It came from the West, a hot wind that blew in off the sea, and a creeping fog that followed. It blew through the empty echoing Havens and gentle rolling hills, where there were no people to see it coming and warn the major cities. As it rolled across the land, the wind scorched the grass and plants and the fog grew thicker and darker; a shadow blotting out all the light.

The people realised the danger too late, cowering in their stone homes as the fog came and did not leave. The Sun above grew black and those who ventured into the mist did not return. In the dead of night, strange noises crept past their homes, rattling the rooftops, and a distant roaring haunted the distant hills.

But in the fog, a shadow passed. Whatever it touched withered with as if from a bitter cold, coated in frost, yet appeared blackened as if burned. It cared little for the people that feared its passing, for they were much diminished from the Men of old. These Men had no names for the creatures that now haunted their cities and countries, no name for the terrible Shadow that passed them by with questing intent.

But once, the Shadow had a name, had many names, and was known to every single being that dwelt on Arda. As it blew through these hither lands, more and more thought came back to his mind, more than just this imperative instinct.

Give him back to me.

The Shadow pulled up short, seeing the ruins of a great gate that bridged a gap in an immense mountain range. It looked oddly familiar, he thought, looking down at the destruction. In his mind's eye, he could see how they might have looked, where the towers would have been best placed, where the secret ways might have been. But this was not what he had come for. It was...further.

He looked out to the east, spying the desolation beyond, and a single solitary mountain. This land was utterly silent, and dust blanketed everything. Not a single thing lived here, or dared to. Even the plants, normally so quick to overtake ruins when they are abandoned, were scarce and timid.

Give him back to me.

Who was he looking for? He did not know. But every instinct urged him deeper into this haunted land, leaving all who followed him behind to ravage the fertile lands. He had to go on.

Time was meaningless as he searched, since the sun and moon held no sway over him, and under his Shadow their light could not be seen. Yet he felt as though he had searched every inch of this desolate country before he sensed even the merest hint of his quarry.

He descended to the earth, shaping himself into a familiar form as he drifted steadily downward - tall, far taller than even the Ñoldor; hair that rippled a deep blue and black, like the quiet night, scored with streaks of gold; eyes that burned white like the hottest flame. His bare feet touched the land, sending up a small puff of dust. He sighed, breathing deep of the ashen air. It felt like home. He looked down at his body, feeling a small smirk twitch at his lips. How long it had been since he had looked so fair. This was how he belonged, in the form that had housed his spirit at the height of his powers, when he had borne a crown of Silmarils.

Melkor walked through the dust and black ruins, carefully nudging aside rocks and wreckage, heedless of the soot that stained the hem of his robes. Soot and ash had never truly bothered him, for how often had spent time in the forges of Utumno and Angband, watching him work? He had always been in his element then, spinning gold and other metals into wonders beyond the petty imaginings of the other Maia and the Eldar. That was when he had been most beautiful, to Melkor's eyes.

There he is.

Anyone else might have missed it, even a Vala, but Melkor was far beyond all of them. His keen eyes spotted the shadow that stirred at his steps, the quiver of a faint power. It was like the warning growl of a beaten dog - or a wolf. This shadow was just a wisp of a thing, a threat to none, but still it had pride. He had always liked that.

Melkor knelt and gathered the fragmented wisp into his hands; it was like holding smoke, for the wisp slipped and tried to flee from him, even gathering its small amount of power to strike at him. The attack amounted to nothing, save to drive it to exhaustion, shrinking its form even further.

"Is this all you are now?" He thought to this little thing in his cupped hands. There was a mind in there, he knew, just as he knew that this was everything he had sought, the thing that had driven him to cross lands and oceans and void. It was damaged and fragmented now, but it was him, and he was his.

"Come now." Melkor nudged the mind of the wisp, using his Power to urge it back together. He had pieced his own self back from nothing, he could do this too. But his touch was not gentle, and the wisp writhed under the piercing cold and intense heat that it brought. But there was nothing Melkor could do to ease the agony it was enduring as he poured his Power into willing this resurrection.

"You can do so much better than that," Melkor urged aloud, a slight flicker of pleasure sweeping through him at the sound of his voice, the resonant strength of it. "You have always hated anything less than perfection, my dear Lieutenant. Use my strength, and be whole once more."

Give him back to me. For he is precious to me.

His forming was slow and faltering, but with it came the familiar rush of heat that Melkor had always welcomed. And then, all at once, there he was before him, as radiant as the first time they met - albeit with a few, not unwelcome, changes. But he was perfect: hair that flowed to his waist, in shimmering shades of gold, like fire given life; a tall and lithe form, as graceful and supple as a cat, quick to change to its master's desire; a high and noble face, much like that of an Eldar, with the same pointed ears. And when he opened his eyes, they, too, were like fire, flickering and changing hue, and Melkor was, for a moment, entranced.

He held Mairon's face in his hands, and gave a small smile. The power it had taken to resurrect Mairon had not been insignificant, but it was certainly worth it; for this moment, if nothing else. Mairon was now entirely of him, for it was Melkor's power that flowed through him, severing him entirely from even the faintest claim of Aulë. The Maia looked up at him, and Melkor saw the brief confusion there, the disbelief.

He is mine, utterly, unto world's end and darkness unending.

"Master," Mairon's voice was soft and hesitant. "Is this...real? How can this be?"

"I have returned," Melkor whispered, letting his forehead rest against Mairon's. "And thus, so too, have you. The battle will begin very soon, my dear Lieutenant. Will you fight for me, one last time?"