When Muilë first came to the tower hidden within the forests of Dorthonion, overrun by the undead servants of Melkor, she tried pulling back to go another way, but Mairon coaxed her onward.
The wraiths gathered together to examine the newcomer, and they were not happy when they saw it was a horse. She pushed through them regardless, holding her head high.
Mairon tied her to a tree using the makeshift lead rope. She began digging her hoof into the dirt, snorting boldly whenever one of the wraiths came too close.
"Why must this creature stay with us?" they complained to the Maia.
"That isn't fair. You get to house your giant spiders here, and I cannot keep my horse?" he reasoned.
Ugdun sprang away as Muilë tried to bite him. "She is very mean," he whined.
"Perhaps if you were not so ugly," Mairon told him.
All turned to look as an orc entered the clearing. It belonged to one of the smaller breeds designed to serve as messengers.
"Not as ugly as that!" Ugdun shot back.
The orc picked out Mairon from the crowd and hobbled past the shadowed faces that were openly and unabashedly staring. Seeing that the messenger must have been sent there on an errand, the Maia met him halfway. Half of the orc's face was twisted, and it started to spasm as he spoke. "The Master has heard of his servants abiding here, and he now requests they come to aid him in the current war."
The servants in question inched closer to Mairon, as if trying to hide behind him.
"What are you doing!? Go with him!" the Maia reproached them, angered and embarrassed.
"We have not seen the Master for a long time," they whispered to him. "And he had a habit of punishing us… you do not do that so much."
"I will, if you do not go," he promised, also in a whisper.
While the rest of the wraiths reluctantly readied themselves for the journey, he noticed that Ugdun had gone to stand outside a cave in the mountainside and would not budge, looking distraught and unsure what to do.
"What's the problem?" Mairon asked, coming to stand in front of him.
"Shelob does not want to go. She says her mother had a grudge against the Master, and she will not fight for him until he delivers what he promised. I told her to say such things is blasphemy, but she will not listen to reason."
"Then you must go without her," Mairon answered.
Ugdun appeared crestfallen at the order, but he looked hopefully at Mairon. "You must watch out for her then. After all, you are in her debt."
He squinted. "Excuse me?"
"When you were cornered by the Sindar after falling into Thingol's trap," Ugdun explained matter-of-factly, "Shelob and her siblings came to your rescue."
The Maia was beginning to accept Ugdun was holding conversation with these creatures, and that they must be capable of some sort of speech. He gave an ambiguous wave of his hand to appease the wraith. "Now go."
He stood back while the messenger from Angband led the wraiths, anxiously glancing over their shoulders and dragging their feet, out of the forests and up to the war-torn plains of the north.
After they had gone, Mairon walked to the tree where he'd tied Muilë and gave her an affectionate pat on the head. He took measurements of her neck and girth, before heading into the tower. Some hours later, he emerged with riding equipment swung over his shoulder. The horse seemed pleased when the Maia garbed her with a saddle fit for the steed of an Ainu. Her tail swished side to side as he adjusted the stirrups, and she stretched her neck to accommodate the sleek, leather reins placed atop her mane.
Mairon felt a sense of satisfaction hammering in the iron shoes over Muilë's hooves, as he recalled outfitting the prized horses of Oromë. The Vala of the hunt was always pleased by the Maia's work, and if he was ever blinded by anger at some action of Aulë, he was likely to be appeased so long as his highly valued steeds were tended to.
The brief memory was blown away by the chill of the cold wind driving in from the east, as the Maia and his steed galloped in that direction. The ride was now much smoother and more enjoyable, and they arrived at their destination not long after the Maia had given the word.
He halted at the post where his spies usually waited for him, but he found it vacant. Slightly unsettled, he tied up Muilë and began to search the area, but he had only been at it for a few minutes when his spies came rushing through the undergrowth at the bottom of the hill.
"Thû is gone from his abode!" they warned. "We believe he is out wandering the forest."
Mairon found he was more intrigued than afraid of this person. He thanked them for their report, but he continued on his normal route to the village nevertheless. So long as he got there first, he would not have to worry about Thû interfering.
As he entered the domain of the Avari, however, he bumped into a figure coming from the direction directly opposite. He had a white beard and wore a bright yellow cloak, a stark contrast to the dark hue of his green boots, and a belt inset with precious stones- the mirror image of the disguise Mairon had assumed.
Well, this was indeed awkward.
"Who are you?" Thû asked. His eyes narrowed as he looked him over. "Why are you dressed like me?"
The two stared at each other. Slowly, a smile spread across Mairon's lips, shattering the illusion of the wizard's reflection. The real Thû cautiously backed away from him.
"Why are you doing this?" he demanded.
"Haven't you heard that imitation is the highest form of flattery?" Mairon said humorously.
Thû shook his head. "No… what are you really doing?"
"Your teachings were fine and good, but as you can see, I have brought the Avari vital knowledge and protection that you never could. I am their teacher now."
Thû's eyes turned cold. "You could never be a teacher. All you seek is to control and dominate, just like your master."
Angry that he had been seen through so easily, Mairon lashed out with a snarl. But the wizard vanished from sight, and the Maia met empty space in front of him.
Mairon spun around, looking this way and that, and sensing the air for disturbances.
"SHOW YOURSELF, COWARD!"
His words carried up into the trees, only to be whisked away by the wind. He stood still and listened for any noise that might give the other away.
A twig snapped in the opposite direction. Mairon turned quickly, only to see Nuin standing alone in the forest, looking afraid.
"Thû?"
The Maia glared at the Elf for some time before calming down. "What?"
"Are you all right?"
He glanced around suspiciously. "There is an imposter here."
"Who?" Nuin gasped.
"I'm not sure. But you must be wary of all others who claim to be me."
"But how will I know if they are not you?"
"Do I have to give you all the answers? Use your head, or else it sits useless on your neck."
The thought of an imposter had irked him much, and Nuin walked close to Mairon's side back to the village.
"But where does he come from, Thû? Why should I fear him?"
"From the land of the gods, no doubt, sent to meddle in your affairs."
"Will you defeat him?" he inquired, practically requesting him to do so.
"It is difficult for even I to go up against such a foe."
Nuin thought carefully. "How long have they been among us?"
The Maia raised a hand to his forehead. "Be quiet, Nuin. Your questions weary me."
Wearied he truly was, and his head was spinning. For that reason, he did not stay long among the Avari, but departed much sooner than they preferred. He rode fast through the forest, feeling like he was trying to escape something, although he did not know what.
Thû's words slowly came back to him in the form of an unwelcome whisper. The voice seemed too close, as if it was coming from just behind him. The Maia glanced back, but he failed to notice anything.
You could never be a teacher. All you seek is to control and dominate, just like your master.
He rolled his eyes. The audacity of that wizard! How could he say such things, without knowing what he was talking about?
False. Entirely untrue.
All you seek is to control and dominate, just like your master.
The wind blew hard at his cloak, and Muilë spooked, losing her footing on the path. The Maia took hold of the left rein and quickly corrected her.
The landscape surrounding him was becoming misshaped, and he felt lightheaded. It seemed as if all the trees and elements of the forest were crowding in closer to block him…to cut him off…strangling him…
His vision went black and his head dipped, and he fell sideways off his horse, landing among the shrubs. Muilë whinnied out of fear, and he could hear her gallop off somewhere in the distance. Lying there and staring up at the sky, though he couldn't see it, he knew his mind was still spinning in circles.
"It isn't true," he choked out- the last conscious thought he had before it turned to madness.
All he could see in this state was flashes of bright color, and his thoughts were replaced by a sea of voices conversing in the back of his mind. Every so often the murkiness faded in and out, and during one such occurrence of partial mental clarity, he sensed other beings near his place of seclusion. He struggled to lift his head as two hazy figures approached out of the twinkling lights of the dim forest.
"There he is," their voices floated towards him, as if carried on a breeze.
The two Maiar came to a stop in front of Mairon. Taryamo leaned against the trunk of a tree while he observed him underneath a stoic, judging gaze.
"Wow, the spies were right about something," he remarked. "He's completely lethargic."
The huntsman was temporarily distracted by a flash of black, and the appearance of a horse saddled up in the most magnificent riding gear, stepping out behind from the tree.
Taryamo's mouth dropped and began to water, captivated by the animal. "A horse! I haven't seen one of those since…"
Before he could go towards it, however, Satarno grabbed his shoulder to pull him back.
"That isn't our focus right now," he scolded. The Maia of Aulë knelt on the ground and closely studied Mairon, who was muttering to himself.
"Mairon, can you hear me?" he asked the dazed craftsman.
The latter put his hands over his ears. "Quiet! Be quiet!"
"You need to get out of here," Satarno stated firmly. "This place is only making your condition worse."
The other's eyes suddenly became sinister. He roughly grabbed hold of the Maia's tunic and forced his face closer to his own. "You fool! You've done it! He's heard you!"
Taryamo crossed his arms and looked on with pity. "Melkor will have to come out here himself."
"That is the last thing he'll ever do," Satarno said, pulling away from the other Maia's strong grip. He shook his head in discouragement. "I can't get through to him. He just keeps blabbering on about someone named Thû."
"Who?" Taryamo asked, but then he snapped his fingers, appearing to come to a realization. "You know what that is? Probably one of those unnatural entities that the Valar let roam without check. You know, the ones that give themselves nonsense names? They have strange powers."
Satarno began to shake the craftsman by the shoulders. "It's me! Satarno! Your friend."
Mairon stared at him long before finally breaking out into a smile. "Satarno, where is Master Aulë? I have just finished fortifying the Iron Mountains to prevent Melkor from coming back into Arda. Go, tell him. Lord Manwe will be very pleased."
Satarno and Taryamo shot each other an exasperated glance.
Without warning, the Maia's face darkened. "And what will that do? Melkor is the mightiest of the Valar. Holding him off is futile. Join him. It's the only way."
As quickly as it had changed, his expression altered yet again, and he began to laugh in sudden good spirits. "Your gardens are the fairest in all of Arda, Lady Yavanna. What does Lórien have that is not a part of your creation? You have no reason to envy him."
"This is difficult to watch," Taryamo said with a grimace. He leaned over the other Maia and spoke loud and clearly to ensure he heard. "If you don't snap out of this, Mairon, I'm stealing your horse. Did you get that?"
But the Maia was absent from the present, his eyes still and glassy as a tranquil pond. He had gone silent, staring down at the moss without any expression. He was only vaguely aware of the footsteps gradually retreating, leaving him alone again with the relentless forest.
At the sound of the chamber doors scraping open, Melkor awoke from a state of such intense contemplation that it resembled death. Stress weighed down his shoulders and his brow was furrowed with fret. The Vala lifted his stiff neck, aching from holding his head in a position of deep thought for so long. He unclenched his hands from their tight grip on the sides of his throne, flinching at the pain shooting through each of his fingers once the feeling returned.
His blurred vision tried focusing on the visitors, and when it gradually cleared he realized there were only two. They both came to stand at the base of the dais.
"Where is Mairon?" he asked, reading the dismayed looks on their faces.
"We cannot get him to leave the forest, my lord. Something in his mind has snapped," Taryamo informed him.
"It was only a matter of time before that so-called rational mind of his broke," Melkor said with a sigh.
"What do you want us to do?" the Maia pressed. "None of our methods have worked."
The Vala shrugged. "Do nothing. Leave him be."
Taryamo frowned, clearly frustrated by that response. "Until he becomes a statue, and can never leave? Isn't there something you can do?"
Melkor directed his cold stare on the huntsman. He slowly rose from his chair, his eyes never leaving Taryamo's.
The Maia tried turning away, growing fearful. "I'm sorry, my lord."
Anything was better than the Vala's gaze. He felt the urge to stab his eyes, just to have the peace of blindness. But as it was, he was forced to look. To his horror, the pinpoint of flame inside Melkor's eyes grew brighter and sharper, and the Maia cried out in pain as it shot through to his fëa. He crumpled to the floor, his eyes rolling around as wave after wave of crippling heat burned his core.
Melkor switched his gaze to Satarno, who quickly bowed his head to hide his eyes. But it was needless, for the Vala had already returned to his normal composure. Melkor flicked his cape behind him and began to walk along the uppermost stair below his seat.
"I know Mairon. He won't remain in this condition for long. And if not, there are always methods to jog his memory." The Vala lifted one of his gloved hands. "But my concerns are elsewhere right now. The time is growing near. I've waited so long, so long…" He had stopped beside the wall of murals behind the throne, and there rested his hand up against one of the many images. Satarno squinted at it, yet all he could make out was the gate of Angband beleaguered by a great army.
Whatever the image meant, Melkor was beginning to stroke it. The Maia didn't feel like asking. He looked away and cleared his throat uncomfortably, hoping he could leave now.
But Melkor took it as an invitation to elaborate. "This is it, this is how my plan will culminate. Did you think I sat idle in Aman during my sentence, Satarno? Do you think I'm an idiot? Are you like one of those Valar, who are as stupid as they are arrogant? Who are so foolish that they think they can deprive me of what was intended for me?"
The Vala was staring at him accusingly, as if he imagined him to be someone else. The Maia opened his mouth, but he didn't know how he should respond.
"Well!? Do you?!" Melkor demanded impatiently.
"No, my lord, definitely not," Satarno quickly answered.
"Arda is mine! All of it! Mine! And no one can take it from me!"
The chamber reverberated with the Vala's voice, and they could hear it funneling down into the lower regions before echoing out of the fortress, into the plains and mountains beyond. Melkor grinned, sinking down into his throne and looking pleased with himself. He gave a wave of dismissal in the direction of his Maiar, granting them permission to depart.
Satarno took a deep breath and leaned down to grab Taryamo's arms, dragging the unconscious Maia out of the chamber.
When Mairon awoke, he spent some time gazing around at his surroundings with detached interest. Only when he happened to glance down and notice that he was covered in mud and twigs and reeking of the musk of the forest, did he spring to his feet in a panic, wiping wet leaves off his chest.
How long had he been here? And more importantly, what had he been doing?
He felt over his face and hair and looked down at his hands, checking to make sure everything was untouched. Then he frantically paced the forest floor, hoping the fast motion would likewise work quickly to retrieve some memory.
Oh yes. That wizard in Cuivienen, Thû. He had done this to him, he had to. Who else?
Not himself. No, not himself. It had to be Thû.
How long had he been like this? Useless? It terrified him to know.
Muilë trotted towards him once she saw he was awake, eagerly nudging his face. The Maia patted the side of her neck reassuringly.
"Don't worry," he said, more to himself than to her. "Whoever did this will pay."
He left the quiet forest behind and stepped onto the plains, staring out over the battle taking place there in a state of dazed confusion. Eventually his memory slowly began to return to him, watching the blades of swords clashing one against the other, the clatter of fallen shields, the expressions of pain and shouts of desperation.
He was barely conscious of himself running towards the center of battle, of ripping the weapon from a nearby Orc who offered it up freely, of swinging the wedged blade at the Noldor beginning to swarm to him. But once he faced them, his features shadowed and skewed by some new fury, they built a wall with their shields and gazed up at him through their blue helmets with fear and uncertainty. The Maia brought down his sword and broke several of their shields, picking up the exposed soldiers beneath and throwing them across the battlefield.
The Orc captains gratefully sat down to catch their breath.
Every one of the Elves were discarded from his path, but he kept going, only stopping when a clear voice called out from the ranks:
"Arise! Keep going!"
The Maia turned towards it, and there he noticed someone standing alone in the field of fallen soldiers.
The Noldo raised his head to look at him, his steel eyes full to the brim with anger and determination. He reached up and pulled off his helmet, releasing a mane of dark hair that spilled down to his shoulders. His features were unstained by blood, as bright and strong as they had been in Aman.
The Elf threw his helmet in the dust and took a running start at Mairon, and the Maia came forth to meet his force. Each swing of his sword his opponent anticipated and met with his own: a quality blade forged in Valinor. To the Maia's surprise, the Noldo was smiling, as if he were enjoying this.
Mairon pushed with all his might against his blade, which was poorly made and beginning to crumble in his hands, and the Noldo pushed back. Each glared into the other's eyes, and Mairon heard the Noldo mutter under his breath, "Finally, a worthy opponent."
The blade broke in half in the Maia's grip, and he ducked to avoid the sword coming straight at his face.
"Fëanor!" several voices called from the crowd.
The Noldo turned to see a path cleared towards the gates of Angband, and the Noldor who had called were urgently beckoning to their lord.
Fëanor sent the Maia a final glance before hurrying across the final stretch.
From the battlefield, Mairon watched him go, letting the broken blade fall from his hands. The orcs were beginning to realize what was going on and hastened to catch up to Fëanor and his war party, but the Maia made for Angband in no great hurry. A few of the Noldor offered him resistance along the way, but for the most part they were too occupied with forcing in the gates.
Once he accessed the fortress through a secondary entrance, Mairon headed for the throne room where Melkor sat, surprisingly unbothered, in his throne, while everyone else around him was panicking. Gothmog paced back and forth in front of him, grunting with every step and lashing his fiery whip.
In the center of the chamber, a Noldo emissary stood and recited the insulting words he'd been instructed to, while Melkor quietly listened, his eyes burning with intense passion.
"Thief! Coward! Hiding behind your walls built on lies!" the emissary spat, quaking with anger, fear, or both.
The Balrogs, invoked to anger by his speech, leapt down the steps to slaughter the insolent Noldo, but Melkor immediately raised a hand to stop them.
Gothmog watched distastefully as the Noldo hurried away to return to his people.
"Shouldn't we be killing these Elves?" he asked the Vala.
"Then how will he get the messages? Think, Gothmog," Melkor chided him.
"Well I…don't…really…understand the purpose of the messages," the captain confessed.
The Vala smiled, in a manner calmer than his temperament usually permitted. "I get to imagine the look of disdain on Fëanor's delicate features every time he hears me speak. And with each word, he grows ever the more enraged. When he finally comes to face me, he won't even be able to think clearly. Only his hatred will remain."
And that was exactly what happened. Only the effects were not even as Melkor had predicted, for the countenance of Fëanor was so filled with hatred that the orcs cowered and let him pass with no resistance.
Gothmog was itching with anticipation. Smoke poured out his nostrils and flames ignited from his eyes. Guards had to hold shut the doors that kept him inside the fortress, for he paced anxiously alongside like some sort of beast on a chain.
"Not yet!" Melkor shouted at him. He was watching all of this with great pleasure, almost giddy with excitement. Once the Noldo was close enough that he could have walked directly to Melkor, the Vala gave the signal.
Gothmog did not wait for the doors to be opened. He broke through them with his hands and rushed out into the battle with his sword held high.
Fëanor could not have asked for a worse fate. His mutilated body was dragged off the battle field, leaving behind a thick trail of blood.
Destroyed by his own hatred.
Mairon felt some disappointment at the loss. Then again, the Noldo had always been too proud to listen to the teachings of anyone else. That had been his fatal flaw.
"How pitiful!" Melkor cried out dramatically. "He was so close! So close! So close to retrieving his precious Silmarils!"
Melkor's loud laughter drowned out the discouraged sounds of the Noldor falling back. Mairon glanced over at him. The Vala finally noticed his presence in the room and met his stare, grinning triumphantly, before going forth to praise his Balrogs.
At first the Maia thought to stay in, but a tempting quiet had descended outside the fortress, and he left behind the depleted armies of Angband streaming back to their host. He walked to the ravaged doors at the front end of the hall and felt over the splintered, charred remains. The blood of orcs and Elves alike coated the floor of the central courtyard, and tattered flags blew in through the open threshold with the wind.
Cautiously, he stepped onto the battlefield, now deserted by any living person, but the corpses stretched in all directions for many leagues. At the gate he paused and turned to look back at the fortress, hearing Melkor's excited yelling coming from within, before passing beyond the confines of Angband.
He walked in between the rows of fallen Noldor and crouched on the ground next to them to glance over their faces. He studied their weapons, some still grasped between their fingers, and looked in their pockets for anything of value they might have been carrying.
Something caught his eye further down the field, and he crossed over to where a fallen Noldo lay in the middle of two orcs he must have been slain in combat with. Mairon gazed over his familiar features, and then he placed his hand inside the inner pocket of the torn cloak. He pulled out a brilliantly-worked crystal. The edges had been expertly cut, and the inner radiance of the gem still reflected through, despite the overwhelming darkness of the sky overhead.
He shoved the object back into the Noldo's cloak and got up to quickly return to the fortress.
