A column of smoke rose in the air, and the Orcs and other fell denizens of Angband cheered. Melkor stood on the parapet, a vast, looming shape all dressed in flowing black. He put his hand upon his Lieutenant's shoulder, noting how he flinched slightly before forcefully assuming a more natural pose.

"A gift for you, my Lord," the Maia had said as his troops spilled the hands and paws of the inhabitants of the vanquished village in the courtyard. He then ordered that the hands be burnt in sacrifice to their god-king. Melkor accepted the offering graciously, smiling. Mairon's little attempts to please him and make up for his infringement were endearing. In truth, the memory of his own actions in the throne room was still pestering him like a rotten tooth. It was not pity, definitely not remorse, but something was not quite as it should be.

And so now he moved his hand to the Maia's nape, feeling the soft skin getting goosebumps underneath his fingers. Mairon's eager bodily reactions to his lightest touch were always a source of amusement to the Vala, but now it was strange, too strong perhaps. Tainted. Melkor rubbed the back of the Maia's neck, entwining his fingers in his hair and tugging a bit. The Maia let out a small moan, both pain and pleasure evident in his breath. That was strange, too. He was usually much more composed in public. Deciding that they had spent a sufficient amount of time at the ceremony, Melkor navigated Mairon back inside the fortress, still holding him by the hair. They went deeper and deeper through the torch-lit corridors until at last they stopped beside a large door of beautifully carved oak: the Vala's main study and council room.

Mairon spent countless hours, years maybe, in this room, laying out plans and arguing with his generals. This was a place for heat, loud voices, and cunning violence. But now it was empty, the large table swept bare, and the voices were dead. It was strange and disheartening, just like the hulking presence of the Vala beside him that presently removed his fingers from his hair, resulting in a certain cold fog that settled in Mairon's mind. If he could only concentrate as he usually could! Mairon blinked and shook his head, trying to force out the whispers that crept into his mind uninvited. This was no time for weakness.

"How may I be of service, my Lord?"

Melkor did not answer. He was leaning on a tall cabinet, his arms folded on his chest. He was eyeing Mairon carefully. Mairon stiffened when he moved towards him, biting the yelp off his tongue when the Vala's fingers suddenly touched his bruised temples.

He braced for another attack, but it did not come. Instead, the Vala's vast mind simply regarded him, assessing the damage done to his defenses. Clumsily, Mairon tried to open the still-inflamed doors of his mind for his inspection, but Melkor stopped him. He lowered his hands to the Maia's jaw and tilted it up.

"You will be alright soon."

I am alright now, Mairon wanted to say, but then Melkor's lips were on his skin, on his mouth, and all rational thought left him. Such displays of affection on Melkor's side were rare. Over the long years of his service, Mairon memorized and cherished each and every one of them. He breathed in deep the smell of ozone and smoke in his hair and wrapped his arms around him, clinging to his warmth in the cold, empty room.

"I brought you something," Melkor withdrew and reached into his cloak, producing a small, paper-wrapped parcel.

That, too, was rare. "What is it, my Lord?"

At a gesture, Mairon opened the wrapping, still in the Vala's hand. Inside it were several star shaped, white flowers, uncrushed and fresh-looking.

"The Men of the Marshes use them for healing the hurts of the mind." Melkor explained. "Take them. I want you back in full capacity as soon as possible."

He ignited the fireplace with a Word. Mairon watched as the little conjured flame ate at the dry hay stacked on top, growing in size enough to tackle the bigger sticks. Melkor placed a small earthenware cup over the grate, and when the water in it boiled he dropped the flowers inside. A bitter-sweet scent steamed in the cold air. Coming to kneel on the rug before the fire alongside his master, Mairon took a sip, and soon his slightly doubling sight straightened out. Another sip and the whispers faded. He drained the cup. Melkor studied him with interest.

"Better?"

Mairon nodded. With his vision clearer now, he could see the play of light and shadow on the Vala's skin, the pale grayness illuminated a warm peach in places. His hair flowed untouched, as always, swallowing all light. Mairon's curiosity piqued.

"How did you come by the plant, my Lord?"

"It was given to the scouts by the Marsh Elder, as a sign of good will. It appears to be sacred to them. "

"Oh." The Marshes was a tiny piece of land colonized by a tribe of Men. It held no significance yet, but it might later play some part in their efforts in the South-East. Last time the issue was discussed at council, Mairon suggested that they befriend the tribe to some extent, to make it easier to turn them to their side if the proper time ever came. He didn't think his Lord would agree.

"You see," He smiled, as if reading his thoughts. "I do heed your advice occasionally."

Mairon smiled, too, and then his smiled turned into a grimace. "My Lord, please forgive me for yesterday. I behaved most heinously."

"Forgiven." Melkor wasn't looking at him. He was staring into the flames. If Mairon hadn't known better, he'd say there was a hint of uncertainty in the curve of his brow, in the arch of his lips. But that thought was preposterous.

The minutes passed soft, strangely intimate. Nothing was heard in the room but the chuckle of flames and their breathing. Encouraged, Mairon reached out for him, and Melkor let him touch. His fingers ghosted on his shoulder, running down his arm all the way to his burned hand. As he did the night before, he leaned down and pressed his lips gently into the Vala's palm. And this time, Melkor didn't turn him away.