Chapter Text
“The Men of Umbar have an interesting tradition,” Mairon said. “In their society, it is normal to meditate on death. Their philosophers recommend daily meditation on the nature of death for every citizen as soon as they reach adolescence until... well, until they die. Are you familiar with a famous aphorism by some forgotten Umbarian philosopher that says remember that you die?”
The question was meant for Khamûl, King of the Easterlings and the leader of the Easterling army in Eriador. Khamûl shook his head; he was no expert in Umbarian philosophy. Still, he was currently studying the corpse of an Elf – just like the proverb suggested.
“The saying, of course, is a myth. Not everyone needs to die. Well, from a purely human perspective, it may sound true. Your nature, as the Secondborn, is to die. Still, even you can postpone death. Think of the Númenoreans, for example. Perhaps, with the right measures, death can even be avoided altogether.”
His last words made Khamûl raise his eyes from the corpse, not unlike a dog promised a treat. “What do you mean, my Lord?”
Mairon gave a short, dry laugh. “Me? Ah, I am always pondering things. Questioning things. You see, I am a bit of a philosopher myself. How could I know the fate of Men? I can only guess, and ask questions.”
Khamûl looked like he would have liked to object, but, wisely, he remained silent and turned back to the task given to him: to study the dead Elf tied to a supporting banner pole.
“Well?” Mairon said after a while, raising an eyebrow, as it started to look like Khamûl had entirely lost the ability to speak.
“I see he is finally dead,” Khamûl commented, at last. Was there a hint of pity in his voice?
“Yes,” Mairon said slowly and nodded like a teacher encouraging a student to give a more complete answer. When nothing more emerged from the Easterling’s mouth, he stepped closer and took a good look at the Elf, as if he saw him for the very first time. “And why is that?”
“Because you had him killed, my Lord?” Khamûl tried, looking very nervous.
Practically, he was right, but that was not the answer Mairon was looking for.
“Because he falsely believed in what that Umbarian proverb says. Remember that you die. Which is stupid, of course. He is an Elf; they are immortal. He would not have needed to die.”
Mairon paused and studied the face he had learned so well. That defiant expression lingered even after his death. “But, Celebrimbor was not an Elf known for his wise decisions.”
“Even Elves can be slain,” Khamûl continued. He had learned that lesson well during the invasion of Eregion. “Their bodies are resistant, but they can be broken.”
Ah, so Khamûl thought himself an expert, now that he had killed some Elves in the war. Mairon threw an amused smile at Tyelpë’s corpse. If someone in this room was an expert killer of Elves, it was Mairon. He had studied ways to kill them – and to keep them alive –long before the race of Men was even born. Tyelpë did not share his amusement, but stared back at him with his usual accusatory look. Of course.
“You have done amazing work with the body, Lord.” There was an admiring note in Khamûl’s voice, now. “He looks almost as if he were alive. Almost unbelievable, but with your skills...”
Mairon smiled. It had been hard work, but he was rather pleased with the outcome. He had used the ancient embalming techniques of Harad, but there had not been enough time to carry out a proper embalming process, so he had had to resort to sorcery to accelerate the process. Besides, it did not leave such a mess as the traditional way, and he had had enough of blood and gore, for now.
He had certainly made a significant improvement in the condition of Celebrimbor’s body. Unhealed wounds had become reddish scars marking all the places where he had cut Celebrimbor’s skin. Dislocated joints had been mended; most of the burns and other markings had vanished. Not all of them, though. The mark of the Eye he had carved on Tyelpë’s chest still remained. Mairon liked to think that it marked Tyelpë his own even in death. Moreover, there were some things he could not repair, like a cut ear, or teeth that were, regrettably but inevitably, lost. And, for some reason, his sorcery could not change the condition of Tyelpë's hands: the crushed fingers and cut tendons had been resistant to all his efforts to change them back. Those hands had once made wondrous things; now they were destroyed beyond repair.
Sorcery had been necessary for quickening the embalming process and preserving the body. Mairon’s mere touch had dried his inner organs and turned him into an exquisite statue. What a wreck he had been before! Mairon did not want to remember him that way. Carefully, he had pulled out arrows before closing the wounds. Not all of them, though. They were practically decorative, pleasing to the eye as a reminder that Mairon had won, in the end. The stink of the dungeon and death had vanished when the embalming was finished. Finally, he had washed Tyelpë’s unkempt hair, before tying him to a wooden post.
Still, he could not help thinking that something crucial was missing. Tyelpë’s fëa was gone, impossible to regain now. If only he had found even one of those three rings Tyelpë had hidden from him – he would have the real Tyelpë here with him if he had.
No, he would not think of that now. They were at war, and preparations needed to be made. Elrond’s army closed in.
“Prepare your army to leave the city at dawn,” he commanded Khamûl. “Come to see me before you leave. I will give you final instructions then.”
After a last, nervous look towards Celebrimbor’s body, Khamûl departed and Mairon was finally alone with Celebrimbor. He touched the cool skin of his calf, almost expecting a reaction, but there was none. The silence in the room swelled.
“Tomorrow, I will leave this doomed city of yours behind,” he told Celebrimbor with stoic calmness. “And when my troops have finished with it, there will be nothing left to remember your greatest accomplishments. Those memories do not deserve to live, as you do not deserve to live either.”
Still, his hand reached out to stroke Celebrimbor’s black hair, silky and soft between his fingers. He caressed Tyelpë’s cheek and neck in a way the Elf had particularly liked.
Mairon could not wait to leave Ost-in-Edhil behind. Almost all buildings but the House of the Mírdain were in ruins; only loss and disappointment lingered there.
Almost involuntarily, he found his thoughts returning to the day of his arrival at the gates of Ost-in-Edhil, unaware that his life was about to change.
Ost-in-Edhil, 470 years ago
It had been raining all day. By the time the city of the Elves came into view at the bottom of the valley, Mairon’s clothes were soaking wet. He assessed the elegant stone wall and tall towers of the city, and wondered what kind of reception he would get there. Was it even worth the attempt? Would the Noldor, not known for their love for the Ainur, eject him from their pretty little town without a hearing?
He remembered a cave close to the valley wall, not too far from the city. He could run there as a wolf, wait for the rain to end, and perhaps re-think his strategy. But – he was tired of running and hiding, and moreover, he missed intelligent company. What he had heard about the Elves of Ost-in-Edhil had already awakened his curiosity. He strengthened his resolve once more and walked along the paved road all the way to the gates of the city.
They had been waiting for him; or rather, they had known about ‘Annatar,’ and had hoped that he would come one day. That was a surprise, but a pleasant one. He was given a room and time to refresh himself before he was called for a meeting with the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Even during those first hours, the magnificence of the city impressed itself upon him. It whetted his desire to stay, as well as his fear of expulsion. He had made himself beautiful in their eyes, and he could wax rhapsodic about the gifts he could bestow in all sincerity, but that had not been enough to convince Gil-galad, and he feared that it would not be enough in Eregion either, despite the cordial welcome.
Thus, Mairon felt more nervous than he should be as he approached the central square and the grand House of the Mírdain. Fortunately, the rain had stopped. The building inspired a certain awe – despite the lofty Elvishness of the place. Spiral marble stairs lead to the main entrance. He walked across the square, feigning unawareness of the stares upon him. The eyes belonged mostly to Elves, but he could also see some Dwarves and Men. Though discomfiting, none felt hostile, only curious.
A lonely Elf sat at the top of the stairs, reading a paper of some kind.
“Where can I find the great meeting hall?” Mairon asked. The doors of the house were open, but he needed directions.
The dark-haired Elf waved his hand towards the doorway absent-mindedly. “Just go left from the entrance... then right... up the stairs... but not the first ones.”
Mairon took a good look at the Elf. His eyes glowed bright – he was from the West. Then Mairon noticed the embroidered Fëanorian stars that decorated the long sleeves of his tunic.
“Actually, I am looking for Celebrimbor of the Mírdain,” he tried. “I hoped to speak with him before the official meeting.”
“That would be me,” said the Elf without raising his eyes from the paper that seemed to have caught all his attention.
Mairon wondered if he should officially announce his arrival or wait for the meeting. Why was the founder of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain reading some obscure paper as if he did not know about his arrival? Did he not consider their meeting important? The arrogance of Elves!
Even so, he peeked over the Elf’s shoulder in order to understand what was so interesting about the text that it could not wait.
“What are you reading?” Mairon finally asked.
“Ah, it is an essay about song-craft theory that Linnoriel asked me to review. I really need to finish it before the evening meeting. This time Linnoriel has really outdone us, I think. Although I have a hard time following her argument on tonality...”
Only now did he raise his head. His eyes widened as he recognized Mairon.
“Oh, you are the Maia,” the Elf said. “Am I late for the meeting? I am very sorry.”
“I am Annatar,” Mairon confirmed, then decided that the speech he had so carefully planned could wait for the official meeting to begin. “And you are not late. I prefer to arrive early.”
Celebrimbor of the Mírdain gave him a mischievous smile. “Good to know that I am not late, then. I do not want to infuriate the Ainur. With my family record, it is most unwise, don’t you think? Ah yes, I am Celebrimbor Curufinwion, indeed. Pleased to meet you, and welcome to Ost-in-Edhil.”
Mairon found himself smiling back. It felt strange that an Elf would address him – a Maia – in such a jovial way. Although it was an improvement – Gil-galad had done nothing but eye him with suspicion. Celebrimbor’s smile made him feel oddly warm inside. He had not known he had missed the feeling of connection so much, but suddenly, delightfully, it appeared again.
“May I see the text you are reviewing?” he asked. He was curious to gauge the knowledge of the Mírdain.
Celebrimbor gave him the paper, and Mairon sat down on the steps next to him and skimmed through the article. The author had some very good insights, although there was one crucial error in her theory of diatonic scales. Mairon wondered if he really should share some of his knowledge with the Mírdain, but Celebrimbor had not hesitated when he asked permission to read the essay. His trust and openness touched Mairon’s heart. He pointed out the error, and they continued to discuss all kinds of things on the steps until some other member of Gwaith-i-Mírdain came to seek them, for the meeting was about to start. They had become friends already.
* * * * *
The memory made Mairon want to hold Tyelpë once more. He felt very focused as he cut the ropes that held the corpse tied to the stake. In the end, the body collapsed heavily in Mairon’s arms.
“Come on now,” he said aloud, trying to get a better grip on the corpse, balancing Tyelpë against him. “Don’t let me do all the work, Tyelpë dear.”
Celebrimbor did not answer him, however, and suddenly he felt an overpowering pang of regret. But it was totally useless to think about what could have been otherwise. Thus, instead of wallowing in self-pity, he began to softly hum a tune they both had liked.
“Do you remember this melody, Tyelpë?” he whispered in his ear. “Do you remember the dance moves?”
He took Tyelpë in his arms and caught his maimed right hand in his own left, the one that bore the One Ring. He searched the right tempo for a couple of beats before starting to move in fluid movements, carrying Tyelpë with him. The melody took him back to the fondly remembered midsummer feast. He had taken Tyelpë to a dance in the warm night. Tyelpë had not pulled away, but leaned against him. His hand had gripped Mairon’s as if he feared he would run away, and his eyes had been full of light.
Now, Mairon gripped Tyelpë’s limp hand tightly, but the precious light was gone from his eyes. He continued humming the slow melody of the summer dance, wishing that his music had the power to wake the dead. Tyelpë’s body leaned heavily against his chest. He buried his nose in Tyelpë’s hair. Even his hair smelled different now; the bath oil he had used to wash it was something the Easterlings used. He had not been able to find Tyelpë’s personal things amid the rubble.
The music died out; the dance was over. He continued to hold Tyelpë in his arms for a long time until it felt too much. With reluctance, he moved Tyelpë’s body back to the banner pole and fastened the ropes.
“Tomorrow I will leave your city behind,” he told the Elf. “And you will come with me.”
* * * * *
“I want to give you something,” Mairon said to Khamûl as the King of the Easterlings came to meet him the next morning. “A gift, if you may.”
He had named himself Lord of Gifts before, and though an irate missive from Gil-galad had claimed that the name was false, there was truth behind it. He had been more generous in sharing his transcendent knowledge with the incarnates than most of the other Ainur. Celebrimbor had known this best of all. Mairon had shared many secrets of the universe with him – knowledge not meant to be shared with Elves, according to the Valar. But Mairon had not cared, and Celebrimbor wanted to learn all he had to teach. He was the best student Mairon had ever had. In some respects, Celebrimbor’s knowledge and understanding surpassed his own, in the end. But that was not all.
Ost-in-Edhil, 230 years ago
“You need to face the problem in a new way,” Celebrimbor suggested at the breakfast table. “The solution is found not in power, but in connection.”
Celebrimbor had finally woken up after a much-needed rest. Seeing Tyelpë visibly refreshed made Mairon regret that he had not followed his friend’s example last night. They had been working non-stop for many days now, brainstorming and testing their theories, and even Maiar needed to sleep once in a while. He had been so sure that he was close to some kind of revelation, but in the morning, the feeling had dissolved, and he was no closer to a solution.
Excitement shone from Tyelpë’s eyes. He had come to some realization.
“Explain,” Mairon said, and Celebrimbor did.
It all made perfect sense. Tyelpë’s excitement was contagious; the initial envy of Tyelpë’s discovery soon became pure joy.
The following week, they started to make new kinds of rings; those would become their greatest work. They worked ceaselessly to force their will into metal – their tool to create a better world.
The rings were as much Celebrimbor’s creation as his – at least the ones they made together. Without each other, they would not have succeeded. It was a joint effort – until it ceased to be that.
* * * * *
Mairon extended his hand. On his palm was one of the great rings he had made with Tyelpë after that major breakthrough, golden and shining. The ring was a memory of their craftsmanship. It felt almost sacrilegious to give such an accomplishment away, but it had always been meant to be used. Khamûl eyed it hungrily; he had heard tales about the ring-makers of Eregion.
“Is that one of those you made, my Lord?”
“Yes,” he simply said. “I give it to you to carry. There will be a battle, and I want to protect you. Wearing this ring, you will be more powerful and resistant to Elven-magic. I will know your whereabouts, and if it works properly, I may even be able to communicate with you. Will you take it?”
Khamûl nodded without hesitation. Mairon asked the king to kneel before him – a useful reminder that even mortal kings served Tar-Mairon.
“Swear allegiance to Tar-Mairon the Great.”
He spoke with a voice of power. Let the King of Easterlings remember this event for all his life.
Celebrimbor had not needed to kneel before him. If Celebrimbor had given him the rings to be linked with the One, Mairon would have returned them to him – one of them, at least. For Celebrimbor, a private ceremony between friends would have been enough. A shared gift; a mark of friendship. It would have been nothing like this, he wanted to tell Celebrimbor, whose unseeing eyes watched Khamûl bow down before Mairon, vowing to serve him all his life. The banner pole that held Celebrimbor’s embalmed body stood close to Mairon’s throne. In a perfect world, Tyelpë would have sat on a throne next to him. But he did not want to think about it now.
“Rise, Khamûl,” he said, making his voice echo in the man’s head. “I accept your vow. Give me your hand.”
Obediently, the man extended his arm towards Mairon. Khamûl was only a boy, his age nothing compared to Tyelpë, whose eyes had seen the Two Trees of Valinor.
“Will you take this ring of power?” he asked again. It was a ceremony, after all.
“I will.”
“And will you always wear it as a sign of your allegiance?”
“I will,” the king replied.
“Good,” Mairon said, and took Khamûl’s hand in his. He gave a final look at the ring on his palm; truly it did feel wrong to give it away.
He would have wanted to slip a ring on Celebrimbor’s finger; not this one, but one of those Tyelpë had hidden from him. But this was not Celebrimbor’s slender hand, and Khamûl was not his partner, but a tool.
Silently, he put the ring on Khamûl’s finger. There were no words that would not betray how he felt right now – that Khamûl was just a substitute.
The King of Easterlings did not notice the missing ceremonials. His eyes widened as he sensed the power of the One Ring in Mairon’s hand through his new bond.
“Thank you, my Lord,” he managed to say, after a while.
“Take your army and ride north until you see the Elvish troops. Wait at a distance, and don’t advance until you hear my orders.”
“But, my Lord, how can I receive them?”
Mairon’s patience was wearing thin; he wanted to be away from this Elf-infested city already.
You will know when I speak to you. He spoke mind-to-mind with a little too much impatience. Mairon’s voice in his head made Khamûl start, but, despite his youth, he was a seasoned warrior, and he composed himself in no time.
Perhaps there was still hope left in his dealings with the Secondborn, Mairon thought bitterly.
“I will show that Half-Elf what it means to oppose Tar-Mairon,” he continued aloud, turning his attention to Tyelpë’s body. “There are lessons to be learned from Lord of Eregion’s fate.”
His finger followed the mark of the Eye on Tyelpë’s chest. Elrond and his forces would be furious.
He counted on it.
* * * * *
A carrier pigeon had brought a message in Mairon’s hand to the command center.
Sauron the Great Deceiver was written on it. He humphed wryly at the title before opening the letter. The Elves were always so dramatic. It was a curt note hastily written in tengwar.
Our demands are:
1. Your instant and complete surrender
2. Immediate retreat of your army from Eregion and greater Eriador
3. To hand over Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion, and all surviving citizens of Ost-in-Edhil at once
Elrond Peredhel
Herald to High King Gil-galad
Mairon crumpled the letter into a ball and dropped it to the muddy earth. So, it was indeed Elrond who commanded the approaching Elvish troops. He had suspected it, but it was good to have confirmation. Did they really believe that a feeble note like this would compel Tar-Mairon to surrender?
He turned to speak to Tyelpë, placed beside him under the canopy. The battle was imminent now. He could hardly hear the Elven army over the commotion of his own troops, but he knew they approached from the north end of the plain.
“They want to take you from me,” he said, his hand touching Tyelpë’s back lightly. The skin felt like vellum. “Never, never I will allow them to do that. But I promise that they will see you, and they will wish that they hadn’t.”
He commanded his army to advance. Those around him were mostly Orcs of Mordor; Khamûl and his Men held the east side; another group of the Secondborn guarded the west flank. His armies outnumbered Elrond’s to an absurd degree. His own power would overwhelm the upstart, too. He wore a battle armour he had forged himself with the Ring’s focus and power. With the Ring in his hand, he felt invincible. A feral smile appeared on his face, which twisted and settled into an unfamiliar shape, one that nonetheless felt appropriate to the situation. Burning, golden light radiated from his features. Inevitably, his troops closed the distance, shouting atrocities, trying to scare the Elves away.
A couple of his Orcs carried the pole where Tyelpë’s body served as banner. It felt good to have Tyelpë close to him, even in battle. He would have preferred him to be alive, of course, but at least he did not oppose him anymore.
They crushed the feeble attack of the Elves with ease, forcing them to a harried retreat. As predicted, the Elves were shocked to see his ownership of Celebrimbor. A foolhardy attempt to abduct Celebrimbor’s body followed. The infiltrators were vanquished, of course. No mercy for them.
He saw Elrond only from afar. He was shorter than Mairon had thought, but there was wisdom in his actions; he commanded his army to retreat when he saw defeat would be inevitable.
He would have followed them, but a new problem required his undivided attention. Khamûl’s voice spoke in his head, frantic. The Dwarves of Khazad-dûm had come. Durin’s great army threatened their rearguard. It irked Mairon to let Elrond escape, but it could not be helped.
Drive them back, he ordered Khamûl. He felt the King of Easterlings startle as Mairon’s words rang in his head. He would get used to it soon enough. Mairon turned to face the new threat.
“It is highly unusual that Dwarves of Khazad-dûm show such interest in Elven matters,” Mairon commented to Tyelpë, whose body was never far from him. “They must have liked you more than I thought; that misguided affection must be behind this surprise attack.”
The Dwarves fled before his might, and at first, he felt triumphant, but the Doors of Durin were already shut when he arrived, and he could not open them. He had obtained many secrets from Celebrimbor, and the Elf would have revealed this one in time, he was sure of it. But he never thought it necessary.
“I might have made a mistake,” Mairon mouthed to Tyelpë. “I might have ended your life too soon.”
Tyelpë kept his secrets.
“Very well,” Mairon snapped. “Let the Dwarves stay in their stony grave.”
His thoughts were already elsewhere. Celebrimbor had not confirmed it, but it could not be otherwise. Ereinion Gil-galad had to be in possession of one or more Elven rings. His eyes turned to Lindon, seeking, but the rings were hidden from his sight.
Next time Mairon lay down to sleep in the war camp, he dreamt of Tyelpë. He did not need sleep very often, but the recent events had left him utterly exhausted. It was a strange dream, for their parts were reversed in it. In the dream, Mairon found himself unable to move. He lay on a hard surface, perhaps a table, and Celebrimbor’s dark shape loomed over him. Tyelpë had not hurt him yet, but he would, soon.
“Give it to me.” Tyelpë’s voice was low and menacing; it chilled his blood. “You can’t have it any more.”
At first, he did not understand Tyelpë’s words. Then he saw a knife in Tyelpë’s hand, and how he eyed the One Ring. Mairon fought the ropes in vain.
“No!” He hated the panic in his voice. “You won’t take it! It’s mine!”
“Surrender to me,” Tyelpë said coolly. “Trust me, it is for your own good.”
“Never! You only want it for yourself, like the other rings you hid from me!”
“I am so sorry, Mairon.”
The knife approached fast, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Somehow, he had lost all his powers. Soon, Tyelpë would cut the finger that wore the Ring. All was lost.
Mairon woke screaming in his tent.
He groped for his finger and felt a huge sense of relief when he touched the smooth gold surface of the Ring. He saw an after-image of Tyelpë’s cruel knife hovering before him – he did not want to sleep again.
Instead, he went outside and walked around the camp. Tyelpë’s body was kept in the middle square, and it was there his steps took him. A pair of guards stood beside the banner pole within a circle of torches lit around it, and straightened when they recognized him. Mairon dismissed them, and waited until he was alone before turning towards Tyelpë.
“Don’t you dare disturb my dreams anymore, or I will cut your body into pieces,” he threatened.
You have made yourself a monster.
Mairon’s heart jumped. That was Tyelpë’s voice in his mind – but that was impossible. If the Elf’s spirit had lingered, he would have known it. He would have dragged him back once more, forced him to reveal the location of the rings at last.
No, it could not have been him. Mairon was tired, and the night carried strange whispers. He must have misheard.