I dont know why but today I was just bored and half-asleep while staring at the ceiling when it came into my mind, what would Carcaroth look like in a modern au and then the first thing that pops up in my head is Clifford.
Warnings: Thralldom | Dark themes |Choking/Strangulation Threats
Wordcount: 3K words
Summary: Melkor, now conqueror of Valinor and king of all of Arda, attends his first feast as the king of kings. While there, the Vala makes a choice on who would sit by his side as his consort.
A/n: I am relaunching this AU with a full series of its own. You can read the complete timeline here
A storm—the likes of which had never before been seen—howled and raged like a beast risen from the dark. A suffocating swirl of ice and snow enveloped the world and extinguished the light of the stars.
Within Ilmarin, shielded from the violence beyond its walls and windows, Melkor stood in the centre of his bedchamber, wordless and still. Slave-women trod cautiously around him, creatures of cream and gold more bruised and marred than whole. They tended to his rooms and saw to the flourishes in his raiment and hair. The women were Vanyar—princesses born into the House of Ingwë who had never known hardship before the Fall. Now they were his, bound to him by the brands each of them bore upon their backs.
They bustled about plumping his silken pillows, feeding fresh logs into the blazing hearth, and setting his table with ripe fruit and decadent sweetmeats. One of them stood before him, garbed in simple but well-made robes of muddy brown. She held up each part of his attire for his appraisal, while others arrayed him in his finery after he nodded to her his assent. Their hands were quick and nimble—a skill swiftly forged after quivering fingers and spilt perfumes earned them painful blows. They toiled without speech, their breath nigh unheard as they fastened silk and steel black as ink over the Vala’s earthly flesh. It was now a map of delicate scars—each of them a badge of honour he bore in memory of his conquest and great ascension.
The surest among the women brought forth his crown, an open circlet of burnished iron surmounted by matched slender spikes. It was a gift from Fëanáro, the King of the Elves and the most steadfast of his new elven allies, and it was a crown most befitting a high and mighty king. One of the rarest of his treasures, it was infused with spells and incantations none but Fëanáro, Mairon and himself knew. The iron darkened and rippled like trapped smoke when it drank in the light from the lamps affixed to the walls—though the jewels adorning its base glittered like fiery stars. But it sat light as a feather amidst his onyx hair, now a loose tumble that fell past his waist.
“Splendid,” Melkor remarked. His lips twisted into a smile when he caught the reflection of a glorious being gazing back at him. “Most splendid, indeed.”
The slaves each took a step back, their tasks completed, their heads bowed.
“How else may we serve you, my king?” One of them asked, her voice lilting but tremulous. She was one of Melkor’s favourites. A singer who once moved the Valar to tears with the rare power and beauty of her voice, she had been compelled to use it whenever Melkor summoned her to his bed.
Melkor pondered what else he desired from them. As his mind drifted to the ending of the feast and what he would seek out thereafter, he commanded, “Two of you are to wait for me here. I will expect to be diverted upon my return.”
The slave raised her head. “Must we, my king?” She blurted, a spark of buried defiance glinting in her haunted blue eyes.
Her daring question echoed across the room before her breath hitched, and her hands flew to her mouth. The others swiftly distanced themselves from her, their bare feet padding across the polished floor. They refused to look up—so unwilling were they to stand before the tempest that would strip them to the marrow of their bones if they too earned the ire of the new king.
Melkor did not bellow or unleash a fury as terrifying as the tumult rising and falling outside. He simply straightened his back and turned to face her, pinning her to where she stood with a baleful stare that chilled the blood to the quick.
“Nothing would please me more than witnessing the essence of your light dim while my grip tightens around your exquisite throat,” he hissed. “The breath you have now is the breath kept safe by my grace. Do not squander it and simply do as you are bid. That is all I have to say on the matter.”
The slaves all quailed and pressed themselves against each other, their bodies atremble with fright. Melkor turned sharply on his heel and marched away. He did not even deign to tarry and see who would stay. The slaves would no doubt quarrel among themselves. Perhaps they would even go as far as drawing lots to decide who would remain and who would not. But two of them would await him: abed, as always, as was expected of them.
He strode beneath the vaulted ceilings and down the silent, winding passageways Manwë had once walked with Varda. They were his, to shape and alter as he saw fit. Yet he did not see the majesty in all that was now his. His thoughts were elsewhere, ensnared on the one who could not hold her tongue. Elves such as she could not be chastised again and again; they had to make themselves ever amenable to his will and pleasure without question.
Or find themselves consigned to the fires if they failed.
An orc standing sentry by a slender column seized his fleeting attention. A small, pitiful thing from the lower castes, she would never see the feast for herself—nor taste the delights destined for her betters. Her armour was crude—plain grey dented plate over a shirt of mail—but it was not utterly useless. She trembled violently when he loomed over her, and his shadow swallowed her whole.
“The slaves who serve me,” he seethed, “the one who sings so sweetly. Do you know of her?”
“Indeed I do,” she croaked, shrinking back against the wall. “What is your will concerning her?”
“It seems she must be reminded of her proper place.”
“As you say, my king. Do you wish to have her scourged?”
“No. Tell her the two I sought for my amusement may leave. Insist she remain in my chambers in their stead. Tell her… tell her that I intend to make her sing.”
“Yes, my king,” the orc said, bowing. “I shall do as you command at once.”
She whirled around and fled down the way Melkor had come, her armour clanging softly as she disappeared down the passageway.
Melkor resumed his march, his anger slowly cooling.
He stopped by a window and peered out, his gaze piercing the blinding maelstrom of white like blades slashing through a veil. There, in the distance, on the mound that was Ezellohar, the Two Trees rose from the earth. Their radiance diminished by the darkness that had flowed in with the mists, they now stood as withered beacons of a new age—one their creators never envisioned. Mairon had decreed they not be touched. He desired their light and their dews for himself. Melkor gifted them to him—a small boon for much leal service. Mairon had been ceaseless with his gratitude since then.
The Maia awaited him by the entryway of the great hall, regal and resplendent silks of gold and orange and red that rippled around him like a bright fire. A slender golden circlet tinged with crimson shone on his brow. Nestled at its centre was a lidless eye wreathed in tongues of silent flame. This eye did not merely just look; it swept over and through all who lay before it with a power all of its own. It stilled when Melkor neared.
“My old friend,” Melkor said, his voice cutting through the low murmurs rising and falling in the vast chamber just ahead. “Have they all come?”
Mairon bowed deeply. “Indeed, my king.” He straightened himself and smiled. “Shall we begin?”
“Yes.”
Mairon led Melkor inside, walking in step with him as the only being allowed to do so. When they walked beneath the arch of stone stars and twining clouds, the herald—a tall fair orc dressed in deep ruby leather and armour of burnished copper discs—sang out their arrival.
“All rise for Lord Melkórë,” came his clear cry. “Lord of elves and men and High King of Arda, and Lord Mairon Artano, his Vice-regent on all matters, and Master of Valimar.”
Whispers and open talk between elves and Ainur ebbed as heads turned toward the king and counsellor like flowers toward the light. Then they all stood, their chairs creaking as they were pushed back. When the lords bowed and the ladies performed deep curtsies, Melkor returned the gesture with a tilt of the head.
“Pray resume your places,” he urged.
He let Mairon escort him to the dais raised beneath the steps of what once was his brother’s lofty throne. Carved out of a single block of stone as white as driven snow, it towered over them all, and it was adorned for the occasion with banners of black and grey. Melkor regarded it for a long while before he took his seat. It would have to be altered before he started receiving supplicants—it still carried the taint of the one who came before him.
“Let the cups be filled!” Mairon cried, sitting at Melkor’s right—the place of high honour. “And let the feast begin!”
The moment his words faded, an orc struck a gong in a hidden alcove. When at last it ceased to reverberate, slaves hurried in, their hands laden with pitchers filled with fragrant wine. Melkor was served the first measure, a pale rose vintage set aside for the Most High. He drank deep and savoured the delicate sweetness that poured down his throat as triumph burnt bright in his fathomless eyes.
“To our victory!” he proclaimed and held his goblet aloft. “To a new age!”
“To victory!” the hall shouted back to him. “To the King of Kings!”
The clinking of crystal rang across the vast chamber, and the feast began in earnest. In the upper gallery, seated by the railing, minstrels picked up their viols and harps and lutes, filling the air with music and song.
Before long, more slaves appeared bearing some of the finest offerings the kitchens of Ilmarin provided: airy loaves still warm and steaming, towering platters of gilded apples and translucent grapes, and tantalising pastries stuffed with nuts and fruit and game. Melkor partook of the portions served to him. The fruits were luscious and ripe, and they burst between his teeth. The pastries held a subtle smoky finish he had never tasted in Utumno. He devoured all that was presented to him, then shamelessly called for more.
“What word have you received from Arafinwë?” he asked between mouthfuls of a warm, raised pie filled with cured boar, herbs and glazed pears.
“Arafinwë has acquiesced to treat with us, my king,” Mairon said. He sliced an apple into thin slivers and daintily nibbled at one. “He gives his word that the rebels will lay down their swords and swear fealty to you.”
“Then the Teleri have made peace with their fate,” Melkor opined. “Parley with them in my name; they will no doubt heed you.”
“I shall do so, my king.”
On the next strike of the gong, great haunches of game—cooked slowly and basted with herbs and rich, red wine—were wheeled along by the cooks themselves. Many got to their feet and applauded as the scents wafted among the tables, making the cooks beam with visible pleasure. While they carved choice portions for all, Melkor let his gaze wander from one reveller to another. He secretly weighed and measured those among the fair daughters of the land and those who served him from before the Great Music, recollecting what he knew of their virtues and their vices. He would have to take one of them to wife, and soon. He needed a queen, one who was worthy of taking her place by his side.
But it was not a comely maiden who caught his eye in the end, but the Lord Commander of his hosts. Gothmog kept to his place, lost in a world of his own devising. The Balrog had taken the shape of an elf both tall and full of dark majesty. His skin glowed like embers, and his dark hair rippled past his shoulders like smoke. Yet his food was untouched and his cup was still full, as if he saw no joy in the merriment around him. Melkor studied him intently.
To Mairon, he said, “Our Lord Commander is troubled. Pray why that is so?”
“Gothmog hopes for a boon,” Mairon told him. He leaned closer and whispered, “It is the herald. He seeks Eönwë for himself.”
Eönwë. Always, it is Eönwë. Melkor was amazed. Even now, long after their bond had been cloven, the Lord of the Balrogs still sought the one he had once declared his theme’s perfect pairing.
“Then he reveals his weakness,” Melkor said, “for that is what this ceaseless longing of his is.” He drained his cup and sighed. “Very well. Have him approach me on the morrow. I will grant him what he seeks.” Never before had he denied a devoted servant their rewards, and he was not about to begin now.
“I will, my king,” Mairon swore.
Just then, dancers darted past the doors and between the tables on nimble feet, their sheer robes flowing along their bodies like water. They were free women all—daughters of elven lords who no doubt wished to catch their new king’s eye and win his favour. One of them did. She was dark of hair and blue of eye, and her smile was the wickedest Melkor had ever witnessed.
Írissë moved as if woven out of air, twirling and leaping with uncommon ease and grace. Many ceased eating and speaking to watch her alone. Yet her glances were only for her new king. Melkor had hoped for no different. But he still leaned forward, his lips slowly curving up at the edges when the princess glided up to the dais. Her white robes did little to conceal the beauty beneath, and when she spun before him, he dipped his chin in silent approval.
At that very moment, the music reached its zenith. Írissë turned seamlessly, her arms reaching for the heavens and her skirts whirling out as they caught the light. When the music vanished into a heady but sweet silence, she dropped to her knees amidst rapturous cheers.
Melkor bade her to rise. “You were magnificent, princess. A credit to your lord father and your noble house.” He loosened a jet clasp at his collar and nudged it across the polished oaken table toward her. “A token for pleasing me so.”
Írissë smiled sweetly. “Your admiration is gift enough. And what is this, pray?” She reached for his goblet. Her fingers grazed his for an instant before they drew away. “Your cup is empty, my king.” She beckoned for Miruvórë. “It will not do. Allow me to serve you.”
“A princess of the blood never willingly assumes the place of a thrall,” Mairon observed, intrigued rather than dubious. “What is your motive for doing so?”
“I merely seek to be useful,” Írissë said, pouring a measure for Mairon and Melkor both. “In as many ways as my king desires.”
“What if your king seeks out another to stand and serve beside you?” Mairon asked. “Would you take ill to him doing so?”
“I will never take ill to the whims of my king, but I will gladly cross blades with the one who presumes to stand beside me as my equal. Unless it is one of the sons of Fëanáro. Them I will heartily welcome by my side.”
“And the slaves?” Melkor enquired, his curiosity piqued. “Will you object to your king making use of them?”
Írissë laughed merrily and said, “No, and never. Yet I hope my king will not object to my amusing myself with them—for his pleasure, to be sure.”
She bent her knee and lowered her gaze before taking her leave.
Melkor shared a look with his most trusted servant. “She is a brazen creature,” he said, unfurling his thoughts into words that, while spoken, were veiled from the hearing of the rest. “Yet I find myself vastly taken with her.”
“With her,” Mairon said, “heirs will surely follow—and her kin will serve you until the ending of the world.”
Before Melkor could answer, he caught a glimpse of Fëanáro. The High King of the Elves had been seated at the head of his own table, nursing a cup of wine. Of all his kindred, he had been the most invaluable throughout; no doubt he sought to further temper and make strong his alliance with his new lord.
“There is Fëanáro to consider,” Melkor countered evenly. “I cannot lose sway over him now.”
“Then bind the son of one brother and the daughter of the other to you. None will then have cause to protest any inequity.”
To wed a princess of the Noldor was one matter, but to wed a prince as well—one who may never truly rouse his spirit—was wholly unexpected. Nevertheless, there was wisdom to be found in such counsel, and a means to preserve the peace among the elves—Fëanáro and Nolofinwë most of all. Melkor let it dwell in his thoughts, then appraised the princes while each of them was occupied in the company of others. Nelyafinwë would suit, or even Makalaurë. Both had proven their worth during the battles that had come to pass.
Fëanáro perceived Melkor’s contemplation of his oldest heirs. He smiled at Melkor; but he did not speak, nor did he alter his conduct. He neither ate nor drank while he sat, silent and unmoved. His eyes glittered with ambition as they first trailed Írissë and then his own blood. Melkor turned to Mairon. His counsellor had witnessed it all.
“He suspects,” Melkor said.
“Such may indeed be the case, my king,” Mairon said. “Wed a child of each brother,” he urged, though not ungently. “You are master of all now. It is you who decrees what is proper and what is not. Let your unions with both houses be the first display of it.”
Melkor took a sip of the miruvórë Írissë had poured for him. It was the finest he had ever tasted. “A new age has indeed dawned upon us all.”
“Indeed it has, my king,” Mairon agreed. “May it never end.”
Imagine being sequestered away as an infant to be killed or mutilated only to be chosen by two divine beings to be their pet project because you're *special* in some way- but you aren't like them. You're special, but you're not divine. You strive to be like your fathers who chose you, to make them proud, to prove they were right in their decision. But your body cannot accommodate that type of power. You do everything you can and go beyond any elf. But you're never good enough. You aren't divine. You aren't *truly* their *son*
I was just reading for a bit when something popped up in my brain after you mention angbang just kidnapping him as baby and it reminded me of how Gay sean couples steal eggs from female and other couples when they want ot have Kids of their own. 💔
Lost 2 followers since asking if we can have feminine twink bottom Melkor this earlier today. I want to apologize for not making it clearer before so I'm clearing things up now:
*This WILL happen again.
*Melkor is obviously still evil because I don't subscribe to the notion that only manly top doms can be evil.
*In fact his personality is exactly the same as when he is a non-twink top or whatever. Why would anything about him change based on who tops in bed lmao.
*No, seriously, it WILL happen again. If you're morally opposed to discussions of bottom Melkor or twink Melkor, this is the wrong blog for you.
*Mairon is his top in this scenario, not any unrelated third character.
*If anyone tries flirting with Melkor, Mairon kills them on the spot. He does the exact same thing regardless of if Melkor is a twink or not, I just wanted to mention it because Mairon is always capable of murder so it's worth repeating.
Sauron 🤝 Knockout: Warm colors, sadistic, has too many weapons, unethical medical experiments, gay as shit, overconfident, surprisingly deferential to their partner for how much ego to body mass they have, fandom favorite, widower.
Melkor 🤝 Breakdown: Cool colors, big, holds grudges, disabled due to a small squishy guy, gets killed and Warm Colors avenges their death by tormenting a human.
I was just re-reading this when something made click in this worm filled brain of mine so, hear me out here.
Mairon getting empurata after the sinking of numenor as the equivalent of him losing his fair form so he then become little Eye-Eye! Like senator shockwave when he wasnt all fucked up yet?
Sauron 🤝 Knockout: Warm colors, sadistic, has too many weapons, unethical medical experiments, gay as shit, overconfident, surprisingly deferential to their partner for how much ego to body mass they have, fandom favorite, widower.
Melkor 🤝 Breakdown: Cool colors, big, holds grudges, disabled due to a small squishy guy, gets killed and Warm Colors avenges their death by tormenting a human.
I was just re-reading this when something made click in this worm filled brain of mine so, hear me out here.
Mairon getting empurata after the sinking of numenor as the equivalent of him losing his fair form so he then become little Eye-Eye! Like senator shockwave when he wasnt all fucked up yet?
