Work Text:
Mairon sighed. Another miserable day of managing supplies and dispatching armies; another day of trying not to think about what he had done. Behind the door, there was a room with a wide bed and a big window, as if any light could break through the clouds of Mordor and heal the Elf that occupied the bed. Mairon used to feel such rage towards that Elf, hating his stubbornness and resilience, but the stubbornness turned into madness, and resilience into delusion, and Mairon’s rage withered away. He had missed the moment when the transformation happened. Tyelpë would start losing consciousness more often during the torment, respond to questions with silence rather than challenging refusal, stare into the wall when addressed. Mairon thought it all a sign that the Elf no longer had strength, that he would soon break. And break he would, only not in the way Mairon wanted him to.
Once, Tyelpë smiled at him, sincerely and openly as he used to, despite Mairon holding a whip. Then, he would think himself drowning in a river and try to swim out when it was, in fact, a tub and Mairon’s evil will that pushed the poor Elf’s head there in attempt to force him to give up his secret. Soon, Tyelpë no longer seemed to remember any secret; being asked, “Where are the rings?” he smiled and pointed at Mairon’s hand decorated with gold and jewels. “Very beautiful,” the Elf added, looking convinced that he answered the question correctly. Mairon then believed it to be a show of resistance, mockery, and he punished his prisoner as he saw fit, but the prisoner did not seem to understand he was being punished nor did he know for what. Tyelpë would think himself falling from the stairs, or struggling with the wind, or surviving a shipwreck. His perception of reality was gone for good.
What was the point of hurting him any more? Even before, it was a challenge for Mairon (though he would never admit it) to make those dear eyes fill with tears, to force that voice to scream curses rather than words of love, to do all those other things that he should not have done. Now, torturing Tyelpë was even less likely to bring any results, not to mention the amount of unspeakable cruelty that it would require. By now, Mairon was done denying his fault in what happened to Tyelpë. He had tried to treat it as some kind of misfortune that befell his darling, but whenever Tyelpë’s sweet eyes would turn to him, whenever the Elf would smile and ask, “Is that you, Annatar?” his chest would grow so tight and his throat so scratchy there was no way to absolve himself. He did it to Tyepë, making him feel warmest love and then deepest despair, turning him inside out mentally and physically, driving him insane moment by moment, day by day. Mairon had sown, and now he had to reap.
His guilt grew with each passing day, and today was no exception. With a sigh, Mairon moved the quill aside. He did want to visit Tyelpë, longing to hold him, to listen to his speech, however delusional. And yet he did not want to. Not seeing Tyelpë, he could still hope that his love recovered and is now perfectly conscious, but as soon as he would enter the room, he’d see things were as hopeless as usual.
Shaking the thoughts off, Mairon rose and walked resolutely to the door. Whatever his condition was, Tyelpë deserved company, and, unfortunately, there was no better company here than Mairon.
“Annatar?”
Oh, that sweet voice, so cheerful at the sight of him despite all that he was. Tyelpë’s appearance, however, contrasted with that happy sound. The Elf’s skin was dry and almost transparent by now, his previously red lips now discolored, his hair dull, bleak, and noticeably thinned, his entire frame feeble and puny. Even the eyes Mairon loved so much were different. They used to remind Mairon of stormy skies, deep grey with a hint of blue. Now, they were more like two muddy lakes.
“Can you help me here?”
Mairon smiled, sadly, preparing to another delusion as he walked to Tyelpë’s bed. “What is it, my little one?” he asked tenderly, wrapping his arms around the Elf.
“I cannot decide between these,” Tyelpë, blissfully unaware of his condition, presented a few pieces of paper with something scribbled on it. At a closer look, these turned out to be drawings of some ceremonial robes.
“You are picking an outfit, darling?” Mairon asked, sounding a bit like a parent who, entirely out of love, pretended to be genuinely interested in a child’s game.
“Yes, yes, that’s the most important part!” Tyelpë sounded impatient. “This one is pretty and acceptable. This looks more appropriate for my status. This one is the most beautiful but a bit… revealing.”
“Go for the revealing one,” Mairon chuckled, starting to like this game.
“But this is how people will remember this day!” Tyelpë protested, suddenly unsure about the value of the revealing one. “What if it goes down into songs and books that way? With me being inappropriately dressed?”
Mairon frowned. “Songs and books? I’m sorry, what is the occasion?”
Tyelpë gasped, blinking, his hands dropping helplessly to his sides. A couple of papers landed smoothly on his lap. “You… you forgot about our wedding?”
Darkness was in Mairon’s eyes, and his breath was gone. It was but one of Tyelpë’s hallucinations, of course, but somehow, it seemed to Mairon that this one was also one of his own. He had always done what Melkor wanted or would have wanted, and he considered it right. But with Tyelpë, he would allow himself, if but for brief moments, to imagine that life could be different for him, that he could be Tyelpë’s, truthfully. That he would make Eregion his home and be happy there.
That they would marry.
The very thought of it now made him feel as if he had swallowed some spiky fruit whole.
“Tyelpë, my love, of course I didn’t,” he whispered, pulling the Elf closer for a kiss, “I didn’t, it’s just one of my stupid jokes, and I’m sorry.” It would be heartless to dispel the poor boy’s illusions now. Besides, he would forget them in a day. “Here is what I say. Pick the appropriate one for the ceremony. Wear the revealing one when we’re alone.”
Tyelpë gasped again, happily this time, and picked up the loose papers. “That is a great idea, Annatar!” Mairon received a soft kiss on the cheek for his creativity. “Too bad you have already seen the sketch. Would have made a fine surprise for you.” He winked, smiling in a way that would have been teasing and attractive had he not looked like a fading Elf.
That was true, was it not? Mairon had seen it numerous times in Angband. Many Elves were not taking captivity well, especially the ones who had not been born to the light of the Trees, for they did not have that light inside them to support them. They would stop reacting to stimuli, refuse food, get startled when nothing unusual was happening around them or remain calm when they were visibly in danger. They would grow pale and fragile, their mobility would become limited, and then, they would stop moving altogether, slowly fading away. The light that Tyelpë had seen as a child would not help him now, he was broken, broken, broken, the one he loved the most turned out to be his greatest enemy and his most vile tormentor, and there seemed to be no recovery for him. It would only get worse, Mairon knew this all too well. It was agonizingly painful to even begin to think that Tyelpë could die, yet there was no escape from it. Mairon had tried necromancing those Elves that faded in captivity, and he was successful, only those weren’t the same Elves anymore, only lifeless forms, obedient and devoid of any personality. They did not even talk when Mairon did not seem to be around, emotionless bodies with limp souls trapped inside them. He would not do this to his dear Tyelpë. For once, he would let his darling boy go, be free… heal.
“Annatar, are you listening to me?” Tyelpë’s pale face looked displeased. “I am trying to be romantic here! I was saying that I made the right choice when I agreed to marry you.”
No, you didn’t, Mairon wanted to say. He had to turn away, hot tears running down his cheeks. “I love you, Tyelpë,” he whispered, his throat painfully tight. “I… I know you don’t remember any of this, my dear boy, but I am sorry. I am sorry for every time I hurt you. Truly, I am.”
“Silly Annatar,” Tyelpë chuckled, his weak arms trying to press Mairon to his chest.
Silly indeed.
* * *
It was snowing, heavily, and Mairon did not remember how he let that happen, but he did. He decided not to interfere with it; snow was perfectly reflective of how he felt, and no soldiers were expected to arrive or depart today. And, perhaps, the sight of dancing snowflakes would cheer Tyelpë up…
“My lord?” a servant’s voice sounded from the other end of the hallway. “My lord, come quickly!”
Tyelpë...
Mairon ran, barely seeing anything in front of himself as his legs carried him back into the room. The Elf’s sickly body was curled up tensely among the sheets, his breath so loud Mairon could hear it before he even opened the door. It was clear that Tyelpë’s fëa was about to leave his broken frame.
One look from the Dark Lord was enough for the rest of the servants to leave the room as soon as possible. For the first time in these months, Mairon took the ring off, putting it away on the nightstand. He would not touch Tyelpë with it on, not in these last moments.
“Darling?” he called, desperately trying not to break down into tears. “Can you hear me, little one?”
“Annatar...” Tyelpë coughed out.
“Me, darling,” Mairon smiled, taking the Elf’s hand. It weighed nothing and seemed to be woven of dry grass. “Do you know what is happening, my love?”
“You h-hurt me,” Tyelpë managed. “Now I’m dying.”
It stung, the guilt and the realization that Tyelpë knew. And yet it was oddly relieving to finally talk to the real Tyelpë, the one that was himself.
“I’m sorry, dearest. I regret it.Trust me just one more time, I regret it.”
“The rings,” the Elf wheezed. “Did you find the rings?”
“No, my love.”
Tyelpë tried to smile in response, but only a tense grimace came out. He then turned an expectant gaze to the one who loved him and ruined him.
“No, Tyelpë,” Mairon shook his head, choking on his own tears. “I will not ask you where they are. Not now. I have questioned you enough, and look where that led us.”
“I will tell Mandos you still have a heart,” Tyelpë replied, his voice growing fainter. “I l-left you something…” he pulled his trembling hand out of the other’s hold and pointed at the nightstand. Mairon’s head turned in that direction. “Don’t look… not till I’m gone.”
Mairon took Tyelpë’s hand again, holding it as gently as he could. “Are you scared, darling? Don’t be. You have done nothing wrong.” Carefully, he stroked the Elf’s hand, not sure if he was consoling Tyelpë or himself. “You’ll feel so much better after you leave this body. You will meet your family, take time to heal, and come back to this world. You…”
But Tyelpë could no longer hear him. Mairon turned to the nightstand to pick up a piece of paper as he felt his world break apart. It was a drawing of Tyelpë and himself, both dressed as richly and elaborately as if they were kings of the world, holding hands. The note above said in Quenya, “I am yours, and you are mine.”
The cheerful dance of the snowflakes turned into a snowstorm in a matter of seconds. Not even the Dark Lord had the power to bring it to an end, nor did he want to.