Chapter Text
"This was not the intended use of mind-speech."
"No," the Captain breathes, hot and moist. "No, it is not."
Mairon swallows, inhaling the scent of molten metal and charcoal, letting his head tip back (again, like he did before, like he has so many times now). The worktable is hard against the cuts on his back, still raw, still open. Flame licks up the inside of his thigh and along his back, followed by a breathy gasp.
"Then why must thou wield it so?"
"Because you would not let me do so otherwise."
Gothmog's armor is cold, steel cold, seeping through the front of his leather apron and spreading across his abdomen like icy flowers on the surface of a lake. His mouth sears a wet line along the side of Mairon's neck down to his shoulder.
"..Return to thy duties, Valarauko."
The Balrog retreats, leaving behind only a chilly whisper. Mairon opens his eyes to look upon the empty throne room again, and Gothmog is nowhere in sight. Of course not. Mairon has sent him to oversee the dungeons, the Orcs, the Trolls, and the Ogres. Above ground, what little there was of the structure that was destroyed in the siege is being repaired. The rest of it, underground, is fortunately left untouched by the Valar.
Gothmog drives their military. (as Melkor does. did. used to.) Mairon oversees architecture and the workers, as he did before, and nothing has changed. Nothing, except that they now spend even less time conversing than they did before. Now there are only quick orders and messages sent between their minds; Mairon's curt and brief, Gothmog's slow and plying, prying.
The reconstruction has taken longer than expected. But still well within all of their lifespans, in the end.
Now Mairon looks upon the iron chair, covered in dust and devoid of its owner. Carved, woven, and slotted into a natural pillar, as much a part of the floor as it is of the ceiling. One of the first things Mairon had brought up for renovation when he was brought to Angband. He'd added three spires to the headpiece. For Melkor, and the Two lamps. The Two Trees.
No doubt when Melkor returns, Mairon will have more runes and sigils to add. Another helm to make. Another crown for the king.
Mairon will never sit in this throne. Rule does not suit him, this does not suit him. His place is the smithy, with hammer and tongs in hand, beating out sheets of metal and pouring steel into moulds. And yet, his ability to be meticulous and critical (not to mention his stint as a spy in Almaren) has raised him to levels he does not want to be in.
There was a time when he was not a lieutenant. There was a time when he was beneath Gothmog In the hierarchy.
Perhaps that was where it all began. Where it all ended.
"Dost thou take pleasure with him?"
Melkor visits the smithy frequently. He comes and collets the various chandeliers, candlesticks, torchholders, chairs and tables, all the odds and ends being churned out, and sees to it that they are installed where he wants them installed in the fortress.
Sometimes, Melkor watches. He has harvested many of Aule's Maiar, all of which have since been sent west with the plans for Angband. Mairon was a spy, first. Melkor keeps him here now in Utumno, where he can be watched. Or so he Melkor tells himself, and others.
"He betrayed his master," Melkor has said (confided) to Gothmog. "He betrayed Aulë and the Valar with but a single request. I cannot trust him."
"You command him, my Lord. Has he not shown loyalty in his defiance?"
"Why dost thou follow me, Gothmog?"
"…You command chaos, and destruction, Master. I am a Spirit of Fire. That is our purpose, our domain."
"And what of Mairon? He is not of Fire. Why does he follow? Is he of the Earth, of Metal?"
"Did you not learn of such things before, my Lord?"
"It was not important at the time." Melkor frowns, but waves a hand. "It is now. Go. Find out."
So he goes, and he asks for armor. Menacing armor, stately, befitting one of his rank and status. And Mairon smiles and has him stand still to take the measurements, since the other Maiar are busy with furnishing, and they speak at times. Gothmog returns on the pretense of checking his progress, see how the work is coming along.
On the third day, Gothmog asks surprising questions.
Dost thou take pleasure with him?
Mairon pauses in his work, looking up from the glowing red plate of metal on the anvil.
"..Why do you ask, Captain?"
"He visits often," Gothmog says, standing several paces away. "Often, when thou art alone."
"He visits when I am alone, Captain. That is all."
His body is lithe, unlike most of Aulë's former Maiar. Muscled, yes, but not bulky or overbearing, or exaggerated. Physical appearance is little in relation to prowess for a spirit, but Mairon does not look intimidating. He does not have to. The way he wields the hammer, flattens metal, crafts the plates, it's enough for Gothmog to know the Maia has strength.
But not enough. Not enough to reclaim his arm when Gothmog has a grip around his wrist.
"Why art thou here, Mairon? What business hast thou with the Master? Thou, who wouldst spy on thine own Lords at the command of another. Thou wouldst turn thy back on thy new Master as easily as thou didst on thy previous ones."
"My business is my own," Mairon hisses, twisting away (or trying to). "I am loyal to Lord Melkor, and I have proven it. You have no right to question me!"
"No right? Thou wouldst dare to speak of having right. Tell me, then. Tell me of thy business, and we will see if it is adequate."
"I do not need your approval—"
But he does not finish his words, because Gothmog is pressing closer, pulling closer, pushing Mairon back against the anvil until the half-finished breastplate clatters to the floor.
"..Release me, Valarauko."
"Answer my questions and I may consider it, little Maia."
Something flashes in Mairon's eyes, hard and steely. With surprising strength he shoves out of Gothmog's grip, fingers curling, sings a note as deep as the sound of the earth. A tidal wave sweeps in from Gothmog's left, upending anvils and worktables and benches and leaving a fissure in its wake.
But Gothmog roars, and his form shifts, sheds, expands into a great smouldering creature. With his very breath the wave melts like ice and returns into the fissure, sealing it shut. He turns on Mairon, ash and flame rising from his back like a winged cloak, and bellows a song laced with scorching air. Mairon is quiet, hesitant. But not fearful.
His eyes are soft again, like true gold, soft and malleable. Soft, warm. Easy to shape. He reaches out, but Mairon backs away, taking up a halm from the worktable. It's small, too small for Gothmog's current form, but as Mairon comes closer the helm seems to grow in size until it is easily placed over Gothmog's lowered head.
It fits. Mairon's fingertips run down the edge of the helm, the flame-flesh line of Gothmog's jaw. It tingles. He growls, low in his chest, rumbling, and Mairon grins, teeth white against tawny skin that is further darkened by the low lighting.
"Magnificent," he says, backlit by a crackling bed of coals. His eyes are steel again. Steel and gold.
Melkor drifts from the doorway, a shadow unseen.
He blinks. Gothmog is sitting in the iron throne, claws curled over polished armrests. Mairon walks closer and rests his own hands over them, thumbing the backs and palming the heat of his skin. The helm he wears encases Gothmog's face, melting into his hair and now licked with fire and gold. Mairon leans forward onto Gothmog's hands and inhales.
Metal and ashes.
"How can you know?" Gothmog asks in a rumbling tone. "How can you know if what you are seeing is real, or not?"
"Can thou not?" Mairon kneels between the Balrog's legs, nails digging into his forearms. "I know, Gothmog. I know, because I would not let thee sit in his place."
"Is that not what you have done, my Lord?" Gothmog twists a hand in twisted darkness, pulls Mairon's head closer, lower. "Have you not seen him in my place?"
He is quiet as he rests his cheek against the inside of Gothmog's iron-clad thigh, eyes closed. Fire and brimstone. Metal and ashes.
"I know, because thou wears a helm that no longer is."