Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Almaren— Years of the Lamps

He’s staring again. He knows he’s staring again. Behind the shadows of the branches in Yavanna’s garden, at the creature that currently resides upon the meadows.

A Maia. One of the most powerful among them. Oh, and he is fair. Fair with the fiery and golden intertwined waves upon his shoulders. His eyes a gilded amber, currently focused on the parchment on his lap and the quill in his hand.

He does not often appreciate the creation of Eru, but he supposes an exception can be made.

Like a flame

One atop a single candle. Small, but radiant. With the promised potential endless, he longs to see it set the whole Arda ablaze.

“Should you hide behind the bushes forever or should you come out to face me, stranger?”

Whoops.

It seemed the flame had noticed him. Keep your composure should you ever wish to charm him.

He makes himself shown, out of the shadows and the tedious bushes, standing before the Maia, watching the curiosity draining into shock.

“Melkor.”

The maia rushes to stand up, dropping his ink and quill. A line of dark stains blooms atop his fern-colored gown.

“They said you fled. Gone past the mountains and away.”

“And yet here I am. Perhaps there are things still lingering that intrigued me.”

The maia hums, “You are different from what they all say.”

He arches his brow, curious now “Oh? And how do they portray me? pray tell.”

“Cold. Cruel. Ruthless, only wrought ruin.”

“And yet, you did not flee from me.”

The maia tilts his head. “And you have yet to smite me where I stand. I don’t see ruthlessness, hm… perhaps a little clueless.”

Wait, what?

He blinks. “Uh-”

“Considering you have been cowering behind that elderberry for the past hour. There’s a leaf in your hair.”

He reaches for his hair aimlessly.

“Wait, no- here, let me.” The Maia reaches for his head, standing on his toes, and only reaches his chest. He hops once. Misses.

“… You may need to crouch down a bit.”

He says nothing to the maia’s narrowed eyes and lovely blush. Just as the Maia pretends not to notice his slight shaking from the suppressed laugh.

The Maia plucks the leaf, fingers light as a feather, and places it on his palm. “Hmm, you have some leaves and crushed berries on your cloak as well.”

Damn Yavanna and her creations.

A rustle in the wind passes. Both he and the maia turn their heads to it.

“For whatever you wish to look for, I do not think you are welcome on these lands. Go now.”

The protest dies on his lips when he realizes another maia approaches. His brother’s herald.

Clad in his uptight white feathers instead of the plain green robes of this ridiculous creature.

He turns to dash away in the shadows.

Eönwë flaps his wings as he lands. “Mairon! I've got the graphite you’ve asked for, and some spiced cakes as well. Do not say I never do things for you again.”

He jogs a little to reach where the Maia stands. “Lady Varda passes her greetings, by the way, along with a new commission— Mairon? Do you hear me?”

Mairon turns around, a faint smile on his lips. “I’ve met someone interesting. I do not think he would return though. A shame.”

Chapter Text

Mordor — Present Day

Awareness comes to him like a stranger.

There was nothing, at first. And then he is. He just is.

Pain comes to him first. The echo of his fëa torn to pieces, then stitched back together forcefully by his own subconscious. Then more pain. Ringing in his ears and a pounding headache. Rocks and sand beneath him, scraping against his flesh, bare as he was the day he first materialized. His lips dry and cracked, his throat burns. He does not know if the bile he tastes is hallucinations or real.

Then comes recognition. Memories. His failure. The battle. The Ring destroyed, and supposedly him with it. Yet he still stays. Surviving his third death in counting. Couldn’t even die a martyr properly.

He fazes in. He fazes out.

He barely registers it when the talons close in around him.

===========================

Almaren— Years of the Lamps

“I thought you would have heeded my warning.”

“Where would the fun in that be? I have told you, there are still some things on this land that intrigues me. Besides, I come bearing gifts.”

Mairon stares at the handful of gems dropped upon his desk. Dark as pieces of night carved out, smooth as still water, yet glimmering like a lake’s surface under moonlight.

“I’ve never… seen these types of gems.” he picks one up closer for examination.

“Do be careful, those are quite sharp.”

Mairon looks up. There’s an amused grin on Melkor’s lips. He had already crouched enough to perch against the edge of the desk.

“They are formed in lands beyond Valinor. Where the molten fire beneath the earth's surface erupts from the mountains. A little fun project, I must say.”

“You made these?”

“Aye.” The vala takes a mock bow, “The very first of these, when I took the liquid fire beneath the ground, made it burst from the rocky mountains, just to see what they would do. They hardened in the frozen wasteland, apparently. I mean, I didn’t plan for the gems, much less expected for them to be this sharp—it just happened.”

Melkor makes a gesture of waving his hand, and rambles on excitedly, “But they are beautiful little things, aren’t they? With an edge that could cut you in any moment, but the thrill of holding them was…” He meets Mairon’s gaze, and falters.

They are so very, very close. Mairon looks back and finds himself reflected in his dark grey irises, he could count each of the tiny eyelashes, framing the shadow-colored eyes that bore into his own amber ones.

“…worth it.”

 --------------------------------------------

“How did you manage to dodge from Master Aulë every time while being this clumsy?”

“Oh, hush! I am perfectly stealth when I—” CRASH—

“…”

“Apologies.”

Mairon rubs his temples with a grunt. “As much as I appreciate your gifts, it is only a matter of time before you are discovered by either my master or my fellow forgers. I do not understand your constant pestering.”

“Hmm, perhaps I simply enjoy your company.”

Mairon glares at the vala. His workplace is already a mess, and his designs are only half done. “You may find your company another day, my work is not yet finished.” He stacks the parchments scattered across the table. When he looks up, he flinches. Melkor’s face was suddenly much closer.

“May I watch?”

“Oh, uh—it’s mostly in the papers, I do fear it will bore you very much.”

“Nonsense. Do you think I do not catch words of your work? Oh, the most gifted of the Maiar? I would not waste the chance to witness your brilliance.”

Mairon’s ears did not grow warm at that. It did not. Stop. “Fine, but do not blame me when you grow bored.”

And now the vala hovers above him, watching him and his parchments from above.

The silence lasts a total of five minutes before Melkor starts fidgeting. Then sneaking glances away from the paper. To the vala’s own lap, where he starts to twist his fingers, then to the walls and shelves surrounding them, then back to him again. He sighs.

“Keep telling me of your grand adventures beyond the land of Valinor if it shall quench your boredom.”

Melkor perks up. “You would listen?”

“Hmm, I may tune you out, but I appreciate the noise.”

--------------------------------------------

He could not figure out what about his proposal was wrong. All creations must be refurbished, updated, and so the original foundations do not erode with time, or prove themselves to become obsolete as the people they serve move forward. That is simply a fact.

His master's words still ring in his ears. “What purpose is served in mending the unbroken?” Oh, no idea, perhaps to prevent it from becoming broken?

It was the same with the updated alloy chart that got rejected, or his request to reorganize the shelves of forge number seven dismissed. Of course, the same could be expected when it comes to the Lamps.

Least he should stomp back to his private workplace and wallow his misery out with his other works, just stuck here making jewelries and furnitures-

“Greetings, little flame.”

He whips around with a startled yelp, and hits face first into the vala’s chest, who is currently crouched behind the door to his quarters. “I’m in no time or mood for your antics today, Melkor.”

“Well, good day to you too.” The culprit of his scare shows no sign of remorse, only that damn, amused grin again. “Did that little underling of Niënna’s drop phosphorus into your melts again?”

“No! No, merely… irritated. And that was one time, an accident. He was curious and unfortunately lacked common forge sense.”

”Hmm. Do tell me then. What is it that caused such a frown on my little flame?”

“Must you call me that?”

The vala shrugs. “You are very much like a flame, especially with that hair of yours, all red and gold and wild.”

 A pause. Oh, this cannot be good. 

“Plus,” his grin widens as he straightens himself. “You are quite little.”

He gestures with his hand at Mairon’s head level, reaching only to his lowest ribs. And he dares to laugh!

“Oh, quit it!” He calls, but cannot help but giggle a little himself.

--------------------------------------------

“… and all the others are doing just fine. But oh, my love, I worry for Mairon. I worry for that lad every day.”

“Mairon? Why? He is such a sweet one. Quiet, sure, keeps to himself and often hides in my gardens, but he respects the flowers well enough. Is he not the sharpest among yours? Even you said it yourself.”

“Aye, I would soon wish him less sharp should he one day bite off more than he could swallow!” A huff, “This lad, what shall I ever do with him, eyes always beyond the horizon. Too set in his own goals to work alongside his peers. I only wish he could slow a bit, appreciate more of those around him, settle more into his place. You know?”

Outside, below the stone-made window, a flash of red passes unknownst to anyone in the room.

He does not realize where he’s going until he runs face-first into something soft. Something familiar.

“Oof—We’ve got to stop meeting like this, little flame. Wouldn’t want to knock the clever right out of your little head.”

The vala steadies him with his arms, his expression shifts, and the playfulness drains out of him. “Hey. Hey little flame. What happened? What’s going on? What's wrong?”

The hands move from his elbow to waist, then up his shoulder, away and back again to his arms, as if checking him over.

His eyes sting, there’s perhaps wetness. There's a lump in his throat he couldn’t quite swallow. Stairs. They are on the stone stairs. The wide stairs that lead to the meadows of the garden. Now he is being reoriented, led to the side, the far edge of it, where there is shadow.

He is being sat down like a puppet beneath the shade. The vala sits a step down, extending an arm around him and rubs on his shoulder, chest pressed against him. Perhaps he would break right here.

He turns his head and weeps into Melkor’s robe. A broken recount tumbled out of him, of the things he overheard, of the frustrations and doubts built up little by little, of a lingering fear perhaps now confirmed; cut off again and again by sobs and hiccups. Melkor said nothing, only kept rubbing his shoulder up and down.

At last, his breaths even and his sobs slow, and Melkor lets out a weary sigh above him, more solemn than Mairon had ever seen him.

“I am not surprised.”

Mairon allows himself to sag against him. The vala continues.

“They were always like this. The Valar and their demands for conformity, always pushing down those who test the limits in favor of clinging onto their so-called order.”

“They care for me.”

Melkor nods. “They do. But sometimes it’s not enough, is it?”

Mairon stays silent at that.

Melkor tilts his head down and their gaze met. “I only wish they were kinder to those of us who crave a difference.”

The vala’s other hand moves to gently tilt at his chin. “You are a flame that could set the continents ablaze. Don’t ever let them smother you.”

He surges up to close their distance.

Oh.

Who knew the Vala of destruction and chaos’s lips could taste so soft? His skin and lips have a slight coolness, but his tongue is scorching. The hands move up as the vala turns, cradling his entire head in his palms, fingers tangling into his hair, but never pressing. His lips tickled from the nibbling as he chased for that warmth.

He lets out a shaky breath when they finally break apart.

“Take me where you go,” he whispers, “Away from here. To where you raise mountains, where the ice meets molten fire. And then we can build a new order. Together.”

Melkor only furrows his brows.

The sting in his eyes fights to resurface. “Do you not want me?”

One of the hands cradling at the sides of his head moves down to his jaw, a thumb strokes along the curve of his cheek.

“More than anything.” He whispers back, “from the moment I first saw you. I could not figure a way to ask- I could not muster the courage to ask you.”

He takes a breath.

“But you must think it over, little flame. Take your time, it is not a thing I ask lightly of you. For once you leave here with me, there is no coming back.”

===========================

Valinor — Present Day

The eagle tosses him down like cargo onto the marble floor.

His chest lands first, sending him a heavy, violent cough. Dry friction of the cold hard floor scrapes his bare skin further as momentum carries him forward.

Thirteen Valar sit above him in this hall of judgment. Audiences, Elves and Maiar, standing in the watchers’ tier, waiting to witness his demise. Very well then.

Any last drops of fight had drained from him, no more leverage left to bargain with. The Ring was his final desperate attempt, and that too, is gone. Should they toss him into the Void, it would be a mercy. At least now he would be going toward Melkor at his end.

“Mairon, once of Aulë’s court, now the fallen spirit, servant of Morgoth, the deceiver, corruptor of Aman and Middle-earth. You are brought forth before the Valar today, to face judgment for your crimes.”

Eönwë.

Of course it’s him.

The dear old friend, now the one to announce his demise.

The crowd buzzes with murmurs, some angry shouts, some curses.

He did not move, only remained on the floor, motionless.

“Hear now for the account of the crimes you have committed.”

“You betrayed your master, forsaking his wisdom, and then turn around to bend your knee to the Dark one,

“You betrayed the Valar and Valinor, your homeland, aiding Morgoth in corruption and destruction of Arda. Do you plead for yourself?”

Silence.

“You corrupted Maiar, Elves, and Men through lies and seduction to do your bidding, leading them to ruin.”

“You oversaw the torment of prisoners, torture and murdered captives through cruelty and sorcery. Do you deny it?”

No, he does not deny it. Silence.

“You waged war against Elves and Men, unleashed terror and destruction across the land of Beleriand.

“You aided Morgoth in the tragedy of Nirnaeth Arnoediad, in the devastation of Gondolin. Countless lives lost, civilizations destroyed. Have you nothing to say?”

What is the purpose of this? Do they want repentance from him? Do they truly think so little of his intelligence, to believe he doesn't realize the weight of his own crimes?

They will get nothing. He would give them nothing. Only silence.

“You deceived and then unleashed war upon Eregion. You forged lies in the name of gifts, creating the Rings of Power, and later the One Ring to dominate and enslave the will of people.

“You corrupted the people of Númenor, led them into the worship of darkness. Taught them blasphemy against Eru Ilúvatar. Do you plead?”

He would have laughed. As if the Valar hadn’t flooded the island themselves. Cultists, armies, but also innocents, children. All washed under the waves, and him with it. His first death. When the water that overwhelmed him sank into his fëa and tore him open.

“You continued to wage war and destruction against Middle-earth, again and again. Until the final moment of your defeat. Do you plead for yourself?”

Mairon shifts his head, lifting just enough to see the stairs above him. The herald stands with a scroll in hand. Still looking the same as he had left him, not a single pure feather on his cape out of place.

He stares, right into the herald’s eyes, and finds the herald staring right back at him with an unreadable expression.

Though, he doubts his own expression is much better.

“Well then. May the deeds be heard and the grief be known, and may the Valar pass their judgements.”

Tulkas was the first to jump from his seat. “SHOULD WE SOONER BE RID OF HIM! Cast him into the Void and suffer for eternity, as his master did!”

Nienna the second to speak. “Such force as the Void would almost surely obliterate a Maia. Are we so desperate as to bring blood upon our hands again?”

“Then let him perish! Should be the least to atone for his crimes!”

The crowd murmurs with agreement.

“No more Ainur had been made since the great Eru Ilúvatar departed when Arda was completed. We have already lost many, could we afford to lose one more?” Estë calls out, eyes narrowing.

“Then what shall we do? Imprison him? We have already tried this with his master. Lessons from the past must be learned. My halls are crowded as it is.”

“Enough.” Manwë announces, then turns to Aulë.

“Lord Aulë. He was once of your order. What do you say of it?”

Aulë hunches in his seat, head in his grips, and groans. Finally, after many seconds of contemplation, he starts: “I have loved him as my own. Even now I still care for him. But lessons from the past must be learned. As tainted as he is, I could not take him back to my halls.”

“Oh but-”

“And yet-”

He stops paying attention then. Letting them squabble away as he peers at the marble pillars and the watcher’s seats. The sooner they cast him into the Void the better. And when even was the last time they replaced these?

The twin doors behind him quake open with a rumble. Then footsteps. Then-

“WAIT-”

He knows that voice.

He knows that voice from the worst of his nightmares, from the deepest spot of guilt in his heart.

He knew the way that voice had laughed, and the way that voice had screamed in agony.

Tyelpë

===========================

Eregion — The Second Age

“You know, Anna, Sometimes… you don’t seem like who you really are.” It was late into night, they were alone in their private forge, cleaning up the last bit of scraps.

He smiled then. A plastered one, curved to just the right degree. Not a single perfectly disguised honey gold curl out of place.

“How so?”

The elf only shrugs. “You seem guarded. Sure, you may simply be keeping composure and politeness. But you get this look in your eyes. Like you’re longing for something.”

“I can assure you, Lord Celebrimbor, I am as I am.” He keeps his hands busy, gathering and sorting scattered tools across the working station. The night is quiet, aside from small clangs of metal and wood.

He felt something bump against his shoulder and turned to see the elf wearing that silly smile again. His grey-blue eyes shaped into a gentle curve.

“I told you to call me Tyelpë.”

This elf. Has no one taught him to not wear his heart upon his sleeve? It is frightening. To be read so clearly, and still have that heart bared back open to you in return.

“You are always so focused, you know? Striving for perfection in every act and step even when no one has matched you in elegance. You often keep others at a distance when outside of the forge, too. I wish you would let loose a bit, lest you tire yourself out.”

“I simply wish to carry out my duty. Tyelpë.”

The elf still seemed concerned.

“I do not know of your past, Anna. But if you ever want to stay… there’s always a place for you here.”

--------------------------------------------

The hinges on the iron bar door groans as it twists. 

They had gotten nowhere.  He had to be back here again. 

To face him chained, beaten, and covered in wounds he had inflicted.

The walls smell of aged rust and rot.

It always ends the same way too. No progress, only more pain.

Mairon hurls his helmet against the wall. 

A cascade of golden red curls, now streaked with gray, tumbled free.

Tears unshed shimmered in his eyes as he stood before him, voice hoarse with a fury he could not name.

“Why won’t you tell me where the three rings are? Why suffer like this?”

“WHY, Tyelpë!”

Bloodied and delirious, Tyelpe’s lips curling into the faintest smile.

“You're so… beautiful… so much prettier than blonde.”

Something in him broke. Perhaps it had snapped like a string. 

This was the first time his helmet had been off in front of him, since Mairon had left in the shadow of the night many months ago. 

He thought he had no heart left. It had burned to ash back in the first age, cast into the shadow alongside the bastard that called him his “little flame.”

But now here stands someone. Someone he was supposed to use. Someone he was supposed to discard. 

Someone on the brink of ruin but still spoke of him as something lovely.

He reaches to touch his face, and finds the breath no longer there. 

===========================

Valinor — Present Day

Mairon props his elbows up from under him to turn around. Just in time to see Tyelpë stride up to him.

The elf is still panting, looking like he had ran all the way. A thin layer of sweat shimmers above his brows.

They lock eyes. For one second, then two. And all of a sudden the slate-blue cloak is on Mairon instead. Still carrying the warmth of its owner, smelling faintly of maple wood smoke and oiled leather.

Mairon pulls the edges closer to the front, and pushes himself upright, settling onto his knees. Tyelpë has already stepped ahead.

“Your Honors. I would like to plead my case.”

Mairon doesn’t catch the whole exchange. Tyelpë is waving his arms wildly. Some things are yelled. Some things are yelled back. He is too busy staring.

“…the same mercy was once extended to his master, and as a result we were deceived.”

“Imprisonment would never have made one repent, one must be given the opportunity to earn it! Just as the exile of Morgoth would not repair the damage he wrought, hurling Mairon into the Void would do nothing to heal what had been done.”

What is he even doing?

“There are more Elves returning to Aman than ever before, many still carry old wounds from the war. Housing and assistance are in need!”

“Allow him to work among us — to repair the broken, to create instead of destroy. Let him find redemption through action, and help the people he once hurt.”

Why? Why go through all this trouble? To save someone who already betrayed him so completely?

It is futile. The Valar know what he had done, they know what he had become. Squabble as they may, the conclusion is already clear— He will be cast into the Void. There are no other options. He cannot be saved.

“How would we even trust him then?”

Tyelpë turns, and meets Mairon’s gaze a second time.

Mairon shakes his head. No. Spare yourself. Let me go.

“I vouch for him.” Tyelpë turns his head back around. “I would be his guarantor.”

The watcher’s tier erupts. Some shout to lock him away. Others call for the Void. Some just murmur amongst themselves, whispering behind their hands.

He sees Manwë look to Varda, and she shakes her head in return.

The Valar argues on. It is all too loud for him. He shuts his eyes in annoyance, waiting for it to be over. If he perishes in the Void, then so be it, if he survives… at least he would be with him.

“ORDER!” The herald calls. The hall silences at once.

Manwë stands from his throne.

“Very well. Six thousand years of community service. Labor for atonement of the crimes from the Second and Third Age. Under Lord Tyelperinquar’s custody and supervision.”

... Say what now?

He had been fully prepared for the Void, to reunite with his husband or die in the process.

And now they pull this? Another six thousand years?

He opens his eyes and finds the whole hall staring in his direction.

He takes a deep breath.

“…Alright, I accept this judgment,” he says. “But grant me my only request.”

Six thousand years was cheap compared to the tens of thousands of years in Utumno, the centuries in Angband, and the chaos he wrought in Middle-earth. Fine. Perhaps he deserved it.

Manwë narrows his eyes. “Speak it.”

“I will serve the six thousand years of labor, in atonement for what I have done. But when it ends, cast me into that endless Void.”

He hears various gasps behind him. Even the ground seems to shake with the weight of his words.

He wills himself to not look at Tyelpë’s face.

Manwë too, seems taken aback, yet, he nods.

“Very well. Six thousand years from now, I will ask you again. And if your heart is unchanged, I will not stop you.”

Chapter Text

Tirion, Valinor — Present Day, Fourth month of Community Service

Tyelpë is about to tear his hair out. Eru above, if he starts to have grey strands by the end of this century, he would know exactly which maia to blame for it.

It isn’t even due to bad behavior. In fact, Annatar had been perfectly well-behaved. He just follows Tyelpë around, forging things and doing community service.

Someone needed a new prosthetic? Made.

A public building’s roof leaking? Repaired.

More housing needed for incoming elves? Designed, engineered, and built.

But whenever he wasn’t working? He just sat and stared into space, unmoving. Pale grey curls drape forward, covering his face like thick curtains.

Tyelpë had to specifically lean over to check if the maia was still breathing several times.

The once Dark Lord of Middle-earth, the great seducer of Arda, second-in-command of Angband — now stuck in place pounding metal all day, a half-lifeless smith moping by the forge, moving more like a ghost than a person.

People tried to talk to him, too. Those who did not recognize him assumed he was some war-traumatized maia with a “dead-fish stare” in his eyes, as the gossips say. Sent down here as a “specialist volunteer.” Or perhaps it wasn’t actually that far off.

He could kill the conversation dead within three lines. Truly one of his many talents.

Someone would ask, “Um… can the prosthetic have some gold detailing?”

Didn’t even lift his head. “If you want gold, I’ll give you gold.”

“Wait, really?”

“I can make it, really.”

Then hammer. Silence. Staring into space.

Tyelpë was losing his mind. This looked more like a long, painfully stretched mental breakdown than any redemption.

He had tried to keep things upbeat too.

“This piece came out really nice, by the way!”

“Thanks.”

“So… You doing okay?”

“No.”

He’s like a little dormant volcano — quiet, dull, all that suppressed emotion buried under layers of ash.

He patched the walls, carved the woods, and made the prosthetics one by one. Never causing any trouble, and never talking to anyone unless he had to.

The most bizarre part? Everything he made was perfect. Flawless craftsmanship. Stunning designs. Clean lines. Precise function. Not a speck of his emotional state seemed to be reflected into the work.

Tyelpë had brought it up once. The reply was: “My depression has nothing to do with my craftsmanship.”

So yes, Ann was suffering. That much was obvious. In the most unnerving way, too. He had accepted the sentence, owned it, did not give a care if he received any sympathy. He just worked, quietly and relentlessly.

There was one time Tyelpë had snapped: “Can you at least pretend to be a little more alive?!”

“No.”

Figures. How do you even save a person who obviously doesn't care to be saved? And he couldn’t even bring himself to scold him too harshly, despite his frustration. At least he had finally gotten him to stop calling him Lord Tyelperinquar.

--------------------------------------------

Days simply edge on as they go. Doing the same things over and over, different tasks blending into a single long, tedious ritual.

This is probably the first time in millennia where the task he does isn’t a step in a grander plan. And he feels, well, at a loss? Should he be?

Sometimes people talk to him. Questions or demands about the things he makes for them. That is, until they learn just exactly who he is, then they hide away. And words travel fast.

Tyelpë still fusses more than ever. With sheer determination that could only be possessed by a Fëanorian prince.

He wished he didn’t know the reasoning behind it.

At the very least, people had not yet started to distance themselves from Tyelpë. It seems that his positive influence outweighs his relation to him. It is unsurprising, given the amount of charity work around here was organized by his hand. Some things just never change.

===========================

Tirion, Valinor — Three months ago

The first thing Tyelpë did after Mairon was handed over was to draw him a bath. He was kind enough to leave him alone.

The water was warm. Well, warm enough to be trusted. And it was more of a relief than he expected to feel the dirt and ashes dissolve away from his skin.

Several sets of robes had already been laid for him on a bench. In blue, white, and grey. He picks up the grey robe, the only one not stitched with silver. A simple, plain one, with only a clip at the collar.

It hang slightly loose on him. Smelling faintly of maple wood smoke and oiled leather. The low collar left his neck bare.

His finger absentmindedly traces the skin his own garments often covered. The scar is still there, no matter how many new bodies he took. An ugly thing, left from being first torn apart by canines, then later being clutched in an iron grip.

“Your hair is different.”

He turns his head, and finds Tyelpë with his arms folded, leaning against the door frame.

He turns back around.

“Trying another new look?”

“Oh. No. They… faded. It's been like this for a while.”

Since his first death, to be precise. That was when the last bit of red bled from his hair, leaving only an ashy pale grey.

“You should hate me.”

A pause. Footsteps approaching.

“I should, shouldn’t I? Did that. Didn’t last. But even if it did, it would have just made two of us miserable now instead of one, yes?”

“So? Are you just going to forgive me? Like this?”

He hears a snort behind him.

“Who said anything about forgiving? I simply didn’t have the will to hurt.

“Now get some rest. Your work starts tomorrow.”

Mairon turns to face him, and finds him suddenly still.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Liar.

Mairon can clearly see the corner of Tyelpë’s mouth fighting to twitch upward.

He huffs. Frustration came over him. As if this day hadn’t already been long enough.

He looks up to meet Tyelpë in the eye.

Wait. Up.

Oh.

Tyelpë seems to be losing the fight against his own facial muscles. “I’ll, uh, go get you some blankets.”

He rushes off, leaving Mairon standing in place.

A sigh comes out of him.

Right then.

--------------------------------------------

The next morning, on the first day of work, he finds a small package wrapped in parchment. Placed right in the middle of his assigned workstation. 

The package itself is unassuming, barely two inches in width. The middle of it curves into a little solid bulge.

As he carefully pulls the folded paper of the little square apart, a pendant reveals itself. 

He recognizes the type of gemstone in a glance. Madeira citrine, raw, unpolished, uncut. Glowing in its shifting ember colors, red and gold bleeding into each other. The exact shade of what his hair used to be. 

The gem lay embedded in a single band of golden-bronze. A smooth, minimal design, held by a thin golden chain. Nothing like the ornate, interwoven curves of elven jewelry—just clean lines, simple forms, and quiet elegance. A pendant that could only be made from someone who knew his preference to a core. 

He stares at it for a moment, unmoving.

His fingers hover above the stone, almost touching it. Before quickly withdrawing, neatly folding the parchment back, and shoving it into the deepest corner of the drawer. 

===========================

Tirion, Valinor — Present Day

He had been sorting through the discarded scraps when an elf cornered him in the workshop. Tyelpë had gone to retrieve more oil for their stock. 

When he turned around she was there. An elleth, can’t have been over a thousand years of age. 

Her eyes are red-rimmed, though without tears, and she glares at him with something akin to determination. Pointing a short blade towards him. Her arms are trembling. 

Mairon sighs. Placing the crate of copper back to the counter. “May I help you?”

She lunges, furious, and plunges the blade into his chest. Before stumbling back, putting a further distance between them. Eyes wide. Chest huffing as she pants.

Mairon isn’t sure what she had expected. Perhaps closure. Perhaps triumph.

He frowns, looking down. Some red had already been seeping out from the wound. Wrapping his finger around the dagger, he pulls it out. The blood goes from seeping into a steady flow. Shame about the robe. 

The little elleth freezes in place. 

“So… Do you want it back?” 

He holds out the blade to her.

“…”

“You can stab me again if it makes you feel better. I can polish it for you.”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT! Eru above—Give me that! You are DONE.”

Tyelpë, seemingly appearing at this moment, storms up and rushes to confiscate the knife.

She flees. Looking absolutely rattled. Tyelpë chases out of the workshop behind her with the knife still carefully clutched in one hand and the other hand pointing. 

“That’s right. Get out. Now. You’re lucky you caught him on a good day. If I ever see you pull a stunt like this again I’ll have you scrubbing sewers into the next year! And don’t think I won’t tell your ammë about this!”

Then he turns around and strides right back up to Mairon. Closing in on him again. “And YOU! You stood there and offered to polish her knife?! This is NOT how redemption works!”

“I’ve done worse.”

“And that’s exactly the problem! Now get on—Get on the counter! Sit!” He pushes the tools and crates behind him backwards, clearing out a space. 

Not daring to protest, Mairon complies. Watching Tyelpë backs off again. Rampaging through to the shelves and finally finding a rag clean enough before returning. 

“You don’t get to do this anymore. You’re not a tool for penance. You’re a person. Act like it.” He presses the rag against the wound, applying pressure. “Here, press it yourself. Stay here till I find the bandages.”

“No need. The bleeding has likely ceased. The blade was not enchanted. No real damage was done.” 

Tyelpë narrows his eyes at him, then carefully, slowly, removes the rag. His other hand, with the strength of a breath, tugs at the torn fabric of the ruined robe, revealing the wound for inspection.

The wound has indeed ceased bleeding. The edges have already begun to close in. It will likely heal without even a scar before the day ends.  

He grumbles and takes a step back. 

Mairon tries again. “She was within her right to.”

Tyelpë replies with an exasperated huff. “Her right? She is bringing shame on her family! Your judgment has been passed by the Valar, you’re already serving your sentence. This kind of petty aggression is considered highly undignified.”

He points at Mairon again with a don’t you dare go anywhere warning look before taking off. 

Mairon blinks. That actually explains… quite a lot of the past few months. 

He stares out at the Elven passersby on the streets. 

A warm mug is shoved into his lap. 

Mairon looks up and sees Tyelpë standing, arms folded, holding a single spoon in his hand, staring at him expectedly.

He holds the mug with both hands. The warmth radiates past the clay onto his fingers. The liquid smells of pomegranate, mint, and honey. 

Mairon takes a sip, and winces. 

“That is obscene sweetness. Did you put half a jar of honey in it?”

“Oh, do shut your mouth. That sweetness is for the blood loss. Drink your damn tea.”

Hmm, a hint of cinnamon too.

He takes another sip.

Chapter Text

=======================

Utumno — Early Years of the Trees

It was a mistake.

It was a mistake and he had brought it upon himself.

Now he must lay in the grave he dug and forever suffer in this-

“Little flame?”

Damn him. Damn him for taking him away and plopping him down in such a place. If he keeps quiet enough maybe he'd go away.

Footsteps approach, there is a nudge at his hips.

“Little flame, your hair is poking out of there.”

With a huff, he curls further into himself, tugging the blanket tighter in.

He could at least keep this little spot on this bed warm. The hollow halls of Utumno and the howling winds outside often drain away whatever warmth he generated for himself way too quickly.

Melkor doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. He only sits down on the floor beside the bed. He hears the sounds of a plate scraping against wood.

Curiosity urges him to turn around and lift a corner.

Spiced cakes. On the bed stand. Cut into irregular squares, edges singed.

A sigh slips above him. “Having second thoughts already? So soon?”

He musters the best glare he can manage at the hunk of rugged blackness blocking the view. From the little window he has created within the blankets. Ha, as if.

He turns back, leaving his backside facing Melkor.

“You have less faith in me than you do the blasted Valar. I have made my choice.”

“Well, in that case, I am indeed missing my dear lieutenant. He has disappeared on me all day so cruelly, I yearn for his presence so terribly.”

“You could have at least prepared me for this cursed cold before you brought me to this cursed place! I cannot stand it anymore!” He rolls again, peeking back out at the blanket.

The sack of darkness towering before him muffles a chuckle. A low, rumbling sound. “This is what it’s about? The cold?”

Oh, that is it.

He slams the blanket opening down, causing a dull sound of humff- on the mattress.

“Do mock me all you want! I will not leave this spot until you fix this!”

He waits until the heavy footsteps fade with distance before reaching his arm out to snap a piece of cake.

He bites, with a huff, and all the force of his discontent.

It tastes of cinnamon and nutmeg.

Ginger and paprika.

A bit dry, with crisp from the singed edge.

And a hint of sweetness too.

--------------------------------------------

“Little flame?”

Another poke at his side. He hums, rubbing his eyes awake.

There’s another sound of the plate against the wood.

He stretches, and lifts the corner of the blanket again.

Chocolate this time. Dark ones, in chunks.

He reaches out to grab one. It breaks clean under his teeth with a satisfying clunk. The rich, layered flavor melts on his tongue. He wonders where Melkor could have traded this or stolen it.

He lifts his head to observe the expression of the grey eyes above him. And is it uncertainty he sees?

“Mairon, would you come out of there?”

Before he can even answer, Melkor holds out a hand.

“Allow me to show you. Please.”

He takes the hand, allowing it to pull him out of his cocoon, bracing for the freezing air to take him. It doesn’t. The air only differs slightly from the temperature he has established within the blanket.

When his bare feet touch the stone floor it’s warm.

His face must be a spectacle, because that low rumble returns again.

“How?”

The large hand holding his rubs its thumb across his knuckles.

“The molten fire underground, remember?”

He looks down at his feet and the floor below him. He remembered. He can sense the warmth channeled from deep down, from the veins of heat flowing in constant motion, humming in melody.

Melkor’s eyes twinkle with something else as he says “Come.”

Before Mairon knows it he’s being pulled away. Out of the bedroom, across the halls and tunnels, still bare feet. Every step still sparks warmth, already starting to radiate the space above it.

The pace of their steps sends him giggling. He has not been able to run through these halls before, without the chill turning his joints and muscles stiff. He is sure they have run past several wraiths, and perhaps a troll. When they arrive he is out of breath, spinning on his toes and holding onto Melkor for support.

The laughter quiets when he looks around the room.

Ventilation and a hearth built in with tunnels. An anvil already in place. It would need a workbench, and perhaps tool shelves added, but there is no mistaking what this room is meant to be. A forge.

A small one. Meant for private use.

He runs his hand past the jagged stone walls, feeling the rough cuts and raw edges under his fingertip. There is warmth there too, the humming of running melodies deep in the walls.

“A gift for my flame.”

He whips around. Melkor stands there, a smirk on his lips. Yet his fingers twist together, thumbs twiddling. “Am I forgiven for my grievances?”

Mairon strides over.

“Lift me.”

“…What?”

“Lift me! Blasted, must you Valar always be so tall?”

He hops, grabbing onto the ridges of Melkor’s armor , and begins to climb. An arm quickly reacts, reaching under him to support his hips, lifting him up to the Vala’s head level.

He peppers kisses over those lovely brows. Then the nose, then those soft lips, allowing that tongue to melt him apart. He moans into it.

The world spins, and all of a sudden he is pressed against the wall. No, wait, not the wall. An arm across his back cushions between him and bare rock.

He laughs again, holding gaze with those shadowy eyes that stare back softly, and dives back in for the warmth.

=======================

Tirion, Valinor — Present Day, Year 04 of Community Service

“Did you stay in the forge all night again? I put a bed in your quarters for a reason, Ann.”

Right.

He rubs his temples trying to nurse his headache. ‘Tis the fourth year of community service, and not much has changed.

Work. And then more work. Something is always needed, to be fixed, to be made. Whenever he finishes an assignment a new one simply comes in. A cycle, over and over, in a strange, rhythmic way, and he was caught aimlessly within it, not knowing if it was boredom he felt or experiencing rest from constant scheming long overdue.

Just 5996 years, 5 months, and 14 days to go.

Valinor often prides itself on its eternal spring, but the October chill still finds its way to settle in. Tyelpë had taken him to market a few more times. He always picked the simplest, cheapest grey robes. Now the robes are as good as paper against the autumn wind.

Not that it matters. The weather would not get any worse than it is for a few months, then slowly shift back to the sunshine-filled paradise like nothing happened.

The streets had been murmuring the arrival of Lord Elrond and the return of Maiar Olórin for days. The arrival of the ring bearer too. Though that has little to do with him, except Tyelpë might start to have more meetings and visits from now.

“Pardon me?”

A timid voice calls behind him.

He turns around and finds no one there.

“Umm, down here.”

The voice traces back to the tiniest person he had ever met. In a dark grey cloak and a leaf-shaped brooch pinned to his chest. A stud is all that’s left of his right index finger. Oh, fate surely loves to jest with him.

“I seemed to have lost my guide. We were supposed to be heading to the square, to meet with Gandalf there. Well, Olórin, as you folks call him.”

He looks to Tyelpë, who raises a brow at him, clearly hiding a laugh.

No help at all then. Alright.

He sighs.

“I can take you to the square if you wish. It’s only a few blocks away.”

The little halfling lights up before him.

“Oh thank you very much, kind sir! That would be splendid!”

And so the two walk side by side now on the stone-covered streets. The halfling chattering away and he humming along.

“…and it is quite bizarre seeing Gandalf this way. I mean, ever since I was a lad he had been this old, grumpy man with this grey long beard, I never imagined him otherwise.

“I do wish to get to see him more often though. Duty called him away as soon as we had arrived. Reports, meetings, all that. It’s been nearly two weeks and Uncle Bilbo and I barely see him around.”

It seems Olórin has made himself quite a fine friend in those little halflings.

“It will pass. Paperwork dies down once the report is done. He will have plenty of time to spare then.”

“Oh, I sure hope so.” Frodo replies, then eyes him carefully.

“You are not a part of the elf folks are you, good sir?”

“No, I am indeed not.” Mairon raises a brow. “What gave it away?”

Frodo taps his own ears with a cheeky smile. “Your ears. They aren't pointed.”

Mairon returns with an amused snort. “You are very observant, little halfling. I suppose I am most similar to your Gandalf? At least species-wise.”

“Oh please, sir. We much prefer to be called Hobbits.”

“Hobbits, then.” He nods.

“I suppose if you are of kin to Gandalf… did you know of him before? What he was like before he came to Middle-earth?”

If he meant exploding his forge that one time by dropping white phosphorus into his melt, then yes.

The square appears within view with a turn.

Frodo slaps his hand onto his own forehead as if suddenly remembering something. “Oh! Where are my manners, I had completely forgotten to introduce myself! Frodo Baggins, at your service.”

Mairon huffs softly. “No need to fret, Mr. Baggins. I knew who you were from the start. The famous ring bearer. There are not that many Hobbits ever graced upon Valinor.”

Frodo smiles a bit sheepishly, the tip of his ear reddening. “Then do I suppose I could get a name in return, sir?”

Mairon opens his mouth to reply when another voice calls out.

“Frodo! Oh, you had me worried!” An Ellon harries over and crouches down. “I would be in deep trouble if I had lost you in the city!”

“Oh do not worry! I found someone kind enough to guide me.”

Frodo smiles up at him. The Ellon follows the gaze to look up, then pales.

“Come Frodo.” He stands up, eye wide, backing away. Pulling Frodo with him. “Lord Olórin is waiting.”

Mairon stands fixed in the same spot, watching the elf turning away, tugging Frodo behind him, still turning his head back, confused. Until they both disappear among the waves of people.

--------------------------------------------

“Hello, I wish to speak with one of the forgers here, is one Master… Sauron? Is he here? Please?”

Tyelpë reacts before he can. “His name is actually Mairon. How may we help you, Mr. Baggins?”

“Oh. Umm, just… to talk. Please? With Master Mairon.”

Mairon hangs his tongs back on the shelf alongside his apron. Pulling over two stools to the corner of the workshop. He would have just pulled one for Frodo, but he supposed the conversation would be more awkward with the Hobbit even shorter and him still standing.

Frodo is looking down into his lap, twiddling his thumbs. Slightly shifting positions in his seat, looking like a lost baby rabbit on a pedestal.

“Thanyawë, my guide from the day before, well—he told me who you are. After.”

Mairon could only nod at that. It is only reasonable. For the victim to learn the identity of the culprit.

Silence falls between them.

“Do you hate me?” the Hobbit blurts out.

Mairon blinks. What?

“Do you hate me? For uh-” Frodo gestures with his hands, drawing a circle in the air. “The ring? And whatever happened after? I mean—I can’t exactly picture it to be pleasant…”

Oh, Hobbits. He can see why Olórin takes such a liking to them now.

A smile comes out along with the huff. He couldn’t help it. “No, Mr. Baggins. No, I do not hate you. I believe you have taught me a profound lesson. For that, you have my earnest respect.”

“Oh. Well then.” The Hobbit’s shoulders visibly relax. “Mairon, that is your preferred name, yes?”

With hesitation, he nods. “It was one of my earliest given names. Yes.”

“That is a relief, I can’t imagine anybody would willingly be called Sauron.”

Then he perks up again. “I would like to stay in touch, that is, if you would allow it?”

This time Mairon really blinks at him in surprise. He turns his head to Tyelpë, who very quickly looks down and is suddenly very focused on polishing that belt buckle.

He turns back to the Hobbit and nods. “Yes, I believe I would like that.”

--------------------------------------------

Mairon just smiled.

Alright. Yes. Keep calm. Look down, he is turning this way. 

Do not spook him out of the moment.

Right. Yes.

Progress. Progress at last.

Perhaps, no, definitely the first smile in the past four whole years.

Not just any smile either. He remembers that smile. The smile he had only caught a few glimpses of before. Back in Eregion.

Not the practiced one Annatar often plastered on when dealing with elven nobles.

One that is genuine, a few times, long ago, when it’s just the two of them in his private forge, it hadn’t been fake.

Sometimes it’s Ann and him having a major breakthrough, and he smiles with that spark in his molten gold eyes.

Or sometimes Ann gets caught off guard by something he said, he never knew what, but when he grins at him, Anna would smile softly back.

It’s that kind of smile. And isn’t it great that it’s back again.

Chapter Text

Tirion, Valinor - Present day, Year 05 of Community Service

"I must thank you again for the finger. Whatever you did to make it moveable I will never know. You made it so pretty too."

Frodo wiggles his fingers as he walks along him. They are on a shopping trip, gathering supplies for the next season, tugging a little wheeled cart behind them. Well, Mairon is, anyway. Frodo simply insisted on tagging along.

"It is the songs weaved into the filigree. Sang as you make it, and carved in the runes when you are done. Think of it as the notes and lyrics. Many of the older Noldor blades were made the same way. Including your own, Mr. Baggins."

“Well, thank you, anyway. I would bet it was much more complicated than it sounds.”

The market is less crowded than usual. Secretly, he is thankful for it. Most of what was on the list has already been gathered. And they still have the rest of the day to themselves.

They pass by a stall with various handwoven baskets. Perhaps he could use one, it would have made moving smaller tools around much easier in the forge.

He approaches. Selecting a basket before passing it to the elleth behind the stall.

“How much?”

The elleth does not take the basket from him, only narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. Then widen in recognition.

He supposes having golden eyes does come with inconveniences.

Another head pokes into the tent from the slit in the back, eyes locked right onto Mairon.

Ah. A familiar face. That blade still rests in Tyelpë’s drawer somewhere.

The stall owner turns her head at the sound of the fabric shuffling. “Ah, Erdië. Come here.”

Erdië does not move, only glances at her mother. Who folds her arms and shoots her a stern look.

“Per our agreement, Erdië.”

Erdië squeezes past the slit, dragging every step on the ground as she moves forward, then continues to stare at him in defiance.

“Erdiëmarë.” Her mother’s tone turned into warning.

She turns her head, unwilling to meet him in the eyes, and begins.

“I apologize for the grievances I have acted upon you during your sentence. It was petty and rude of me.”

With that, she turns and runs. Back out the slit of fabric where she poked out from.

The stall owner sighs and turns back to face him.

“My mother and I were among those who had fallen, back in the siege of Gondolin. This child, she has heard much of the tales growing up.” Her face darkens with a hint of weariness.

“I’m afraid I will not be doing business with you. I do not wish to take your coin.”

Mairon stills for a beat. Then slowly place the basket back in its place.

“Understandable.” He nods, “Apologies accepted. And one of my own as I offer it, as pale as it may be. Have a good day.”

When he returns to the cart Frodo is there with his brows furrowed.

“Why do you let them refuse you like this?”

He only sighs in response and picks the cart handle back up. The wheels tumble lightly as he walks.

“Not everyone is as forgiving as you, dear Mr. Baggins. Some grief runs deep. They are within their right to refuse me. I can simply weave one myself later.”

The hobbit is quiet for a while before speaking up again.

“You should come visit me and Uncle Bilbo sometimes. The only guest we have these days is Gandalf. I do wish more people would be over often. Perhaps you could teach me to weave a basket or two.”

--------------------------------------------

“No offense, my lord, but I would rather it not come from the hands of Sauron.”

“His name is Mairon.” Tyelpë props one hand to his hips and the other rubs his temples. “Look, I could do it for you, but he is the one who taught me the craft and what I make is still only a poor imitation. If you wish your leg to be truly operational you will have to go to him.”

The elf eyes at the grey figure behind them, chiseling away at a piece of joint at his station. Mairon simply tilts his head, not looking up. The pale grey curls shift as he does it. “I could do it. You can say it’s by his hand.”

Wha— Is he serious? Tyelpë folds his arms to that, resisting the urge to throttle him in front of company.

The elf grimaces, then returns his gaze back to Tyelpë. “Allow me some time to consider, my lord.”

With that he turns his back, pausing a beat, then adds “Unlike some, I would rather not lie.” before stumbles away with his cane.

Tyelpë lets out a frustrated noise, before heading over to Mairon’s workstation, and knocks hard on the back of that blasted fuzzy grey head with his knuckle.

“I would appreciate it if you'd do that when I’m not carving.”

With a huff, he props his hips against the desk. Folding his arms again.

“‘You can say it’s by his hand.’ Are you out of your mind?”

The impossible Maia only shrugs. “It would still function without my hand attached to it, better even, it would have been actually made instead of rejected.”

“You realize you just put my integrity on the stake as well, yes?”

Ann’s hand stills. Those amber eyes turn to him, and blinks. Tyelpë wants to throw his hands toward the sky.

“Didn’t think of that when you tried to pass me the credit for a craft I did not make, did you?”

“Apologies.”

He sighs. “Do not try to do that again. I would rather my work be my own, and your credit acknowledged as yours. Do not lie just to get yourself erased.”

The Maia stays quiet for a bit, but resumes the work on his hand.

“You need not to correct them every time they address me. They are not entirely wrong.”

“Well frankly I didn’t want people going around calling you ‘the abhorred’, Ann.”

The chisel slips. Ann’s hands tighten on the tool first, then let go. Allowing the metal to drop onto the desk with a clunk. A single drop of red seeps out on his fingertip.

“Blasted.” Tyelpë curses, and bounces off to look for a clean rug. They really should keep more of these around the forge.

“It will heal. ” Ann grumbles behind him.

“Still let me clean it.” He finds a relatively clean one and returns to the workstation. Pulling Ann’s hand over by the wrist to dab the blood away while the wound closes into a slit, then disappears.

“Yet you still call me Annatar.”

“Well of course, I knew you as such. It's a nice enough name, is it not?”

He did not answer. Tyelpë begins again.

“Would you come to Grand-uncle’s banquet this afternoon with me?”

“I am not welcomed.” That is a statement.

“Well, no. But you can still come as my guest, conversing with people other than me might do you some good. Unless you have somewhere better to be. And do not even think about saying here, I am locking the forge for the rest of the day, I already sent everyone else out to enjoy their day.”

“Hmm, I find no intent in spoiling an event that does not want me in return. Go enjoy your banquet, Tyelpë.”

Tyelpë raises a brow. “And you?”

“Frodo has been asking to take me to his cottage for a while, perhaps I’ll go with him.”

--------------------------------------------

Valinor - Present day

Frodo’s cottage rests at the outer edge of town.

It’s a small, rounded thing. Caked together with stone, wood, and pale clay. The roof stays low, moss and fern already creeping at the crevices. A single stone-layered chimney puffs a line of smoke continuously. A garden in front of the doorsteps, facing the sea view in the distance. The whole thing is an unassuming earthy color, except for the small, round door painted in bright yellow.

“Ahh yes!” When Mairon enquires about the door Frodo beams. “The elf-folk who helped build it were nice enough to add it for me. As a reminder of home.”

They step across the pebble-covered little trail across the garden, leading to the little yellow door.

“Home. Shire?”

“Aye, ‘tis how we built our doors down in the Shire, Master Mairon.”

Hmm, impractical, but strangely endearing in its own way.

Frodo holds the door open for Mairon to bend and pass through.

The ceiling is low enough for Mairon to cower a bit, but the space is still wide enough to maneuver. It smelled of herbs and butter, toasted sugar, and brewing tea. The sun passes through frames of glass, casting squares of light onto the wooden floor.

A voice calls out from the inner rooms, soft but graveled with age.

“Frodo! Lad, is that you there?”

Frodo calls back loudly “Aye, Uncle Bilbo, and I brought a guest!”

“Bah, old rascal. Come to steal my stash of pipeweed again eh?”

Frodo laughs.

“No, Uncle Bilbo, new guest this time.”

“Oh! New guest? Delightful, is it that forger friend you keep talking about? Now that I must see.”

An elderly hobbit hobbles into view, whatever hair he had left had faded into a snowy white. A face full of wrinkles but wore his waistcoat without a single one. He chuckles with delight and all the lines on his face move along with it.

“Ah, hullo there! Come! Come!” And he disappears again to another door.

A small tug of his sleeves. Mairon looks down at Frodo grinning at him, his head tilts in gesture, instructing him to follow.

He is led into a small kitchen, where he curls down at the edge of a wooden table, keeping his knees close.

The elder hobbit is still babbling away while hanging the kettle. “Never thought there’d be a day I’d be happy to have other visitors. Ha! I used to avoid them like the plague back in Hobbiton. Well, you folks are much more pleasant to be around, more quiet for sure, and surely not after my possessions like a hawk! Haha.”

A delicate porcelain cup is shoved right in front of him. White, painted with florals and steaming with tea. “Honey and cream are on the table, help yourself.”

Mairon blinks, and looks at Frodo next to him, who only smirks in return over his own porcelain cup.

He doesn’t add the honey, but still raises the cup to his lips, and takes a tentative sip. “Thank you.”

“Ohh, this place sure makes me feel younger again.” Bilbo still goes on. “Back in my younger days. The adventure! The mountains! Well, memories don’t serve me as well these days, but I do remember the thrill.”

He returns with plates full of cakes, tarts, and pastries.

“You know, on that trip, I had encountered the most peculiar little ring. Such a pretty little thing.” He sits down with a long sigh.

“I had left it to my dear lad Frodo. Such a shame it was lost. Have you ever seen it anywhere? Master—”

Frodo freezes mid-bite into a pastry roll. “Umm, Uncle Bilbo—” He tries, with his mouth full, Mairon places a hand on his shoulder, with a smile he hopes to be reassuring enough.

“Mairon. Mr. Baggins, my name is Mairon. And yes, I believe I made that ring, in fact. But I had not seen it for long already, I believe it was truly lost.”

The elder hobbit nods, then laughs “Oh, you are a very fine craftsman indeed, Master Mairon.” He leans back into his chair, takes a sip of the tea, and gives a satisfied hum.

“Well, if it’s lost then I suppose it's lost then. Tis not much you could do.”

Then he tsks, pushing the plate forward. “Oh, do have a roll Master Mairon! You sure look like you could use one.”

--------------------------------------------

“Well, that went pretty well.”

Bilbo had retired to his quarters quite early. Now they are sitting on the stone steps, in front of the garden. Each with a structured frame in their lap, weaving the dried vines in between the frames one by one. 

A breeze passes by, swaying the primroses and hollyhocks back and forth. Camomiles and lavender dance along by the foot of the fences while a single grapevine perches upon it, wiring itself on the narrow wooden panel.

“You have a lovely garden.” Mairon finds himself commenting. Fingers grazing the patch of marigold by his feet. 

“Oh.” Frodo blushes, a bit sheepishly. “Thank you. Sam used to take care of the flowers, back in the Shire. Now I find peace in tending them.” 

“You missed the Shire quite a lot,” Mairon observes, turning his head to the hobbit, tilting a bit. “what do you miss the most out of it?” 

Frodo sighs, and looks to the tumbling tides in the distance. “Friends, most of all. Sam. Rosie. Merry and Pippin. Our big folk friends used to visit too, when their time allowed.” He pauses for a beat. 

“And, perhaps, mushrooms too. I used to sneak into Old Farmer Maggot’s fields to steal them when I was a small lad. It’s quite sad, they don’t grow around here.” 

Of course they don't. 

Mushrooms, fungi, were never created on the grounds of Aman. They’ve never set foot on it. They were creations of his husband, back in the days, deep in the caves of Utumno. 

An idea flashes to him. A plan . 

Frodo is still going on about. “It was quite surprising to me that piping weeds grow here, actually, despite barely anybody smoking them. Gandalf and I, we are cultivating and processing them for ourselves-” 

“Frodo.” 

“-Hmm?”

“That grey elven cloak you wore, do you wear it often? In the Shire?”

“Oh, yes? It was much better quality than the other ones we have, and the sentimentality of wearing it is nice.”

“May I borrow it?”

Frodo blinks. “Um, yes? But why?” 

Mairon looks down at the almost-finished basket. 

“I don’t want to get your hopes up yet.”

A chuckle rings next to him. “Alright then. Oh, now I truly believe you are of kin with Gandalf. Do all you maiar speak in such riddles?” 

=======================

Utumno — Early Years of the Trees

He leans against the rocky wall at the entrance of the cave, watching the dark figure inside, sitting on the ground, hunched over, under the dim flickering candles on the wall.

“You have been missed at several meetings.” He pressed down the smile on his lips, faking the seriousness.

Lost in another one of his creation projects. Mairon wished he had found it more irritating than he did, the paperwork was always tedious, especially when the Dark Lord was skipping on work again.

The figure perked up at his voice. Shadowy eyes brightened as he spotted him.

“Mairon!” A hand reaches out at him. Mairon allowed it to tug him forward, tug him close. He plants a soft kiss on his husband’s temple, and receives one in return on his knuckles.

“You are just in time, my light.”

“Hmm,” Mairon lets himself be pulled down onto his lap, his back to Melkor’s chest. The vala did not wear his typical armor today, only a velvety dark robe. “What matter of creatures have you created this time?”

Large arms encircle his abdomen, pulling him closer in. A chin resting on the side of his neck.

“Shh— watch, little flame.”

He starts to hum. A low, raspy melody, murmuring each word softly.

The ground in front of them responds with a whisper of melody of their own. Small particles buried beneath it, impossible to see if it were the eyes of mortals watching. Still, he senses their presence. Their song echoed against the rough stone wall.

Glittering threads emerge, interwoven themselves together into a silver web amongst the dark damp dirt under the faint, flickering candle glow.

Small bulbs pushing apart the grains of dark soil. They continue to push upward, wiggling a bit as they did it, elongating into a bud until it bloomed open into a cap.

Mairon leaned forward, poking a cap with the tip of his finger. Soft, rubbery, cool, slightly tacky with moisture. It bounces back and forth as he retreated.

A poof, and a mist of new particles released from under the caps, landing onto the soil below. A cycle, he realized.

Melkor chuckles against his shoulder. Lips rubbing against him as he spoke. “They thrive in darkness, and feed on rot. Resilient little things, they are. Nothing like those Yavana’s delicate creations.”

“Hmm, not bad. Quite adorable, actually.”

“You think so?”

“Much better outcome than the previous times, is it not? Remember the wasps and hornets?”

A groan sounds from the head burying itself by the curve of his shoulder, sending a vibration down his spine. “Please, my love. My flame. We had agreed that we don’t talk about the wasps, or the hornets.”

=======================

Tirion, Valinor — Present Day

He returns under the evening glow, his newly woven basket in tow. Inside it rests Frodo’s grey cloak, and a single strawberry tart wrapped in wax parchment. The Hobbits had insisted for him to take some of the baked goods. In the end, he selected that.

Hopefully, Tyelpë could have the tart later as late-night fuel. His love for them had remained unchanged, he had always been the sweet-toothed one out of the two of them, even back in the days of the Second Age.

The lights of the workshop still lits when he arrived.

“Looks like the forge has reopened.”

He comments, stepping past the threshold.

The figure by the desk whips around and immediately brightens. “ Ann !”

Mairon flinches. In front of others Tyelpë had always corrected his name to “Mairon”. Yet in private, when it’s just them, Tyelpë always reverts to some variations of “ Annatar ”. It unnerves him. Sets a lump in his throat as images flashing at him of those same grey-blue eyes, curved by a smile, only they were much more innocent then. He had taken that innocence away.

He sets the basket onto his own work desk, and takes out the tart to place it on Tyelpë’s. “A courtesy from the Bagginses, they insisted for me to take something.”

He receives a grin in return.

“And I suppose you wouldn’t want me to share?”

Mairon wrinkles his nose. “You know how I feel about those overly sweet desserts.”

Tyelpë laughs, breaking off a piece of the tart before stuffing it, a buttery crunch as he bites down, and makes a satisfied hum.

“Oh wow, you deprive yourself." He nibs the crumbs and jam clean from his fingers. "I’d say few can bake as well as Hobbits do.”

Mairon snorts to that, taking a seat on the bench next to him, staring into the forge fire.

He feels a nudge at his shoulder.

“Look at you. Socializing, making friends, talking more than three words at a time.”

He turns, Tyelpë has nudged closer, his eyes curved in that familiar shape. “I must say I’m proud, Ann.”

No. No . This could not go on.

“No.”

“Hmm?”

“Do not call me that.”

“What, Ann? I knew you as Annatar.”

“You knew a lie.” His voice wavers slightly.

A lie of honey, coating the poison. Four years, countless times Tyelpë called him that name, with the same gentleness millennia ago in his tone.

He did not deserve it. Annatar did not deserve it.

Quietness settles in between them. The only sounds left in the forge are the echoes of the flame, dancing away in the hearth.

“Alright,” in the end, Tyelpë says.

“Mairon, then.”

--------------------------------------------

He sets to work by the whitening of the sky.

A corner of land under constant shadow of the roof, no more than two feet in square, borrowed from the backyard of Tyelpë’s workshop.

A chunk of withered log, propped against the intricately carved walls of that corner. He found it on the outskirts of the city.

A bucket of waste. Filth, from the nearby farms, mixed in with fallen leaves, their golden color already faded into a deep brown. A bucket of sawdust and hay, collected from the workshop itself.

He layers the contents evenly on top of the soil. Then with a narrow rake, he drags it across the surface, letting the soil turn and flip upwards, stirring into the mixture. The smell of rot and earth rises above, mingling with the cool mist of early morning.

He can feel sets of eyes staring at him. Passersby elves, perhaps in curiosity, perhaps in judgment. None of them approached, likely repelled by the smell. He paid them no mind, not even bothering to lift his head.

With a jug, he then douses the whole spot. Water sprinkles from the spout, darkening everything in its path.

The cloak still lies on his desk.

He hovers his finger above it, eyes closed. Silently hoping, praying, to the one who wouldn’t have heard it.

Then, he feels it. The faintest of vibrations, almost a rhythm, the flow of energy from the invisible particles calls to him, meeting the pad of his fingers in recognition. Recognition of that distant memory from their ancestors.

Spores. Floating through the air among dust, clung to the cloak should its wearer stroll through the fields of the Shire.

It’s not much at all, barely viable after this long. They will be viable in his hands.

He takes a blade to the cloak. Gingerly, with strength no firmer than a breath, he scrapes against the fabric, not wanting to accidentally slash it. Fuzz collects at the edge, falling into his palm, various spores hidden within.

Fuzz that he scatters across the spot he cultivated. He presses lightly, ensuring they are in place, and sprinkle with water again.

And now he sings.

In a hum first, then a murmur, “Wake. Rise again, my lover’s little project. Grow now in this haven I built for you. Grow now, you’ve been dormant long enough. ”

The spores respond. With memories carried in melody of their own, passed down through cycles of life.

All there’s left to do is wait.

Chapter Text

=======================

Tirion, Valinor — Last Night

Sleep does not come to him easily tonight.

Ann—no, Mairon, currently rests in the next room, at least, he should be. He would be in serious trouble if he chose to work through another night without rest.

The exchange back in the workshop still replays in his head, over and over again. He turns again under his blanket.

Tyelpë has loved and hated these moments in equal measure. The moments of genuine, of vulnerability, shown under the crack of the statue Mairon had turned himself into. He is finally making requests, and setting boundaries for himself. 

Those moments made it seem that all his efforts weren’t for naught. But they are also torments, for all he wishes to do when faced with those tear-stained lashes is to hold him close, cradle him by the face, and kiss the tears and sorrows away. He curses himself for it. Tis not the time, he should be focusing on Mairon instead of his own wants. And Mairon is still distant, still healing.

He had known his feelings all the way back to Eregion. Maybe Mairon had known too. Because whenever he had gotten too close, when the confession had been on the tip of his tongue, Annatar always pulled back, defecting and hiding back into his shell of politeness and poise.

He never did get to voice his feelings. One day Annatar was just gone, like he had evaporated from the whole of Eregion. He had prayed for him to return, day and night, and when he did he had returned as Sauron.

Then came the invasion, the torture, and then the next thing he knew, he was in Mandos.

In the craziest of ways he had missed him even then.

And now Mairon is here. So close yet still so far from his reach.

He had already betted his entire being on a perhaps , and it looked like they were heading into the right direction. What he doesn’t know is if he can afford the hope of a much more personal, much more selfish perhaps .

=======================

The Hall of Mandos — End of Second Age

“Come now, Cub, the last time I saw your ears that red was when we took you to visit your aunt Artanis. You must have been what, five hundred something? Only still a babe!”

“Tyelko! stop tormenting your poor nephew, would you?”

“Oh damn you Nelyo! I never thought this day would come! Let me enjoy this! So, Cub, what’s on your mind? Or should I say who?”

Tyelpë covered his ears but his face only grew hotter.

What’s worse is the motion of six other heads turning at once, at the mention of “who”. Come now. Even you, Natto?

“Tyelpë, has someone caught your fancy?”

Celegorm tsks. “And that observation skill is why I’m the only hunter in this blasted family! He’s been holding that longing little dazed look in his eyes for as long as he’s been here! And see how red his ears blush whenever he is caught?”

He flopped down next to Tyelpë, circling his arm around his shoulder. “Now now, You know your Uncle Tyelko had been quite popular among the lads and ladies back in the days. I could teach you some moves, you know.”

Tyelpë was busy questioning himself why he had ever missed this. He deadpans “Uncle Tyelko, no offense, but your most remembered feat in history books is how poorly you took of a single rejection.”

He gets a rough ruffle on the head for that.

“Insolent lad, this is for your own good! Your resurrection is coming up, is it not? No nephew of mine should leave his lover in waiting.” He turns “Cruvo! See how your son torments me so? Betraying his favorite uncle so cruelly. Tragedy, indeed!”

He was actually not, but that was beside the point.

“Actually, Tyelko has a point.” This time it’s his eldest uncle who approached. “Tis no small feat, the love between two Elves. Whoever it is, they await you, and you can still return. It’s a privilege that should not be wasted.”

The blush that had just died down fights to resurface again. “He’s not- We’re not-”

“So you two were not paired then?”

“No! And I would appreciate it if you would stop your meddl—”

“But there is someone!” the youngest of his uncles points out.

“Not paired, more like not yet!” and the second youngest always quick to follow.

His own father places a hand on his shoulder “Then you must go to him then, upon your release.”

His protest gets cut off by his grandfather “You have a chance at second happiness the rest of us do not, Tyelperinquar. Do not let it go easily, dear lad.”

“Aye!” Uncle Tyelko, who had just been pried off Tyelpë moments ago, perks up again. “Do not let that abhorred bastard stop you from finding your love!”

Tyelpë chokes. A truly impressive feat, consider still being a spirit.

--------------------------------------------

Tirion, Valinor —The Third Age

It’s a strange thing, being alive again.

He simply wakes, forges, eats, sleeps, and repeats.

He does not think he would return to Middle-earth. Not yet. The memories of the past are still raw. Plus, there was plenty to do here down in Valinor. New faces appear more and more often. Elves, returning from Middle-earth, carrying news of the ongoing war, weathered down by its devastations. He only tried to help as much as he could.

Grand-uncle Finarfin had welcomed him with open arms, so had his grandmother. The lingering sorrows went unsaid when she commented on how much he had grown.

He must have been seven, or eight hundred something, when he had left this land? Most of the buildings and streets were unchanged from his memories, yet now he still feels like a stranger within it.

Uncle Finno had stopped by often enough, to help him adjust. He appreciates it more than he knows.

The nightmares had died down as days faded into years. He would wake up in fear and pain, then in anger, at the betrayal, then at his suffering, then the heat of the rage drains away until all there’s left is numbness.

Now where could he possibly have put that tong?

He huffs, in resigned annoyance. He knows he has a habit of misplacing things when he’s deep in concentration, it’s something his atar always reprimanded him about. He never had this problem back in Eregion though, his tools simply always stayed in the places they were needed, or organized in places he would reach out of habit. Yet nowadays these incidents seem to occur more and more often.

He looks up and finds his forge in disarray. Prongs and tongs scattered across the workstation, a hammer on the floor he did not remember putting down, works in progress mixed in with finished products.

How exactly did he manage for this long in the past without remembering organizing his forge even once?

The realization hits him at once in the face like a bucket of water, heads on at first then lingering cold after. Someone had been organizing it for him. Someone who had possibly memorized all his habits and tailored a system around it so that everything is within reach. Someone who is now gone from his life.

He does not know what to do with this information, nor the fact that it had taken him this long to realize it.

He simply stands there for a very long time.

========================

Tirion, Valinor - Present day, Year 05 of Community Service

He wakes to pale daylight and the dull thuds of metal against the earth.

Outside the window, a certain grey figure hunches over, working away at something over a patch of soil at the corner of his backyard. He blinks. Usually at this time he would have either found him already in the forge or found out he had never left it.

By the time he managed to dig out some decent robe and breeches and rush down stairs, Mairon seemed to be already finished. He only squats in the same place, staring at the little patch of land in silence, arms extended and propped on top of his knees, dirt still staining his fingers. A rake and watering jug propped against the wall. The air of cool early mornings mingled with wet mist and an earthy musk.

He squats down next to him and lightly bumps his shoulder with his own.

“What are you doing?”

Mairon blinks, turns to him for a second, as if only registering him now, then turns his gaze back to the patch of land.

“Mushrooms.”

Tyelpë raises a brow.

“Mushrooms?”

“For Frodo. They never grew on the lands of Aman. He missed them.”

“Huh.”

Now that's something he didn’t think he had noticed before. Now that he recalls, indeed he had never seen mushrooms growing in the damp woodlands or fissures between the stones here on the land of Valinor, only in Middle Earth. 

Well, at least he has finally found something to do other than tinkering away in the workshop. Tyelpë supposes that is a good thing.

--------------------------------------------

A surprise visitor arrives to the workshop that afternoon.

Tyelpë drops his hammer the moment he recognizes who. He runs, almost toppling the figure over the way he tackles him into a hug.

“Uncle Finno!”

The figure laughs, steadying himself as he pats Tyelpë on the back. The younger elf stands almost half a head taller than him. “Alright, yes, yes lad, it’s me. Careful.”

Tyelpë steps back a little, leaving his hand still on Fingon’s shoulder as Fingon’s on his, grinning. “You’ve been gone for the better part of the decade! Going—”

“Visiting your great-grandparents at the halls of the Vanyar, yes. And you, my lad, it seems you’ve stirred up quite a storm while I was gone. I’ve been hearing your name from passing gossip all the way from Taniquetil.”

Mairon watches the pair through the corner of his eye. He’s heard of Fingon the Valiant, of course, but has never met him in person.

The pair continues on. “…It’s a good thing really, the three of them settling in just fine. Your great grandmothers especially asked me to bring some gifts back to you as well, I had to ask for an extra horse just to carry it all…” Fingon reaches an arm around Tyelpë’s shoulders, gently steering him toward the back.

“I was thinking I should probably stay around to help you out too, not much to do around here anyways. I probably won’t be much help to you on all that forge stuff of course, but there are other things I can lend a hand on—”

He trails off as they pass Mairon. Fingon narrows his gaze and narrows his eyes as their gaze contacts. In less than a beat, he turns his head and quickly carries on the conversation as if nothing happened.

Mairon steers his focus back to the work on hand. He had expected this. Hopefully it won’t add too much trouble for the days to come.

--------------------------------------------

The mushrooms are blossoming beautifully as the weeks go by.

In the end, more than one species had survived, and came into fruition. Like the resilient little creatures they are, whispering in their constant low hum, feeding on rot and moisture like hungry children.

Thick ones, in a satin like grey, perched upon the old log, in its layered, fanned out shapes. White and brown pebble-like caps, small, round, slightly slippery, scatter across the patch of damp earth. A few flatter, broader caps in fading tan, their thick stems holding them taller as the edges began to curl upward, revealing a soft, rosy-pink underside.

He could not name them. Nor could he tell if they are safe. Some mushrooms used to grow in the fissures around the caves of Utumno and Angband. A handful of bold orcs had tried them, and ended up in… less than ideal conditions. Still he swings the water jug slightly above them, allowing the sprinkles to fall like rain.

“You ought to tie that mane of yours back. It would fall onto the filth.”

Mairon blinks. He turns around, and finds Fingon leaning against a pillar. Wrinkling his nose at him.

Ah, yes. Fingon, who had begun showing up regularly these past few weeks. Mostly helping to haul stone and lumber needed for construction, or replenishing coal and firewood for the workshop, always greeting and bantering with the other volunteers.They’ve never conversed, only on occasion walked by each other.

Fingon shakes his head as he approaches, squatting down next to him. “Who are you even trying to scare here with a mop like that? Looking like a wraith floating around.”

Mairon does not answer. What he does is reach back to his hair, twisting a handful into a loop, and pulls it around itself with the rest together into a makeshift knot.

Silence settles between them, yet Mairon feels hesitant to pick up the watering jug again under Fingon’s gaze.

Fingon who breaks the silence first. “I do not forgive you.”

Mairon turns his head to look at Fingon, who then turns away, focused somewhere far. He nods once.

“What you did, in aid of your lord. To my people, to my brother’s city, to my family, and …to him. I cannot forgive you for it.”

“I understand—”

“You do not.” The cut is quick, his voice does not rise.

Mairon quiets. Fingon continues on.

“Your lord took him away from me, then the war took me away from him.”

A sigh.

He finally turns to meet Mairon in the eye.

“He told me of you, actually. Said you confused him. You left him. There. but did not lay a hand on him beyond that.” He snorts. “But you still left him to rot on that cliff. Three decades. I still remember the state I found him in. When he had begged for me to kill him. I—” He halts, stabling his voice, shaking his head.

“Tyelpë told me you’ve been doing good work. He told me you’ve changed. For the better. That you’re helping people now." He looks to the mushrooms standing in the patch. “That lad, too idealistic for his own good, but he was often the wiser among us. It’s the hope. Hope we still hold for the ones we’ve lost to their own faults.”

He looks to Mairon again.

“Keep doing what you're doing. I won’t forgive you, but we do not have to be enemies.”

========================

Angband — The First Age

“We have had no preparation, no warnings, and no long-term plans! You’ve only just returned and still injured! The fortress is still unfamiliar with your leadership, and both our armies and supplies have not recovered from the loss of Utumno. I do not care of honors or those… rocks, we are in no position to head into another war!”

Mairon chased behind the pacing giant shadow past the hallways, silently cursing the absurd length of the vala’s legs.

 “My lord! Are you even listening to me?”

Melkor sighed with annoyance evident in his temple. The gems on his crown shone away. “Mairon, can we talk about this another time? I could not—”

“Wow. Who would have known, the Dark Foe taking scoldings from a mere lieutenant? How adorable.”

He blinks. So does Melkor. The two of them turned their heads at once, at the smirking red-head currently chained by his arm, dangling from the ceiling of the throne room alongside other tapestry and ornaments. Still carrying marks of blood and grime from his battle.

The orcs in the halls cowered. A troll passing by hid back from the hallway he just entered.

“Melkor.” Mairon lowers his voice into a soft warning.

His husband strides toward the elf.

 “The ‘mere lieutenant’ is the sole reason this fortress still stands on its ground.” He grips the chain holding the elf in place.

“I do not tolerate disrespect. Especially from self-righteous little creatures such as you.”

And he swings the elf towards the wall. The elf calls out in pain as he hits the ground, immediately seized by their henchmen.

“Take him outside, hang him to a cliff for all I care. But don’t let me hear more of his squabbles.” With that he strides away, disappearing into another hallway.

Mairon stood in place, looked at the elf, then back at the door, back at the elf, and cursed as he set off to chase after his husband again.

--------------------------------------------

In hindsight that comment hadn’t been the best idea. But in Maedhros’s defense, he did not expect the reaction to be this drastic. Then again it is unsurprising that the Dark Foe has an unpredictable temper.

The constant blare of the sun was nauseating. The heat scorched him by day, and the cold snared him by night. His clothes eroding away with grains of sand and rock carried by the howling wind.

The only water available to him were the rains, and they were scarce, tasted like acid and bile as the drops graced his lips.

He had shut his eyes to hide from the blaring sunlight, conserving his energy for the endless days ahead. Not much to look at anyways, only the sharp, jagged dark mountains one behind another, all looking the same.

That was when cool, fresh liquid touched his lips. He did not think at first, only instinctively reached for it, and drank, and drank. Chasing the faint sweetness of the water.

The jar finally lowered enough from his face to reveal the identity of his almsgiver. The servant of Morgoth from the other day. That little lieutenant. Brows knotted but his thoughts hidden.

He turns his head away.

The lieutenant only places the clay jar down to the ground, then sits, a couple steps down, at the narrow cliff edge by his feet. Facing the dark mountains. Perhaps he can kick him off it, but his legs were heavy from exhaustion and he doubted he could actually reach him.

“I must apologize for him.” The lieutenant eventually says. Then he sighs.

“I waited for his return. But the war he brought to our doorstep was not something I had expected.”

He watches the lieutenant from the side of his eye. The lieutenant did not stare back, only watching the endless black mountains. The howling wind blew away, and two different shades of red fluttered along with it in silence.

--------------------------------------------

The lieutenant returns again with water, weeks later. Then again, with half a piece of bread this time.

He doesn’t talk much and doesn’t expect answers when he does. Everything he says seems to be more towards himself than to him. Then he just sits on the cliff for a little before leaving again.

Maedhros was more suspicious than thankful, and more confused than suspicious.

“What, no whips? No blades? Would you not torment me like you did my kins in the past? Sauron ?”

The lieutenant only shrugs.

“Where would the point in that be? You do not hold any vital information we didn’t already know. You are more valuable intact as our hostage. Plus, I doubt your position now is anywhere comfortable.”

Maedhros did not like the answer. In fact, it has perhaps made him more clueless. Both the inaction to the pain he endured and the small mercies he received boils down to a ‘Because I don’t need to.’ He wondered what it was that the maia was after from the dark side, at the side of his lord? Power? Glory? Wealth? He wondered if he bothered enough to ask, or if the lieutenant would bother enough to answer.

But the lieutenant already picked up his jar and walked back down the cliff edge he had come from.

--------------------------------------------

“Do you think he would have given you what he promised?” 

He had to say something, something to evoke a reaction from this strange being. He counted a small victory when the lieutenant’s hand stills as he lowers the jar. 

The lieutenant lowered his gaze, lashes casting a shadow on his face as he did. “You did not know him as I did.”

Maedhros only snorts at that. 

“And do you suppose you knew your lord well? Tell me, how many times have you outdone yourself to earn your master’s favor? And you can’t even bring yourself to outshine even one of the Silmaril jewels.”

The lieutenant narrowed his eyes. The knuckles holding the jar in place turned white. That’s a sour spot for sure, finally. 

There were no more things to be said. The lieutenant simply turned on his heels and walked. 

He did not return again. 

--------------------------------------------

Bonus Scene: (idk where to fit it in the fic)

The Fëanorians brothers had a very serious competitive streak about who was Tyelpë’s favorite uncle when Tyelpë was little, and when someone finally asked him:

Toddler Tyelpë, excitedly: “Uncle Findekáno!!”

Fëanorians: …

Celegorm: “HE’S NOT EVEN YOUR REAL UNCLE!”

Maedhros: “… Not yet.”

Chapter Text

========================

Utumno — Early Years of the Trees

It was a day like any other when it happened. The specific date he could not recall, but the day itself he could never forget. 

It was a quiet moment. Just the two of them, relishing the time before the meetings, summonings, and endless files piling up onto Mairon’s desk, occupy him away for the rest of the day. 

A moment when his flame nestled soundly in his lap, ember hair loosely pinned in place and utterly focused on the quill and parchment in hand. 

Fair as the day he had first seen him. The way the curls draped, the dark lashes fluttered as the gilded eyes darted across the page. Soft skin under his thumb as he rubbed circles, rosy lips bitten in concentration.

The Valar were fools to have him slipped from their grasp. For how could someone who burns as bright as him settle? He would never. Never limit or diminish him but to be his sanctuary. His flame shall stand equal with him on top of their shared dream, as his light, as his anchor.

And Mairon turned around with a grin too wide to mean anything but trouble.

“That sounded awfully like a wedding vow, you know.” 

Oh. Blasted. Did he speak his thoughts aloud again? 

“Shall we do it now?” 

What? “Mairon—wait—”

Too late. Mairon had already shoved aside his stationaries, stood up and started pulling at his arms.

Damn this ridiculous creature for still being able to catch him off guard. 

They had no preparations. No feasts. Nothing! And damn himself for losing the battle by just one look from this absurd little maia, giggling at him with sparks in his eyes. All protests already died upon his lips. 

And this maia has already dragged him to the middle of the room. Both of them still in their casual robes, feet bared. Mairon had both his hands in his as they stood before each other.

“Say it again. Properly this time.” 

He searches Mairon’s face for traces of jest and finds none. The maia only stares into him in determination and expectancy. 

“I- Uh—“

“Come now, make your oath and claim me yours.” Mairon folds his arms together, chin tilted high. “Or do you dare not to?”

On reflex he grips the maia’s waist and pulls him closer. The maia returned him a damned little smirk, like a cat that had finally caught the canary.

He took a breath for himself. Right. This is happening.

“I stand before you as I vow upon my being, to stand as your sanctuary and protect you, to never limit or diminish you. To take you as my partner in everything we build. My light, for as long as you choose me, my place is with you.”

Mairon huffs, but the smile doesn’t fade. The lining of his eyes flush red as the lashes flicker down with mist. And then the glimmering ambers shifted back up, gaze returning to Melkor with his own vow matching.

“I stand before you as I vow upon my being, to stay by your side come triumph or failure, to support you in strength and in weakness. To build a life for you and I. My beloved, even in darkness or ruin, I will still choose you.” 

Oh, he would, wouldn’t he? The only creature of all of Aman that had chosen Melkor, not for power, and not for wealth.

Melkor’s chest swells, his breath hitched as he drew one hand up to Mairon’s jaw, thumb tracing the bone under his eye as he had done so a million times. 

“A kiss to seal the vow?” He tried. 

Mairon blinks. And then his shoulders started to shake, a chuckle first, then a giggle, then at last a full cascade of laughter came spilling out. 

He raised his arms, fingers outstretched, and hopped at Melkor.

“Lift me!” 

--------------------------------------------

They’ve somehow tumbled back into their chambers. Scheduled meetings of the day and scattered paperwork forgotten.

Melkor looks down at the glowing creature perching upon his bare chest, the maia’s face resting just below his collar bones. Fiery-gold curls tangled into raven locks on his shoulders. Still catching his breath slightly, eyes a little dazed from their earlier fun.

“I would have raised another fiery mountain for you, I would have stolen a star or something.” He grumbles. “I would make you my queen.” 

Marion only laughs and wrinkles his nose, “Ugh, I never liked the title of Queen. So performative. A name held so high and resplendent and for what? I would be fine with marrying you as Lieutenant, at least I am getting business done.”

“But you are resplendent.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, beloved.” He taps at Melkor’s nose “Besides, you should know by now I have no use for those distant stars. And you raise a new mountain every other month.” 

“Fine, so what is it that you want? I should at least bring you a wedding gift.” 

“Hmm, don’t burn my spiced cakes next time?” 

“But that’s so easy!”

The creature above him chuckles and pulls a long, lazy stretch. “You and I both know it’s not.” 

========================

Valinor - Present day, Year 05 of Community Service

Frodo’s face is a spectacle when presented with the basket full of mushrooms. 

“Wha- How-” His eyes wider than ever as he shifts his focus back and forth between Mairon and the basket. 

“How?! You must tell me!” With one hand, Frodo carries the basket, and with the other, he tugs at Mairon’s robe, pulling him towards the cottage. 

“Wait-” Too late. Mairon is pulled along, past the marigolds and the primroses, up the stone steps and past the door, back to the little wooden table by the kitchen window. 

He thanks his battle-hardened reflexes for not hitting his head on a beam. 

“Frodo-”

The hobbit grins upward at him expectantly. Right. 

“Spores.”

Frodo blinks at him. 

“Spores,” he begins again. “They are materials borne from mushrooms, often unseen by mortal eyes. Seeds of the mushrooms, if you will. They travel in the air as dust does. I suspected some would have adhered to your cloak while you were back in the Shire. Speaking of which—”

He passes the neatly folded grey cloak back to Frodo. The hobbit accepts with a nod and turns his attention back to the basket, a little awed.

“Back in the Shire, we did not know any of this. Only that you may find mushrooms in shadowed places.” He grazes his fingertips at the edge of the caps. “To us, they simply appear in the fields or in the crooks between tree roots.”

“They favor the moisture that offen accumulates in shadows,” Mairon tells him. “And they feeds on rot. When the spores lands and the conditions are right, they would bloom and fruit.”

Frodo turns his head at him. “How do you even know all these?” 

The tip of his lips curls at that question. 

“I witnessed the first of their kind’s creation.” Was in their creator's laps, in fact.

Frodo stills, blinks, then laughs. “Oh, sometimes I forget how old you lot are.”

“You must know I do not know which of those are edible,” Mairon adds, it had been the first thing he wanted to address to the hobbit before he was helplessly pulled along. 

“Ah. That’s alright. Let’s see, what do we have here— Oh!” Frodo raises a chunk of them with glee. The ones from the log, in their large layered fans. “We call those barkpetals, terribly good when you fry’em with butter, some garlic and thyme, and you’d be set.” 

He places the barkpedal on the tablecloth, and starts building a pile. 

“Oh, lovely, field buttons! They are the most common ones, you see, come in browns and whites. Looks quite like a button, don’t you think? Good for almost anything— pan-fry, soup, stuffed, you name it.” he pats them on the cap each, and adds them to the pile. 

“Ahh, see, rosyfrills. Now these,” Finally, Frodo holds up the broader tan caps. Mairon leans in for a closer look. Frodo tilts towards him a little, pointing along the underside of the cap. “See here? The fading pink frills down here. Very pretty, but gives you a nasty stomach ache, this one.” He gathers all the rosyfrills into a second pile, then moves the safe ones back into the basket.

“And I believe that's all we have here.” 

Mairon nods along, mentally filling the notes away. 

Frodo covers the basket with a cloth and happily places it away. “Uncle Bilbo would be so happy when he sees this. Oh, yes, where are my manners?” 

He brings in tea, in the white porcelain cups painted with florals again. And a plate-full of small cakes, smelling of sugar, lemon, and honey. 

Mairon only pulls the teacup close. The heat of the tea radiates out to him through the porcelain.

He is interrupted by a call from outside before he can properly return his thanks. 

“Frodo! Where have you been?”

Frodo smiles at him a bit apologetically. “That must be Gandalf. I, uh- hold on.” 

The hobbit stands up to answer the door, but apparently the other maia has already answered it for himself. For there comes sounds of the door shutting, then footsteps, and then a dull thump.

“Ohoow!” 

The face appearing at the kitchen entrance is familiar, except for the lack of beard and much, much less wrinkles. Still rubbing at his forehead.  His hair, curled back to its original wool-like state, and back to his signature dark grey, just as his robe. 

“You ought to think that would start to happen less by now-”

He freezes in place when he sees Mairon, staring back with a mirroring helpless look on his face.

The air is still for the three seconds of silence.

“Ah. I came at a bad time, did I not? I can go if there is hostility.” 

Frodo reaches out almost instinctively. “No wait-” then remembering Mairon, he turns to him. “I mean, uhh-”

Mairon, after all his initial stun and later brief consideration, nudges out a little space.

“No need. I hold no grudges or hate toward all those who serve under Lady Nienna.” One of the only two valar who once advocated mercy for his husband. One of the few valar left whom he would still pay his respect in full.

He looks at Olorin, and nods. 

The breath of relief from both the hobbit and the other maia is evident.

“Ah. That is good to hear.” 

With a grin, Olorin settles himself at the little table, immediately sneaking away a piece of honey cake from the plate before Mairon.

He sighs, and nudges the plate out a little toward the other maia. He gets an amused, raised eyebrow in return.

Just as he turns his attention back to his porcelain cup, Olorin begins again. “You know, I’ve never gotten to properly apologise for ruining your forge.” 

Mairon blinks. “That was… too long ago. You were very little then.”

 “Aye, but still.” Olorin only laughs and leans into Frodo. “I blew it up, dropped something that shouldn’t be dropped into something that shouldn’t be touched.” 

“White phosphorus. Into molten bronze. You then tried to douse the fire with a bucket of water. Your talent with fireworks truly showed up early.”

Olorin barks out a wheeze, “You knew about the fireworks?”

With a tilt of his head, he gestures at the hobbit. “Frodo told me of it.” 

“Hm,” The other maia leans near Frodo again, with a reminiscing spark in his eyes. “He shielded me, you know? Then shaped a rabbit out of the ruined scraps for me when I wouldn't stop weeping.”

Mairon blinks again. “We were fire aligned. You were not. It would have burned you. And you were frightened, both of you were.” 

“And what did you make him?”

“A bird.”

“Wait, who are you talking about?” Both maiar looked to the hobbit who asked, tilting his head.

Olorin pauses, then glances at Mairon. 

“Curumo. He and I both worked in Aule's halls, once.” 

“You would have known him better as Saruman.” Olorin supplements. Watching Frodo’s eyes widen at it.

“Did he return to the hall?” Mairon asks. 

And it seemed the air in the room curdled again. Olorin’s smile stills, his brows lowered, and he sighs.

“No. He returned to the Song.” 

Mairon… doesn't know how to respond to that. 

How? Should his intel be correct, then Curumo’s defeat should have only been the first time. One such as him would not have been-

His train of thoughts is cut off by a second question from the Hobbit. “What does that mean, ‘Returned to the Song’?”

Olorin lowers his head in weariness. “You see, dear Frodo, as Maiar, our life force is tied directly with our fea,”

“Think of it as the spirit of one’s being.” Mairon adds, “Sustained by the power it carries.” 

Olorin nods at him. “Aye. When a maia dies, even when they return, the fea takes damage. One may recover, of course. But once the spirit is exhausted, whether from the extent of damage or the number of deaths, there would be nothing left to salvage.” 

“We are unlike the elves, or every other creature, for that matter.” Mairon snorts. “Our creator has made the hall of mandos for the elves, another hall unnamed for the rest, but no such place for the anuir. Whatever flesh, fragments, or memories remain simply rejoins the order of the world, as we like to call it, returning to the Song of creation.”

“But how would you know when you are exhausting your spirit?”

That earns a bitter smile from mairon. “We don’t. No maiar has ever known which death may be their last until it happens.” 

“Most of us would survive the first, and if one is powerful enough, the second. Though few of us have fallen a second time to test it.” Suddenly, Olorin raises his head and looks at him. As if remembering something. “Wait, Mairon, as of the ring, which time was that?”

“The third.” He snorts. “Quite the record, was it not?” 

He grips the porcelain a little tighter. “ It was only the first time, it should not have taken a maia such as Curumo. I had thought- he should have survived at least the second. Why? How did it happen?”

Olorin sighs. “I do not know. He was wounded by a mortal first, before being pierced by his own infrastructure. Perhaps that is why, taken by his own power. Or perhaps he has been greatly diminished by the destruction of it, considering how much of himself he planted into his fortress.”

The porcelain in his hands began to creak with distress. Mairon releases the cup carefully. If he had gripped it any tighter, it might have shattered. And he would hate to ruin the possession of a friend. He retracts his hand and interlocks his fingers instead.

“He was far too eager.” The things he feels are too complex to be called anger, perhaps frustration? Indignant? “Too focused on the faster results in my imitation and forgotten that consumption without limits, production without replenishment could not have lasted. I had warned him when he first joined my side, and yet his fortress still collapsed upon itself under a single attack, as it seems, himself too.” 

“He looked up to you, you know?” 

Mairon snaps his head back up, and Olorin only looks at him in sorrow. 

“Always did. I suppose we all did, but he more than the rest of us. He was perhaps the most affected by your absence when it had happened, even when none of us were willing to show it.” He sighs at his own words. “I think at some point he valued your appraisal even more than Lord Aule’s. For as long as I had known him, he had always set out to become like you, and eventually, in your absence, he became set to surpass you instead.”

The fingers lock tighter, dull nails digging into flesh. The other maia speaks no more.

“Well, “ The sudden interjection of Frodo pulls both of them out of the silence. “I'd say this matter definitely calls for more than just afternoon tea. Will you two be staying for supper?” 

Olorin huffs and shakes his head at him. “Hobbits.” 

mairon looks out from the window by the table. The sun slanted low but still bright through the glass, at least an hour away from setting. “Would it not be too early yet for supper?” 

The hobbit replies cheerfully. “Oh, not at all! Early just enough to have dinner later! “

“…There’s dinner? Later?”

--------------------------------------------

The supper was enlightening, at the very least. Frodo had made good use of the basket of mushrooms he brought. 

The barkpedals were now sliced and fried, with butter, garlic, and the thyme Frodo had grown himself under the kitchen window. Still sizzling when served, golden brown and glistening, dripping both broth and fat.

Mairon tried exactly one piece, out of his curiosity. An interesting texture, crisp on the edges, but tender in the flesh. The broth burst in his mouth as he bit down. Savory. Earthy. Nutty. The sharp garlic mellowed by butter and the dust of dark pepper gave it a smallest hint of sting. 

He can see why hobbits seem so attached to mushrooms now.

It almost felt like an intrusion to reach for another piece, so he set down the fork, and observed the rest of the table instead. Frodo is gesturing enthusiastically at Olorin about something, and Bilbo is chuckling along.

Then Olorin reaches for his tea and- 

Wait. 

He spots it. 

He blinks. It's still there.

He wonders how he had not noticed it earlier. Of course. It actually made perfect sense in retrospect.

He stares up at Olorin, then back down at his hand, then up to him again.

Olorin must have noticed, because he is staring back at Mairon’s raised eyebrow. The other maia blinks, then swallows. Mairon thinks he might have stopped breathing as well. 

And Mairon lets out perhaps the heaviest sigh since the time he realized his height had diminished from his third death.

Huh. This might as well happen. 

He had spent almost a third of the second age hunting them down. Tortured, killed, almost scorched the continent over. And now one of them is just…there. 

Right then. 

He breaks eye contact and looks away. Pretending not to notice the small breath of relief.  

--------------------------------------------

Tirion, Valinor - Present day, Year 05 of Community Service

By the time Mairon returned from the outskirts of the city, it had been nightfall. The workshop is quiet, but the lights above it are still on.

He can tell as he takes up the stairs that there are faint talkings, and the sound of light steps. It seems Tyelpë is not alone.

He had understood why Tyelpë had chosen to keep his living quarters away from the palace, but it had also meant a hassle whenever the rest of the royal household tried to reach him.

As he reaches the final steps, the visitor reveals themselves to be, well, Elrond. Who halted his sentence when he spotted him.

Tyelpë seemed happy enough to see him, though. When he turned around, his eyes shaped themselves into that familiar curve again. “Mairon!”

The elf walks over, hovering an arm over his back, and steers him over to the center of the study. So much for his plan to sneak back to his chamber unnoticed.

He nods a greeting toward the guest. “Lord Elrond.”

Elrond nods back, but does not reply.

“Elrondo had come here to discuss the placement of a new healing hall outside of the palace ward,” Tyelpë explains. “As of now, we are talking of placing it in the town center, since it is where most people are often gathered.” He leans his hips backwards against the desk. “What says you, Mairon?”

“Hmm,” Mairon blinks, “It could be helpful, considering it would be built close to the workshop, where the prosthetics are made. But,”

He looks to Elrond. “Is the Hall going to gather the healers of the entire city?”

“Aye,” Elrond says, “all those who are willing to stay.”

Mairon nods. “I can see the appeal of it. The supplies and medicine would be supplemented more easily when centralized. And gathering of the healers allows for exchange and collaboration.”

He glances at Tyelpë, who only softly grins at him, and a small flick of his chin edging him on. He glances away.

“And yet, it also leaves gaps for those who do not reside near the town center.” He tilts his head. “I mean, most of you Elf-folk only ever needed tending for two things.”

He raises a hand to count down the fingers. “Injuries, and accidental poisoning, which both require treatment in haste. You can’t expect someone from the outskirts to reach the center within minutes because you’ve gathered all the healers of the city in one place.”

“We do also have people carrying old wounds from war,” Tyelpë supplements from behind him.

“Aye. But those are often less emergent. Though in truth, they also supported my point, I doubt they would appreciate traveling for long durations.”

Elrond furrows his brows. “I… appreciate the insight. What do you suppose we do then? I doubt it can be resolved by simply building the hall elsewhere.”

“A single hall would not be enough, considering the size of your city and the fact that they built it circular. A location close to some would bound to be distant from others. More halls, smaller scales, scatter them across the city. Each can gather the local healers to one place per your original goal.”

“I would still propose we start the first one by the town center,” Tyelpë interjects. “It is still the spot where folks are most localized.”

“I second it,” Mairon replies. “And you can build it larger, as a base for your supplies and medicine. It may allow you to oversee the rest of the halls as well.”

Elrond nods again, slower this time. “I suppose it’s settled then.” He reaches for the scattered scrolls by the window still, and—

Wait.

Oh.

Another one, he supposes.

Right, first Narya and now Vilya. Discovered the same day as well.

He slowly, and very stiffly, turns his head to Tyelpë. The Elf flicks both eyebrows innocently at him, with the glint in his eyes and a barely contained smirk.

Damn him , Mairon knows that face. It’s a dare. The bastard is daring him to speak of it. 

Mairon takes a deep breath, exhaling it into yet another long sigh to swallow the exasperated curse on his tongue.

Blasted, he is too tired for this.

Right then.

--------------------------------------------

The construction of Elrond’s healing halls project is coming together swiftly.

Graphs, charts, supplies, locations and storage. Foundations, structures, floorings, and fixtures. Words exchanged amongst the artisans he could barely keep track of. Alas, he is only here to contribute his muscles anyway. And also, to keep an eye on the younglings, too.

Tyelpë definitely seemed more lively than ever, and the same goes for the maia who often trailed his shadow.

Fingon had barely talked more to him since their last little exchange back in the gardens. He doubted Sauron would ever try to start something again, still, it doesn’t stop him from observing from afar.

Sometimes an elf or two makes a jabbing comment the maia doesn’t reply to, and most of the time simply they avoid him all altogether.

Of course, that is all besides Tyelpë. Who has apparently paired Fingon with the maia on this particular trip of site visit.

Hauling a full cart of marble and packs of draft behind them. The streets busy, the birds chirping, and Sauron still wearing that flat, neutral face as he always does. Frankly, he isn’t sure if he appreciated the silence or is itching to break it.

Least he is keeping that hair out of the way now. Though the shadows under his eyes are bordering the shade of grey that matched that mane.

The site had already been fenced. The rough shape of the hall dug into the ground below, marked with a pole every few feet apart.

The maia wasted no time ordering the folks at the site around. He had laid out several parchments across the nearest surface and is currently babbling away at the poor gaggle of elves clearly wishing to be elsewhere.

He steps closer to the drafts. “Are these many arch sticks truly necessary? They barely even attach to the hall itself.”

And Sauron whips around faster than he had ever seen him in the past several months. His voice an octave higher from the apparent offense, “Arch sticks?! Are you asking me if the hanging buttresses are necessary?”

Fingon blinks. Then shrugs. “They just seem like ugly little halfway bridges to me.”

Sauron folds his arms together in bafflement, then tilts his chin high. “I assure you, Lord Findekáno, I would not have wasted stone on your ‘ugly bridges’ had it been possible to build without them. Or would you have preferred this hall to collapse in a span of a decade?”

Before Fingon had the time to act stunned by the drastic reaction, the maia huffs and begins again.

“No, no. Because I too would have loved to see you to complete a better draft for us if we had the time to spare. But I’m afraid we do have work in progress to complete here.”

“Pfft-”

Fingon could not have helped it, considering the utter absurdness of the maia’s face, and stance, apparently raised onto his toes.

“This is what gets to you? The bridges?” He asks the maia, who blinked in surprise at his sudden burst of laughter.

“All the past months, the insults, the avoidance, and this is where offense finally gets you?”

Mairon, as Tyelpë often called him, lowers his heels back down. A little red creeping onto his cheekbones.

“Hanging buttresses.” He corrects. “Insult me all you wish, my lord. But never challenge my judgement in craft. Do not waste me where I am useful.”

With that, he turns on his heels again, off to fetch another parchment.

--------------------------------------------

So apparently, according to the maia, tall walls made from large stones often easily collapse under their own weight. The higher the wall, the heavier the weight. Especially when accompanied by large windows of glass. A buttress supports the weight of the wall and distributes the load, and a hanging buttress utilizes fewer stones overall for an even greater support.

He should really pick up an architectural book sometime soon.

Perhaps Tyelpë would give him some recommendations. The lad would at least know where to start for a beginner.

Ah. Speaking of which.

He spots Tyelpë sitting upon the windowsill, face turned away towards the opening, utterly infatuated with whatever goes on beyond it.

Fingon steps closer, carefully so as not to disturb him. The window itself comes into view, opening out to the back garden of the workshop, where a certain grey figure knelt tending away at his small patch of mushrooms.

Well. Fuck .

He clears his throat, earning the sudden turning around and widening eyes of his nephew.

“Tyelpë. Lad. Are you-”

“Uncle Finno, wherever your mind is going, I beg of you not to go there! It’s not what it looks like!”

Aye. Sure, lad. That’s why your eyes are wide as saucers and your ears just went redder than your uncle Nelyo’s locks.

Eru’s mercy. He had, on more than one occasion, felt relief that the stubborn madness of his uncle’s family had not snared the youngest of them. Well, as it turns out the lad might just be the maddest of them all.

This may be the first time in history that Fingon almost felt glad Maitimo is still away in Mandos. He would dread the day if his love ever found out about this.

He could only sigh. Doomed. Utterly doomed, this lad.

--------------------------------------------

Still, horrifyingly flustered from the earlier encounter with Uncle Finno, Tyelpë returns his gaze back out the window.

A pause.

He blinks, does a double-take, and then his breath hitches with it.

He would have dismissed it as a trick of light, perhaps a reflection of the furnace flame, if they were back in the forge. But right here, under broad daylight, there is no mistake in it.

A small tuft on the very tip of those grey curls is orange.