my words, “I always have been.” 

I left him alone to wash the remainder of the blood and paced outside the washroom as I waited. While inside I heard him call for me, in which he only asked me one thing. “The light in the darkness,” he said. “The sky is bright once more; it is the Trees? Yes? What have they called it?” 

“It is the moon,” I told him. “Ithil; guided by Tilion. I preferred the darkness.” 

“Oh,” he said. He pulled the cloth down his face and stared at the crimson that stained it. “I believe I did too.” 

My skin felt unusually warm. I left him to rest in the heat of the water and sit now writing this. I fear I have become trapped in him; he has taken to devouring me. 

—-

In the morning, we returned to the dungeons. I feared this monster, my creation, if he could not be stopped from his wretched ways. He needed to learn my mastery and my torment once more. 

My lord lurks now, often in the dungeons, often in the solitude of my room. He watches Nelyafinwë. I know not if he fears him and what my creation is capable of, or if he grows envious, desperate to accomplish what I have done. He lurks in the dark with only the blue light of the Silmarils to show he is there. Nelyafinwë, even if he cannot see him, senses he is there. 

Terror has become his constant friend–it has made him irritable, angrier, and the memories of his past enter him without welcome, they come to him and I cannot stop them. 

Soon, I think, he will no longer look at me with love, with relief. If he remembers…

I carve, I cut, I bite, and I sting. Still, they come to him. 

—

Not but an hour passed in my return from the dungeons before I was summoned once again to the hall. The emptiness was stifling, the vastness of the hall and its golden light under the new rays blinding. Melkor stood under his throne and met me half-way across the floor. My hands were warmed under his his, his lips like frost-bitten stone against mine. Blood filled my mouth; I know not whether it belonged to him or I. 

“Mairon, for so long you have been loyal,” he said. 

I leant forward to kiss his hands. “I will always be, my king.”

“Then why have you forsaken me?” 

“I know not what you mean.” Though indeed, I did. Had I not seen the look on his face when I vacated the hall? My hands vice-tight around his enemy? 

“You have played well with him, and clever was your game; but I have grown tired of him and his presence is burdensome.” 

My wrists ached beneath his grip, and I began to think of ways to please him. Nothing but the worst could come to mind–Nelyafinwë’s final death, torture at his hands–utter destruction. My inhale smelt of ruin and smoke. “You will hang him from Thangorodrim, for him to waste away and perish under torment.”

“It was the devised plan since he was taken,” Melkor told me. “He will not waste away, but his torment shall be great and his despair greater.” 

I knelt before him, bones achingly hard against the floor. “My lord, plans change swiftly, surely under the circumstances Nelyafinwë need not hang there.”

“Did you not want the world to see your creation? He will be viewed, he will be seen, the eagles will carry his visage for leagues upon leagues.”

“My lord, my king, I have created him and so I wish to keep him.”

A beat of silence, in which I thought of all the things the three of us could accomplish; a king, a soldier, and a monster–we could dominate the world, we could wipe it free of guilt and shame and remake the greatest of weapons—

“Do you think I know not that you have done this? That son of Fëanor was given many times on his way here to surrender his life, to take his dagger and slit his throat in his cage–he did not. Your Nelyafinwë did not split his skull as you claim, Mairon–I know a murderer when he stands before me.”

In my veins, I felt my blood turn cold. “I had to,” I said. The truth comes as a bite. I hurt him, I took his head to the stone, and though I did not mean for death to come for him, I did not bar its path. 

I knew, in my heart, that I could remake him better than he was before. “My king, forgive me, but see what I have created not with envy but with joy–see what sort of calamities an army of remade Elves could cause. See it, my king, as you do the world.” 

I faced his striking majesty and stood to look at the cold mirth in his gaze. My hopes fell into his palm, and he took them for his own. Melkor’s aim would remain the same, he need not vocalize it, I saw the glory in him, his affinity for pain and darkness. 

It mattered little that I wished to keep Nelyafinwë for my own. Arda’s eyes needed to see him, and the despair he could bring upon the Elven armies would do more harm than my scheme. I saw the plan move to action; and I raged. 

Nelyafinwë bore the brunt of my fury, in the end he huddled along the floor. I reached for him and he settled in my arms. I kissed his face–scarred and fixed with sorrow–I held his hands and I brushed his copper hair from his skin.  For the last time, he settled in my arms. 

—

The years have waxed and waned since Nelyafinwë was gifted to me. The gate still stands as it will for years to come, I imagine. Nelyafinwë looms above the gravel pits and charred fields, for all to witness, for the brutality of Angbang to transcend our borders. For one who did not know of the sun and moon before, he knows them as his constant companions now–the only change in his life. 

I have taken to watching my creation as he rests. Melkor, he must know it, but he must feel able to indulge me. Maedhros, he is called here, so I have heard. Nelyafinwë, Maitimo, my great monster, he peers out into that mist-saturated field, sun and moon glancing through that veil in blinding rays; and I think he finds beauty in it. What meaning is in this, I shall find it–as I know it, he finds beauty where he can, like a hound with no meat in his jaws preying on its own pups. 

I have felt the closing of the maw, and I have been in the maw as it closed. In both cases I have been the better, I will always be the better. 

I have the taste still in my throat; and if Morgoth had been the one to prey upon me but make me not, I cannot yet tell.

I cannot tell. I cannot tell. 

Nelyafinwë; he had a monstrous soul, as did I. I have only given him what he desires, soon the hidden will no longer be hid. 

—

As the writhing days go, I do not oft forget who laid as a drip on the mountainside. Though, as the time went on, I watched him less and less. I will never leave him; he carries me for all time. In the depth of him, in his marrow, he carries me. 

Will he remember this time? I find I shall miss my monster. Not Nelyafinwë, rather the creature he became under my great hand: will he remember me? Once, he called me Devourer. But it was he who has devoured, he who has taken me within him and then fled. 

In his time here, I have struck him with the many names he carries, for to him they carry the semblance of comfort that he received when they came from the mouth of his mother, the mouths of his friends, of his father and brothers. Between my teeth they are stained, and should he return to them, monstrous as he is now, they will speak with my voice, and he will never know peace until he cuts out their tongues. Will he do that, I wonder? Noble prince he was, but unfathomable beast he is now. Nobility had fled. Kindness has fled. 

Cut me from their mouths, Nelyafinwë, but I will remain on the wind in your ears. On the confines of your memory. 

Cut them in vain, but pray, cut them. 

I watched with acrid rage as Fingon severed Nelyafinwë from the slope of Thangorodrim’s foul smile. But within me my heart rejoiced. They did not save Nelyafinwë, he could not be saved—he who they dismembered and fled with was not the one they wished to acquire, he lay still in the confines of my dungeons—-and a beast was with them now. 

Nelyafinwë was not saved, Nelyafinwë could never be saved; he was loosed upon the world. 

In my watching his leaving, I observed the dawn turn impatiently to day; and I saw what my lord had wished me so long to see, the devastation that crawled through the earth, the atmosphere that was tainted by the Song. 

My great creation went onwards, but revelation was at hand and a fresh idea took hold within me. I grew ill with excitement.  

O Nelyafinwë, the harm we shall cause in your body. Arda cannot escape it; and you cannot escape me–not if the Dark Hand is banished to the void, not if the Valar bring you mercy, not even if Time bears you away.