A Song Amidst His Torment by Elrond's Library  

25

Mairon broods.

Mairon gulped down another hearty swig of wine, and sighed. The banner with his sigil, shining bright with Nelyafinwë’s braided hair, stared back at him from across the room.

Thuringwethil, entering their apartment, raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “What’s wrong now, Ada?” 

Mairon nodded at the low table in the center of the room, at the board. The pieces were in place, ready for another game. In the field between the rows of black and white pieces a handkerchief lay, loosely wrapped around an object, which had earned Mairon more attention that he could not afford and questions he dared not answer. 

Melkor had been … most displeased.

“Take a look, daughter mine.”

She narrowed her eyes, considering him for a moment before crossing the room. She knelt at the table and delicately lifted the edge of the handkerchief.

He watched her face for any flicker of emotion, but she merely blinked and let the edge fall. She sat back on her heels, folding her hands in her lap, staring back.

“You knew already,” he accused, smile small but cruel.

She huffed a laugh through her nose. “Despite everything, he was my father too. Of course I knew.”

“How?”

She gestured at the handkerchief, under which lay Nelyafinwë’s amputated right hand, blackened with bruises and rot but still undeniably his. “Plucked from the mountaintop like grapes from a vine. Melkor-father created an unbreakable chain, and I do not doubt it is there still, but there are more ways of escape than the obvious, if one is willing to sacrifice their Queen.” A pause. “Given the opportunity, even the wolf will gnaw off his own paw to be free of a trap. At least, so they say.”

Mairon hummed.

“Ada?” she paused again, hesitating. “What was the point?”

“What do you mean?”

“Of keeping him here. Of …” she gestured vaguely to the side of the apartment where the children resided, where Nelyafinwë had resided for many, many long years. “Of us.”

He let his eyes drop to his wine glass, considering. 

How could he excuse the horrors he had brought upon the beautiful flesh of Nelyafinwë, changing him and breaking him so that he might fulfill Mairon’s desires and thus edge his own fana, his own projection of his very self into masculinity – and how he had then sold that access, the opportunity for change for other services Nelyafinwë might provide him? The blood did win out, as he thought it would. The Sindar were of lesser bloodlines, Elmo a prince, yes, but of the line of Enel. If only he had access to any of the line of Imin – a Vanyar royal, perhaps … But no. He would not have this opportunity again. 

How to justify the violence done to bring about beings that could, that would, in time, help him achieve all that Eru Themself had charged him with, in the time between the Third Theme and the Descent?

How could he explain that his purpose in the Music was to ever seek order, and the most efficient method of ensuring order aligned with his designs was to take control of the mechanisms by which power was dispensed? 

How to balance her emotions, a child of the world, with honesty, that he needed her and her brothers to overthrow his weakened husband, sweep over Endórë, and depose the Valar from their high thrones upon Taniquetil, all so that he might remake Arda in perfect order himself; that she was merely a tool in service of his own aims? She was an aberration, yes, but that made her unique. Melkor wouldn’t, couldn’t see them coming, when the time came. 

Mairon sighed. He didn’t have to explain. He didn’t trust her enough, not yet. “Nelyafinwë served me a practical purpose. He had no other tasks than to be here to raise you. You know how busy I can get.” She nodded, pursing her lips. He continued, “In time, as you grow into yourself and your power, we can begin planning in earnest for you to fulfill your part in the Song.”

Thuringwethil glared balefully from across the low table. “That’s not an answer, Ada.”

“That’s as much of an answer I am willing to give,” Mairon snapped. “It’s as much as I can give you, at this juncture, or risk losing more than I already have.”

She smiled, baring her fangs. “You think I’m a liability. That I’d talk.”

“Would you?”

“Ada,” she scoffed. “I’m still here, am I not? I have not abandoned you. I had only one reason to leave you, but he has made it clear he does not want me.” A pause. “He left me behind.” Her voice turned bitter, resentful. “Melkor Lord-father will hear nothing from me. Never.”

Mairon slowly smiled into his cup. 

Let Nelyafinwë rally the Noldor. What did it matter? Let him keep Melkor distracted, irritable, angry at something other than Mairon. Let him die in a manner becoming of his pride. Shame would keep Nelyafinwë silent about what had happened in these apartments. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. 

Mairon already had what he wanted, what he needed.

Another piece of his plan, delicate as a moth’s wing, fell into place. 

Certain facts about the world were immutable, and he ordered his thoughts around them.

Information was more valuable than gold. Pain was necessary to ensure compliance. Armies were currencies that could be spent, with care, to achieve his goals. Children were necessary to fuel the machine of progress. 

Thuringwethil’s total loyalty would not be so easily bought, for resentment at abandonment was an instable foundation to build fealty upon, but that was acceptable.

He had time.