Chapter Text
But when the Battle was ended and from the ruin of the North great clouds arose and hid the stars, the Valar drew Melkor back to Valinor bound hand and foot, and blindfold; and he was brought before The Ring of Doom. There he lay upon his face before the feet of Manwë and sued for pardon; but his prayer was denied, and he was cast into prison in the fastness of Mandos, whence none can escape, neither Vala, nor Elf, nor mortal Man.
Vast and strong are those halls, and they were built in the West of the lands of Aman.
There was Melkor doomed to abide for three ages long, before his cause should be tried anew, or he should plead again for pardon.
The Silmarillon, Of the Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor
It’s the quiet Mairon cherishes most these days.
Not that a forge is ever silent. It is filled with the sweetest music: the crackling of the flames as they consume the wood he has added to the fire first thing in the morning to make it burn hot and steady again, the hissing sound of steam every time he cools off a finished piece in the waiting bucket of water and of course the rhythmic sound of the hammer hitting metal.
No it‘s the absence of noise, of distractions, he craves. Only him and the task before him, only the pull of gleaming ores and glowing gemstones, being given a form underneath his hands, bending to his will.
There is a simplicity to it, a satisfaction in creating something lasting, something he can touch, he only now realizes he has missed. Finally he feels something akin to peace, finally he can banish the endless screams resonating through his head.
At least as long as he is alone with his work.
It is much harder to forget all that has happened, all he has done, when Aulë joins him in the forge, his former and now again master‘s unspoken disapproval a suffocating weight in the air, conveyed by every gruff order and every sharp glance out of bright golden eyes.
He should be grateful, Mairon knows it only too well. If not for Aulë’s pledge to take him in again, to vouch for his good behavior, he might have been sentenced to join Melkor in his prison in the Halls of Mandos, where the Dark Lord has dwelled for the last three ages. In comparison working in the forge he knows so well, creating tools to heal the damage he helped bring over Middle-Earth seems a merciful fate.
But it is not gratitude he feels, his hammer hitting the iron a little too forcefully, although he knows he should.
It is anger, deep-set and festering. Anger at every snide remark, at every glare leveled at him, at every whisper that follows his steps. Anger at himself for being so foolish to believe the pretty lie, when he was told he could be forgiven, when he debased himself in front of the Valar in repentance for his crimes.
A bitter chuckle escapes Mairon. Forgiven perhaps yes, in a play of kindness that reeks of condescension. But never forgotten.
Suspicion darkening his every day, Eru Iluváter‘s first born children, that now populate the streets of this city, regarding him with a mixture of apprehension and disgust.
And Aulë?
Where once was belonging, affection, perhaps even love, there is now only the bitter cold of disappointment, stinging the more because part of him knows it is justified.
But are it really his own misgivings that poison his attempt to reconcile with his former master? Or the mocking whispers of another?
Mairon is too aware of the Dark Lord’s duplicitous nature to even believe for an instance there is no hidden reason Melkor asked for clemency not only for himself but also for his most trusted servant, shouldering all the blame for their deeds.
A baffling act of compassion.
After leaving him to rot in Middle-Earth for the better part of three ages.
Melkor is planning something, he is sure of it. The only question is what role Mairon wants to play in the Dark Lord’s schemes.
Do you still think there is a choice? A taunting whisper resounds in his head.
Not Aulë‘s heavy footsteps rip him out of the nearly trance-like state he has been in. It is an intake of breath, barely perceptible even to his sensitive ears, all the senses of a trained, battle-proven warrior alert at once.
There are eyes on him.
He can feel it.
Whoever is watching him - has been watching him for some time he suspects - is good. Utterly silent until now, their presence not stirring the air.
Has someone finally gathered enough courage to attack him? They won‘t find him defenseless though, he thinks, lips curling up in a feral smile, rage pulsing through him.
Mairon does not give any hint he is aware of his watcher, all his movements unbothered, precise, as he listens for any more sounds in the pauses between the clang of his hammer.
There it is. Another barely audible sound, drifting in from the open window at the front of the forge.
Mairon shifts the heft of his hammer a little in his grip, feeling the reassuring weight of it. This can just as easily be used as a weapon and not just a tool.
And then he moves with otherworldly swiftness. Crossing the room in three quick strides with the self-assured grace of a predator, he throws the window completely open as he bends outside to catch whoever is spying on him.
He only sees a glimpse of golden hair and shocked, bright blue eyes, not hesitating for a moment, his free hand closing around the small figure hiding below the window sill with unrelenting force.
Pulling the struggling little spy through the window earns him an astonishingly well-aimed kick in the stomach, a distinctively female voice crying out in enraged Quenya ‘to let her go immediately’.
Mairon grunts in pain but does not loosen his grip on her arm, his ire still burning strong.
Was the little She-elf - and that is clearly what she is, even if she fights him too viciously, her hair a tumultuous storm around her head, to allow him to see her face - spying on him?
Despite his anger he does not want to hurt her, simply aiming to restrain her as he drags her through the forge and pushes her against the nearest wall, one hand on her shoulder, the other still clasped around his hammer.
He underestimates his own strength, a pained sound escaping his captive as her back hits the stone with teeth-rattling force. It makes Mairon hesitate for a fraction of a moment, his harsh grip on her loosening…
And it is enough to make the little wildcat seize the opportunity. A small fist unerringly aimed at his face, his own countermove coming far too late - as astonishing as it seems that she could be as fast as him. Even more astonishing is that the hit she gets in hurts quite a lot.
An undignified yelp escapes him as he reaches for his eye, already feeling it will swell up.
With an enraged growl he sacrifices his hold on the hammer, it falling to the ground with a clank, both his hands on her wrists now to press her against the wall.
Mairon takes in fair, delicate features, blue eyes blazing with a wild, inner fire and soft, rose-colored lips, drawn into an angry snarl underneath the untamed mass of golden locks.
Then she attempts to knee him in the groin.
“Enough,” he barks at her, barely able to circumvent her attack by leaning against her with his full weight. He cannot help noticing the feminine curves hidden beneath the simple white dress she is wearing, pressed together as they are and with the way she is twisting in his grip still unwilling to cease her struggles against him. It makes him amend his first estimation of her age, adding a few years.
She may be young but she is definitely a grown woman. Even if she behaves closer to a feral cat than a dignified elf maiden.
Some long-honed instinct warns him just in time to throw back his head before she can bite him, her teeth clicking together worryingly close to his nose.
“Will you just yield, you little spitfire?” he snarls at her, starting to lose the already fraying hold on his temper, his eye pulsing in agony. “I do not mean you any harm.”
She only bares her, very white and even, teeth at him again. “I seriously doubt that. You accosted me, you evil brute.”
“I accosted you?” A disbelieving laugh escapes Mairon. “You hit me. And tried to bite me.”
Blue eyes narrow dangerously, no remorse in them whatsoever. “Only to defend myself when you grabbed me without warning. And cause.”
Without cause? The little spy is lucky she got off this lightly. Leaning so close to her she must feel his breath on her skin, Mairon hisses accusingly. “You spied on me.”
She meets his gaze without flinching, something he would note with admiration if he were not too enraged to care, her voice defiant as she denies his words with audible indignation. “I did not!”
At least she has stopped trying to maim him. Mairon moves back a little, allowing her a bit more space as he takes in her appearance once more. The cut of her dress might be deceptively simple, but it is well made, the fabric smooth underneath his hands, beautiful stitching decorating the cleavage. He tries not to notice how it moves with every agitated breath she takes.
He cannot afford to be caught in a questionable situation with a noble Elfish girl. And she is from a noble House, arrogance and entitlement in her every word and gesture.
“Who are you?” Mairon asks curiously against his will. The question only earns him a willful toss of her head, her jaw clenching stubbornly.
“I do not have to answer to the likes of you.”
Her words cause renewed anger to course through him. Did curiosity draw her here? Did she ogle him like a captured monster in a cage? “The likes of me…” His grip on her tightens again involuntary, making her flinch.
Heavy footsteps sound out from outside, before the wooden door of the forge is thrown open suddenly, interrupting their stalemate.
For a brief moment a massive figure darkens the doorway in silence, taking in the situation with bright golden eyes, a stern expression on proud features.
Mairon has to keep back a groan. Of course Aulë has arrived at the worst possible time.
“Mairon, what is the meaning of this?” The Smith’s voice hovers between disbelieving and reproachful as he steps into the room, clad in a dark gray, richly adorned tunic instead of his usual leather apron, his shoulder-long black locks kept back by a gleaming golden circle. “Unhand her immediately.”
Because of course this has to be Mairon’s fault somehow. Regardless of his annoyance Mairon follows the order and steps back but exclaims immediately.
“She spied on me. I only…”
He is interrupted at once by the little Elf, her voice indignant as she over-dramatically rubs her wrists where he held on to her.
“I did nothing of the sort. I simply wanted to know if someone was inside…”
“And it did not occur to you to just knock?” A mocking laugh escapes Mairon as he turns towards her. “You were crouching in front of that window, staring at me for the Maker knows how long…”
“Are you in the habit of accosting innocent people before asking them…“ Their voices mingle in their agitation, the both of them in front of each other again, Mairon towering over her, small as she is, their audience completely forgotten.
“Silence,“ Aulë‘s harsh tone cuts through their bickering like a knife, his dark brows drawn together in anger, a frown on his face.
He shakes his head when they both fall silent, his eyes on his apprentice, full of a by now familiar disappointment. “Whatever Artanis‘s purpose here is, I don’t think this is the way we greet a guest in our hall, Mairon.”
So his master knows the little spitfire. Of course he does.
“She hit me, master,“ Mairon cannot help but point out rather petulantly with a gesture at his by now swollen shut eye. “And she tried to bite me.”
“Enough, Mairon, enough.” Aulë rubs his temple with one of his large, dark-skinned hands as if plagued by sudden pain, his voice exasperated. “I had enough trouble with your former master today. I do not need you to add to it.”
Mairon stares down at the tiled floor, unable to meet Aulë’s eyes, unease churning inside him at the mention of Melkor. “So I suppose the meeting did not go well?” He asks hesitantly.
Aulë sighs, stepping over to the forge, absentmindedly testing the tools Mairon worked on this morning. “This is a perfectly balanced axe, Tulkas will be pleased,” he murmurs before shaking himself, his expression solemn underneath his short beard as he looks over at Mairon.
“Melkor has been granted the freedom to roam Valimar.” His golden eyes harden at the thought of the Dark Lord roaming any city, even the city of the Valar. “Against my explicit advice.” His tone turns wry. “But then Nienna pleaded quite prettily for him.”
It will bring the Lady of Mercy nothing but sorrow Mairon thinks. Before he can say anything though his master’s eyes shift to the Elf. “This might be a conversation for another time.” A genuine smile lights up his face as he takes in their unexpected guest. “Now what brings you here on this fine day, fair Artanis? Did your father send you?”
She is going to lie.
Mairon can see it in the way the little Elf blinks at Aulë like a startled deer, biting her lip and hesitating for far too long.
“There has been talk of me becoming your apprentice,” she finally says, her voice a tad breezy, her smile trembling.
Aulë laughs good-naturedly, the warm sound filling the room. “Indeed.” He reaches out to press her shoulder, making her wince visibly. “And we will be glad to have you. Won’t we, Mairon?”
Wonderful. If it’s that easy Mairon will never bother with any intricate lies ever again. But then he lacks her pretty, fresh-faced innocence to sell his untruths.
Then his master’s words register.
“You want to become a smith?“ There is open condescension in his voice, as he stares at the Elf in utter disbelief.
Not surprisingly she does not react graciously to his obvious doubt. Eyes blazing in challenge, she rounds on him.
“What of it? Do you think I am not capable enough?”
Mairon gives her a sharp smile, bending down to retrieve his hammer.
“Here.” A quick twirl and he is offering it to her, handle first. “You can have a try right now.”
She manages to hold the hammer a lot longer than he anticipated, all of five heartbeats, before the weight becomes too much and it falls to the floor, forcing her to jump back to avoid it hitting her feet. The force of the glare she levels at him afterwards could burn down whole cities.
“Mairon,” Aulë sighs anew, watching their hostile exchange. “Perhaps,” he adds,”you should go over to the Hall to have Yavanna look at your eye. She arrived back with me.”
“Of course, Master.” Mairon’s tone is overly pleasant as he gives Aulë and the Elf a shallow bow to excuse himself.
“I hope I did not hurt you too badly,” the impertinent little thing murmurs as he leaves, her voice all genuine concern. But Mairon has seen the twinkle in her eyes, the victorious gleam of satisfaction at leaving a visible mark on him.
Someone, Mairon thinks darkly, should show her her place.
You could. He tries to ignore the even darker whisper in his mind. He has seen hundreds if not thousands of her kind break under Melkor’s cruel touch. Has helped break them. Many of them seasoned warriors and not innocent little Elf maidens.
And all of them thought they could withstand the darkness. At least in the beginning.
She is lucky, Mairon muses, as he makes his way outside and crosses the courtyard towards the white-walled hall in the middle, its gold-colored shingles gleaming softly in Telperion‘s light, so lucky that he has forsaken the dark.
As Aulë mentioned Yavanna is present, conversing with two elegantly dressed Elven women with the dark hair and gray eyes of the Noldor and Aiwendil, his brown hair a tangled nest that looks like it could be the home of a bird or two, in the middle of the airy hall with its colorful, tapestry adorned walls.
They all fall silent at Mairon’s approach, the Elvish ladies eying his injured face with open disapproval. Aiwendil on the other hand beams at him, his brown eyes jovial as ever.
One of the only ones who has welcomed him back with open arms, making a twitch of guilt pulse through Mairon at the way he used to look down at his slightly ditzy fellow Maia for ages.
“Mairon, what has happened to you?” There is genuine worry in the voice of the only other being who seems happy to have him back here in Valinor. Yavanna, dressed in a green dress as richly embroidered as her husband's tunic, immediately pulls him over to a bench close to the giant fireplace at one side of the hall with an apologetic smile on her beautiful face, aimed at her guests. The firelight gleams on her golden tresses and the circle on her head, her dark green eyes concerned as she takes hold of his jaw to have a look at his injury.
“Aulë has a new apprentice,” Mairon growls out, switching to Valarin, loath to let anyone else hear about this, flinching back involuntarily as she reaches for his swollen eye with cool, gentle fingers.
It makes her pause, a surprised twitch to her full lip, as she answers him in the language of the gods. “And he decided to introduce himself by gifting you this? Unprovoked?”
Why is it that everyone assumes he must have done something to deserve this?
His annoyance at the constant suspicion following him like a dark cloud sharpens Mairon’s voice. “She was spying on me.”
“She?” There is laughter in Yavanna’s eyes now, warmth spreading from her fingertips into his swollen skin, quickly diminishing the pain.
It would have been easy to heal the form he has chosen this way himself. But one of the conditions of him being forgiven has been the prohibition to work any magic except the amount required in the forge. And Mairon suspects most of the other Ainur would judge his humiliation at the hands of that impossible Elf girl only just.
“Artanis. One of the Noldor brood,” he murmurs, having remembered he heard the name before. “Finarfin’s daughter, I think.”
Yavanna’s smile deepens, a slightly teasing edge to her tone now. “Ah, an Elfish princess then. A worthy opponent.“
Mairon scoffs. “More a wildcat than a princess.”
His annoyance makes the Vala laugh as she finishes healing his blackened eye. “She has three brothers … and a dozen cousins.” A pensive expression flits over her striking face. “She is beautiful, I have heard. Like her mother, the Swan-Maiden of Alqualondë. Her golden hair is rumored to rival the radiance of Laurelin.”
Mairon never had any use for exaggerated praise of any female's beauty or virtues. But he has to admit in Artanis’s case it is no exaggeration at all. A fact that only makes this worse.
“That may be,” he grounds out, still caught up in his dark mood. “Though her manners rival those of the shrieking horrors of the Void.”
“There. As good as new.” Yavanna moves back with another smile, this one holding a worrying amount of amusement. Mairon knows only too well his master’s wife loves to meddle. “Well, then let’s hope her manners improve under my husband’s tutelage.”
And then her words remind him that from now on he will have to endure Artanis’s bothersome presence every single day.
Mairon groans.
It seems fate found a new way to make his punishment unbearable.