Zen, or the Art of Learning to Live with a Lisa Frank Letterbomb by kimikocha  

“No,” Gothmog hissed into the palantír, moving deeper into the shadows with a worried glance over his shoulder. The noise and glow of the festivities in the grand hall were behind him, but this was the sort of conversation that could bring consequences were it overheard. “Damn it, Eönwë, listen to me. Your idea is terrible. I’m sorry. You know I love you, man. But there’s not a chance in hell — no, that’s not better! Fuck’s sake. No. Have you taken leave of your senses? No, absolutely not, I cannot endorse—”

A low, smooth voice interrupted him. “Trouble in paradise, my dear?”

“GAH!” With an undignified squawk of horror, Gothmog slapped the cover over the palantír and then, irrationally, hid it behind his back as he whirled to face his best friend. “Nothing! It’s nothing! I didn’t do anything, I swear!”

An amused little smile tugged at Mairon’s lips. “Really?” One elegant eyebrow arched, as if to add, I don’t believe you at all, you know.

The trouble was, there was no possible way Gothmog could admit to this. Not if he wanted to avoid causing an immediate resumption in hostilities between Angband and Valinor — specifically, in the form of his best friend in the whole world trying to murder his boyfriend by any means necessary. As long as he could just make the dear featherbrain see sense before doing something that would cause an explosion bigger than the one that had brought an end to most of the warrior land-birds (which Gothmog had always quite liked, albeit a little guiltily — but who hadn’t liked the sauropods?) — everything would be fine. He could keep his loved ones at opposite ends of an ongoing armistice and worry about the geopolitical implications later. Everything would be fine.

“Really,” he insisted, trying not to look guilty. Flames sprung up from his head and shoulders even as he tried, the equivalent of a blush reflex. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s great. Why would something be wrong?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Mairon’s gaze trailed slowly over him, the smirk growing wider. “You know, my friend, you’re a terrible liar.”

“No, I’m not!” If Gothmog didn’t get out of this right now, he was doomed. Everyone knew how good Mairon was at talking people out of their secrets — he was about as good at getting them as Gothmog was terrible at keeping them. He looked around desperately. “Hey, um, did you manage to get any of the pecan pie? I saw Tevildo was heading toward it.”

“Pecan pie?” Mairon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously even as he glanced back towards the hall, clearly torn between the siren song of sweets and the pastime of poking his best friend.

The sweets won.

“This isn’t over,” Mairon warned over his shoulder as he headed back toward the hall. Gothmog didn’t respond, as he was already fleeing for his life. Now, as long as he could just get back in contact with Eönwë before his boyfriend could make good on his threats…

*

“Eönwë? Hello?”

“Eönwë, can you hear me?”

“Darling. It’s me. Answer your palantír.”

“EÖNWË!”

“…Oh, thank hell. Where have you been, man? —You what? Fucking — never mind. Where did you say you hid it?”

*

Among the many traditions of Angband, at this very moment, the one that involved distributing gifts to all on the longest and darkest night of the year was by far the most inconvenient.

“Out of the way!” Gothmog barked at the gaggle of guards who straightened up and then bowed, trying to pretend that they definitely hadn’t had any of the solstice punch during their shift as he approached at a dead run. “Sorry!” He gasped as he shoved past them. Poor discipline among the soldiery was the last of his concerns right now.

Fuck. Fuck. He skidded to a screeching halt just inside the doors to the great hall, barely managing to avoid sending a magnificent platter of roast boar flying. Where was Mairon? And more importantly, where was the package?

Mairon was up at the head table, occupying his (Gothmog’s) father’s throne as said father mingled throughout the great hall, delivering gracious words of acknowledgment to his subjects. It was evident that Mairon had already received the gift Gothmog had sent him — a handmade, slightly misshapen quilt — for he was wrapped in it, turning to laugh at something Langon had leaned over and said as he lazily… undid… the bow… on a small, unassuming gift box…

“Mairon!” Gothmog bellowed across the hall, not above startling half the attendees or looking a bit foolish for the sake of preventing what was about to happen.

His friend looked up, confused, and cocked his head. What? he asked, smooth voice ringing in Gothmog’s head. And with an absentminded move, he opened the box.

Everything exploded.

Or at least, that’s what it looked like.

When the burst of intense white light cleared — it took only seconds, if that — it left no injuries, no apparent physical harm done to anyone, unless stunning one unfortunate orc so much that they forgot to close their mouth and lost a bite of whatever they were eating onto the table. But Mairon…

Mairon was rising from the throne, expression perfectly serene, the very picture of poise and grace. But as he locked eyes with Gothmog… Gothmog felt a shiver go down his spine.

Once the color of flame, Mairon’s hair had turned to bright, iridescent, shifting shades of… rainbow. Not just the hair on his head — this had even affected his eyebrows and eyelashes. His normally citrine eyes had become a striking shade of violet. When he parted his lips and lifted a hand to brush his thumb against his upper teeth, Gothmog had a sinking feeling — even without seeing it he knew, he just knew that his friend had found his fangs filed back into tidy, dull, unthreatening canines. Tiny unicorns of a style Gothmog knew to be favored by the Vanyar danced in the air around him.

I look forward to hearing the explanation for this, said Mairon, violet eyes boring into Gothmog’s. Then he stepped forward to address the burgeoning commotion.

“All is well,” he proclaimed, holding one hand up. His voice was smooth and pleasant, reaching every corner of the room, as it always did. “It is merely a harmless prank. There is no need to be concerned, but I beg my lord’s grace to take my leave early.”

Across the room, Gothmog’s father nodded. Mairon bowed in acknowledgment.

“Thank you, my lord.” Still addressing the hall, “Please continue to enjoy yourselves in my absence. May this night never end.” With that traditional expression of goodwill he swept down from the dais, heading for the doors with his head held high, and a sidelong at Gothmog that said his best friend had best accompany if he knew what was good for him.

Gothmog fell into line. What else was he to do? Close up, he saw that the unicorns came in different shades of color — this one a very light pink, this one purple, this one pure white.

I find myself suddenly in great need of a bath, Mairon informed him as they left the sound and lights of the great hall behind. Specifically, the hottest bath which may be found in Utumno. Your quarters will suffice. I trust you will not object.

“‘Course not,” said Gothmog automatically, not needing to think about it. There was precious little in the world that he would deny his best friend. And when it came to baths — it had long been an understanding between them that Mairon had free access to use Gothmog’s, because it was in fact the hottest bath in Utumno, and Mairon’s willingness to bear the frigid cold for love did nothing to decrease his dislike of it. The fact that Mairon had suggested that Gothmog might object was, in itself, a little unusual.

I do hope for your sake that whatever sorcery your lover has used comes without danger of staining, else you might look forward to finding unicorns dancing in your quarters for months, Mairon remarked, as if reading his mind. His voice was entirely too friendly, too pleasant. Gothmog felt another shiver go down his spine.

“I’m…” He had to stop and cough awkwardly. The unicorns smelled like fresh violets and bergamot. “Look, Mai, I’m really sorry. He means well?”

I am quite certain he does, said Mairon, in a sweet tone of voice normally reserved for people whose internal organs he would be rendering external within the next few minutes.

“I did try to stop him,” Gothmog pointed out, feeling the need to defend himself despite not technically having done anything wrong. “He got there before I did. And you opened the box before I could stop you.”

“So you say.” Mairon’s voice was lovely, melodic. The sort of thing one might hear just before he started pulling out their fingernails.

“It’s true!” Gothmog protested. This was beginning to seem a little unjust. Mairon ignored him, marching grimly on to his quarters with unicorns frolicking in his wake.

Just inside of Gothmog’s quarters, he paused, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Gothmog. Are your towels adequate?”

“Uh, they’re clean?”

“…Hmph.” Mairon scowled. “I suppose that will have to do. One oughtn’t risk ruining the good linens with… whatever this is, after all.” Without further ado he stripped off his clothes and stomped off to the bath. To his vague horror, Gothmog couldn’t help noticing that for some godsforsaken reason, the carpet did in fact match the curtains.

A few seconds later, Mairon let out a horrible shriek. “Gothmog!”

“What!” Shaking off the inertia brought about by sheer dismay, Gothmog hurried over to the bath and stuck his head inside. At first glance all he could see were those bright, flowing, rainbow tresses and violet eyes reflected in the mirror which hung above the sink on the far wall — then both Mairon and the rest of his reflection reappeared, staring aghast at each other in the glass. The reflection’s eyes slowly found Gothmog’s, and then without warning the face twisted in another ghastly scream.

“What the fuck did he DO TO ME!” Mairon’s fingers curled in his hair and jerked as if he could tear it out. “HOW COULD HE, HOW COULD YOU LET HIM, HOW COULD YOU—”

Ah, a meltdown. There was no point in trying to reason with him in this state, so Gothmog simply settled down on the wicker storage bench just past the door curtain, pulling out one of the books he kept there for just such occasions.

After shrieking again at a pitch that rattled the light fixtures, Mairon dove down into the center of the basin where the water immediately muffled the sounds. The water started to boil within seconds, hot steam filling the bathroom. It smelled like geraniums and made unicorns dance on the ceiling.

With some concern, Gothmog put his book aside and leaned forward, squinting at the bath through clouds of steam that reflected more rainbows than could reasonably be accounted for by light sources. The water in the bath seemed to have turned to swirls of glittering pink and purple.

Then Mairon’s head emerged from the depths, violet eyes plaintively finding Gothmog. “Did it work?”

“…Uh.”

Gothmog looked his friend over. Mairon’s rainbow hair now sparkled as if woven with fine crystals. His skin had gained an iridescent sheen.

“No, man,” said Gothmog, wincing sympathetically. “Sorry. It’s worse.”

Mairon stared at him in dismay. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” There was something morbidly fascinating about how the water dripping from Mairon’s hair held all the vivid shades of the rainbow, yet the colors of his hair held perfectly fast. “I’m so sorry, Mai. I’ll get Eönwë to fix it.”

“Please do,” said Mairon, slumping against the side of the bath and burying his face in his arms. As Gothmog left to go and fire up the palantír, he heard something that sounded heartrendingly like a sob.

*

Several minutes later, an awful roar echoed through the bedroom.

“What do you mean, ‘you can’t’?!”

*

Three hours later, Gothmog’s bathroom smelled like patchouli and a headache-inducing array of flowers. It had also been redecorated from top to bottom in magical pink, purple, and rainbows, all of which sparkled. The proximal source of the aesthetic horror, Mairon, was hiding in Gothmog’s bed. His usual radiance had been reduced to little more than a miserable lump under a misshapen blanket knitted in black yarn, alternately weeping and spitting invective.

“You think this is ethical, do you,” he’d snarled at Eönwë through the palantír, violet eyes gleaming with a malevolently pink sort of light. “Of course you would. Whatever happened to free will, featherbrain? Self-determination? Hypocrite! You make me sick.”

“Manwë said it would mend you,” Eönwë protested helplessly, white feathers a-rustle, seeming lost for words. Mairon buried his face in one of Gothmog’s pillows and screamed.

“I don’t need mending, birdbrain!” He came up with a mouthful of white feathers, having apparently bitten the pillow and ripped a hole in it despite the loss of his sharp canines. “What would your boyfriend say if you said that to him!”

“Everyone needs a little mending sometimes,” Gothmog said reasonably, which got a handful of feathers thrown at him. “But yeah, no, I get it. Honestly, Eönwë, this isn’t cool. Would you have done this to me?”

“…Yes?” said Eönwë, dark brows knotting together. Gothmog sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Okay, so that’s a thing we should probably talk about. I wouldn’t like it if you forced me to take on some aspect of a fána that I hadn’t chosen. Honestly, I think most people would find it upsetting. Please don’t do that.”

“I won’t.” Eönwë looked doleful. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t know it was going to do that. Manwë said it would be good for him!”

Mairon let out a hair-splitting shriek. Motes of dust floated down from the ceiling.

“Yes, well, what Manwë thinks is good for someone might not be what they think is good for them, yeah?” Gothmog pointed out over the racket. Eönwë nodded, though his brows remained furrowed a little in confusion. It was understandable, Gothmog was forced to admit, despite the incredible inconvenience and dubious ethics and sheer wrong-ness of it — after all, most citizens of Valinor would almost certainly take it the wrong way if offered a simple friendly greeting from the denizens of Utumno, given their firm preference for long days, short nights, and no spiders whatsoever.

“I suppose you’re right,” Eönwë said mournfully after a brief silence on his end. “I really don’t know how to change it though, Moggie. Does this mean we have to break up now?”

“No,” said Gothmog. (Mairon glared, huffed, and dramatically threw himself back under the covers, but did nothing worse. He was a good friend like that.) “Maybe you could ask Manwë about how to undo it?”

What followed was a very long, awkward silence.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Gothmog sighed. “Look, sweetie, I don’t know if I need to tell you this, but if this doesn’t get fixed somehow I’m pretty sure the next step is going to be a letter bomb for you — and the way things are right now, I honestly can’t blame Mai if he decides to curse you with the appearance of shadow and flame until this stops. Dad will definitely help him, and in fact, he might do worse. So…”

“I understand.” Eönwë nodded, his aspect solemn. “I will try.”

Mairon peeked out from under the blankets, violet eyes sparkling malevolently. ‘Sweetie?’ he mouthed at Gothmog, sticking his tongue out in disgust. Gothmog rolled his eyes at him.

“Thanks,” he told his boyfriend, “Keep us posted.” Then he covered up the palantír.

*

Three days passed by without any progress. “He said Mairon already has the means of fixing it within himself,” Eönwë reported back on Day 2 with great cheer, clearly believing this to be a solution. Gothmog groaned. Mairon let out a screech that shattered Gothmog’s teacup and dove for the palantír, hissing and spitting and snarling out threats that would have burned an orcling’s ears.

“You don’t have to be rude,” Eönwë said, looking crestfallen. Gothmog grabbed Mairon around the shoulders and wrestled him away from the palantír, lest he override its delicate sorcery and leave it displaying nothing but rainbow wrath forevermore.

“Rude, I’ll show him rude—!”

“Mai, you know I love you, but if you break my palantír, I’m going to be mad—”

All of the fight suddenly left Mairon and just like that he sank to the ground, sparkling rainbow tears leaking from his eyes. “You don’t understand, Gothmog, you don’t know how this feels—” He caught sight of the colors of his tears and let out a high, thin wail of distress, beginning to sob in earnest. “I’m — c-contaminated, Gothmog, can’t you s-see that, I can n-never show my face in front of anyone in Utumno again—”

“Mai, genuinely, you’re terrifying no matter what colors you are,” Gothmog told him, squatting down next to him and patting him on the shoulder. “The terrifying-ness is in you, it’s not a function of how much you do or don’t happen to look like an angry bonfire at the moment.”

Mairon just continued to sob, apparently too far gone to be comforted. Gothmog picked up the palantír and put it back on its little stand, meeting his boyfriend’s eyes with a weary sigh.

“Thanks for trying, sweetheart. I appreciate it. Really. Is there any way you can try to get him to give you instructions that are a little more clear — you know, step by step, easy to follow — or even just get him to undo the curse himself? This really is an awful thing to do to Mai, I’m sure you can see that — forcing him to stay like this, in a form he hates, it’s just cruel.”

“I’ll try,” Eönwë said doubtfully. “But what I told you is already about the clearest instruction I’ve ever gotten from him. It doesn’t really get clearer than that.”

On Day 3, the inevitable visit from Gothmog’s father came. Gothmog shoved the palantír into his closet under an overflowing basket of yarn, then stood there awkwardly as the Lord of Utumno silently regarded the blanket-covered lump in his bed.

“Mairon,” the Dark Lord said at last, “Come out from under there.”

“No,” the lump in the bed sniffled, sending the Dark Lord’s eyebrows up toward his hairline. Defying direct orders had never been something Mairon was known to do. “I don’t want to. Don’t make me. Please.”

Melkor’s brows knitted briefly. He glanced toward Gothmog, who shrugged and looked away, feeling a bit uncomfortable. Personal relations with his father had always been weird and distant — a fact which likely made the dynamic with Mairon being Gothmog’s best friend considerably less awkward than it could have been, but didn’t lessen the fact that circumstances like these always felt a bit strange.

“What ails you?” Melkor said at last, sitting down cautiously next to the lump, which emitted a sad sound like the world’s tiniest teakettle dying.

“I don’t want you t-to — hic — look at me.”

“Why not?” Melkor asked, looking at Gothmog again, who pretended not to notice.

“I’m hic — h-hideous,” the lump sobbed.

Melkor reached out and touched the lump. It quivered and made an attempt to shuffle away, which was arrested through the large hand holding onto some bit of it through the blanket. It made a distressed noise and stopped moving.

“Mairon. Is this about what happened at the feast? Have you forgotten that I was there, and witnessed it?”

“N-n-no,” whimpered the lump.

“Then why do you flee from my gaze?” inquired Melkor, stroking whatever bit of the lump he was hanging onto soothingly with his thumb.

“I — hic — it’s w—” A messy snuffling sound. “Worse now.” A light tug at the blanket elicited a distraught shriek. “NO! Nonono! Don’t, master, please…”

Gothmog coughed uncomfortably and stared up at the ceiling, where several motes of dust were floating down. “Ah, father…”

His father silenced him with a raised hand, then reached out and took hold of some bit on the other side of the lump. Probably holding Mairon by the upper arms through the blanket, if the extra lumpy bit on the one side was his head.

“Mairon,” said Melkor to the lump, firmly but not unkindly, “I know you for one with the strength to bear all manner of extraordinary torments and laugh. Yet to let me see your face is too much for you?”

A brief pause. A loud sniffle. Then the lump said, quite pitifully and not a little petulantly, “Yes.”

Melkor’s lips twitched. “My. How cheap the price which buys your loyalty.”

That’s not fair — Gothmog scowled, shifting uneasily in his stance.

“What,” protested the lump, sounding wounded.

“You swore obedience to me in all things, did you not?” murmured the Lord of Utumno, lips ghosting over the top of the blanket. Staring very hard at the ceiling, Gothmog made a face.

The lump shivered. “Y-yes.”

“And if I bid you let me look upon you now, will you deny me?”

There was a very long pause — long enough that Gothmog started to wonder if Mairon had managed to miss the question, or if he was actually going to deny Gothmog’s father. Which could make things… awkward. Gothmog knew who he would choose if it really came down to that, but it would be… incredibly awkward. He didn’t really know what would happen.

But finally, in a very small voice, Mairon whispered, “No.”

Slowly, with the inexorable movement of Melkor’s hands, the blanket slipped away. Large hands on Mairon’s upper arms turned him around to face Melkor; he turned his head and buried his face in his shoulder, trying fruitlessly to hide.

As soon as the blanket was withdrawn, a soft pink-and-purple light seemed to surround Mairon. Unicorns danced around him in every shade of the rainbow to the tune of a very, very soft song, like a tiny angelic choir. His skin had taken on shades of subtle, shifting hues, glittering in his form’s inner light like many-faceted crystal. His hair, which normally held itself to the length of his mid-back, now fell past his hips, full and fluffy and painted with all the colors of the rainbow. Even his nails were affected now, sparkling like rainbow gemstones. Hells — from an attempt Mairon had made earlier that day to fix the problem by drinking copious amounts of black dye, Gothmog knew his best friend now vomited rainbows.

It truly was a sight to behold.

Melkor stared at it for a long time, his pitch-black eyes taking in every inch. Mairon allowed himself to be observed, stiffly, with his eyes squeezed shut and his face scrunched up.

At last, the Lord of Utumno spoke. “Mairon.” His voice had gone deep, a low gravelly rumble.

Cautiously, Mairon opened one violet eye and made a very soft questioning noise. Melkor’s hands clenched convulsively around Mairon’s upper arms, fingers making deep indents in the blanket.

“Do you have… the least idea of the gift you’ve given me.”

“N-no?” Mairon squeaked, both eyes opening wide as he gazed up at Melkor. “I don’t—” His words cut off as teeth sank into his neck.

“Never would I have imagined such an opportunity,” Melkor growled as he pulled back a little, “To defile something so innocent, so bright-and-light, so absurd—”

“THAT’S GREAT, BUT DO IT IN YOUR OWN ROOM, PLEASE,” Gothmog bellowed hastily before he could hear anything else about what his father would like to do to his best friend.

The Lord of Utumno chuckled, gathering a doe-eyed Mairon up in his arms, still wrapped in the same misshapen knit blanket. “As you wish, my son.” Throwing a last comment over his shoulder as he turned to leave, “Ensure none disturb our rest before we see fit to emerge.”

*

It was another three weeks before Mairon emerged, looking entirely back to normal save for the flush in his cheeks and the wobble in his step. Upon catching sight of Gothmog’s seat at the breakfast table, he hurried over and wrapped himself  around him before melting into a seat and proceeding to steal a biscuit.

“You look better,” said Gothmog, stealing back the other half of the biscuit. Mairon giggled and wiggled in his seat, then tried to confiscate the entire jar of honey. “Hey, no, you cannot use the whole thing, there’ll be more honey than biscuit. Oy!”

“It was one of those things that’s got a stupid trick to it,” said Mairon, using the distraction of the honey-jar to steal the center of Gothmog’s cinnamon roll. “It’s mine now! Stealers-keepers! —My lord said it was the, ha, the sort of thing where the curse is broken once you stop being upset about being cursed. He’s been showing me how it’s done.”

“Right,” said Gothmog, taking another cinnamon roll for himself and dumping the rest of his other one in front of Mairon. “That’s nice. So everything’s good now?”

“Oh, yes.” Mairon unhinged his jaw and swallowed the rest of the cinnamon roll in one gulp, then beamed. “It’s very good. We might even use that fána again sometime. Just between the two of us, of course.”

“Thanks, I didn’t need to know that.”

“Sorry, dearest,” said Mairon, dropping a kiss on his cheek before unsteadily standing up. “I’ll see you again later. Just wanted to let you know that all is well.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Oh, and incidentally…” Mairon passed him something as he turned to leave, then flashed a radiant smile over his shoulder. “Here’s a little gift. From the both of us.”

Gothmog looked down at what he’d been handed, then groaned and dropped his face to the table. What he held was a little red and black envelope, sealed with a ribbon and crimson wax. On the back, in lovely vermilion calligraphic script, were two simple words: ‘For Eönwë.’

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