A Song Amidst His Torment by Elrond's Library  

1

Prologue

Information is necessary for a realm’s survival. Pain necessary for compliance. Reward necessary for loyalty. Land necessary to keep the people fed and clothed and occupied. Children necessary to fuel the machine of domination.

Mairon knew this. He knew it intimately. He knew it like he knew the Song in his ëala, and the shape and form of his fana. He knew from great and repeated effort how to run the remnants of Melkor’s great empire, how to move vast numbers of people great distances, how to balance the needs of his people with the brutality necessary to keep them in check.

Angband had not been destroyed in the War of the Powers; Mairon had defended it with a will unmatched, utilizing all his skill and resources to appear inconsequential to the Powers of the West. And it was here, in this armory-turned-fortress, that Mairon had begun sowing the seeds of discord that had plagued the inhabitants of Endórë for the past three Ages. After all, it was Melkor who had shown Mairon the mysteries of fleshcraft, but where Melkor used the fëar and hröar of those early Elves to create mindless beasts, it was Mairon alone that perfected the craft, creating an army that could think, but was still his.

Mairon was good at running Melkor’s empire. He was the best.

And yet, he wanted more.

Everything he had done, everything he wanted, was in service to his Lord. He was patient, the way stone was patient – time eroded his resolve, his purpose shifted with pressure and heat, wind and wave. Centuries came and went. Mairon was the undisputed ruler of this great empire, commanding the loyalty of the denizens of the pits and his fleshcraft creations.

If the stray idea lodged in his mind, came into his thought unbidden, even, that in time he could usurp the Dark Vala entirely and use this empire to further his own end, well. Nobody existed strong enough to challenge him in his own halls now. But Mairon held himself back from those thoughts, those dreams of dominion.

Rumblings from the West eventually heralded Melkor’s release from the Halls of Mandos, the occasional Maia fleeing over the Helcaraxë to join Mairon’s forces, bringing gossip, news, even the rare gift from the Dark Vala. New scripts that fed Mairon’s need for efficiency, gems and metals of unsurpassing purity. So Mairon bent his mind and his will to ensuring that Angband was ready for Melkor's return. He was glad that he had resisted the urge to usurp his Lord. Inviting his Lord’s anger would have been disastrous for him and his people.

For he would return, and any thought of treason was instead bent to securing his place and his agenda. Mairon would go to the Blessed Lands himself and drag Melkor back by the ear if he must.

Not literally, but the thought amused him.

Years passed. Angband grew stronger. Mairon sent out troops to secure new trade routes in the east and south, and if his orcs harried the followers of Elu Thingol, then so be it. He quietly coveted the pieces of gossip they brought back about Thingol’s half-Maia daughter, awed and horrified by Melyanna-sister’s daring, and tucked those rumors away for potential future use.

And Melkor came, eventually. His screams of pain and fury echoed across the mountains, and Mairon, ever prepared, came to his Lord’s aid. Gothmog-brother and several companies of his orcs herded Ungoliant-sister into the wastes, and Mairon stayed with Melkor, nursing his wounds and lending him strength until he could take control of Angband in a manner that would not betray his weakness.

Mairon crafted the circlet that held the cursed and hallowed gems from the iron that littered the echoing shores. Because Melkor asked, and could not do it himself.

Melkor was changed. And weak. And altogether incapable of taking charge of what Mairon had tended and grown in his absence.

So Mairon watched, and submitted, and bound himself to Melkor’s needs and desires. He plotted and planned and ensured that he, and he alone, was the true power behind Melkor’s dark throne. He would buy Melkor’s continuing favor, with his fana, with his ëala, with his Song, with his gifts.

By crafting a weapon powerful enough to take on the Elder King himself, high on his mountain throne, and all the other Powers too.

Mairon, at Melkor’s right hand, watched his plans unfold magnificently as the freshly-crowned Noldor King fell right into his trap.