The wind carried the scent of pine and river as Mairon kept the door open, looking at the tree elves before him. His keen gaze settled on the their faces, noting how they seemed to recoil yet remain rooted, as if the ground beneath them had turned to both sanctuary and snare.
"Mae govannen Lithirion. Well met." Mairon greeted the one in front.
Standing tall, a figure sculpted from shadow and sunlight, his face bearing the same youthful lines it held two centuries prior. Beside him, his companions, cloaked in leather and steel, held themselves with a quiet, dangerous stillness. Lithirion studied Mairon with an intensity that mirrored his own. The elf's eyes, usually bright with mirth, now held a cold suspicion. His men, seasoned warriors, stood poised, hands resting lightly on the hilts of their swords and their bows.
The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring, ready to snap. But then, after what felt like an eternity, a murmur rippled through the group—soft, hesitant deliberations that swelled and ebbed like the tide. They stepped back, casting glances amongst themselves, their expressions a living tapestry of conflict and contemplation.
"Halbrand. What kind of mortal man," Lithirion's voice, though calm, carried the weight of his centuries, "would return after two hundred years, alive and unchanged by the passage of time?"
Mairon offered no immediate reply. His gaze, steady and unwavering, swept across the assembled elves. Then, with a subtle gesture, he invited them in. There was no arrogance in the movement, only a quiet assertion of power.
Inside the warm glow of the firelight, Galadriel sat, her beauty even more striking than the memory Lithirion harbored from seeing her once from afar, long ago. The years had only deepened the regal bearing that marked her Noldorin lineage.
"My wife," Mairon said, his voice a low rumble that resonated with an unexpected authority. He gestured to Galadriel.
Lithirion's breath hitched. "I know who you are, Lady Galadriel," he whispered, the name heavy with history and a chilling recognition. "The Noldorin princess. Queen to the Dark Lord."
A ripple of outrage went through the assembled elves. Whispers, hushed but sharp, filled the house. The image of the Dark Lord's queen standing comfortably beside a man who appeared to be no mortal at all, shattered the fragile peace of the moment.
"You are him… Sauron!" elf recoiled, reaching out to his weapon.
"I have many names," Mairon's voice cut through the rising murmurs, calm and poised, yet cold as ever. His tone was not defensive, but rather, stated a simple fact. "Sauron is not the one I use. I journeyed to the Undying Lands. I stood before the Valar. They have granted me pardon. And with it, the right to return to Middle-earth, to rule it. Not as the Dark Lord, but as Tar-Mairon."
The revelation struck the elves like a physical blow. The sheer audacity of his claim – pardon from the Valar, the right to rule – was almost unbelievable. Lithirion, however, saw something else in Mairon's eyes – a deep weariness, a sorrow masked by an iron will.
Elf looked at Galadriel. She didn't seem outraged by her Lord's statement, nor was she surprised. He then looked back at Mairon. "Pardon?" he repeated, his voice barely a murmur. The weight of the implications crashed down upon him: the possible return of the Dark Lord, cloaked in a new name and a facade of legitimacy. "That is not possible, not after everything you have done, servant of Morgoth!"
"Bad servant I must be, defying my master," Mairon answered with the smile that didn't quite reach the eyes. However, his tone didn't not change, giving no display of anger that elves were expecting. He continued. "Last I recall, this is not how you felt about me, when were used to be close."
Elf didn't answer. He was lost for words.
Mairon continued. "I shall reside here with my family and my men, the elves of Noldor, who travel with us," he said "I seek to wage no war, nor I wish for a blood to be spilled in these lands. Leave now and consider my words. Should my claim proves to be insufficient, come back in a week. The messenger from the Valar will arrive from the West to confirm my words to be true. Then doubt me at your peril."
Mairon said nothing further, leaving the silence to amplify the gravity of his words, the profound implications of his claim to the throne. His gaze never faltered, holding the elves captive beneath the weight of his renewed dominion, a dominion claimed not through conquest, but through a pardon – a pardon that left more questions unanswered than answers given.
As the elves departed, lost deep in contemplation, Mairon returned to the table, his demeanor undisturbed, as if their startling revelation held no weight. With measured movements he served the stew and pushed the bowl closer to Galadriel. "Here you go, enjoy!" he said with a light smile belying the gravity of the situation.
Mairon's expression remained impassive, but his eyes, a deep, fathomless pool, betrayed a flicker of unease. Galadriel took the bowl without a word. Her eyes, a vivid blue, held his, her expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. They used to be close? In what capacity? She wouldn't dare to pry, sensing his reluctance to discuss. In her desire to ease the tension, she asked: "Messenger from the Valar? How do you know someone is coming in a week?"
"I said a week, to give them time to... adjust. But he is already here, I recon," as he finished speaking, yet another rap against the wood interrupted their dinner. Galadriel jumped out of the chair and run to the entrance.
The door swung inward with a soft creak, revealing vibrant shock of Salmar's cerulean hair. He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, a dazzling, blue-haired whirlwind of unrestrained enthusiasm. Galadriel, initially startled by the unexpected visit, dissolved into a smile as radiant as the dawn. Salmar's joy was infectious; it practically vibrated in the air, a palpable wave of good cheer that even the dust motes seemed to dance to.
"Galadriel, my dearest friend!" he boomed, his voice echoing the sheer delight in his heart. He seized her hands, his own surprisingly warm despite his ethereal nature. "Your beauty is more radiant than ever! To see you again! After all this time! It's simply… splendid!"
Galadriel chuckled, a sound like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. "Salmar, you haven't changed a bit. Still prone to dramatic pronouncements, I see." She squeezed his hands, her own smile widening. "It's wonderful to see you too."
Salmar, still beaming, brushed past her into the house, his gaze sweeping over the slightly…lived-in interior. A fine layer of dust coated everything, punctuated by the occasional, rather impressive, spiderweb. It was, to put it mildly, not the picture of perfect order one might expect from a being known for his fastidious and meticulous nature.
"My, my," Salmar drawled, his voice dripping with mock horror. "Mairon, my friend, has your obsession with tidiness finally succumbed to the relentless march of time… or perhaps a rather determined arachnid invasion?" He pointed his long thin finger at a particularly impressive web dangling from a chandelier. "Is that a… family of spiders? Fascinating!"
Mairon, who had been occupied with arranging the dishes back to the shelves, looked up, a slow smirk playing on his lips. He looked remarkably unfazed by the implied criticism.
"Oh, Salmar," Mairon feigned irritation. " Barely came through the door and already so... irksome. We've been rather preoccupied."
Salmar's lips curled in the wry smile as he reached out to Galadriel's hair and pulled out a feather from the pillows. "I can see that."
Only now Galadriel noticed her rather disheveled appearance from their time in the bedroom. Her cheeks turned crimson red, causing Salmar burst into laughter.
"Stop bothering her!" Mairon said. "You complain about the dust and web, you are free to step up and assist." With that, a wet cloth flew into maia, almost hitting him in the face.
Salmar raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at the cloth in his hand. "On the other hand, the spiders add some degree of... rustic charm to this place."
Galadriel suppressed a giggle. She found herself enjoying this rare moment of levity. The tension that usually seemed to cling to Mairon like a second skin was surprisingly absent. It was almost...endearing.
"Perhaps we could focus on something less…spidery?" Galadriel suggested. "Tell us all about your business in Numenor."
Mairon got up from the table. "I shall leave you two to catch up. I will ride to the encampment to spend the rest of the night. In the morning we will be here with the remainder of our party."
With a brief embrace for Galadriel, he departed, leaving the two friends to catch up. As the night deepened, Galadriel and Salmar sat by the fire, their laughter were heard echoing through the house. They opened a discovered aged bottle of elven berry wine, so carefully preserved by this olden house. With glasses in their hands, they sat by the fireplace and shared stories of their travels.
"Miriel and Elendil got wed. She is expecting. But both of his sons seemed happy to remain in Middle-earth," he weaved his tales for Galadriel.
"I've met with Finrod before coming here. He asked me to give you something..." with that he took out a wrapped present from the folds of his attire. As Galadriel unwrapped it, tears welled in her eyes. It was a dagger, the exact replica of the one she sacrificed to make the rings.
"It can't be," she whispered.
"A gift in honor of the birth of your second child. Of which I know nothing at all! Tell me all, my friend!"
The warmth of their reunion filled the space, a welcome respite from the weight of their recent journey and the uncertainties that lay ahead. The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, Mairon returned as promised, accompanied by Eöwyn, the children, and the rest of their company.
The elves of Noldor set up camp in the surrounding area, their gray cloaks blending seamlessly with the forest. Galadriel and Salmar emerged from the house, their steps in sync as they approached the camp. The elves looked up from their tasks, their eyes widening at the sight of Salmar, a being they had only heard of in legends, yet never seen before. Salmar's very presence was a reminder of the ancient bond between the elves and the Valar. His eyes, a vivid blue, seemed to reflect the vastness of the sea, and his hair, a brilliant cerulean, danced in the morning light like waves on the shore.
As Salmar approached the children, he was drawn to Ithriel, his eyes fixed on her with an otherworldly sense of wonder. He could sense the power emanating from this young half-maia, a force that seemed to both awe and intrigue him.
The company of elves watched with a mixture of curiosity and reverence as Salmar, a being of ancient power and wisdom, seemed captivated by the little girl. Ithriel, sensing his gaze, looked up at Salmar with an unwavering stare. For a moment, their eyes met, and an unspoken connection passed between them. It was as if they shared a secret language, one that needed no words. The air crackled with an unseen energy, and the surrounding elves held their breath, witnessing this extraordinary encounter.
Finally, Salmar spoke, his gaze softened with a kind smile. "You have a remarkable gift, young one. A light that shines brightly within you." He paused, his eyes never leaving Ithriel's.
She didn't shy away from his gaze, as any child would. Instead, she approached him confidently, her hands stretching to touch his long blue tresses. "Who are you?" she asked, her eyes wide with fascination.
"I am Salmar. Your ada's friend. And you are Ithriel," he smiled wider.
"Can I have hair like yours?" she asked, pulling one string a little too hard.
He lifted her in his arms. "Why would you need a hair like mine, if yours is way prettier? Like of a real princess that you are!"
Ithriel laughed, overjoyed.
"May I?" he asked, gesturing towards her. Ithriel did not shy away, and Salmar gently placed his hand on her head. A soft glow emanated from his palm, and a look of wonder spread across his face. "Your fëa is unlike any I have encountered," he murmured. "It is both ancient and new, a tapestry of light and shadow."
"Will you be my friend then?" she asked.
"I am your friend already, little one."
"Oh, I feel we should become the bestest of friends, little one."
As the day progressed, the elves worked tirelessly, their efficient hands transforming the surrounding area into a functional encampment. Tents were erected, fires lit, and provisions organized with military-like precision. While the elves busied themselves with domestic tasks, Mairon directed the men, pointing out locations for future constructions and timber they were allowed to use. His plan was to employ the local tree elves technique, raising the structures, cradled within the sturdy, columnar mellyrn trees. Their trunks provided an ideal foundation for this ambitious undertaking. It would prove easier, of course, should some locals agree to guide newcomers in their endeavors, as the winter's colds were quickly approaching, and soon would be upon them. But the possibility of that yet remained to be seen.
Eöwyn immediately took over the transformation of the house, ensuring its swift return to order. She had never envisioned herself as a maid or a nanny. Yet, since she join Galadriel in Mordor, she found unexpected solace in the domestic chores. Taking care of someone brought her comfort, even satisfaction. Leaving her military past behind did not seem regretful anymore.
The morning sun cast a warm glow over their new home, as the elves tended to their tasks with efficient hands. Eöwyn observed through the window, but it were not the elves that captivated her. She watched Salmar from afar. She had never seen anyone so beautiful in her entire life. Lord Mairon was handsome beyond words, of course. But Salmar... his beauty was different, gentle, refined. She observed his interactions with Ithriel, the way he lowered himself to her level, the way he made her laugh, and allowed her to play with his hair and clothes. It was a side of Salmar she didn't know Ainur could have, and she found herself entranced by his gentle nature.
As Eöwyn tried and stay focused on the house, ensuring it returned to a state of order and comfort, her efforts found little purchase. Salmar and Ithriel moved their game inside, his otherworldly presence filling the space with an air of wonder. They run around her in circles, giggling, making her laugh, in turn.
"You are so kind to her, Lord Salmar," Eöwyn said, as they took a break from chasing each other around the house, and Ithriel was now nested on his lap.
"And so are you, lady Eöwyn. The little one speaks wonders about you, " his words made her blush. She quickly turned her gaze away, busying herself with yet another dirty surface.
Mairon took Galadriel upstairs, to the adjoining treehouse. It was a space that had once served as a study and craft room. The place was a sight to behold - albeit covered in layer of dust, as the rest of the house, everything was in its proper place. The books were lined up neatly, carefully arranged by color and size, the scrolls rolled and stacked perfectly against the walls. The tools were arranged with precision, creating an air of organization and efficiency. The fireplace, although clearly used countless times, were cleaned and ready. The meticulousness of the space was evident in every detail. It was a feast for the eyes, a perfect example of order and neatness.
"My word," Galadriel mused. "Have you even used this place? Everything is so... proper."
Mairon smiled. "Glad you like it. This will be our bedchamber, at least for now, until I come up with something better. Downstairs will be for the children and Eöwyn."
"And what is here?" Galadriel looked through the door into the only adjoining room of the treehouse. It was filled with wood, leather, metal, and other materials. Everything organized, of course!
"Once I clear it out, it can serve as a wardrobe. We can set a bathtub here for you too."
With efficient movements, Mairon cleared a space, moving large table from the center of the room to the wall, laying blankets and furs on the floor to create an improvised bed.
As the day drew to its end, the space returned to a state of comfort and order. Elven domestic skills and military precision created a functional encampment within a short time.
Exactly seven days passed as the large host of Galadhrim elves, clad in armor and armed with bows and swords, appeared on the opposite side of the Silverlode river, facing the house. Lithirion, their leader, a figure etched with the weight of responsibility, stood at their head, along with other elders of their kind. The Nordor elves of Mairon's household tensed, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons. They were significantly outnumbered.
Mairon emerged from the house, his presence radiating an unsettling calm. He raised a hand, silencing the tense murmurs of the assembled elves. "Mae l'ovannen. Well met again, Lithirion," his voice carried across the river, measured and deep. "I see you have mustered reinforcements. Do you come to offer your fealty, or to contest it?"
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the whisper of the Silverlode. Lithirion, his expression unreadable, crossed the bridge, a dozen elders following in his wake. Facing Mairon, he stated his purpose with stark simplicity: "I demand to see the herald of the Valar, the one you promised."
Mairon smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips. "You have already passed him on your way, Lithirion."
He gestured to the river behind them. As they turned, the ripple disturbed the calm flow. The water churned, swirling into a vortex of light and mist. From its heart, a figure coalesced, emerging slowly from the depths like a phantom given form. Salmar, Maia of Ulmo, stood revealed, his ethereal form shimmering with an inner radiance, a stark contrast to the armed men before him. A gasp rippled through the Galadhrim ranks; even the seasoned warriors, who tried to mask their fear of facing Sauron in the battle they were sure would be lost, recoiled, confronted by another Maia. The presence of an Ainur, even one benevolent, was profoundly unsettling, a potent reminder of forces far beyond their comprehension. Fear, however, warred with curiosity and a desperate need for answers. Salmar's gentle gesture, the calming warmth of his smile, was a lifeline in that sea of apprehension.
"Fear not," Salmar's voice was as soothing as the river's flow. "I am Salmar, Maia of Ulmo, sent by the grace of my masters."
Lithirion's voice was tight with urgency. "So it is true then? Sauron has returned as king of Middle-earth?"
Salmar's reply hung in the air, heavy with implication. "No. Sauron is no more. By the will of the Valar, Mairon has redeemed himself from the shadow of Morgoth and has been granted the right to reclaim his realm. Yet, the choice now lies with you, elves. Swear your allegiance, or choose not to. But mark this: Mairon is bound by oath not to wage war upon you."
A tense silence fell upon the assembled elves. They exchanged glances, each face a microcosm of the anxieties weighing upon them. The weight of their history, the precariousness of their future, hung in the balance.
After a long, agonizing silence, Lithirion spoke, his voice echoing the weariness of his people. "We have no master, nor lord. But as the Valar have decreed it, we pledge our fealty to Tar-Mairon and Galadriel, in exchange for your protection. These are dark times. Orcs roam unchecked, and hostile mortal men threaten our borders. We only wish for our children to know peace in the woods of Lorien."
Mairon's gaze swept over the assembled Galadhrim. "How many are your host?"
Another elf stepped forward, his voice clear and strong amidst the hushed expectancy. "A thousand able-bodied warriors, Lord Mairon, apart from our women and children…"
The unspoken implications hung heavy – thousands souls entrusted to the care of a king whose past remained shrouded in shadows, a king who had once served a dark master. Yet, hope, fragile as it was, flickered in their eyes. The survival of their people depended upon it.
Mairon took Galadriel's hand in his. "And so our realm begins."