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The front gates of the fortress are open and unguarded when Ar-Pharazôn arrives in Lugbúrz. Mairon waits for him on the steps leading up to his now empty halls, shrouded in the finest silk veils he could find, hiding strength beneath apparent solitude.
On the grounds around the Tower, his forces - the few that stayed behind with him or those that tarried for too long before making their cowardly escapes - are being slaughtered. The screams he cannot hear, he feels reverberating through the earth and up into his newly-adopted form through the soles of his feet. The new body is tender and unable to suppress the distaste he feels, but he hopes this will be an asset in the long run, rather than a hindrance, for he would hate to have to abandon the play before it is done.
Ar-Pharazôn and his Guard stop at the foot of the stairs when the din of short-lived battle ceases and quiet falls upon the bloodied courtyard. Mairon permits his form to sway slightly when the invader takes a step forward. His foot is on the first step and there he mock bows:
"Sauron!" he calls out. The word, filled with the power to break and humiliate, brings a bitter taste to Mairon's mouth (a taste he recognizes as blood). "Lord of the Earth!"
The Man's Guard laughs at his proclamation and he moves up on the staircase with the look of the self-assured.
"King of Men!"
More laughter, and the clamour of shields clashing together as though saluting, and Ar-Pharazôn heading steadily towards Mairon.
"O great ruler!" he carries on with a wide gesture of a gauntlet-clad hand that is meant to show Mairon he has absolutely nothing left under his command. "I have come to take your crown," he concludes when he's standing in front of Mairon's veiled form.
The Man has said nothing Mairon did not expect, so he does not deem this worthy of a more elaborate response than kneeling in front of the Númenóreans' leader, head bowed, crown presented as his to take.
"Ha! Had I known it would be this easy, I may have come earlier!"
There is more noise, the combined chuckling of a group of Men thinking themselves superior, and the long howls of the butchers they command. Ar-Pharazôn alone looks around as though expecting an ambush, and Mairon commends him for his momentary brilliance. He wishes he could oblige the Man but the fact remains that he has been deserted and the fresh remains of his last defenders will become dust and mud in the darkness of the Black Land before too long.
Cold metal touches his forehead and the fumbling of the sharply-fingered gauntlet marks the skin beneath the silky fabric. Ar-Pharazôn struggles to remove the plain gold circlet he so covets and Mairon bites even deeper into his lip, though not from pain-- from amusement.
When the Man's fingers finally catch at the crown and manage to pull it off, the flimsily-sewn veil also tears and falls away, exposing Mairon's hair, his face, and his shoulders. At the same time, the permanent cloud cover above the Dark Tower breaks and there is brightness and heat the likes of which Mairon has not seen nor felt since Melkor (the mere thought and memory sends a pang through him).
Eyes still downcast, Mairon doesn't see the look on Ar-Pharazôn's face - but he doesn't have to. He hears the sharp intake of breath, and makes a note to thank Manwë for his unwittingly perfect timing, if he ever has the chance.
The King's troops pitch a step forward to better see what is now exposed of Mairon's form; that's how he knows his choices (pale skin and impossibly long hair with the colour and shine of spun gold) could not be more perfect. It has the intended effect: Ar-Pharazôn's hand comes to rest heavily atop his head then gathers a fistful of hair that it tugs on. Mairon half-flinches at the first touch and obeys the unspoken command to tilt his head back. His eyes (a brilliant green) ache at the light, but he supposes he looks all the more vulnerable for it, which is good.
The Númenórean tears his eyes from the hair he holds and gazes into Mairon's face, clearly mesmerised by his appearance. Mairon can smell him then, starting from the sweat on his skin under the heavy armour and clothes, and into the very depth of his soul. At the bottom of the darkness he scents out the desire to take, to plunder, to possess. Mairon is no longer a conquered enemy, but the spoils of war, and he can smell the rank weakness of Ar-Pharazôn. He may be the imposing, steely-eyed King of a nation, but still nothing more than a Man.
"My King," Mairon finally whispers, with a weak voice and trembling lips, eyes holding the Man's grey gaze for only a moment before looking at his mouth (thin but handsome) instead - a show of humility and defeat.
Ar-Pharazôn grins down at him and yanks sharply on his hair again. "Your King? You yield, then."
Mairon doesn't hold back the small pained sound his throat makes, nor does he smooth out the twist of his reddened lips (slightly bloodied through abuse with his own teeth) before it changes his countenance to submission. The new body serves its purpose perfectly: the Númenórean is captivated, eyes greedily taking in every detail of Mairon's face.
"Y-yes. I yield."
He is released with a short bark of victorious (nearly incredulous) laughter. Ar-Pharazôn takes half a step back and watches Mairon's head fall down again and his shoulders slump.
"Splendid," he hears. Chain mail and armour clink as he half turns and raises an arm in signal to his followers. "Sack the fortress. Root out the beasts that may be still inside and kill them. Take everything that may be of value."
His Guard, already halfway up the stairs, hear him first and turn to call the others. Mairon speaks up.
"Don't. There is nothing inside."
Ar-Pharazôn signals for a halt and turns to Mairon. He says nothing, but the silence is heavy with interest. Mairon lifts his face once more, licks his lips, and repeats himself, only slightly louder.
"I said, Don't. There is nothing inside."
The words barely leave his mouth when Ar-Pharazôn moves in on him and heavily backhands him squarely across the face. Mairon's head turns sharply to the side. Pain starts deep under the skin and quickly bursts to the surface as blood, thick and red. He bows his head again and slumps forward on his elbows, bringing a hand up to try and stem the bleeding of his nose, unsure of anything but his own hate for a few moments.
He is given only that long to get his bearings before he is pulled up to his knees by his hair. His hand falls from his face as his balance is suddenly gone. Hot tears spring to his eyes, uncalled for, unwanted.
"That may be so," the Man casually tells him. "But do not presume to tell your new King what he can and cannot do. Do you understand?"
So this is what it's like to be weak, Mairon thinks, nodding as much as the grip on his hair allows him to move. With his blurry vision he can see the bemused set of those thin lips, and catches the movement of Ar-Pharazôn's free hand. He hooks Mairon's former crown at his lance rest, then pulls out a dagger from a sheath at his side. The sun makes the blade seem to be made of light and the rubies on its handle glint. Mairon is afraid that his new form has been wasted - that he has made a huge mistake, that he is about to have his throat cut out and that he will have to find another way to return to himself and seek vengeance.
The dagger does not find his neck, however, but the back of his head, and there it begins to cut through his hair, which Ar-Pharazôn has twisted and wound around his hand. Mairon struggles against this abasement, and his hands grip at Ar-Pharazôn's knees. He is about to order- ask- beg him to stop, when the blade is removed from the golden strands and pressed against his parted lips instead.
"This is punishment for your mistake, Sauron," Ar-Pharazôn intones, as if he does not take pleasure in this act though Mairon clearly sees the satisfaction in his eyes at causing distress to him. "Do not make things worse for yourself."
Mairon feels tears stream down his cheeks, past the bruises that are blooming and down to join the blood still dripping off his chin. Wordless revulsion and shame and disgrace of the worst kind fill him at once, and Ar-Pharazôn takes his muteness as a sign to continue.
And continue he does. The dagger scrapes at skin three times and pulls from the roots when the slack between Mairon's scalp and Ar-Pharazôn's hand is too great, and it hurts. Mairon breathes harshly to keep his lungs from bursting. Blood runs down the back of his neck at the same time as into his mouth, and he hears himself make strange noises - sobs, he realises quickly enough. He is sobbing. He is crying.
With his hands still braced against Ar-Pharazôn's knees, he shuts his eyes tightly as the last hair snaps apart. That's when the pain and the sense of loss are the sharpest, and they settle in every nerve, every vein, every sinew. Ar-Pharazôn lets go of the hair he holds; it flutters down to settle around Mairon, who collapses.
"Let this exercise in futility be a lesson to you," the King decrees, voice clear before he orders his troops to proceed with his earlier order.
He stands there for a while longer, admiring his handiwork with heady scent of arousal in the air before he joins his men inside the cool dark halls of Lugbúrz, leaving Mairon in front of the entrance alone, knowing he has nowhere and no will to run.
Mairon's hands grasp at the hair he can reach, and bring it closer to himself, but the braids and thick strands offer no consolation. At the first drop of blood that touches it, the golden wealth around Mairon's form loses its enchantment and begins to colour, turning back into the deep dark red that he loved - that had been loved by Melkor. This part of himself and of Melkor - the last that he has - is broken and cannot ever be mended, and Mairon's sobs turn into sorrowful cries.
He doesn't know how much time he is left there alone, forehead pressed against the dark stone of his Tower, but when the tears stop and his eyes are dry, Mairon props himself up on his arms and gazes back into the once-welcoming darkness of Lugbúrz (now Men, filthy and rotten, go through his chambers and overturn the order of things and Mairon bares his teeth at their shadows in a silent snarl).
He considers his situation and finds that he has been prepared for the raping of his body. He has also known from the beginning that he would probably not be able to prevent the raping of his home. The attack upon his very essence had surprised him, however, with how sudden and cruel it had been. He hurt, and the pain would linger.
He resolves to follow Ar-Pharazôn's teaching, and make no further mistakes. It seems fitting that his conqueror has no idea of his own misstep and of the damage he has caused. He has no knowledge of the misfortune that is about to befall his kingdom. Mairon's original plans for Númenor are gone; he would no longer like to rule it from the shadows, and bring it to endless glory, but will instead settle for nothing less than the death of many as a weregild for his loss.
The break through the heavy cloud cover that had seemed so fortuitous earlier now closes and thunder rumbles close by. There and then, with fire beginning to run through his veins and his eyes gleaming gold once more, Mairon prophesises that Ar-Pharazôn, Tar-Calion, King of the Númenóreans, will not live to die of old age. In fact, he may not live much longer at all.
"Oh, if only you had cut my throat out."
He knows with a surety borne of the Ages that his earlier thought is correct: Ar-Pharazôn may be a King; but he is, in the end, still nothing more than a Man - and not even a great one at that.
So Mairon begins to plot.