Desire

Defiant AU compliant.  It all started out in envy and in wrath.  Revenge and desire have always been his ultimate motivators.  Quenya names used (Morgoth = Melkor, Eru = Ilúvatar (or Father (i.e. Creator)), Fëanor = Fëanáro Curufinwë).  I have to say, the song today definitely heavily influenced the craziness and ugliness of this work.  You'll know when you hear it.  Takes place throughout the Years of the Trees and the First Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: (all one-sided) Morgoth x Varda, Morgoth x Fëanor, Morgoth x Angrod

Characters: Morgoth, Manwë, Varda, Fëanor, Angrod (mentions Eru prominently as well as Sauron)

Warning: non-canon compliant, just about ever ugly thing you can think of, non-con fantasies, slash, sexual slavery, slavery, world domination, torture, manipulation, mind-fucking, heavy on the sexuality, blatant references to sex and lust, revenge plot

Song: Dance with Asmodeus

Words: 2,268
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desire (verb): to long or hope for: exhibit or feel desire for; to express a wish for: request
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/desire

The primordial desire.

Though he had never seen it with his bare eyes, it had always been his ultimate temptation.  The one thing that he wanted above all else and the one thing that was wholly and completely beyond his reach.

The Flame Imperishable.

Of its glory he knew.  Created by the hand of Ilúvatar.  All the brilliance that would ever light the Void.

Was it any wonder that even a droplet of that light--that illusive creation beyond all imagining--drew him helplessly toward its glow as a tethered beast?  It held him as a willing captive as he was dragged toward its breathtaking cage.  Toward its inexplicable magic and incomprehensible perfection.  Toward the source of his curiosity and amazement and wonder.

Toward the center of the universe.  Toward the ability to create.

Was it any wonder that he tried to take it for his own?

And no matter how many times he failed to reach, he would keep trying and trying and trying.  It was the nature of the greatest of the Ainur, the firstborn son.

Melkor did not give up or give in, not in the face of fear or adversity.  Perhaps he might fall, yet he would persevere beyond any who came after, getting back up again and again against the odds.  No matter how many years he remained imprisoned.  No matter how much he might need to lie.  No matter how many poor souls he might need to manipulate.

No matter what he might need to sacrifice.

In the end, he would have what he desired.  Even if he needed to wait for all the ages of the world to hold it within the palm of his hand.

He would wait.

---

His foolish brother released him from his confinement much sooner than the end of time.

How naive his dear brothers and sisters were--now and always would they stay.  That Manwë believed him a changed man after a long imprisonment of brooding at the same four gray walls for thousands of years, languishing and planning and plotting... Melkor found such baseless and disgusting faith to be rather hilarious.  Truly laugh-worthy.

"I believe in the good of your heart."

And I believe in the foolishness of your compassion.

Of course, he had smiled and nodded.  Expressed his gratitude in a flurry of words expunging upon the virtuous nature of his brother's pity and trust.  All the while thinking of the day this man would kneel, bound and humiliated, at his feet--a slave waiting upon his god like a good little pet, helpless and utterly subdued.  All the while pondering the possibility of making his brother's wife his own--holding her upon his lap, running his hands over her bared starlit flesh until there was no doubt to whom she belonged.

As Manwë watched, he would take Varda there upon his throne.

Possess her light.  The closest jewel he had yet seen to the Flame Imperishable.  It seemed to shine through her face, as though its cold fire were perched upon the other side of a tinted sheet of glass, her transparent form but a cloak to disguise its heat and beauty.

He desired her as much as he feared her and hated her for possessing that while he wanted most.  And he would have her and her light.

All in good time, she would be his.

But for now he accepted his punishment.  Penitence through servitude to the community of elves writhing through the cities below.  He would help them create wonders, teach them great secrets of the forge and wonders of knowledge they would scarcely comprehend.  Treat them as his brothers and his children, as though they were dear to his heart.  As though they were more than the cheapest and most expendable of brainless pawns.

He would design himself as their reverent older brother, their regent's flesh and blood, eager to see their society and their power flourish beneath his tutelage like newborn stars in their faraway cradling nebula of influence.

And, when the time came, he would betray them all.

And Melkor did not feel sorry.  They were but an obstacle in his path.  But a wall to be overcome.  And what an easily scaled vertical drop they would be in comparison to his truest foe.

In comparison to Him.

---

It was during this punishment that he first encountered the second source of divine light.

At first he was shocked to find that this gem in the rough, this pleasant and unexpected surprise, was not an ainu.  Melkor had not believed, until that moment, that there was any special wonder to be found in these flawed creations of his Father and Enemy.  The Eldalië were as beautiful as any pearl or stone, as graceful as any archway carved of marble, their voices as soft and lyrical as those of the Ainur singing in the Timeless Halls.

But they were not perfect.

Flawed, they fought.  They disagreed.  They quarreled.

They hated.  That insidious, addictive blackness ate away at their purity and innocence.  Made them malleable and vulnerable.

Gave him a means with which to touch their cores and turn their thoughts to his purposes.

But this creature was the greatest--and most vulnerable--of them all.

Despite his brilliance.  Looking into the eyes of Fëanáro Curufinwë was as looking into the eyes of the Father himself at times.  And yet in that shard of the Flame Imperishable there was lacking the innate benevolence and love and condescension that so drove Melkor to distraction.  In their place smoldered the sadistic glee, the powerful heat of ambition, the reckless will to sacrifice for a goal.

The creativity.  The ingenuity.  The unyielding need to bring forth newness--to create and mold and shape--that always had brought the greatest of the Ainur to his knees in envy and hate and entrancement.

Fëanáro was beautiful.  And he already rested within the palm of Melkor's hands.

All it took was a few patronizing words and naked glances of lust and jealousy. The hate had been born so readily within the heart of his newest foe and obsession.

The hate... and the mistrust...

But not the mistrust of Melkor.  The mere thought of it brought a smile to the lips of the Dark Lord.

No, it was a more poisonous mistrust, crouched in waiting for the perfect moment to strike.  The perfect moment to kill.

The perfect moment to entrap this prince in his web of deceit.  A web of which the elf would never escape.

---

And he had never regretted that decision, impulsive though it might have been, to antagonize the Crown Prince of the Noldor rather than befriend him.  To take the path that, at first, seemed counter-intuitive and wasteful in the face of the possibility of cultivating bonds of "friendship".

But part of him recognized within this creature that which was within his own breast.  No bonds of trust would Fëanáro ever forge, not truly.

But bonds of hate...

No, Melkor did not regret.

Most especially not after the revelation of the Silmarilli.

As glorious as their master.  Outshining all but the Trees and the stars and the fragments of the Flame Imperishable itself.  They were as were Fëanáro's eyes, and yet they were of a different make.  Without the ambition and the cunning and the veins of darkness.  They were of the purest light, untainted and untouched, droplets of that divine fire rained down from the heavens and captured within facets of adamant.

Melkor desired them immediately and desperately.  As much as he had ever desired their master.

And that was when the game truly began.

The manipulation.  The whispers.  The rumors.

And never did his eyes leave that which he coveted.  The image of that Crown Prince with his spirit of fire standing at the center of the room, three glowing jewels upon his brow.  A prideful stallion waiting to be broken beneath the heaviness of his hands and the heat of his caresses.

The fantasy unfurled all too easily.  Those stones would be perched upon his own brow, and wherever he went there would be that light raining down upon the world.  Finally, he would possess pieces of that which the Father had always denied him even in the beginning.  In defiance, he would look up at the sky and laugh in glee.

You cannot stop me.  Not now.  Not ever.

Nothing short of utter destruction could halt his forward momentum.

He would be the ruler of this realm, equal to Ilúvatar in all ways.  A king.  A god.  And these pathetic creatures--the Valar and the Maiar and the Eldalië and the Men and all other creatures living upon these lands--they would prostrate themselves at his feet and lick his toes, begging for his favors and suffering at the whims of his wrath for their defiance.

And in their midst he could see them, those two that held his desire so easily and unwillingly.

Varda upon his right, her naked body open and her white-hot eyes glazed in lust as she panted and glowed, the nexus of the stars.  Fëanáro upon his left, draped over his throne, so eager for his affections, all a contradiction of darkness and light.

He would have them both.  He would have them all.

And he would be the King of Eä.

All he need do was carry out his plan.  With the bait of the Silmarilli upon his crown and the door to his fortress hanging wide open in invitation, he would sit back and watch.  And wait.

---

There was, however, a significant difference between the theoretical formation of plans and the experimental results of their genesis.

In other words, rarely did they follow their blueprints.

There was the loss of Fëanáro, but Melkor worried little.  Still that spirit sat in the Halls of the Waiting.  The Halls which would eventually he his to do with as he pleased.  There would be nowhere within this physical realm that his spirit of fire could hide from his wrath and his desire.

It was a setback.  But a minor one.

In the end, he would still succeed or be utterly destroyed trying.

But there were the perks.  The little pleasant surprises.  To this, Melkor would admit.  They happened not often, but when they did he did not squander them, though they had not been calculated elements of his ultimate scheme.

It was, perhaps, for that reason that he did not utterly destroy the fragile mortal frame of the elf who had just dared to spit upon his face.

Instead, he held that body firmly in place with his broad hands capturing slender wrists and braced about a breakable throat.  Examined from head to toe the sleek lines and angles honed through battle and training to near-perfection.  Rarely had he beheld a creation so fine as this one, with a handsome face and luscious drapes of hair as molten gold spilling over alabaster stone.

And yet it was the eyes that captured his interest.

It was their light.

Defiance and hatred.  Fear and bravery.  Cunning and the iron will so rarely seen amongst these weak-willed and delicate beings.

Desire unfurled as heat in his belly.

No, this elf was not Fëanáro's overpowering flame, so brilliant it shone as a star all its own.  No, this elf was not Varda, whose raiment barely concealed her core of fire burning white-hot.

But this sort of brilliance was no less enticing.

Perhaps that was why he released the slave rather than crushing him utterly, sent him away with the Lieutenant to be interrogated.  But not tortured.  Not raped.  Not ruined.

Not broken.

For that privilege belonged only to Melkor.  If that core were to be melted down and reforged into a new image, it would be by his hands that the sculpture would be crafted.  Into his creation of lust and wildness and perfection, worshipful eyes and sinful lips and breathy words.

By his feet as a pet this newest chip of the Flame Imperishable would sit.  Collared like a dog.

And just as obedient.

---

And even from the depths of the Void, Melkor sat in the endless blackness and laughed himself sick.

For they--his brethren and their simpering followers--were fools to believe him gone and defeated.  They were fools to fancy themselves safeguarded from his wrath, protected from his return and guarded from his influence.

Free of his regard.

For still he watched them.  His queen and his lover and his slave.  Desired them with every ounce of his being, knew that when they all knelt at his side in supplication he would be complete.  Would have collected as much of that light as he could embrace and would wield it to his heart's content until all about him the earth and the sky and the sea bent to his will.

Would hold his power over all the world and have them weep as he punished them for their sins.  Would have them scream and writhe as he invaded their minds and rewired their reality.

Would have them call him "Master" as they fell, one-by-one, to his cause.

And then, when he shone with the Flame Imperishable and all living souls within the realm of Eä called him Lord of All Things, he would be his Father's equal.

Nay.  He would be greater even than Ilúvatar Almighty.

And only then would he be content.  Only then would all his desires be fulfilled.