The shadows flew away and the sky darkened in their wake. The air was lighter now, no longer dense enough to hold him, and Mairon found himself lying down with his thoughts spinning around in dizzying circles. The lights were so faint, it was so dark. He strained his eyes to try to see. Where had the light gone? It had just been twilight. He remembered seeing the mountains glowing in a mixture of gold and silver- The last image in his memory.
Slowly, it all returned to him like a headache. The cold gripped each of his limbs and his teeth started to chatter. Years spent in the warm and pleasant climate of Valinor had softened him. For a few minutes, he assumed he was frozen and couldn't move, but soon the feeling returned and he sat up.
The stars revealed themselves to him, shining innumerable in the cloudless sky. Trees and mountains appeared, and valleys as far as he could see. In front of him was the ocean. It was calm now, with only small waves breaking quietly against the shore.
He could have remained there longer. But Melkor was probably not aware he had been lost in the great haste to escape, and the Maia could not rely on him returning.
Mairon had not actually been in the Great Lands for quite some time. Even while Melkor was chained, Aulë preferred to work in Valinor, which meant that Mairon had been there at his side. But Yavanna could not be separated from her creations, and the full effect of her tending was apparent to him now. It was little wonder so many Elves were lost on their journey.
And it was while he made these observations that he also realized he was completely alone. The silence continued to press down on him from all directions. He turned around to look back the way he had come-while the trees were no more, Valinor was still a beacon of dying light, and it seemed to be fading away from him although he was not currently moving.
He was beginning to be of the opinion that he was, in fact, the sole being here, until rocks slid down the slope and landed at his feet. Shadowy figures stood up there. They stayed well out of the light of his aura and only watched from a distance, disappearing from sight whenever he turned to look more closely.
At first, he tried relying on what memory he had to figure out which direction to go. But Yavanna's newest revision confused him and the original ordering of the mountains had been broken. Everything had become disorderly in his absence, making it hard for him to find a recognizable path to follow. Again and again he was thrown off course and forced to come back the way he came.
A feeling of despair threatened to overtake him, but Mairon was not quick to frustration. He had been taught patience; and patience, not frustration, led to perfection. And so he stopped where he was and carefully thought out a plan.
He realized aimless wandering would be useless. The mountains were bound to lead him north, and he would need to follow those if he was to find his way. One of the mountains close by seemed to offer a vantage point, so he made towards it while keeping track of his movements.
He happened to glance down, then immediately stopped. There were footprints in the snow right where he was about to step.
Nothing was nearby, other than a cave in the mountain he was approaching. The footsteps seemed to lead there. As he walked closer he could hear voices coming from inside.
At this point it did not particularly matter to him who or what had made them. Anything was better than continuing to wander around alone.
The Maia ducked his head and entered the darkness of the cave. Squinting his eyes, he could make out a fire burning somewhere within. He quietly followed it, making sure his footsteps went unheard.
He entered a chamber where he found Melkor's friends from Mandos standing in the center, already aware of his presence. They immediately went up to him, staring intently with their gray, lifeless eyes.
"You are very bright to look at," said one, "and it is quite dark here. Mairon, is it?"
He had spoken little to them before, or any from Mandos for that matter- they tended not to speak at all.
"Yes." He studied them closer. "What happened to your jewelry?"
Behind them a few more came in, stopping when they noticed the Maia and quickly hiding the gems they were carrying. "He asked for all of that shortly before we left."
"We could not go far without getting rocks thrown at us. We had to take shelter in here," they said to him. "There are other beings from Mandos that came here long ago. They should be able to direct us."
"Good, where are they? I shall ask them."
They glanced at one another.
"They won't talk to you, but we have an idea where they might be. Wait here, and we shall go and speak to them."
Mairon was reluctant to stand there and wait, much less to trust them. But he agreed nevertheless.
He gave them a few minutes head start and then followed.
Farther into the cave, grotesque images had been carved into the walls that depicted some kind of ritual. Animal corpses littered the floor that he had to keep stepping around.
A single candle was lit beside an altar of Mandos, shown in his dark robes on his seat of judgement. A grave statue of Vairë weaving sat next to him, and nearby was a portrait of Nienna so misconstrued that she was no longer the sympathetic, wise sister of Mandos but a symbol of fear. Tears that looked suspiciously like blood streamed from her eyes.
He wondered if the Valar were even aware of this cult's existence.
Low voices began to speak in the next room. Mairon had decided he was not keen on meeting these people, and turned in the direction of the cold draft seeping in from outside.
Once out of the cave he found he was up higher in the mountains, yet the visibility was still too low to see far enough. The only option was to continue climbing.
It started raining lightly as he went on, and he raised the hood on his cloak. Twigs snapped and animal cries echoed across the valley. Tree branches were pushed aside as curious faces looked out— wild Elves, who wandered farther north than the rest of their kindred, for whom the meeting with Oromë was now but a distant memory.
And for the shadows too was the might of their lord a faint remembrance. But the splendor of Oromë in the darker realms of Arda was a bane to them, and with another of the Ainur so close by, slumbering eyes began to awaken.
The hills were growing steeper and the lower lands fell out from under them. The sea reappeared, a flowing black sheet reflecting light from the stars over the coastline. The remaining world lay covered in shadow.
It was much different to view while physically incarnate. No longer could he see everything all at once, or shape the formation of the world... in a way then, his power was diminished. Limited.
And with this thought, the temptation fell over him to behold the faint light of Taniquetil, that he might still locate it if he searched far enough over the sea.
But any existing tranquility was then unexpectedly broken. The mountains shook and began to crumble beneath the power of the voice that cried out not far away, threatening to cast them back down into the depths of the earth.
The ground he was standing on crumbled away, and suddenly the trees and sea beneath him were getting too close. He rolled down the side of the mountain, unable to slow his descent and reaching out to grab hold of rocks or tree roots.
Mairon nearly tumbled down the rest of the way, but held firmly to a ledge. He tried pulling himself back up, but the distance was high and his back was aching from the fall. Still, he managed to scale the next ledge up and sat down to catch his breath.
He realized he was surrounded by dark figures on all sides. Startled, he felt his pockets for something to use as a weapon and shakily got to his feet. He was prepared to force his way out until one spoke, upon which he recognized his companions.
"We've been looking all over for you! Aren't you aware these mountains aren't safe?"
"I don't think this is the right way," another spirit spoke up, gazing around them at the mountain peaks rising out of the fog.
"I am aware of that. But I also need to know where I am going."
"Yes, about that. We received directions. Very friendly people. They have told us where to go."
"Never mind that," he replied, looking in the direction of the scream that had shaken the whole mountain chain mere moments before. "Now everyone knows."
When he came to, Melkor could hear the wind howling and felt greatly fatigued.
He lay face down on the ground as heavy footsteps approached. After a moment's hesitation someone knelt beside him.
"My lord?"
He sat up, throwing aside the cloak that had been concealing him in a cocoon of darkness. "What?! What do you want?"
The Balrog blinked and stepped back, startled. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, of course. I was just resting."
He scratched his head, looking around at the desolate landscape. "In the middle of the plain?"
"I don't expect you to understand, Gothmog. I have returned from a very exhausting journey and needed to gather my strength."
"We have been anxiously awaiting your return, although we did not expect it to be so…dramatic."
Melkor turned to stare at him.
"I'd imagine my lord would like to be taken to his fortress," he added quickly.
"Yes. But first I must gaze upon all of my servants. Go and gather them for me."
There was some hesitation. The captain urged the other Balrogs to follow the order, and gradually they moved in the direction of the nearby mountainside with the Vala following behind. Some time passed between the Balrogs disappearing into the many entrances and returning leading hordes of various creatures and spirits originally from the Great Lands or that crossed over from Aman. Many had to be dragged or urged on with the whip.
They did not speak a word on the way there. He knew they were dying to ask him questions but dared not to. Neither was he going to tell them what happened. The years he'd spent as housewife to Tulkas were dark times that need not ever be mentioned.
He was expecting the carnage he saw in the place of Utumno, but it did not fail to strike rage within him. The gate was now unrecognizable, melted down on one side and barely half of it remaining in an upright position. The passage into the fortress was buried too deep to ever reach, piled up under the heaviest boulders. The tops of the mountain peaks were all that had escaped harm.
All his hard work, destroyed. It was difficult to look at, but at the same time he could not pull his eyes away. He circled the former entrance, snow crunching under his feet.
A cracking sound distracted him from his anger. It seemed to be coming from the mountains, or the ground—either way it was familiar. He spun in a circle, searching for the source, only to feel the ground give way beneath him. Before he had time to react, he fell through layers of snow and ice and beneath the earth.
Level after level of previous halls and barricaded chambers passed by as a blur. The weakened foundations crumbled under him every time he collided with a platform. Melkor was falling for so long that eventually he grew bored. At last, he landed on a solid floor in some long-abandoned part of the fortress. Centuries of dust flew up from the ground and enveloped him.
The chamber was covered in spider webs, the last thing he wanted to see right now. That filthy, traitorous—
"Are you all right, my lord?"
Miles above him, a group of flaming red eyes peered down through the darkness.
"Come down here, Gothmog, and find out."
There was some murmuring he could not discern. At last, the captain's voice returned:
"Don't move, we'll be right there."
"Where am I going to go?" Melkor muttered half to himself.
He felt around in the dark until his hand nudged a cold object, and his fingers wrapped around a handle. Excited now, Melkor picked it up and the hammer began to glow and throb with power.
At the same time he realized he was on a set of stairs. Carrying Grond in his right hand, he climbed to the top, where he found his throne underneath the collapsed ceiling. The Vala cleared off the debris before sitting down.
Three flashes of fire fell and landed at his feet, but Melkor wasn't paying attention. The cloud of dust slowly settled as the Balrogs got up from the ground. The Vala finally glanced away from his weapon and noticed them, a scowl forming on his lips.
"There you are! Fortunately for you I found this treasure, otherwise I should be much angrier. Now hurry and show me the way out, so I do not have to gaze upon the ruins of my throne room any longer."
They returned by way of long, dark corridors filled with decayed corpses of former servants the Valar had not bothered to dispose of when they ransacked the place. The door at the end had been torn off, and weak starlight streamed in.
Gothmog waited outside, doing a useless job of guarding the door. The Balrog straightened and bowed his head as Melkor came into view.
He walked past, ignoring the hand his captain was holding out. Without warning he stopped, turning his attention to the empty plain surrounding them. "Where are my servants?"
Half of the crowd had scattered while both Melkor and the Balrogs were otherwise occupied —and in the distance their retreating shapes were barely visible.
His eyebrow started to twitch, and his shoulders trembled with restrained fury. A flame sparked in each eye, growing brighter by the second.
Immediately Gothmog began barking orders to the rest of the Balrogs standing behind him and the night sky was alight with fire as they hustled to round up the escaping servants.
Sometime later, most had been successfully captured and hauled back to their places after being reprimanded for their sudden display of disobedience.
The great following began moving across the plain again, the Balrogs surrounding the captives on all sides to prevent any further misconduct. Up front, the Vala was flanked by his bodyguards and captains, shielded from every vulnerable angle.
Melkor closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. "Gothmog, how is that project coming?"
"Initiated, just as you ordered. I shall give you a tour of its progress once we arrive at the outpost."
The Vala perked up again, suddenly excited. "Excellent! Perhaps you have not failed me after all."
Gothmog lowered his head, hiding his beaming face from the view of the others. Not that it was anything to be ashamed of—praise from the Vala was rare and valuable. Keeping him pleased was group effort, and they would all owe the captain later.
Not to mention natural balance had been restored—no longer did he have to work harder than normal to keep his inferiors obedient: now that Melkor was at the top again, no one questioned the god-given authority bestowed on him by the greatest of the Valar.
Melkor was also in high spirits now that he was returned to his own realm. Already plans and visions rushed through his mind, no longer bounded and subdued, but just as wild and limitless as the Great Lands.
He had foreseen some kind of disastrous event such as this, in which the Valar would destroy his stronghold and dethrone him, and so he had established a lesser outpost closer to the west. It was a lot less developed and incomplete, as he'd never found a suitable captain for it, yet now it would have to serve him permanently.
Behind him, his thralls merged into one crowd for protection. Although they often proved incompetent, he had missed his servants. They were usually naturally obedient, unlike the Elves, who always had to ask questions and assume the worst.
He smiled wider as he pictured them far off in Valinor, crying over the Silmarils. Manwë and those who lived the delusion they were assumed equals to him would mourn the trees, but the Elves would only miss their jewels.
Only one thing marred his happiness. He had a terrible, aching feeling that he was forgetting something. He checked his pockets and made sure the Silmarils were still there —they reminded him with a dull throbbing that they were. Only three things in life were valuable: things that were valuable to others (the Silmarils), the powers given to him and given to others but still belonged to him, and servants to bring goals to fruition.
He realized a valuable servant was missing. The Maia had aided him in Valinor, and doubtless would prove useful here as well. But where was he? The Vala glanced around in all directions, but no- Mairon wasn't here.
It was a disappointing loss. He enjoyed converting Maiar. They were created to serve—very ideal for Melkor. Strong servants built empires and did the work he had no time for.
The procession came to a sudden halt, jolting Melkor out of his thoughts. Startled, he glanced around for the reason, but finding nothing he frowned. "What? Why have we stopped?"
"Something is coming," Gothmog informed him from the front of the assemblage.
"So your flawed reasoning tells you that this would make a good time to stop?" He stared longingly towards the Iron Mountains. So close, yet so far. "Hurry, you fools! We still have a chance!"
But his captains were already drawing their swords and surrounding the Vala defensively.
Melkor glanced back to estimate how fast he could make it to his destination before the Valar could catch up. He began to inch away, towards the mountains.
He was prepared to make a run for it when he noticed his Balrogs lower their swords and turn around, only to find he was no longer directly behind them.
Melkor stopped and turned their way. "What? What is it?"
"Come look at this, my lord."
He was wary still, and bitter about his orders going unheeded, but he cautiously wandered closer and peered out from between two of his bodyguards. A bright figure stood directly in front of his line of defense, surveying the Balrogs with a cold glance. When his eyes met Melkor's, he dropped down and bowed his head respectfully. Beside him in a line were the spirits of Mandos.
His Balrogs glanced around in confusion, displaying a great deal of surprise, but Melkor hid his own and looked down on his Maia with a mask of irritation.
"I see you took your time getting here, Mairon."
He stood as he was addressed. "I was delayed, but then I heard your cry and made haste."
Melkor waved it off, like it was now a half-forgotten, insignificant event. He cast one last glance at Mairon before starting towards the mountains again. "Now is not the time to be straying," he called back. "You have already given me a token of your devotion."
I just had to feed it to a spider.
From where he walked in the center of the crowd, the Maia could observe the majority of everything around him. A great number of lesser servants were being closely monitored by Balrogs near the back, and before him more were closely surrounding Melkor and blocking him from view.
The fire Maiar had not initially been so powerful- they were made stronger. But Gothmog was the most impressive by far. The lead Balrog flanked Melkor from behind, brandishing his sword as if any threat might appear suddenly. The others kept their formation behind him in turn, seeming to know their places without being told. Unquestioning authority flowed down the line and made the procession move in perfect sync. Mairon alone was the only one who did not fit in, whose movements were separate and out of place.
Melkor was leading it, even if he was not aware. When he paused, they paused, when he took a step, they did not hesitate to do the same. Just as Eönwë enjoyed being in the background of Manwë's light and basking in it, in no different way did Gothmog bask in the darkness that radiated from Melkor.
Not too long ago I was the second in authority to your master, Mairon thought. He required my aid. I walked beside him. And where were you? Where had you been in his time of need? But you act as though you were his most loyal servant.
As if sensing his thoughts, Gothmog turned to look over the crowd—and his gaze fell on Mairon. No attempt was made on his behalf to mask the intense animosity flaring up in his eyes, and they held his, at the same time saying, "Come up here, I dare you."
The captain faced forward again so abruptly that Mairon almost questioned if the encounter had even occurred, but the fear surfacing inside him confirmed his doubts.
He shoved it back down. Why fear a Maia that must have originally been far beneath him? Only years of Melkor's direct influence had made him so bold.
Still, he reminded himself, he was weaker here. One wrong move and he could lose any status he currently possessed.
The following continued west, drawing closer to the Iron Mountains, not far from the Helcaraxë. This seemed a vast distance away from the Vala's former dwelling, but he did not question it. An outpost appeared up ahead, guarded by several of Melkor's captains who waited in front to greet him upon arrival.
Mairon found himself slowing down. He had not prepared himself for this moment and the thought of facing those Maiar now made him uncomfortable. What would they be like? Would he recognize them, or had Melkor completely altered their appearances?
He lowered his head in hopes he wouldn't be noticed. When Melkor began speaking to them he glanced up, only to find every single one of them staring, gaping, or glaring at him.
The Vala was already walking inside, his cloak spreading out behind him in a trail of black. They had no choice but to follow, but glanced back at the newcomer every chance they could.
For his part, Mairon looked away. He was more interested in examining the fortresses he'd always heard tell of and imagined but never actually seen. Torches lined both sides of the hall yet it remained mostly dark, and he had to trust the flames of the Balrogs to lead the way. Piles of sharpened metal weapons were scattered about, glinting in the faint light.
They had finally stopped. Ahead, Melkor was in conversation with his captains, half of whom went off to oversee the servants and the other remaining with him. Mairon was pleased to see the Maiar were the ones leaving.
The Vala spoke in a low voice now to Gothmog, and Mairon came up to the front of the group to listen better.
"Perhaps we should have a division of labor so your servants know what to do," Gothmog told him.
Melkor waved away the suggestion. "Just tell them to do what they did before."
"Their memories do not go back that far."
Melkor stared over the heads filling up the hall and his eyes landed on Mairon.
"But an Ainu's does."
Gothmog followed his stare. "You can't just place him in ch—"
Melkor silenced him with a sharp glance. He turned again to the Maia.
"You helped in building the dwellings of the Valar, correct, Mairon?"
"Yes. Aulë was tasked with their construction and by default this involved most of his Maiar."
"And do you remember, exactly, in detail, how those were built?"
He inclined his head slightly to the side while he thought. "Yes, most of them are still clear in my memory."
Melkor sent a smug smile to Gothmog. He looked back at Mairon.
"Very good. There is nothing to clarify. I need you to do the exact same thing. Had you ever been to Utumno?"
"Um, no, my lord. You have to remember we were advised to avoid it."
The Vala rolled his eyes. "But surely you heard the stories of how great and terrible it was? Surely you've seen pictures? Drawings?"
"Of course. I'm aware of the design. An underground fortress of endless corridors and pits dug deep into the earth to contain hordes of beasts, multiple levels of several vaults and dungeons, and at the very bottom, I believe, is the throne room."
Melkor slowly raised an eyebrow. Beside him, his Balrog bodyguard was nodding.
"Yes. I want that done on an even grander scale. Is that understood? Is that within your capabilities?"
"Yes, but—"
"Good. You may begin."
The Maia hesitated a moment longer, reluctantly departing from the hall once he realized the Vala was going to say no more.
Meanwhile the Vala and his captains descended further, to the lowest chamber far from the noise and chaos above. Servants cleared debris off the floor, brushed dust off the walls, and polished the stone columns. A new throne was being re-carved and set up on a dais at the front of the hall.
Deep within the earth, with his Balrogs close around him, Melkor again took up his crown and placed the Silmarils therein. He sat back in his throne and beheld the faces of his fiery Maiar. They inched back and hid themselves as the light of the Silmarils burned into their eyes every time he turned his head in their direction.
"Why did you have to bring those accursed gems?"
"I received them as a parting gift from the Elves," Melkor boasted, re-adjusting his crown until they were placed evenly above his brow.
"As a gift? Then why was my lord making great haste to escape?"
Melkor flashed him an annoyed glance, before giving in with a deep sigh. "I suppose all of you want an account of my experiences. Very well.
"When I was eventually released from Mandos, the Eldar were brought to Valinor in order to labor for the Valar. They crafted gems and jewelry...petty things, really, but Manwë desired them greatly. Anyway, seeing my great splendor, the Elves protested against the cruel treatment I was constantly subjected to and began devoting all of their works to me. They refused to give any to the other Valar, who grew envious and sought to remove me from Aman. I was then chased out and forced to give up all my gifts and alas, was only allowed the remaining three in my crown."
The Balrogs, forgetting their previous discomfort with the Silmarils, beheld them with a new sort of reverence once their lord reached the end of his tale.
Gothmog, however, stood away from the others and looked on his master knowingly. "And Aulë's prized Maia was a gift as well?"
The Silmarils turned abruptly in his direction and he retreated from them into the shadows. But Melkor's cold stare pierced through the dark. "He came willingly, if you must know."
"How do we know he is not a spy?"
"Of course he is a spy."
"No, a spy for the Valar."
"How do I know you are not a spy, Gothmog?"
"How are we to know what they plan in Aman?" the captain countered, stepping into view again. At first it seemed the shadows followed him, but when he came to a halt they draped over him as a cape. "Perhaps this is another one of their schemes."
"I have been to plenty of their meetings, and I can tell you that they do not plan in Aman. They sit around until Manwë decides to say something. Do not claim to know more than I, for you do not."
The Balrog did not give up. "He has a motive of some kind. Does it not strike you as odd that he only chooses to pledge his loyalty now, after Utumno was sieged and my lord held in bondage?"
At this, Melkor's lips twitched into a frown.
Mairon suddenly entered, seeming unaffected by the silence following afterward. He looked first to the Balrogs, and then stared aloft at the Silmarils sitting in Melkor's crown, wondering if he had originally underestimated their power.
Melkor glared at him before making the effort of a long, drawn-out sigh. "What do you want? Can you not see that I am busy?"
The Maia hesitated before holding out a parchment at his side. "Your servants are not going to construct anything stable without a plan."
Melkor stared at him a moment. He turned to his Balrogs for an explanation, but they said nothing.
"Many are also not very skilled—" Mairon continued.
Melkor glared past it. "What is this? I told you to build me a fortress."
"It is necessary to formulate some sort of an outline before beginning. I have already come up with the basic structure, but I need to know exactly what My Lord desires."
He paused before speaking again.
"May I make a suggestion?"
"No."
Melkor swiftly stuck out one of his blistered hands. Mairon unsurely stepped closer and handed him the parchment.
The Vala looked over the plan with a critical eye. Without lifting his head, he again extended his palm.
Mairon quickly searched his pockets for a writing utensil and handed it over.
For several minutes Melkor drew over the plan, and other than the scratching on the parchment and the occasional "Hmm" coming from the Vala, the room was uncomfortably silent. Mairon was unsure where to look. He glanced at the Balrogs, who refused to make eye contact, and in the end simply stared down at his hands.
A second later Melkor carelessly handed everything back to him. Mairon stole a glimpse at the paper and saw Melkor had just drawn sharp spikes around the perimeter of the fortress and a giant gate that was not physically possible with the dimensions.
"Anything else?" the Vala demanded.
"No, this should work," he lied. "I will begin as soon as possible."
Melkor raised both his eyebrows and waited for the Maia to leave. The latter quickly bowed before returning outside.
Once he was gone, one of the Balrogs spoke: "He is trustworthy then, my lord?"
The question cut into Melkor's thoughts, and he angrily turned on him. "Why are you questioning my judgment?! No, I did not bring back a spy—and if one of you makes such a suggestion again, I will force him to stare on my gems."
One by one they backed away, and Melkor shook his head disapprovingly. "I am not even certain from whence you derive such distrust."
The servants of Melkor chipped and dug away at the mountainside, oblivious to the cold and fervently obeying every order without question to prevent the need for incentive. Their fast-paced, nearly reckless method wasn't proving very efficient, but it wasn't anything short of what he'd expected.
The plan clutched tight in his hands, twisting and flapping in the wind, Mairon stood with his entire face covered except for his eyes to protect himself from the intense cold. He carefully consulted the plan every few minutes to compare with their progress, giving orders to correct any divergences from the template.
There was little point in telling them to slow down because he wasn't going to harm them. His appearance wasn't any comfort either, for instead of reminding them of the more pleasant times in Valinor, it seemed to make them more uneasy around him. A few times he caught the thralls staring at him in wonder before returning to their work with even more urgency.
Also supervising were the Maiar captains, standing above the crowd of servants and wielding long whips which they did not hesitate to use if necessary. Still, they paid less attention to the thralls under their command and continued to watch him.
Their faces were still more or less recognizable, even after having been made tougher and more intimidating no doubt to increase their authority. They wore the dark attire of a war lord: black boots, long capes and helmets or hoods.
He could see that a few were also once Maiar of Aulë judging by their strong facial features and the dexterity with which they held their weapons. They watched him with curious and disbelieving stares, appearing the least hostile of all and simply interested.
One of them seemed especially interested. He passed close by the Maia on several occasions, finding an excuse to circle him again, like a shark. Each time he looked up, Mairon found himself staring into the other Maia's amber eyes, openly and intensely studying him.
The third time this happened, he inconspicuously reached for a chisel and tightened his grip around it, hiding it from sight. He tensed his muscles and prepared himself for when the Maia would approach him again.
But it was needless. They retained their distance from him, refusing to step past a certain point. He was able to relax somewhat and continue with the project for several more hours.
At times the cold became unbearable and he stole away into a nearby cave to light a fire, hiding from the intrusive gazes of the captains. It was impossible to find solitude, however. While warming his hands a line of elite captains walked by and noticed him sitting there.
"Cold?" one of them asked, smiling smugly. They stepped out and kept walking with no visible sign of discomfort.
Confrontation was unavoidable, however. As the servants rested from their labor and he was busy collecting their tools, he sensed a group of Maiar standing behind him. Such a thing would never have unsettled him before, but now he felt fear beginning to spread through his core.
He slowly turned. Most of the captains were former Maiar of Oromë, but also amongst their numbers were people of Tulkas and Aulë. Many of the latter were keeping their distance and observing.
For a few moments no one spoke. Both sides simply stared at the other, until finally the Maia in lead, once a great hunter of Oromë, narrowed his eyes and stepped closer.
"Are the Valar getting rid of their undesirables by sending them here?" he asked.
Relieved now, Mairon turned back around to continue with his task. He could feel their confusion from behind him.
"Well? Haven't you anything to say?"
"Nay," he answered, piling up the last of the tools and then placing them into a chest. He only addressed him again once he'd finished. "They actually ended that practice shortly after you'd gone."
A few of the Maiar laughed, and some smiled. The hunter's face darkened.
"Even here he thinks he is better than us."
He took another step towards Mairon, reaching out to push his shoulder.
The former Maiar of Aulë immediately tensed, their eyes widening. But Mairon did not react; he only stood there, meeting his gaze without a word.
"What are you even here for?" one of Aulë's former Maiar asked. "In case you aren't aware, Melkor does not honor his greatest with lavish ceremonies. Nor does he hold workshops for you to show off."
The hunter pointed behind him. "You can return that way. Maybe you will make it back with your corporeal form still in one piece. Or maybe even before the Valar have noted your absence."
He was indicating in the direction of the Helcaraxë, currently hidden by fog but not too far from the fortress.
"I've no intention to, but thank you for the suggestion," Mairon replied.
The hunter scowled. "You will regret ever leaving Valinor. I promise that."
The Maiar cleared a way for him to exit the crowd. Many left afterwards, but the ones who lingered became uncomfortable once they were alone with the Maia and followed.
Only the Maia of Aulë who had been watching him earlier remained. He had stood apart from the group, twirling a dagger between his fingers and apparently uninterested in the conversation.
Mairon turned on him. "Who are you? What do you want? Have I not sated your curiosity?"
A grim smile briefly crossed his face. "Never, lord Mairon."
He turned to go, and Mairon studied him as he walked away. He was familiar, certainly, but all of them were to some extent. This Maia nagged at his memory and made him ponder what his position had once been in Aulë's forges. It must have been very far back indeed if the other's identity so eluded him.
He found his gaze lingering in the direction of the Helcaraxë, where Oromë's Maia had directed him. If the weather had allowed it, he would have been able to see the thin strip of ice leading back to Aman, and so he was grateful it did not.
Therefore he put aside his doubts, and continued with his work.
