Beneath Starlit Skies

12

She dreams in orange.

Orange is the colour of flame, sunset, and sunrise.

(Sometimes, when sunlight falls perfectly on Mairon's hair, it gleams a spectacular orange.)

She dreams of ash and smoke.

"But if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?"

Smoke came like a roaring tide and swept her away.

She dreams in orange.

(Flames lick her blistering corpse, engulfing her in orange, charring her bones.)

"Grey clouds roll over the hills, bringing darkness from above."

She hates orange.

::

She's crying.

Mairon wipes a tear off her cheek.

Celeriel whimpers softly, weeping in her dream.

"Please..." she pleads, anguish clear in her voice, "please... !"

"Celeriel," he jostles her but she does not wake.

"Ah... ! It hurts..." she cries out, thrashing. "It... hurts... !"

Mairon is at a loss of what to do.

Celeriel is in pain and he doesn't know why. She is crying and he can't stop her tears.

What do I do? He thinks with desperation in his eyes. What am I to do?

She wakes with a jolt—terrified wide eyes staring through him as though unseeing. She gazes passed him; complexion paling as if gripped by death.

"Who am I?"

There's confusion and a wild, desperate, fight for survival in her eyes. Where is she? Who is she? She doesn't know. She's confused and afraid. He hates seeing her afraid. He calls her name; recognition tempers the wildness and she crumples in his arms.

Mairon. She thinks, nuzzling into him. Safe.

He tenses at the blatant display of trust. If he wasn't aware of how ill-equipped he was to handle elven children before he certainly is now.

What do I do? He wonders, awkwardly accepting the child clinging to him.

Comfort her, a voice advises. It's as easy as that, dear Mairon.

Comfort? Who's comforting? Him?

Mairon wants to laugh. And maybe even cry too.

I have no idea what I'm doing! Mairon thinks as he shifts her into a more comfortable position, holding her and whispering tender comforts until calmness returns.

She hiccups once or twice and then passes out in exhaustion. (As children, and perhaps even adults, tend to do after emotional fits.)

You did well, Mairon. The voice whispers approvingly but he pays it no mind. His attention is taken completely by the child in his arms.

Leaning forwards, Mairon kisses her forehead.

"Sweet dreams, O sweet Celeriel," he whispers.

::

Weak, Morgoth's voice spits. She's ruining you. And you're pathetic for allowing it.

Mairon winces and releases a loud hiss, head throbbing.

Watch and see, Morgoth continues cruelly, once she knows who you are and what you've done... Fear and disgust will twist that expression of admiration you so adore into hatred.

"Tt..."

He tries to silence the voice, but his efforts only serve to make it louder.

Mairon clutches his head, tugging painfully at his hair—maybe the pain will make it stop, ground him. He's torn between denial and shame, guilt and despair.

I know that! A part of him screams. I am Sauron—the Abhorred. I have killed and tortured more of her kind than she could ever conceive! I should not be playing nursemaid to an elder child. I am Sauron but——-

He chokes, silently reaching for her slumbering face. She is so beautiful. She is too good. This elven child is a light brighter than the Silmarils.

—-I don't want to be. His thoughts whisper treacherously. Not anymore.

Illuvatar's vision grows increasingly tempting. A vision of the Ainur, elves, and men—even the adopted dwarves of Aulë—all together, weaving a song.

Elves.

Celeriel.

He denounced this vision.

Mairon denied it and rebelled—he became the Apostate Maia, Sauron.

Where had that led him?

It led him under the foul yoke of Morgoth where he was called the Lieutenant, but in truth, he was nothing more than a dog to the Black Foe. He chose Morgoth for the power to change all of creation, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not create anything truly beautiful—orcs instead of elves, curses instead of blessings. Morgoth taught him how to create monstrosity.

The vision of Eru is more beautiful and lovely than anything he and Morgoth had ever made.

He has no right to want it.

But a treacherous part of him wonders: could I still be apart of that vision?

Desperation and madness war within him.

I want it. I want it. I want it. They chant. That power, that beauty... I want it. I want to build it. I want to help. I want to help make it...

He thinks of Celeriel.

I want her. He thinks desperately. I want to raise her—-raise her as my own. I want her to be mine.

He wants to give her the world.

He wants to give her paradise.

He's already fallen. But to climb up—to claw his way back into the light—would mean to acknowledge he ever fell into darkness in the first place. To take a different path now would mean to acknowledge that he took the wrong path before.

Will his pride allow that?

Could he endure the humiliation?

If I am wrong, then what have I done? Mairon thinks with dread. All this pain and death—-for what?

He had a justification before, a reason for all this suffering. Why isn't that enough anymore? When did it stop being enough?

I cannot go back to Morgoth, he realizes. I cannot take Celeriel there.

She would die.

She cannot die.

Mairon couldn't bear it.

Mairon imagines Morgoth's slimy touch upon his beloved Celeriel. The thought of Morgoth tainting her, twisting her with his dark sorcery nauseates him. His vessel revolts at such a thought and he takes physically ill, throwing up.

If Morgoth wins, Celeriel will never be free. He thinks, sinking into dread at the thought. She will never be safe if Morgoth wins.

If Morgoth wins, Celeriel will be hurt.

Morgoth would tear her apart and take pleasure in it.

Morgoth cannot win.

Mairon won't let him win.