Mairon did not submit so easily.

Melkor spent ages following the fierce, adamantine Maia, who was so proud of his calling and skill. Secretly he courted him, weaving his delicate traps around him: a whisper here, a meaningful look there, all artfully designed to pick at his wounds and widen them. The little things that tarnish a bright soul, like smoke mingling in the flame of a candle.

And what a soul he had! Never had Melkor seen such power, such skill, and such strength of will. A true idealist, bound in his Music-dream of creation and order. Melkor lusted after that soul: Mairon had to belong to him, to work for greater causes than the trifle matters the Valar set him to. He hated to see such magnificent potential going to waste.

He defied him at first, of course. That much was to be expected of such a loyal follower of Aulë. But as time passed and the pressure he put on him grew, his resistance changed. What was at first cold but respectful disregard turned into anger and rash, fearful words. Lately, Mairon had even attempted violence. The Vala simply laughed and brushed him aside – violence didn't scare him. He invented it. Secretly he was glad – it meant that Mairon was becoming desperate at last. The webs were tightening, and his prey knew it.

And now he stood there before him, flame-red hair whipping in the bitter winds of the mountain top, the fire in his veins and sunken eyes only barely contained. He finally came to him – nay, he ran to him. Of misery he spoke to him, of desires frustrated in the Valar's austere and abnegating world. The love for the products of his work, scorned as greed, turned sour in his mouth and was replaced by fury and distrust. He craved freedom in a world where there was none.

There was no one else he could talk to of these things, he gritted through clenched teeth. His fellow Maiar refused to acknowledge his words when he tried to tell them. Aulë had chastised him, causing him to flee. He knew Melkor was evil. He knew he destroyed their work again and again, bringing sorrow and loss. But to Mairon's horror, he was the only one who understood him.

"There is only one way to end this torment," the Vala spoke, his velvet-soft voice carrying distinctly above the shrieking of the wind. "Reject Aulë and pledge your loyalty to me."

The Maia looked appalled. "It is as I feared. You only wish for me to become your slave instead of his, Trickster." He wrapped his arms about himself and stood shivering. "Why am I even here?"

"Do you deny the nature of your kind, to desire to serve spirits more powerful than you are?"

Mairon stared at the pillar of darkness towering above him, pinning him down with ice-cold eyes that made his skin crawl. The Vala was radiating so much raw power, rolling off of him in unclean waves, engulfing him completely. But there was more about him – something dark and sensual like mud, like the abyss that came before Arda. Contrast, Mairon thought with a frightened thrill. He can smash this pitiful pale world and build it anew.

"I do not," he gulped.

"Good. You are here because you're not stupid: you want more than whatever scraps you are given. You are not powerful enough to get it by yourself, and I'm the only one who can give it to you, should you choose to serve me. But not all servitude is slavery, and not all followers are mistreated, as are you. Serving me, you will finally be free."

"How does that even make sense? Surly you take me for a fool, or are a fool yourself."

Melkor kept his rising ire under control. The haughty, insolent Maia still needed to be drawn in.

"You are but stalling the inevitable, Mairon" he said with whatever patience he could muster. "You know that no one else will offer you what I do. They're content to diminish themselves and cower in the dirt like worms. Do you really wish to count yourself among them, you, who are capable of so much more?"

A cloud of uncertainty seemed to pass Mairon and he wavered, so Melkor pressed in where it hurt most.

"And, of course," he smiled, slowly and cruelly. "You are here because you want me."

"Want you?!" The Maia cried, his beautiful, stern face twisting in anguish.

"Yes, you crave me. You are drawn towards me, don't think I hadn't noticed. This stony mask you wear might be able to fool others, but not me. Never me."

A thousand emotions played across the Maia's face. Fury turned to horror, then disgust, then shame. He took a step back and seemed about to bolt. Melkor rued himself for acting openly too quickly – perhaps his prey required some more gentle prodding before the trap snapped? But then the turmoil coalesced into a single expression: an overwhelming yearning.

"I am not supposed to want you," he muttered, as if to himself.

"Desire knows no rules. Now swear to me."

"Why can't I love Aulë, like I should? I must truly be wicked, as they say."

"Swear!"

The growled command had worked its effect. Before Melkor's amazed eyes, the Maia fell to his knees amid the rocks.

"I renounce Aulë," he whispered hoarsely. "And swear to serve and obey you. Please accept my fealty, Lord." He turned away and screwed his eyes shut as if in pain.

Silence. The wind stopped howling and the whole world stilled.

Melkor basked in the glorious sight: Mairon the Admirable, chief of the Maiar of Aulë's forge, finally bowing down and offering himself to him. The Maia twitched uncomfortably in the strange, lengthening silence but otherwise remained perfectly still. Sweat broke on his forehead.

The Vala glided towards him, cloak black as tar fluttering in the wind. He rested his hand on Mairon's head for a moment, as in a benediction, and then lifted his face towards him. The new-found fragility in the Maia's eyes made him want to howl in triumph.

"I accept."

Melkor crashed on him like an avalanche, lifting him effortlessly and bruising his mouth in what might have been a kiss. Mairon reciprocated eagerly, entangling his hands in the Vala's thick midnight hair. Abruptly, Melkor stopped the kiss.

"Enough." he stated to the confused, panting Maia. "You have much to learn yet: about this world, about yourself, about your senses. You must get rid of the teachings of the Valar in order to see clearly."

"What… what will you have me do?"

"Strip," he said, and Mairon obeyed. Melkor eyed him appreciatively. He really was remarkable.

"I want you to run. I want you to touch everything, smell and taste everything. Fair or foul, it's part of the world you are about to shape."

And so Mairon ran, and Melkor ran with him like a thunderstorm rolling down the slopes of the mountain. Mairon was ecstatic: the heat in his limbs, heaving breath, frantic pumping of his heart – he never felt anything like that before, even when he worked hours on end to create the most beautiful trinkets to decorate Arda. His corporeal body finally felt alive. He chased and killed a deer with his bare hands, and ate it raw. He cut himself on hard rocks and rolled in soft beds of moss, letting himself feel both with every nerve ending in his tingling body. He shouted as he ran and laughed and cried heedlessly of his surroundings, rejoicing in the ground shaking underneath his feet. And when he couldn't run anymore, Melkor buried him beneath his body.

He taught him pain, searing and agonizing, and a pleasure so intense he could do nothing but scream as it broke over him. After a while, Melkor rose to his knees to peer over his new servant's prostrate form, all covered in blood and dirt and sticky bodily fluids.

"This is how it's supposed to be," he whispered, drawing sigils with his finger all over Mairon's body. The sigils shimmered like frost for a moment and then sunk into his skin. "Not the Valar's pretty, porcelain love, mocking the flesh. This is perfection, unclean and poignant and real. You will never be able to be free if you won't accept this."

"Teach me more," the Maia begged.

"I will," he answered, standing up. "But now it's time for your first task."

The Maia turned his hot gaze towards him, irises like molten gold rings. "I am ready, my Lord."

"Good. Your first task is to return to Aulë and beg for his forgiveness."

"My Lord?!"

The expression of horror on Mairon's face was almost comical. Melkor smirked.

"Return to Almaren. Say that you've been thinking long and hard of what you said and you are so, so sorry. Be humble and sweet. Aulë will accept you back. And once you're there…" Melkor smiled like a knife, "I will tell you what to do."