"Mairon," he murmurs against golden hair, strong arms encircling his servant's shoulders and gripping him close. All the scents which cling to him are unfamiliar, but for a faint, nostril-stinging scorch...

You had been so beautiful.

Melancholy crashed into the space rage had once ago occupied, a dizzying down to a breathtaking up. "Do you dare tell me what is of use to me?" He growled it near Mairon's temple. "I will use you until you are nothing, if need be, 'til even this low flesh and bone has long become nothing but so much dust and black dirt. You are mine, and even though your vision is lessened, your mind shall pierce some truth from this. Whether by force or treachery we will find the manner of unmaking this wretched witchery upon us."