damnation is eternal separation from god by Harp_of_Gold  

To the rich and powerful, to Ar-Pharazôn when he had him alone at night, Mairon murmured that Melkor's favor was bought with offerings of gold and blood in His Temple. To the lowly, he preached a different doctrine. Damnation is to be eternally separated from your God, he taught them. And accordingly, the truest blessedness is found in going to Him of your own free will. He proclaimed it loud and lilting in Temple services and said it lovingly to those who sat at his feet for closer instruction. And go they did, in droves, presenting themselves on Melkor's altar with prayers on their lips.

Too many of Ar-Pharazôn's political prisoners cluttered the Temple today. Mairon knew he could not say no to sacrificing them, any more than he could say no when Ar-Pharazôn took him to bed (and he would not the think the word for such a thing; it would show on his face when he needed to smile). They were an annoyance nevertheless, struggling and screaming and generally unpleasant to deal with. At dusk the actual business of the Temple would begin, and when it approached with no end to the line, Mairon called a stop himself. He would not refuse their deaths, but they could go into holding cells until the morrow. Handing off his bloodsoaked vestments, he left his acolytes to clean the lower altars as he turned his steps to the highest one, the focal point of the Temple, touched only by the blood of the most devout. There he whispered a few words for his Beloved's ears alone. Worshippers were beginning to fill the nave, and it was time to make ready.

Hymns and chanting and incense stirred the crowd to a fever pitch. Mairon let the fervor wash over him and catch him up in it too. He'd long ago learned how to use repetition, posture, music, ritual as tools to make people feel as he wished, but they worked on him if he allowed his fána to feel them. From the back, flanked by two priests who led her in honor, a young woman dressed all in red like a bride walked slowly down the aisle. She held her head high, though she trembled a bit on the first stair, and Mairon received her gladly. This was a proper sacrifice, a gift he could send proudly to his Lord. He laid her upon the altar as if in a dream, speaking prayers aloud and murmuring instructions just for her. She'd heard them all before and gave the responses in turn. When her blood poured over his hands, for one blissful moment he felt as though Melkor was there watching from just behind his shoulder, as he had so many times in laboratories or torture chambers long ago. For one moment, Mairon could forget Ar-Pharazôn's body over his, the thousand indignities he'd suffered, the emptiness of ages alone. He ruthlessly suppressed the urge to turn and look. It always ended too soon.

She had died with a smile on her face, and Mairon filed it away for his next sermon. So should all believers wish to go. He allowed himself to hope, in that last breath, that she had seen something beyond. That wistful hope stayed with him and blossomed into jealousy as the service concluded and everything was scrubbed clean.

When no summons came from Pharazôn, he stayed behind, sharpened his knife, arranged everything to perfection around the altar. He had fresh flowers brought, black and red; lit incense and refilled a few dim lamps, dismissed the choir master who'd been putting away stray sheet music. At midnight, he climbed upon the altar, whispering prayers and entreaties. His red hair flowed around him like a bridal veil. Slowly, not fearing pain, he drew the knife across his own throat. It sank through his flesh like a rising song; like a homecoming. Blood poured over his hands, and for one moment, hanging on the edge of rapture, he listened.

In the Temple, all was silent.

Dawn struck the sky with pale light, and Mairon woke yet again, cold and stiff and alone. Where his blood had dried by the altar he knelt and said the words he'd written to honor his Lord. The tools would make him feel if he let them. He'd weep when the numbness wore off, maybe. He'd tremble with the fire of holiness when blood poured over his hands. It would change nothing. For him there was only damnation.

Leave a Comment