Mairon decided to place Satarno in charge of the forges for the time being, and it was the first in a long while that he'd seen the Maia so happy. The latter paced up and down the aisles of workers, his arms folded behind his back, earnestly watching their progress.
After observing this, he took leave of them to begin the vigorous physical training he knew was coming. This form had never been intended for long-distance endurance, after all.
Alone and relieved of his responsibilities, the craftsman completed several rounds of push-ups and then stood up and laid blows to the training dummy he fashioned. Once he fought to the point of exhaustion, he dropped to the floor and started again.
He made sure the plains were empty at the usual time, and then jogged from the fortress over to the forest region of Dorthonion. The brittle, dry sands of the plain forced his legs to work harder, and he nearly passed out from relief on the much smoother terrain of the forest. Several times he tripped over roots, gasping for breath, but he turned his back to the refreshing sound of a stream and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. He searched the forest for the same path on which Taryamo had taken him hunting.
It was difficult to find in the dark, and the objects in the forest were blurry to his tired eyes. Nonetheless, he found his way eventually by using his memory to retrace their steps.
Multiple times he ran this course, each time on the brink of exhaustion. But soon he quit stumbling so much as his eyes sharpened to the path, and his muscles ceased to ache and started to expect the rigorous activity. At long last, he could walk the trail with his eyes closed, and ecstatic by his success, he sprinted all the way back to the fortress.
Now he just had to wait. He found a ledge sheltered in the mountains overlooking the hunting outpost and crouched up there for hours, intently watching all that happened below.
His patience paid off even earlier than he expected when Taryamo rode out onto the plain atop his snow-white steed, garbed in his hunting attire and carrying his bow. Mairon quietly climbed down from his place of hiding and quickly went to retrieve his own Warg.
The two raced across the plain, merely a flash of gray and black. Mairon pulled on the reins to slow his steed when the shadowed outline of trees appeared in the distance, and carefully guided it around the obstacles he knew would be there. He kept his eyes trained to look out for the Maia, hoping he had taken this same path.
He finally spotted him less than a mile away, moving at a slow gait in the dense undergrowth with his head down like he was concentrating. Mairon stopped to observe him from afar, before coming out of hiding to catch up to him.
At the sound of rustling leaves, Taryamo immediately jumped to attention, and his Warg bared its teeth in warning.
But Mairon's Warg kept approaching, and the Maia held up his hands in a show of peace.
"I could tell someone else had been this way," Taryamo said. He gave him a puzzled look. "Why are you here? You don't have an audience."
"You are the master. Teach me."
Taryamo turned away from him and urged on his steed. "Go back to the fortress, Mairon."
The Maia turned his own Warg aside, cutting him off. Taryamo halted and raised one eyebrow.
"You beat me, Taryamo. I will never be the huntsman you are."
He stared at him askance, in disbelief of what he was hearing, but the hint of a pleased smile marred his grim façade. He must have seen into his honesty, because he started forward and this time allowed him to follow.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were actually showing me respect," he called over his shoulder, only to realize Mairon was already riding beside him. "Wow. You're keeping up."
The tops of the pine trees curved ahead, creating a shadowed tunnel. Taryamo made a clicking sound to his Warg, and the two began to speed up. Yet a second later Mairon was at his shoulder again.
Taryamo nodded. "I'm impressed."
The path dropped away to a clearing in the valley floor, and Taryamo sprang down into the grass and then bounded up onto a large boulder. The other Maia perfectly mirrored his sequence, coming to a gradual stop beside him on the rock.
A small stream bubbled underneath the boulder, and they raced alongside it until it joined a trickling waterfall, which they leapt over and continued galloping. A single silver star peeked through the eaves, and Taryamo used its light to search within his belt. He took out a pouch and sprinkled its contents over the ground in front of them.
The starlight sparkled on the grass and a series of prints appeared on the ground momentarily. Each footprint belonged to a different creature, leading off into multiple directions.
Mairon stared at the ground and blinked, then looked to the pouch. "What is that?"
Taryamo noticed his awe. "See what you learn when you step out of the forges for a while?"
He selected one set of prints and abruptly changed course to pursue them. To his shock, the Maia stood up on top of his steed while it was running full-speed, taking his bow from his back and fitting an arrow.
"Now you," he instructed Mairon.
Protesting was futile. Taryamo had a habit of making him do things he didn't want to do.
The Maia carefully lifted one of his legs, gripping the fur on his steed's neck, and once the right leg was situated very slowly adjusted the left until he was standing on top.
"This is insanity!" he cried out, slipping and clutching to his Warg's back.
"That's why it's so fun," Taryamo answered, maneuvering around to each side and aiming his bow from every angle.
There was a sudden flash of green as a trio of Elves darted past them through the woods. Taryamo shot and fired an arrow at a tree trunk, barely grazing the edge of one of their cloaks.
Seconds later, a shower of arrows shot through the dark and rained down on them, and both Maiar dropped low to avoid getting hit.
"I missed on purpose," Taryamo leaned over to tell him. "Wanted to give you some practice."
Mairon opened his mouth to respond, but the other Maia faced forward and then quickly turned back around, his eyes wide with excitement. "Here we go!"
In the dim starlight breaking through the trees, the edge of a cliff loomed ahead, and beyond it a wide, slow-moving river, glinting silver.
Mairon immediately swerved his Warg off to the side of the road. "No!"
Taryamo smiled, holding his arms up, and without a moment of hesitation his Warg leapt over the edge. He was still looking behind him, and his eyes were taunting.
Mairon shook his head and shut his eyes, fighting against all the common sense in his body, and forced his steed onward. The feet of his Warg pressed off the ground, and the next moment he was in the air with nothing underneath him.
Time seemed to move in slow motion. Taryamo's fleeting body grew closer and closer, until he was within arm's reach. Mairon drew back his hand, sluggish in the low gravity, and drove it against the other Maia's head.
Taryamo laughed, grabbing his arm at the same speed and pressing it behind his back. He raised his right hand and punched him on the side of the cheek.
Blood from their wounds splattered against each other's faces, and they both erupted into laughter.
That is, until the splat! of their bodies hitting the water cut it short.
Mairon sank to the bottom of the river, pain shooting through every part of him and intermingling with the extreme temperature of the water.
He pushed off the riverbed, breaking the surface and swimming with all speed towards the shore. His soaked clothing fought against him with every stroke of his arms.
"Cold, cold, cold, cold!" he gasped between chattering teeth, hugging himself for warmth. When he reached land, Taryamo was already there. He'd removed his tunic to wring out the water.
The two Wargs stepped out of the river last, shaking their fur and shivering a little, but otherwise unharmed.
"Most of Melkor's servants hate water, but I love it," Taryamo said. "Nothing like that freezing jolt to really wake you up."
Mairon gave him a look of disbelief, then continued breathing into his hands to warm them.
Taryamo slapped his wet shirt over his shoulder and glanced around, placing his hands at his hips. His voice lowered. "Back in Almaren, I used to swim in the sea every day before a hunt. I think that was the secret to my success." He laughed, flexing the bicep on his right arm. "Or perhaps this is."
"Hard to say," Mairon muttered.
"I guess I was wrong about you, Mairon. I thought when you first came here everything would become the epitome of craftsmanship. We'd spend all our time indoors, breathing in toxic fumes. I cannot imagine such an existence without hunt and sport."
"Why does Melkor like you, again?"
"Because I can hunt down and kill anything. You're not too bad at it either, considering you tracked me here. How did you do it?"
Mairon sat down and removed his boots, turning them over to empty out the river water. "Let's just say you are not as unpredictable as you may think," he replied.
Taryamo stared at him blankly for a long moment, and Mairon feared he had said the wrong thing, but the Maia of Oromë laughed without warning and came over to sock his shoulder. "I knew I liked you."
Mairon stared into the woods from where he waited on the outskirts, impatiently pacing back and forth.
He was surrounded by a crowd of Taryamo's hunters. They each stood beside a Warg, but he was to complete this task alone and on foot.
A large black bird flew out of the shadowed woods and landed on the shoulder of one of the Maiar. He tilted his head to listen to whatever it said, and then raised his eyes to Mairon.
"You may enter."
He could feel their stares on him as he pushed his way through the trees. His eyes slowly adjusted to their dark surroundings, and he stared down at his feet to see where he was going. When he glanced back, he saw that he was enclosed in a dense circle of tall pines and the direction he'd come was nowhere in sight. The only way to go was forward.
The path inclined at a steep angle, and then would fall again, such was the hilly nature of this region.
He slid down a moss-covered log then stepped off, creeping through the shadows and listening for anything out of the ordinary.
In the back of his mind, he heard Taryamo instructing him during the prior hunting excursion, and his memory recalled the similar setting, only there the other Maia was speaking:
"You are no longer just the rider, you are the Warg. See out of its eyes, surround yourself with the sounds it hears. Feel your new form, each limb and each claw as your own."
Mairon had closed his eyes and did what he was told. When he opened them, he was staring across the forest floor, captivated by the myriad of scents coming from every direction. He was struck by the contrasts before him: the nimble movement of a deer behind the foliage, the twitching of a rabbit's ear in the grass. The chirping of crickets had increased tenfold and the trickling of a stream was now a roar.
Despite all these distractions, he found that he could hyper-focus. A scurrying sound, distant but not too far, and the low murmur of voices caught his attention. The tail of the Warg in front of him stiffened, and he snapped into action, his muscles tensing against his control. The other Warg took off at a fast run and Mairon followed closely at his heels, trusting the steps of his predecessor to lead him there.
His pupils dilated. The forest surrounding him became unfocused save the path in front and the goal at the end. As they came closer and closer, a voice began speaking in his head. He assumed it was Taryamo still, since the voice was not his own, but then realized it must have been the Warg he was inhabiting.
Kill, kill, kill, kill.
With a final bound his claws unclenched, and alongside the other Warg he leapt into the air, coming down on his prey with a mouth full of sharp fangs.
He wrapped his jaws around a torso while batting aside another of the creatures with his paw, driving it into the ground. Screams tore through the air, and blood spilled on his fur, which only energized him further. Dragging their corpses after him, he stampeded through the forest, only becoming calm when he saw Taryamo snapping his fingers in his face and calling his name.
His vision flickered back and forth, and he glanced down at his arms to see them returning to normal. He was standing upright, in front of a pile of bodies and the group of Maiarin hunters, and discovered this was not part of a flashback. At some point, his memory and reality had converged.
"What happened?" he tried to ask, but his mouth was dry and tasted strange. Glancing down, he saw a pile of disfigured creatures that had probably once belonged to Melkor, covered in gashes and claw marks.
Taryamo clapped his arm. "You did it. You are a hunter now."
The group of Maiar picked him up and lifted him above their shoulders, cheering his success. Startled and discomforted by the act, at first the Maia fought against being thrown into the air, but eventually he relaxed, and began to shout along with them.
Back in the age of the Two Trees, he would have slept for days, but in this endless night it was impossible to say for certain how long he had been unconscious.
All he knew was that he awoke in the woods beside a stream, with dried blood on his clothes, and figured he must have fallen asleep while attempting to clean himself.
Yawning, he stretched his cramped legs, his muscles sore and aching. He dipped his hands into the stream and splashed water on his face, then washed the dirt out of his hair as best he could. Just as he was getting up to leave, the bushes next to him parted and a pair of wolves stepped out and approached him.
Mairon scanned his surroundings for a fast exit, but stopped when he realized these were the same spies that he'd cornered leaving Beleriand.
"Are you following us?" they asked suspiciously, glancing not-so-subtlety at the blood stains on his tunic.
"No," he answered, making no attempt to hide them and instead deciding to use this to his advantage. "It is but coincidence that we have met again. I'm out here on an errand of my own, punishing the unruly of Melkor's servants. Perhaps you should tread carefully around me."
They seemed to believe him, retreating a few steps away.
"I suppose that unruly would include you, if Melkor knew that you had disobeyed his order to relate your news to me, and thereby decrease the amount of time you take on your trips," he continued.
One of the wolves tilted its head, narrowing its yellow eyes. "I figured everyone knew the state of affairs in Beleriand by now. It's almost impossible to get close enough to learn anything ever since King Thingol's Maia queen set a barrier around Doriath that prevents us from entering."
So Melian had established her own kingdom here. He was certain it was her; the Maia from Lórien had left for Middle-Earth and never returned. He figured she must've had a greater plan for doing so.
"I've little doubt I'd be able to find a way within, but thank you for sharing." He moved out of the way, allowing them to pass.
They glanced aside as they walked near him, and he smiled. "I expect you'll keep me updated on your progress."
The two cast him a final glance over their shoulders before disappearing into the dark woods.
The craftsman returned to the fortress at a leisurely pace as a personal reward for the intense work he'd had to undergo. He was in a good mood as he neared his forges, and was pleased to see everything appeared to be going smoothly.
But Satarno ran up to him in a state of panic, his eyes wide and somewhat fearful. "Where were you? Melkor has been asking around for you."
A cold feeling seeped through him. "His messenger was looking for me?"
"No, he came here in person," Satarno almost whispered.
Mairon narrowed his eyes. That was odd. "Has anything gone wrong?" he asked.
Satarno shook his head. "No. But that's from our point of view. It's hard to know what Melkor thinks." He wiped sweat from his forehead and glanced around nervously. "Anyway, I'm going back to the quarries now that you're here. I don't want him to notice my absence."
Mairon said farewell to him and stepped through the doors. The clamor of pounding metal greeted him upon entering. Only one group of orcs had he selected as his main workforce, although he remained chief contributor. They briefly paused to acknowledge him before continuing and he was not surprised to find some missing.
Vibrations shuddered through the rock walls from the relentless labor on the surface. Bright, jagged flames served to cast the space in red light. Mairon was able to block out all distractions, filtering every emotion into the sheet of iron set out below him.
Sparks flew from every collision of his hammer, and the orcs around him would temporarily pause to awe over the shapes the embers formed in the air.
He only became uneasy when the pounding around him was silenced and the sole movement was his own hammer. From his peripheral view he noticed the fear in his workers' eyes and a large shadow taking up the door to his right.
"You still possess your stealth, my lord." He finally looked up to meet Melkor's glowering eyes, set under the heavy rim of his crown.
His response was immediate. "Where else would it go? Certainly not into my servants."
Mairon waited, expecting him to move or speak again, but the dark form remained silent in the entry. Had he messed up instructions so profoundly that Melkor himself had to scold him for it? Or perhaps the orcs had rioted under their captains.
"To what do I owe the honor of your presence?" he asked finally, becoming uncomfortable.
Melkor flashed him an impatient glare. "This is my fortress."
"It has been deprived of your presence, as of late."
"I can see that," Melkor said as he studied the weaponry piled up in stocks, his gaze sweeping over the ore melting in massive furnaces to the hammer in Mairon's hands, and then back again to the furnaces.
He set down his hammer and watched Melkor carefully as the latter moved farther into the room and studied the fiery coals with an intense interest.
Mairon only briefly glanced there, failing to see why it was so intriguing. He stood around and waited anxiously, hoping that the Vala would find his work pleasing.
Without warning, Melkor suddenly turned on him, his glare overbearing and aimed to intimidate. "You shall use your skills only for me, as you now serve only me."
A tense silence fell over the forge, with the two Ainur staring at one another. The outburst at first confused Mairon, even shocked him somewhat, but gradually he broke into a smile, and the change threw off Melkor—the enmity in his features dissolved.
In an unexpected move, Mairon lifted his hammer and brought it down on the sheet of iron, before picking it up and admiring it in the light.
Melkor flinched at the sudden impact.
"Of course." Mairon tossed his handiwork to the nearest orc, who barely caught it safely, staggering back into his companion. After steadying himself he made to go outside, but Melkor's form blocked his exit.
He glanced towards the door and then timidly up at the menacing shadow, asking permission with just his expression. Melkor glowered at his thrall and meant to strike him, but feeling eyes on him looked across the room, where the blacksmith was watching intently.
He responded by breaking out into a snarl, glaring viciously at the orc before reluctantly moving over for him to pass.
An amused smile still tugged at Mairon's lips. Melkor was beginning to recognize its presence every time his Maia was about to behave insolently towards him, and it was always accompanied by a lowering of the eyebrows. Soon, he would be able to slap the insolence out of him before it could even manifest.
He sneered in the Maia's direction, his words built on cold bitterness. "Be grateful that you are useful."
Swiftly he spun on his heel and pushed his way out into the tunnels, flinging aside every orc standing in his path. Their startled cries became fainter the deeper Melkor retreated into the mountain.
For a while Mairon and his orcs stood quietly in the forge and listened, until he gave them a nod and picked up his hammer.
