For the Sake of Our Son
It was a strange day in Aulë's forge with none of the Maiar who served him, nor his Ñoldor apprentices present. They had been given leave by the Great Smith of Arda who currently sat on a stool placed in front of a hearth in which a crackling fire burnt, hunched over an anvil, twirling between his fingers a ring. It was a plain band of gold, unadorned and simplistic, yet to him it meant so much. This was the ring he had made for him, so many of the world's ages ago with so much love and care. His dearly beloved and lost Mairon.
How long ago had it been since he had worked at this very spot, hammering away on this anvil, ever eager to build, create and over all, please his master. Yet he remembered if it were only yesterday and he knew that it was he who failed his Mairon more than his apprentice had failed him. He thought back to the day Mairon had presented to him this ring, and when questioned as to the purpose of it's creation, he had replied meekly that it was intended as a gift. He remembered all too well how he had eyed the object unappreciatively before pocketing it and dismissing Mairon to his duties with a perfunctory word of gratitude, thinking only of how plain it was, if free of flaws, and how he resolved to teach Mairon to perfect his craftsmanship, barely registering the flash of hurt in the Maia's eyes and failing to decipher what it meant.
Today, however, as he sat reminiscing, he saw how he had erred, for it was a band of gold which had doomed his fallen student. His will he had poured into the One Ring which he had forged from the fires of Mount Doom and with it, he had cast down Númenor, bringing on it the curse of Ilúvatar, torn Middle Earth apart in wars and cast a dark shadow upon those that lived yet in it. And now, the Ring had been unmade and Mairon was broken, unable to return in corporeal form till darkness fell over Arda again when the Doors of Night were breached.
Maybe his fall had come from his restriction, for under Aulë, ever were the wings of his talent clipped, unable to to take flight and soar. Aulë himself had noticed disquiet in the Maia and had mistaken it to be a passing phase. Yet, how flawed had his judgment been, for his inaction and inability to put Mairon's disquiet to rest had driven him into the arms of Melkor, leading him down the ruinous path which led to his and his new master's doom.
Round and round he twirled the object, watching it catch the light from the flames, his fingers tracing it's curves and his vision clouded over, obscuring the object of his contemplation in a blur. His tears fell and splashed on the anvil set in front of him.
Mairon, oh dearly beloved, what have I done? he wept inwardly.
Unknown to him, at that moment, Yavanna of the Trees sat in her chambers, holding an identical band of gold to the one he held, it with soft fingers. She, however, wept without reserve, mourning as she had not done since the Destruction of the Two Trees.
Long ago had the ring she held been forged, made for no other hand than hers. Simple it had been, yet so elegant and now that she beheld it closely, so alluring in it's simplicity. An honest gift, given in love and devotion from one who held her in high regard, yet whose love she had failed to acknowledge before he had been lost to her forever. No more than a child he had been, but so far had he fallen that it ached her heart to contemplate it.
She thought back to the day that he had presented it to her, a graceful smile on his fair face as he held it out on his open palm, bent on one knee. She had taken it and looked on it as a curio, but without interest. She had accepted it, but had spoken of how much more beauty was her crown of flowers which rested upon her golden head was and lamented that the ground had been dug open, killing her beloved plants, for the ring to be forged, when she considered the cost behind it. She paid no heed to the fact that her plants would be of need to forge Arda itself and had hardly managed to notice the strange expression on Mairon's face as she grieved openly. Now that she looked back, she realized it was guilt. Guilt for having hurt the one he sought to so eagerly please.
She regretted her words to Mairon that day; how had she been so unfeeling as so wound such a gentle heart as his? The answer came to her of it's own accord; it was during Melkor's savaging of Middle Earth and her forests and it was their destruction she had been grieving over, and in carelessness had implicated Mairon in destruction. Yes, indeed it was so, and Mairon, ever the sensitive and deep-sighted Maia that he was, may have drawn the parallel between him and Melkor. But oh, to Melkor's side he had gone over, though she understood not how.
Oh Mairon, most dear, how I wish I could take back my words, but why did thee become that which thy feared to become all along? she lamented, sobs racking her and tears washing down her face like a flood unleashed when a sluice gate had been drawn back.
She could not take it anymore; she must go and seek comfort with Aulë, for he knew Mairon's heart the best of all, having been his mentor since Arda came into being till Melkor had seduced him away. She would go to Aulë...
Aulë started out of his reverie as he felt a soft hand on his shoulder, the hand which he knew to be that of his queen, Yavanna. Wiping away his tears discreetly and hiding the ring in his clenched fist, he turned around to face his wife.
"What brings thee to my forge, dearest?" he asked. "Ever did thou shun the dark and heat it houses for the shelter of the trees."
Yavanna cast her gaze to his feet and was silent for a moment before she looked up and answered, the barely disguised sorrow in her eyes evident to him and crippling in it's intensity, "It is about Mairon, Lord".
Her words struck him like a blow from Tulkas. "What set thee thinking about him, my Queen?"
She held out her hand, and on her palm, there was a ring identical to the one he held in his fist! She replied, her voice barely audible and quivering, "I heard him whisper my name today. Just my name. And yours. I was not able to feel him after that, not as I felt him before."
The Smith of Arda sank into his seat, numbed by pain and grief. She felt it too. For at the moment the Ring was unmade, the whisper of an unmistakable Ainu voice had reached his ears, even as the fires consumed it.
Oh Yavanna. Oh Aulë.
And tears brimmed in his eyes and he held out his open palm to her, showing her that which he had held hidden only moments ago. He saw his queen's other hand fly to her mouth and heard her begin to keen. He rose and enfolded her, seeking comfort as much as he solaced her. Yavanna hugged him back, burying her face in his chest, weeping the grief of ages past in the arms of her Lord. For long they held each other in their embrace, before they quietly broke it and gazed into each other's eyes. Hating what he had to say, he spoke, "The One Ring has been cast into the fires from which it had been wrought. Arda has been freed of it's second Dark Lord. But with him, our Mairon has been lost until the End of Days too." His voice shook as he said the last words before his will deserted him.
Yavanna wept again, silently, leaning her head on his shoulder, sobs shaking her slender frame, and he rested his chin on her golden head, seeking comfort in his closeness to her. Grief, oh grief, always it afflicted his Queen and him the most, ever since Arda was made! For long they stood thus, before they regained control and faced each other again.
Aulë spoke first, "I did not ever think he gave you a ring too".
Yavanna said, drying her eyes, "I thought it strange too; ever was he closer to you and his temperament was as yours, ever enamoured of treasures of the earth and of the shaping of metals, while I gave my heart to the trees and those that live beneath them."
He was silent for a while, lost in contemplation; how was it that Mairon had thought to give both Yavanna and him the same kind of present? And then, he understood; a man and woman exchanged rings along with wedding vows. Did that mean Mairon had considered them...
"I know why he did it."
Yavanna's gaze intensified, "Why did he do so, Mahal?" She rarely used that name.
Fresh tears stung his eyes as he spoke, "He considered us to be his mother and father, or closest to what he would have in their place."
The truth was like a splash of cold water to Yavanna. It was true, she realized, for Mairon had loved Aulë, which had been all to evident to her, even though it's intensity escaped her husband. Her heart seemed to shatter into pieces and she sank to her knees at her husband's feet. If she had cried before this, it was nothing compared to how she mourned now, for the full implications of her words the day Mairon had given her the ring were finally revealed to her. She clasped Aulë around the knees and he joined on the floor, burdened by his own grief. What cruel fate had blinded them and torn from them that which was the most precious of their house?
Eventually, quiet settled on their hearts again, and resting their heads together, hers on his shoulders and his on her head, they relayed to each other how Mairon had given them their gifts and their follies. They both soothed away each other's hurts and quieted the grief that crippled the other. Long they sat after in silence in each other's arms, thinking back to the days when the household of Aulë was not lacking a member and the light and laughter which had diminished when he had left.
It was after long hours that they stood before the anvil, both rings lying side by side on it, looking at how the light of the dancing flames made it glitter and darken again. A peace of a grievous kind had settled on Aulë, one which he knew his wife felt too. In the dim light of the dying fire, he questioned in his gravelly voice, "Will you pray for the soul of Mairon to Ilúvatar with me, Yavanïe?"
She hugged him from behind, clasping her hands together over his chest.
"I will, Mahal. For the sake of our son, I will."