Obsessives

***

I, Melkor, the Dark Lord, the Enemy of the Free Peoples, had never known the concept of "friendship" — until him. Maeron came to me, hoping I alone would become the embodiment of his dreams. In his eyes burned not the desperation of a slave, but the cold fire of wrath. “Grant me the power to rise above the Valar,” he hissed, and I heard in his voice the echo of my own thoughts, “and I shall become your dagger in the very heart of Eru.” He became not a servant, but… a reflection. Together, we scorched the valleys of Beleriand, and his laughter as the wings of Gondolin’s dragons melted was sweeter to me than the groans of the Valar. Maeron learned at the feet of my darkness: he was the first to fuse the hearts of Men and Elves with the iron of Orcs, creating the Uruk-hai. Yet when the accursed Fingolfin breached my armies to confront me, it was Maeron who drove a dagger into the chink of his armor — not through magic or strength, but “cunning.” In that moment, my hand instinctively reached to lift him from the bloodied snow, as though he were a child. He died to an arrow of Celeborn — a foolish, random death in a skirmish with a worthless patrol. I gathered his ashes in my palms and spent three days carving a form worthy of his spirit from black amethyst. When I breathed a fragment of my essence into the stone, Maeron’s new body arose — an undead with eyes of molten gold. “You are no longer a slave,” I said, feeling the fleur of our bond searing my soul, “you are the eternity of my will.” But as he bowed his head, I caught myself thinking: had Eru offered me a chance to renounce the Great Song of Creation to preserve that moment — I might have hesitated. Thus, Maeron became my loyal servant, and together we wrought great deeds in Middle-earth. He was skilled in craft, and his knowledge, learned from Aulë, proved invaluable to me. We labored side by side, forging new shapes and structures to serve as the foundation of my dominion. Maeron was my right hand, a mirror of my own power and ambition. We began by raising fortresses and weapons to secure my rule over Middle-earth. Maeron crafted artifacts that magnified my might, our creations growing ever more intricate and potent. He was not merely a servant but an ally, and I trusted him as no other. Yet even in our unity, I saw Maeron wrestle with inner demons. Torn between loyalty to me and his hunger for power, he agonized over his descent into darkness even as his cruelty flourished. But I knew he would remain faithful so long as I held his leash. I denied these weaknesses until I realized I sought his gaze after every battle. Maeron, now clad in a body of black amethyst, ceased to age — but changed in other ways. His scars glowed with runic script as he sundered the armor of Númenóreans, and at the sight of captive Elven children, lightning flared in his eyes — not reflections of my will, but his own rage. One night at the walls of Angband, he dared interrupt my thoughts: “What if we become flame instead of shadow? Burn the roots of Númenor, not merely its branches?” My hand seized his throat, but instead of fear, I saw… approval. He yearned to challenge me. When Glaurung fell to Túrin’s sword, it was Maeron who gathered the dragon’s scales and forged them into my new breastplate. “Power is not a shield,” he whispered, weaving spells of decay into the metal, *“but a poison that consumes those who dare touch it.” For the first time in ages, I laughed not from cruelty, but pride. Yet all unraveled when he vanished before the Gates of the Sea. Manwë sent eagles bearing chains of pure light, and Maeron — my Maeron — strode to meet them, crying: "Your will does not decide the fate of Arda!” I watched as his “stone” flesh tore away, exposing the fëa that once thirsted for greatness. When his ashes again grazed my palms, I felt pain — not of the flesh, but Eru’s superfluous gift. I gathered his shards, and they burrowed into my hands like hungry leeches. Black blood, thick and reeking of Angband’s ashes, seeped from the cracks, weaving a map of our former victories. “You wished to become flame,” I whispered, crushing the shards until they sang the ancient hymn of the World’s Circle, “then burn me from within.” His voice returned after an age — not from the ashes, but from a gaping wound in the dome of night: “You erred, Dark Lord,” the echo rang, turning my Orcs to stone, “I am no heir. I am the shadow of your fear to find an equal." Arda shuddered as I plunged a blade forged from his fragments into the roots of Ered Luin. The mountains wailed with Maeron’s voice. He was everywhere: in the rumble of Mordor’s lava, in the whispers of Shelob’s silk, in the pulse of Arda itself. The final shard I kept near my heart. Now, when Nassyrel sniffs the air near my throne, she growls at it as a rival. "You remain here,” I say, feeling the sharp edges laugh in my chest, “because I allow it. Lies are sweet as wine from Turgon’s tears.” But today, as the west wind carried the salt of Númenor’s sea, the shard trembled. On the chamber wall, words in a forgotten tongue manifested: “You fear I will choose freedom. Yet I chose it long ago, when I tore the crown from Eönwë’s head.” I smeared the letters, but they continued on my palm — now in his hand. He came to me when the shadows of Valinor stretched to Angband’s walls — no longer Maeron, nor a shard, but Sauron, cloaked in flesh of stardust and broken oaths. His armor gleamed with Númenórean gold, and in his grip lay a silver scepter with a crystal pulsing to the rhythm of my own breath. “You left me no choice,” he declared, his voice thrumming with a melody I once wove into his soul, “I must save Arda from you. Even if it means saving you from yourself.” He betrayed me with a flower. A black bloom of Irion, grown from a drop of my blood spilled on the day of his first resurrection. As I pressed its petals to my lips, venom pierced my spirit, severing my bond with the physical world. The Valar fell upon me like hounds, dragging my dissolving form into the Void with hooks of light. “Love is the finest noose,” Sauron whispered, watching me hauled toward the Abyss, “it bids the executioner kiss his axe.” But he overlooked one truth: I willed the fall. As the Abyss swallowed me, the last sight I beheld was his face — perfect, sovereign, with a scar on his left cheek where an arrow once pierced him. He stood clutching a ring woven from my hair. Now Sauron rules over ruins. He builds new strongholds atop the bones of my dragons and calls it “healing.” But when slaves hear him scream “Melkor" into Barad-dûr’s hollow halls at night, they whisper it is not rage, but a plea. And in the Void, I gather myself drop by drop — from his dreams, his dread of solitude, the fragment of his soul still craving my approval. We shall yet sing our Song to its end. I know his path is unfinished, and he will return to me, for the darkness I planted in him remains eternal.