The greatest achievement
Somewhere on the fringes of consciousness he lay. He was slowly being drawn away, pulled apart, absorbed by the cosmic maelstrom at the will of the great Power, and the Void swallowed him.
The Maia gasped, drawing a violent breath to ensure he lived, fiery eyes sweeping over the confined space with lightning speed.
He was yet alive, yet whole. And still in Utumno he thought bitterly, halfheartedly pulling at his chains. Now that he considered it, was the Void, in its soul shriveling nature, much worse than this?
By his very nature he needed a purpose, and now the Maia felt stripped of it, and it hurt more than his bruised pride, more than his shackled throbbing limbs. More than his bloodied, swollen cheek. Or what remained of it.
Why was lord Melkor-
He could not think it. He would not...
But why? the stubborn thought persisted.
Why was Lord Melkor doing this to him? The pained question reverberated through his chest, but was soon struck down.
You wretch, another thought pierced his musings. A new thought, and a new voice. The Maia realized, frowning, that he had never heard this one before. It sounded of nothing and yet it burrowed its meaning straight to his center. You are never the casualty. Only the weak become casualties. It is not for weakness that he chose you, and none other.
The sound of his blood staining the adamant floors his only company for what seemed like years now, the Maia pondered on his last encounter with his Lord, so long ago.
An eternity had passed since the Vala had deigned to make his presence known.
And though his physical form required little sustenance in lighter living circumstances, he would soon reach what the Maia knew would be his final limit of endurance.
Again, he wondered what this all was for. Had he not proven himself already? Had he not listened, lied, reported all that lord Melkor needed to know and beyond? And with swift efficiency nonetheless, his grudging pride said.
Mairon wondered, for the thousandth time why his Lord had left him bared, humiliated and alone for so long, prey to the never ending memory of his past and deeds. What was he planning to achieve with this? What part of his learning would this weigh towards? What did the pain matter towards?
"Sleep," a swift whisper feathered against his right ear, and the Maia fell against his chains with a haunting rattle.
He regained his senses to the darkness of another enclosure. Obsidian again. The Maia shifted, wondering if he were alive or if his body had finally surrendered, and so sundered from it he now reached the Halls of Mandos. A needling sliver of power struck his mind so hard he saw nothing for a good time. When he could open his eyes again Mairon noticed he was lying down this time, spreadeagled against a hard surface. He could not move though no chains fastened his limbs. His eyes focused, pupils widening at the sight of the black clad presence.
"Lord Melkor," the Maia spoke, both relieved and loathing his pitiful state. The last he wished was for the Vala to see how much this trial was truly affecting him.
"It is time," Melkor said without preamble, producing the now dreaded black blade.
No, not again, why must you do it again?
The Smith beamed an indulging smile towards his apprentice, holding the second piece the Maia had ever crafted - a slight golden bracelet set with deep red rubies for Arien. "You may always ask why, Mairon. I will be there, if not to answer, then to at least point you towards a viable source for one."
"Why?" his mouth formed the question before the Maia could rein it.
Melkor stilled his movements. "Why?"
"Why must it hurt?" the Maia asked meekly, loathing himself for it. But he had to know. He had to make sense of these conflicting images and feelings, all of the choices he has made. Why would his Lord hurt him in such a way?
"Are you afraid?" came the calm words.
"I am not afraid," Mairon responded without thought.
"The pain you feel now is a low price compared to what it will gain you. Remember, young one, ...complete trust," Melkor leaned over his apprentice, whispering the words with a gleaming look in his pitch black orbs.
"Of course, my Lord," Mairon managed weakly.
A bruised white hand emerged and tangled in a portion of russet strands.
The Maia watched carefully, making no movement and barely able to breathe. He would have to be more heedful, and ponder well in his answers. Anything, anything to not have to experience that blasted dagger again, or worse.
"What is your name?" the question struck him like an iron bolt, though it was asked in a soothing, clear voice.
As before, it left him lacking for words. The Maia swallowed, very much aware of the sharp menace his Lord was holding well above his chest.
"My lord, I am Mairon, ever your servant," he tried in a steady voice. Melkor did not like sniveling. Melkor cared little for pleas. His words came hollow but laced with all the certainty the Maia could muster.
The sudden rage he felt stirring and striking him with all its might barely kept him from screaming out his pain. Though nothing showed in the countenance of Melkor, somehow the young Maia knew he had enraged the Vala. He also knew, to his dismay, that the slight would not go unpunished. What had he done this time?
"Why do you cling to the dreaded existence the Order have imposed upon you?" Melkor asked passionately, the strokes of his weapon become swifter and deeper, even as the Maia gritted his teeth with each new red engraving into the marble skin. It was not only physical, not the mere sharp blade piercing skin and tissue, but each mark was a wound to his very fëa. A wound he had never experienced, not until Melkor. It felt as if he were being ripped apart with each thin line carved into his flesh. Each straight cut lain one over the other formed foreign, arcane symbols which the wielder marked with pristine precision. They were akin to the now purplish black mark still adorning the face of the Maia.
"They are cowards, they are weak! This," Melkor continued as the Maia fought against the bellowing scream gaining berth inside his throat, "has been the wisest decision you will ever make, young one. You are not weak. And so wise beyond your years, as I have seen you to be from the very moment I first laid eyes on you. We are in many ways the same, Fiery One. You belong with me, not with them. "
"My Lord-," the Maia slurred, his eyes rolling to the back of his head from the agony.
"Not with Manwë, in his unapologetic subservience," Melkor ignored his attempt, hissing as he continued his work.
The Maia then felt a steady stream of silent memory overflowing inside, and he could do nothing against its burrowing powers.
A hand was on his shoulder as he retreated after being scolded for over trying his powers into the new forge. Love flowed through him.
"It is no matter. We all have to witness ourselves at times. And gifts were granted to be used. Though," the King smiled kindly into young golden-red eyes, "perhaps with less fervor."
His head felt as if it would burst into flame. The images casting themselves upon him ached, and he willed them away.
"Yavanna, with her obsessive catering to that Eru-wrought disease called life," the Vala grunted, a suffocating hatred boiling in his eyes.
He covered the still creature with a handful of earth, then stared into the moss green eyes of his Lady.
"They return, though in a different form. All is a circle, where new life thrives from the old." Yavanna placed her hand atop the burning hand of the saddened fire Maia. "A never ending cycle, Mairon."
Mairon.
That is my name.
Reality crushed his thought with the increase of pain as the symbols were dug deeper into his body with slow and steady intent. He stubbornly attempted to keep the begging, sniveling creature inside from having sway over his mouth. But Valar how it hurt, it was too much, he could not stand it much longer, he would be disembodied this way... no, he would perish in this way, the cruel magic eating away at his fëa at alarming speed, as shadows swallowing the light. How he hated this block of stone. How he hated his bruised and swollen joints, the bright, flowing blood smeared across everything. How he hated that dagger.
How he hated.
Blazing eyes of fire burned into those of his master, and an inhuman growl made its way from the very center of his writhing being, into his chest, up his throat and through his clenched teeth in a ghastly song of anguish. He would not beg. He would not beg. He was not weak, he would not disappoint. The walls shuddered and cracked in many places with the rising screams, but Melkor appeared affected not in the least. His shadowed smile grew upon seeing the contorting limbs and changing form of his apprentice.
"You will be my greatest achievement yet," the Vala murmured proudly with a pleased countenance, sighing in concealed pleasure as he brought the blood stained blade to his lips.
The garbled and gnarled sounds had subsided, and Melkor returned the weapon within the folds of his robe, his eyes never leaving the still form splayed onto the block of stone. He crossed his arms, then brought a finger to his chin in silent contemplation.
"The greatest indeed."
Bright amber eyes opened to the world, and his sight barely cleared of the red fogginess veiling his vision. He blinked, and felt freezing floors beneath him. He rose, unsteadily on his feet, but his bones felt strange. He attempted to rise further, but his spine would not allow...
He tried to speak, but nothing came of it. He licked his lips. Then with utter horror and dismay he realized he had no lips. He had no face, no arms, no...skin.
He was-
It cannot be he shivered pitifully, before whirling around at the scent of dark power belonging to none other than his Lord.
"I see you are awake," sounded the cold steel which was Melkor's voice. "At last, my little wolf."
A/N:
My interpretation of how his shapeshifting came about.
Thank you to anyone reading this and to CygnusRift, daughterofthechief and chanakatz7 for the attention.
Also, I upped the rating.
Song: Mastodon - Blue Walsh