As he carried Aulëndil out of the Witch-king's ruined tower, Saruman frowned as he watched Radagast fuss over him. He could not avoid the realization that he had had, looking down at the blood soaked visage of one he had called brother in the past: Mairon would have never been wounded so, and neither would Curumo have been so helpless as Saruman felt now.

Curumo and Mairon would have easily been able to deal with anything the Enemy chose to send against them; particularly considering the way that Morgoth had dispersed so much of himself through those thralls that he held.

Instead, all Saruman could do was to carry Aulëndil – his face smeared with blood, his right eye missing, and a bloody rag shoved into his mouth – out of the crumbling tower of Dol Gûldor, and watch in mild annoyance as Radagast fussed over him. He had never been particularly fond of Yavanna's people, and even when he had still been Aiwendil, Saruman had not truly approved of Radagast. If Yavanna had not been so insistent…

Still, the fact remained that she had been, and as one of the Valier – even if she had not been Aulë's spouse – it was and had been his duty to abide by her dictates, no matter his personal feelings on the matter.

"Oh dear." Looking up sharply, irritated to have been disturbed by the inane chatter of one who was not even one of his peers. "Saruman, look."

Looking down at the ravaged form he was carrying in his arms, Saruman found that the damage was worse than he had realized at first: without the concealing effect of the blood soaked cloth, he could now see the shredded remains of Aulëndil's gums. He could also see the still-bleeding holes where his peer's teeth had been wrenched out.

"I- I would not have thought that even the Enemy could have been so cruel," Radagast said, lips quivering as if he was about to weep.

Unseemly as it was, if Saruman had not possessed such iron control over his emotions, he might have wanted to do the same. Aulëndil was his peer, and while Mairon and Curumo had not been the closest of compatriots when they had both lived in Aman, the fact remained that they were both, in the end, members of Aulë's house. Aulëndil's chosen name spoke as much; his peer was indeed faithful.

"May he have an eternity in the Void in recompense for his crimes," he said, turning his gaze from Aulëndil's ravaged body so that he could make his way out of this fell, befouled place at last.

As Radagast paced him, muttering healing spells in Quenya, Saruman began planning just what he would need to aid Aulëndil in his healing.

Curumo? Is this real?

Yes, Aulëndil, it is very real, he said, deciding against correcting his peer while he was still drifting in a haze of pain from his torment. We are here, and we are indeed removing you from this place.

For a few moments, only the sounds of Aulëndil's rasping breaths and Radagast's mutterings in Quenya filled the air; Saruman held Aulëndil closer, offering what comfort he could.

Curumo, I would ask a boon of you. Aulëndil seemed to be growing steadily more lucid; still, the return of his reason was not a thing to be celebrated in this case, for it also meant that he was now far more aware of the torments that had been inflicted on his mortal body. Far more aware of the pain he was in.

What would you ask of me, Aulëndil?

Kill me, Aulëndil's breath rasped harshly, mouth opening to reveal his ravaged tongue as he panted for breath. This mortal body is dying; please, send me home.

Aulëndil, what happened to your tongue? he asked, gently holding his peer's jaw open so that he could see the damage that had been done better. The tip was bitten off, and a small chunk on the left had also gone missing.

I was starving; my mortal body was breaking, I needed to eat something.

I see, he returned. So, it seems that the Enemy is even more insidious than anyone anticipated, he mused, as Radagast tucked another cloth – this one clean, thankfully – into Aulëndil's still sluggishly bleeding mouth.

Please, Curumo; send me home. Aulëndil's voice, beginning to become weaker as the torments that had been inflicted on his mortal body dragged him down into the void of unconsciousness faded out then.

Rest, Aulëndil, he said, as he sensed his peer losing consciousness fully once more.

~UT~

Wiping away the blood that was caked on Aulëndil's face, Radagast thought back to the herbs and plants that he had gathered back in Rhosgobel. He would likely need every one of them if he were to repair the damage that had been done to poor Aulëndil while the Enemy had held him.

He'd never once believed that the youngest – well youngest in appearance, in any case – of their number had willingly entered into the Enemy's service; but, to see for himself what Aulëndil had gone through… He could only wish, though he knew that such wishes were folly, that they had been able to act sooner.

Gandalf appeared then, a furious expression on his face and a bundle of fur clutched under his left arm, and Radagast looked to him curiously. "What is that skin you're carrying?"

"The Enemy used it to torment a Dwarf who had fallen into his grasp, and Aulëndil as well," Gandalf said, his tone nearly a snarl. "He used Aulëndil to create this… abomination."

"Used him?" he repeated. "What do you mean by that, Gandalf?"

"The Witch-king flayed the flesh from Aulëndil's body; with it, a bale of straw, and fell herbs that I will not name here, he created a base mockery of Aulëndil's hound form. I do not know how long that… thing existed, but I will see the remains destroyed; the ashes scattered wide and long."

Gasping, Radagast felt tears beginning to run down from his eyes. Moving closer to Aulëndil – away from the horrid thing that had been patched together from parts of his young-appearing friend's mortal form – Radagast continued to keep pace with Saruman as the leader of their Order proceeded the three of them out of Dol Gûldor.

"That would seem to go a long way toward explaining the boy's missing teeth," Saruman said.

Radagast winced; seeing inside Aulëndil's mouth that first time had been a cruel reminder of just what the Enemy was capable of. To think that what they had all seen this day was not the end of things…

"Will you allow me to examine this wolfskin that you found, Gandalf?" Saruman asked, drawing Radagast's attention back to the skin that Gandalf held.

"I do not think that Aulëndil should be brought any closer to this tool of the Enemy's than he has been in the past," Gandalf said, looking with distain down at the bundled skin he held under his arm.

"Very well," Saruman said. "Radagast, will you take him?"

"Of course," he said, hurrying over to collect Aulëndil's slumbering form from the head of their Order.

As he settled down at the base of a large rock, leaning against it so that he could try to draw at least some strength from the earth to do what he needed to, Radagast looked up briefly to watch the exchange between Gandalf and Saruman as they spoke. Then, turning his attention back to Aulëndil, Radagast drew what little extra power he could from this fell, tainted place, and began to recite the healing spells that he had learned at the feet of Yavanna and her handmaidens.

It was clear that he would need a great deal of his power to even begin to put right the damage that had been done.

~UT~

As he unfolded the bundled wolfskin so that Saruman could take a closer look at it, Gandalf had begun to wonder at the way the head had continued to hold its shape through the journey that he had made. It could not have merely been due to the shape of the… pelt. When Saruman began peeling the long-dead flesh of the pelt back from the head, Gandalf saw fire-blackened iron showing through the opening.

"So, it becomes clear now," Saruman said, as he removed the construct from the pelt and held it up for inspection.

There were indeed teeth fused onto the blackened iron that had been shaped into a mimicry of the skull of Aulëndil's hound form, and as Gandalf beheld the foul thing, he had to almost physically restrain himself from clenching his fists. Truly, I am sorry for what you have suffered, Aulëndil, he said to his oldest and dearest friend. Turning away from Saruman as he continued examining the remains of the foul construct that he had recovered from Dol Gûldor, he looked to where Radagast was sitting.

He saw that the Brown was attending to Aulëndil, and he was grateful for that. Aulëndil would need all the kindness that the Order and those outside of it could provide for him. It was good to know that Radagast and Saruman understood the value of such a thing; he sometimes did not expect such things of Saruman, who seemed to value strength above all other things. Particularly when he spoke of dealing with the Enemy and his depredations.

As the four of them left the Enemy's forest stronghold behind once more, Gandalf found himself wishing for a long, worrying moment, that he could cast down the walls of the tower himself. It was not often that he felt such things, but then it was not often that he was forced to bear witness to the results of such base cruelty. Even seeing Orcs, knowing as he did what had been done to make them as they were now, did not affect him so much as seeing Aulëndil in this state.

He supposed that it was simply easier to truly feel compassion for someone you actually knew.

Turning to leave, not wanting to take a second look at the tower where so much evil had been done – both in the past, and even now in front of his own eyes – Gandalf fell into step behind the fretting form of Radagast and the quickly-moving form of Saruman.

~UT~

He could feel, distantly through the haze of pain that still enveloped him, those around him speaking of matters that he could not quite understand. His mind drifted off, somewhere in a safe place, somewhere that was beyond all of the pain that he knew he should have been feeling. He was glad not to be prey to the pains of his mortal body anymore, but he still wondered where he was.

You are safe, Aulëndil. Here, in Imladris.

And who are you, to tell me such a thing?

Mairon thought, for a moment, that he could feel a warm, gentle pressure against his head, something that allowed him to feel truly safe for the first time in a great long while. I promise you, Aulëndil, you are safe here. For now, merely rest and let yourself be healed. I will be with you, if you but call for me.

I thank you for that, he responded, still not entirely certain where he was now, but reasonably sure that he would be safe while he rested.

He did not know how long he had been drifting, nothing around him but the soft light – light that reminded him a great deal of his lost home – but he was brought closer than he had lately been to awareness by the feeling of something warm. It was not a warmth that pressed down on him, as the one that he had taken note of before, but a warmth that seemed to flow into him from some outside source. He wondered for a moment just what he could be feeling, but then Mairon found himself drifting again, and such things became unimportant.

Awareness had become an uncertain thing, wherever and whenever he was now; he thought that it might still be Imladris, but as he had no real way of knowing, Mairon decided not to trouble himself with such thoughts. Other thoughts, those he had once managed to distract himself from with his duties, his studies, and running so long and so far that his mortal body was exhausted enough to allow him to sleep without his fears, and his doubts circling round and round inside his mind as if they were carrion birds waiting for a poor, wounded beast to finally fall.

And, it seemed as though he had fallen, at last.

He could clearly remember, even after all of the time that had passed, the day he had left Aman in the company of his fellow Istari. He had not been one of those tasked with aiding the Free Peoples in their struggle against Morgoth and his depredations; he had in fact asked to go, having felt rather at loose ends where he was. Oh, Aulë had not been unkind – far from it, in fact – but in some ways his gentle, well-meaning disapproval was even worse than if he had been cold and cruel.

Mairon knew that – for all his skill at metalworking – he was not particularly good at his craft; he could not help but know it, after Master Aulë had disparaged each and every one of his works as flawed; disparaged them as kindly and generously as he ever had, yes, but in its own way such kindness was all the more painful. If his Master had been harsh, or critical, or even simply angry, Mairon would have felt perfectly justified in answering his Master's fury with the fury that had been simmering inside him when the two of them had first spoke about the his works.

The kindness that Master had shown to him during that time, however, had caused Mairon's fury to melt like snow in the face of high summer, leaving him feeling hollow and uncertain in its wake.

Every time he and Master Aulë had spoken after that had only served to cause the emptiness that he had felt inside him to grow. Eventually, it had threatened to consume him. He had met Olórin then; just when the emptiness had been eating away at the last of him. Their friendship had been one of convenience at first: Mairon needing something to hold to, and Olórin simply being himself.

It had been enough, at the time; just what he had needed, to begin attempting to recover what he had lost. That was, in the end, why he had asked to be allowed to accompany the other Istari to Arda; he had not been so arrogant as to presume himself included among their number, but all the same he had wished to accompany them. In the end, it had been Olórin who had spoken in his favor, and he who had actually managed to convince them to allow him to accompany the Istari as one of their number rather than simply traveling with them as a companion of sorts.

Even now, he was still unsure about his place with them; he'd not even managed to create the right kind of body for himself when all of them had taken flesh before their journey to Arda; Olórin – called Gandalf – had taken him on as a student. Mairon still did not quite understand his fellow Maia's reason for doing such a thing.

As the warmth that he had once felt came back to him, Mairon found himself drifting away once more; his thoughts ebbing away like the tide, and he was grateful once more for small mercies.