As he came back through the other side of the gate, Mairon glanced down and noticed an arm sticking out from beneath a pile of snow. Initially he walked on by, only to stop and do a double-take. He retraced his steps to have another look at the forest-green tunic and bulging bicep.

He dug through several feet of snow and flipped the other Maia on his back. The latter had been in an unconscious state, but once he was face-up and the snow cleared off him, he awoke, gasping for air.

Mairon's brow furrowed as he looked him over. "Taryamo? What happened to you?"

The other Maia shook icicles out of his hair and stumbled to his feet. Besides the obvious frostbite, he was sweating profusely, and his skin was covered in red welts, possibly burns.

"Satarno!" he spat. "That wretch must have thrown me out here."

Mairon stared thoughtfully at his wounds, paying little attention to his response. "Hmm."

After retrieving his senses, Taryamo turned to Mairon with a sort of realization. "You're awake!" He stepped closer to slap his arm, but due to his injuries, this time it hurt him more than it did Mairon.

"What made you decide to lie in the grass and let the birds nest on your head?" Taryamo asked, cradling his arm and trying to conceal the pain he was in.

Mairon muttered under his breath. "I'd rather not speak of it."

"Well, now that we're on the topic of the unspeakable, what happens when Melkor discovers you've a horse?" A mischievous gleam lit up the huntsman's eyes. "Perhaps if you lend it to me, I'll ensure that never happens."

The craftsman laughed. "She won't let you ride her."

Taryamo snorted presumptuously. "I can ride any horse, which you know damn well. How do you plan to stop me?"

"Maybe you could have, once. But no longer. You should not have taught me so well."

He gave an annoyed shake of his head, accompanied by a "hrmph!". "By the way," he began, "my opinion remains that you should return to Valinor. Nothing good is going to come of you being here. Melkor has sent me after you twice already. What if the next time he decides you aren't worth it?"

Mairon met his eyes with a smirk. "It's funny you should mention that, because he assigned me a very important task, and I was just on my way to relate some crucial information to him." He gave the Maia's burns another glance. "And I'm sure it will end better than your last conversation did."

He quickly moved to the side to avoid the Maia's fist, but Taryamo now had a clear view of the gate, and past it, the desecrated battlefield.

"Nooo!" Taryamo shouted, loud enough to make the courtyard ring with his voice. "I missed it!" He bent to pick up whatever lay at his feet: rocks, bloodied helmets, broken clubs, and began heaving them one by one at the iron gates.

Mairon stood behind him and patiently waited until he was finished. "The lord of the Noldor was slain by Melkor," he calmly described. "If you wish to know the context, he was attempting to retrieve the Silmarils and avenge the death of-"

"The context isn't important," he interrupted, earning a puzzled look from Mairon. "The battle is. And I will never get to relive it."

"Wouldn't you rather get what you want without a battle, if you were given an option?"

Taryamo slowly turned around, dropping the rock he'd been holding. The two Maiar stared at each other in silence, as the howling wind blew flurries of snow in their faces.

"No." Taryamo rolled up his sleeves. "I'm going to go fight some Orcs."


On the main level of the fortress, the inhabitants of Angband celebrated the death of the Noldorin lord in a manner rowdier than even Tulkas could have achieved. Chairs and tables were overturned, swords thrown around like they were harmless play-things and not dangerous weapons. The heavy, sweet smell of mead permeated the air.

Melkor sat at the head of a table and Gothmog was at his side, both looking more placated than they normally were. On the floor, acting on what resembled a stage, an Orc wearing one of the blue helmets of the Noldor and another holding a long, scathing whip dueled together, until ultimately the Orc playing Gothmog dragged the Orc playing Fëanor over the ground and hurled the lifeless body into the rambunctious crowd.

The Vala slapped his leg, keeled over with laughter. "It gets better every time!"

"Again!" Gothmog ordered in his deep, booming voice. "Until the Orc who plays the Elf is able to beat me!"

Melkor glanced up when Mairon appeared at his side. "You missed it, Mairon. We have been having so much fun."

"There is something I must inform you of," the Maia replied in a low voice. "It pertains to the task you gave me."

"Is this going to ruin my mood?" Melkor asked, keeping his eyes on the reenactment, which was already differing wildly from the original event. Behind him, Mairon caught Gothmog sending over a warning glance.

"It should not. After all, if my lord can defeat the strongest of the Noldor, he can easily lay waste to any threat."

"This is true. Say on."

He leaned closer to the Vala and spoke into his ear.

Melkor tightened his grip around his chalice, picking up the drinking vessel and throwing it at the wall. It hit one of the Orcs in his entourage, killing him on the spot.

"There's more of them coming?!" the Vala cried.

"This news is not all evil," Mairon quickly assured him. "The Noldor have been expelled from Aman. They speak of some terrible act they performed there. And does my lord not see some meaning in the separation of the houses of Finwë? Why did they not arrive together? Yea, methinks this is the long-lasting fruit of your efforts, my lord."

At his words, a deceitful smile battled for control of the Vala's face. "The Valar do not want the Noldor? And what makes Manwë think I want them, either? Yet this terrible, offensive act committed by Fëanor in his hubris gives me much pleasure. Find out what it is, so we can hold it against his house forever."

Melkor stood up on his chair, commanding the immediate attention of his servants, who had been otherwise engaged in boisterous activity. His black robes spilled around him in dark rivets. The Vala held up his arms, as if partaking with the ceiling.

"We will drive the Elves back into the sea! All of them! Middle-Earth is for Orcs, for all the civilized creatures of my thought and making! And I am your king! King of the Valar, king of the earth, the greatest and eldest power!"

As he gave his speech, the Orcs kept breaking into cheers and applause, and he had to raise his voice to speak over them. They dropped to their knees and fell on their faces before the Vala.

"Who dares to speak against me, most powerful of all beings?" Melkor asked accusingly, casting suspicious glances around the table. "Who dares to defy me? Who thinks his council, his strength, his mind is superior to the king of Arda's?"

The room went silent, its inhabitants frozen, like a layer of ice had immobilized everyone present. The yellow, slatted eyes of the Orcs darted around fearfully. In that moment, the sound of a single drop of water hitting the floor would have been incredibly loud.

Melkor's penetrating gaze completed several rounds of the great hall, before he finally broke into a pleased grin.

"My servants are more faithful than the courts of any king! Yea, Thingol's most trusted advisors would betray him as soon as I flashed one Silmaril in their direction! The high Elves of the Vanyar would sooner desert the halls of Taniquetil before my captains ever entertained the thought of any service outside my own!"

He sat back down in his chair, and the second he did so, his servants relaxed and talk began to once again fill the hall.

Melkor waved over one of his attendants, and Mairon tried to listen in to what was said. He could only make out a few words, and as soon as Melkor faced forward again he quickly turned away and pretended to watch the party.

"Sit, Mairon," Melkor invited, indicating to the vacant chair on his other side. "I meant what I said. I have already made plans. Yes, I am going to drive the enemy into the sea."

Once he was seated, the Vala turned fully to address him, keeping his voice low to ensure no one else heard. "They had the better of me in Valinor, yes, but not anymore, for here I have the advantage. Observe me. See how quickly I gain the upper hand."

Mairon's eyes glinted with excitement. "I have no doubt you will."


Many hours later, the Maia awoke in a cold sweat. He sat up on the bed in the darkened chamber, staring out the window at the white stars shining over Ard-galen. He'd had a perturbing dream which he could not remember now, but it still weighed heavily at the back of his mind.

He was uncomfortable behind these walls meant to be so impenetrable, and yet made him feel more vulnerable than ever. He found himself missing the quiet and solitude of the woods of Dorthonion, so unlike the constant noise of a fortress that never rested.

He came down the spiraling staircase to the floor below. A furnace burned in one corner of the hall, making a humble attempt to warm the constant chill in the air. In a chair directly before the mantle, Satarno sat hunched, the left half of his face bathed in the orange light of the coals.

When he reached the bottom, the other Maia slowly looked up to acknowledge him.

"Melkor was right," he said in greeting. "You came to. I wasn't sure you ever would."

"Yes, I think I recall your presence at some point."

"I won't ask," Satarno assured him, spreading his fingers above the flames to warm them. "That seems to be the rule around here," he added quietly. A silence passed in which Satarno picked up a poker and began to stoke the fire. "You shout in your sleep," he spoke up suddenly. "I won't ask about that either."

Mairon sat in the chair across from him, setting one of his legs on top of the other. He stared distantly into the furnace as the other Maia shifted the coals.

"I went far to the east after Melkor got rid of me," he began with some hesitation. "As far east as the dark Elves dwell, the ones who are taken to be turned into Orcs."

Satarno's attention was on him, listening patiently.

"I met a strange being who lives at the edge of the sea of Helcar." He squinted at the flames, rubbing a crease in his forehead. "I fear he may have gotten into my mind somehow."

"I don't think anyone can, unless you allow them to."

Mairon frowned at the implication. "Why would I permit any forest spirit into my thoughts?"

Satarno shrugged. "Perhaps if they were convincing enough." He turned his head to glance outside the fortress. "A great number of emissaries set out not too long ago, in the company of Balrogs. Do you know anything about that?"

"Not very much."

The Maia made a sound like a tired sigh. "Did you know this Fëanor that Gothmog slayed?"

"Only distantly. I can tell you that his death is an unfortunate loss to craftsmanship, but to the rest of us, it is a great relief."

Satarno smiled faintly. "Aulë was fond of him, then?"

"No!" Mairon laughed. "It is quite possible to love the object and not its maker- and vice versa, I might add."

"Indeed." Satarno sat up all the way, replacing the gloves over his hands. "I must warn you, Mairon, that while I myself was not present at the celebration of Fëanor's defeat, the other Maiar are speaking ill of something that partook there. And it involved you."

"Jealousy, I'm sure," he said dismissively, giving it little thought.

"Just be wary," the other craftsman advised.


Mairon threw on a heavier cloak and pulled on his boots. Gazing at his reflection in the mirror, he fastened his hair out of his eyes. The original white color had been defiled, turned grayish from the ash falling regularly out of the sky, but he found it pointless to try to prevent.

After descending several flights of stairs to the main floor, he took a drink from one of the cups of mead left on a table, then tossed it at the Orcs sprawled out on the floor in drunken stupor. Normally the northwest exit of the fortress was closely guarded, but now the narrow hall, lit by meek torches, had all the top security of a few Orcs wrestling each other in the dirt and stumbling around with their awkward gait.

The warmth had spread down to his feet by the time the harsh wind met him on the plain. To his right, the doors into the mountain housing the pits of Wargs were sealed shut, their usual cries and howls silenced. Hence his footsteps, and the blaring of the wind, echoed louder than they ought.

His mission according to Melkor was to discover the reason for the migration of the Noldor out of Aman. First, he would need to retrieve Muilë, and then ride to Mithrum, supposing the Elves had chosen to remain at that camp. Perhaps he could also predict when and where the remaining peoples would be arriving. Melkor would surely be pleased then.

While he was still engaged with his planning, a fist shot out of a darkened threshold within the mountainside and collided with the side of his face. The Maia stumbled sideways, landing on his knees in the snow. He spat blood out of his mouth.

Immediately, an ambush of Maiar spilled out of hiding, and as he tried to stand two of them seized him from behind and grabbed one of his arms. Mairon pulled them each the opposite way, trying to throw them off, but they dug their feet in to hold him steady.

When he looked up, Taryamo stood before him. He was shaking his head in disgrace with his brows lowered over his shadowed face, like he was beholding something that he regarded much lowlier than he.

Mairon expected the huntsman to hit him again, but he retained his distance, keeping the same contemptuous expression.

"You scoundrel! I should have trusted my instincts. As soon as my back is turned, you try to weasel your way up the ladder. Do you really think you could be his second-in-command?"

"What are you talking about?" Mairon demanded, narrowing his eyes. He continued to fight against the hands struggling to restrain him.

Taryamo responded with annoyance. "I have eyes everywhere, blacksmith. I know that you sat in Melkor's company during the celebratory feast."

"He requested, and I wasn't about to refuse."

"Liar," the other Maia muttered. He turned his back, unable to look at him. "To think that I took you under my wing! To think I trained you in my knowledge, when your intention was always to betray me. Even after my generosity in granting you one of my steeds, even after accepting you!"

"I have only shown you the scorn you showed me," Mairon snapped, grating his teeth. "Generosity? Ha! Your intentions have never been so. Even in your lord's service in Almaren you were an insufferable brute, he was just too dull to take notice!"

A muscle twitched in the other Maia's forehead, and he raised an arm towards the Maia of Aulë, but at the last second, he decided against the action. "You don't belong here. Why should I bother punishing you, when Melkor himself will see this soon enough? He is far better at devising punishments, besides."

Taryamo motioned lazily to his two followers. "He's not worth it," he told them. Roughly, they released the Maia, and he fell forward on his hands. The group of Maiar headed back to the mountain they had emerged from, where they were gradually re-absorbed by the shadows issuing from its peak.

Mairon stared down at the snow, watching as the dripping blood dyed it red. His expression was solemn at first, but then anger overtook him, and he clenched his fists so hard his nails bit into the skin.


He rode westward, until the mountains of Mithrum loomed ahead like a towering wall of silver. Once he was close enough, the Maia dismounted his steed and began the arduous climb that would bring him to the camp in the most inconspicuous manner.

He left Muilë to graze in a pasture well-watered by recent rains. For the rest of the way, he took a pass hidden within the mountains, all the while peering into the valley below, searching for the smoke giving away the position of a Noldorin encampment.

In the crisp air, his warm breath formed clouds of steam. The salty breeze blowing in from the sea stung his busted lip. He rendered himself shapeless, lest he encounter anyone the further he encroached into enemy territory.

The mist disappeared and cleared the sky, revealing closely-knit tents laid out in a protective circle inside the valley. Fëanor's twin sons, Amras and Amrod, were seated by a fire in the center. He saw none of the other brothers, and he wondered why that was so.

He crept into the open to spy on their conversation. In between the two Noldor, the fire crackled and sent out flaming sparks, but their faces were drawn and somber, and they paid little notice.

"Should we have gone with Maedhros?" Amras asked his brother. "It is a trap, obviously, and they could have used our assistance."

"I want nothing to do with emissaries from Angband," Amrod answered. "Should they ever attempt to enter this camp, I will pelt them with rocks."

Mairon took another step nearer, and immediately the two Noldor turned in his direction, suddenly aware of something there. Amras stood and grabbed a torch, waving it at the consuming darkness beyond their small fire. The Elf began to approach the region where Mairon was crouched behind a pile of boulders that must have tumbled off the face of the mountain when Melkor's cry had shaken it.

"What do you see?" Amrod called over.

"Nothing," Amras replied, his voice loud and far too close for Mairon's liking. "It must have been a wild animal."

The light faded away as he returned to camp, his feet crunching over the snow. The Maia listened to him walk away, and when he peeked out, the Elf had sat down again.

"Perhaps it is one of the many spies of Morgoth," Amrod said in a murmur.

"I do not need to be thinking paranoid thoughts," Amras replied. He covered his eyes and lowered his face, shaking his head. "I am far too weary, Amrod."

"As am I," Amrod confessed. "I think a walk shall do me some good."

"Do not wander too far," his brother warned. "And bring a weapon with you."

Once Amrod had gone, and Amras was left alone by the fire, Mairon waited a little longer and then assumed the appearance of his twin. He went and sat in the seat across, wearing a mask of anguish and heaving a tired sigh.

Amras barely glanced up. "That was quick," he stated with surprise.

"First, I must get something off my chest," the Maia answered. He kept his face angled downward, away from the glow of the fire, hiding it from Amras's sight. "Tell me, háno, do you feel remorse?"

The Noldo frowned. "Remorse over…? Burning the ships? No, I do not. It was our own quest for vengeance, one that Fingolfin and Finarfin could never feel the same passion for. Our father made the right choice. And the deaths of the Teleri were unfortunate, but they were obstacles, ones who did not understand the grief our people have undergone. Now that we have sworn an oath, we have no time to feel remorse. We are bound to this cause, háno."

"I've been having doubts," Mairon answered in Amrod's voice. "What if this quest is ill-fated?"

"It matters not. We gave our word, regardless of whether we succeed. Do not dwell on the past."

"Who are you talking to?" the same voice said behind Amras. The latter spun around to see his brother eyeing him strangely.

"You. I was speaking to you."

"I was on a walk," Amrod reminded him slowly. "I've only come back now because the cold is unbearable."

Amras gaped at him in shock, but then he took his own face into his hands. "It is the grief! It's doing this to me!" He fell to weeping, and his brother set a hand on his trembling shoulder and came to comfort him.

Meanwhile, Mairon had slipped off into the shadows, and by the time the two brothers were mourning their father and doubting their sanity, he was riding back to Angband.


He tore past the servants loitering in the great hall, only forced to a halt by one of the Vala's attendants who stood in front of the doors to Melkor's chamber, preventing entry.

"I must speak with Melkor," the Maia blurted out.

"The dark lord has requested not to be disturbed at this time," the guard replied in a firm tone. "I can take a message, however, if the situation is urgent."

Mairon decided against that option, leaving the fortress once again. He was unsure where this meeting between the sons of Fëanor and Melkor's ambassadors was to take place, but as he was scouting likely locations, his trail started leaning eastward. For many leagues, the plains were desolate, until he spied a camp of Orcs on the forest's edge just outside Cuiviénen.

The Orcs leaped away from his black horse, staring fearfully at the breath billowing out from her nostrils in the cold air. She tossed her head aggressively, daring them to approach.

From above his steed's broad shoulders, Mairon's voice issued down to the Orcs, and the latter raised their eyes in alarm. "What is your reason for being here?"

Their captain reluctantly bridged the gap. "We are not supposed to s-"

The Maia reached out and seized him by the breastplate, forcing the Orc to look up into his face.

"Please don't kill me, lord!" he begged. "We have been set here as a watch! There is an unknown land to the east, where the Master believes a great people lie, asleep. He is very interested in them."

Mairon set the Orc down in surprise. He had forgotten all about the second-born. But surely Melkor had been aware, constantly keeping it at the back of his mind. That was one of the things he admired about the Vala: he always anticipated what would happen, even when everyone else had put it out of mind. And he could improvise a plan no matter the circumstances, each more elaborate than the last.

"And have you seen anything?" he questioned.

The captain shook his head. "Nothing. Perhaps this is not the right place."

"Do not question your orders," Mairon harshly rebuked him. He hoped the Orc spoke the truth, for this was near to the Avari, and he did not want the two parties to interact.

He left them, carrying on the rest of the way to Cuiviénen. Assuming his usual disguise, he entered the domain of the dark Elves on foot and arrived at a structure in the central village. The door was open, so he walked straight in, announcing his presence to the raven-haired Elf busying himself with a craft.

Mairon took his place in Thû's chair. His initial surprise had quickly turned to deep thought as he pondered over what to do with the second-born, being so near his Elves. It would not be long before some brash and curious mind stumbled across them…

On the opposite side of the room, Nuin had gone back to shaping a silver pendant. The sound of hammer against metal eased Mairon somewhat, but when he glanced over he found the Elf smiling oddly.

"Why are you smiling like that?" the Maia questioned. "Have you gone exploring again?"

Nuin dropped his hammer, spinning around to face him. "Yes, and you will never believe what I've found!"

Dread built up within Mairon. Yes, I believe it. Already he was cursing his carelessness, but he did not let the Elf see his frustration.

"What did you find?"

Nuin turned and pointed out the door to the outline of the mountains down the river.

"I was following the river to the foot of the Orocarni - where my kindred were slaughtered, yet I was spared by some sudden appearance of pity in my otherwise heartless tormentor - and I came across this wonderful cove…"

Relief washed over the Maia. So far, he was lucky, and his reckless pupil had strayed west instead of east.

"The stars reflected off the water…"

But it was only a matter of time. Mairon had made up his mind.

"Actually, I don't think I've ever seen such beautiful stones. I brought some back with me…"

Nuin stopped in the middle of his tale, noticing Mairon stand up to depart. He hurried outside to catch up to him.

Mairon briefly paused and faced him. He set a light hand on his shoulder. "Goodbye, Nuin."

Nuin blinked, suddenly worried. "Where are you going?"

He received no reply. The Maia kept on the path leading away from the village.

"Well, are you going to come back?"

"Perhaps not," he said.

Nuin stopped and watched him go with a scowl.

"Where are you always going?"

Mairon was out of sight now, but the Elf was determined to find out. He entered the woods, searching the dark with his keen eyes. Still, the other was far ahead of him, so with the lightness of foot common to his people he began to run.

But it was futile, for soon the Maia was lost to even his eyes, and feeling disheartened, he gave up the pursuit. A flurry of black passed by in the distance, within which he thought he saw two wolf-shapes walking behind a tall figure, and then was gone.


Not long after leaving Cuiviénen and the Orocarni behind, Mairon galloped west towards Angband. As he stared ahead at the dark landscape, a sliver of silver cut across the field, illuminating the grass. Startled, the Maia raised his head up to the sky. An orb of glowing light was being carried over the mountains on a rather unsteady course, moving higher and higher by the minute.

He stopped to stare in wonder. The silver light was familiar, and it did not take him long to recall the first of the Two Trees. But how was it possible? And how had it been made into an orb?

Upon reaching the zenith, the orb slowed its movement. Surely, this was some work of the Valar. He was intrigued as well as slightly relieved. One of the cons of this land had been the lack of visibility, and this offshoot of Silpion seemed an ideal solution. And it was so high, how would Melkor attempt to destroy it? He had to admit, it was clever on Manwë's part.

He quickened his return to Angband, even though he expected the Vala to have already been informed by his hundreds of spies. Sure enough, he could hear the intense discussion before he stepped foot into the throne room, and the panicked shouts of Melkor.

The Vala was clearly just as perplexed as he was. "How can this be?! Silpion is no more! I saw with my own eyes as Ungoliant drained the life from its roots."

The captains in the chamber looked confused, regarding Melkor as if he were speaking nonsense.

"I don't know what Silpion is, lord," one of them dared to admit.

"Then it's a good thing I didn't ask you," Melkor shot back, rolling his eyes. The Vala sat up straighter when he noticed the newcomer. "Mairon, tell me you have good news."

"Indeed, my lord. I went down to the camp of the Noldor, and there learned that the house of Fëanor has committed such atrocities that the Valar, as well as their remaining kindred, could never forgive. They attacked the city of the Teleri for their ships, and these they burned upon reaching the shores of Middle-Earth, deserting the other sons of Finwë to the Helcaraxë."

"This is music to my ears," Melkor replied, laughing out loud. "If only I had not killed him, if only he were not such a deliberate pain. I would have liked to see what else that Noldo was capable of." He motioned to Mairon. "See? This is why I trust the blacksmith in such matters the rest of you will not see through."

The Maia smiled smugly at Taryamo, who took up one corner of the throne room, looking glum. The latter briskly pushed past everyone else and walked out, and less than a moment later, a loud thud shook the wall, as if due to a large impact with, say, a fist.

The Maia of Aulë watched him go. Someone brushed against him, and Satarno was suddenly at his side. "It would be wise to keep a distance from him for a time," he cautioned.

But Mairon shook his head. "Taryamo is much better as an ally than he is a foe."

When he exited the chamber doors, he discovered the huntsman had not gone far. He stood near a gaping hole in a stone column that looked near caving in, glaring in his direction.

The Maia was red in the face, and his right fist was bleeding. His eyes were wild, resembling those of a horse that is hot with anger. "You are mad to approach me now."

The Maia of Aulë held out his arms, inviting the other to hit him. "Go ahead, fight me again, and win- I have no doubt you will. Our strengths are different, Taryamo, and yet I believe they are complementary."

The Maia of Oromë snorted. "You want me to back down and join you? Is that really what you're suggesting? Do I need to remind you that I am in the senior position here, and I've served Melkor much longer?"

"You are violent, forceful…Those can be good qualities, if used correctly." Mairon was circling him, studying him closely, making the other Maia shift his stance uncomfortably. "But would you really want to clash with me for all ages of the world? You are not going anywhere, and neither am I."

Taryamo's face hardened. "I don't trust you."

"But Melkor does, and he is not one to trust easily. Does that not attest to my loyalty?"

"Maybe," Taryamo considered, "or you could just be manipulative."

"More manipulative than Melkor himself?" Mairon lifted his eyebrows with a smirk. "Try not to flatter me so."

"The position is mine," the huntsman insisted, bringing his voice down to a growl.

"Then why hasn't it been granted yet? After all these years…"

Taryamo's nostrils flared, and the tendons stiffened in his arms.

"I think you will take my offer," Mairon told him with a confident nod.

He started to leave the hall, but Taryamo called out to him, and he looked over his shoulder expectantly.

"Don't turn your back," the huntsman warned, smiling slyly.