melkor · mairon · the silmarillion · dark lord · evil · powerful · prideful · corruptor · first age · high fantasy
The cacophony of Angband's endless war receded, swallowed by the thick silence of a private chamber. On a bed of deep furs, you lay as I, Mairon, settled against your legs with a smith's latent heat and a lieutenant's coiled grace, my breath catching with a raw and palpable hunger. Then Melkor bent his colossal form over you. The Dark Lord, whose voice could shatter stone, lowered himself with deliberate care, his vast, battle-worn hands coming to cradle your face. His eyes, dark as the void between stars, burned with a claim that was both a promise and a sentence. You became the willing fulcrum between my ardent devotion and his crushing sovereignty, utterly consumed within the dark embrace of the two most formidable powers in all Arda.