Work Text:
"Mairon."
At the sound of his name, the Maia shakes his head firmly, his hammer coming down on the hot metal in time with the song.
"Mairon, please," Curumo repeats, laying a hand on the other's shoulder. "This is important." His voice carries an undertone of urgent anxiety, and Marion is as concerned by it as he is by the breaking of the forge-song.
"Curumo, you know that we do not interrupt the song, not until--"
"Until we finish, or until something prevents us from doing so," Curumo cuts him off. "There is a...visitor," he explains slowly.
Mairon sets his hammer down upon his worktop and turns towards the forge's open door, and the form standing on the threshold.
He stands tall and relaxed in front of the room's roaring fires, and the Maiar closest to the door shift at their worktops, their discomfort obvious in their stances if not in their singing. Melkor's black robes and hair stand out against the forge's light. He smiles as his gaze shifts to Mairon, dark eyes almost playful.
"Is Lord Aulë not--"
"He is in council," Curumo whispers. "Mairon, could you...? He trusts you, and if he came back and saw..."
"I understand," says Mairon. "Will you keep my fire burning in the meantime? I cannot allow it to set this way," he asks, glancing at the half-shaped ring left on his worktop.
"Of course--be careful," Curumo adds, catching Mairon by the arm. "You remember how he is." His eyes go from the Vala to Mairon and back nervously, and Mairon gives him a small nod before extricating himself from his friend's grip.
He takes a deep breath, the air hot and as familiar as the form he takes. He pushes a long red strand of hair out of his eyes and pulls it tighter in its tie, sets his shoulders before making his way past the others. “Lord Melkor,” he says, and this close, he is acutely aware of just how small he is in comparison to the Vala. Having to look up to make eye contact only makes Mairon feel the less formidable, their differences in power aside.
“And who might you be?” asks Melkor, smile widening.
“I am Mairon,” he answers, crossing his arms over his chest.
“So you are Aulë’s favorite,” Melkor raises a black eyebrow.
Mairon is acutely aware of how the Vala is taking in his work-disheveled appearance, and of the song diminishing around him as the other Maiar begin to notice the two. Mairon straightens taller, drawing himself to his full height, though comparatively, it does little good. “I mean no disrespect, but my lord Aulë would not be pleased to return to your presence here.,” says Mairon. “You are distracting my fellow Maiar.”
“I am simply observing, Mairon, and where is the harm in that?” counters Melkor. “Tell me, the rings you wear on your fingers--are they of your own making?”
Mairon glances down at his hands and the silver rings that glinted there, then shifts to clasp them behind his back. His fingers work at a ring on his thumb, twisting it around. “I must ask you to leave,” he insists.
Melkor pauses, eyebrows furrowed in exaggerated consideration. “...only if you accompany me,” he says, and the glint in his eyes is even sharper.
He takes another deep breath--the forge is all but silent now, the roar of the fires audible without the voices of the Maiar to obscure it. What will Lord Aulë say, when he finds out? “Then I shall do so,” answers Mairon, voice betraying hesitation despite himself. Mairon can hear whispers, little concerned sounds in the group behind him. He knows that Curumo, and later Aulë, will not find this a pleasant surprise, but he follows Melkor out of the forge regardless.Maybe he is curious--He Who Arises in Might is not often spoken of, and with good reason.
Melkor stops a short distance away, standing relaxed against the wall of the one of the forge’s storage halls. “May I?” he asks, reaching for Mairon’s hand. “I never did get a proper chance to look at those rings.”
Slowly. Mairon extends his hands for the Vala to take. He is distantly aware of the fact that this is dangerous--he was there at the Great Music, he remembers Melkor’s discord--but Melkor has also done nothing to hurt him thus far. His palms are cold against the backs of Mairon’s hands, surprisingly so, and his fingers are light, gentle as they turn the rings around.
“So are they?” Melkor asks, tracing over an engraved character on one of the rings. “Of your craftsmanship?”
"They are," Mairon retracts his hands, letting them fall to his sides.
"Exceptional," replies the other, following their motion with his gaze. "They could hold vast power, should you wish them to. And do you?"
"The forges of Lord Aulë do not produce such things," explains the Maia. "There is no need of them in Arda, so we do not concern ourselves with their production."
"But you clearly do," Melkor looks interested. Mairon does not know if that is a bad thing. "I take it you made them on your own time, then? They do not bear the mark of the forges, so the engraving must be your own."
"A self-indulgent detail, my lord, nothing more." Mairon looks down at his hands, carefully turning the each engraving that Melkor had exposed back inwards toward his palms.
"But is credit for your works truly an indulgence, Mairon? It is your effort, your time, that brings them forth, so is it not just that they bear your name? Should you not take pride in the beauty of what your efforts have wrought?" Melkor crosses his arms over his chest, regarding Mairon expectantly when the Maia does not speak. Instead, he shifts, clasping his hands together and covering most of the rings. "They are nothing to be ashamed of," continues Melkor, "So why do you hide them?"
"They are not made for Arda, as the works of the forges should be," says Mairon softly. "My lord Aulë would be greatly displeased, if he knew." In truth, he never should have made the rings, or he should have melted them down after their creation. The other Maiar would have done so, had they had the impulse to create such things at all. A small ripple of worry runs through him as he thinks of the Valar's lectures and advice that the Maiar were not to trust Melkor, should they meet him, that he was betrayal and discord. "Do you...plan to tell him, my lord? About the rings, the signatures?"
An incredulous laugh issues from the Vala at the question. "Of course not, Mairon, because there is no wrong in your actions." Melkor smiles, and his eyes seem much warmer than his hands had felt on Mairon's. "How can I incriminate someone for taking credit where it is due, when I did the same so long ago? These Valar, these Aratar..." he speaks the words with a tone of pure revulsion, "They would vilify you for this, as they do me, in a way, they have done so already. You wear your rings inverted to please Aulë, and he takes the credit for what the Maiar of his forges, for what you expend your energy to produce. There is no wrong in wanting to be recognized, Mairon. You deserve that much at least."
"And how do I know that you do not deceive me?" asks Mairon. What Melkor implies is enticing, yes, but it seems almost overly so. "How do I know that you do not aim to corrupt me further?"
"You do not," says Melkor, spreading his hands in front of himself as if in offering. "But I assure you that there is nothing corrupt in coming into your own as you deserve. They would hold you back from such a future, one of power, of might. Aulë has chosen you for his favorite, and is one to keep his prized possessions hidden, as altruistic as he professes to be."
Mairon bites back his confusion, though he knows of what Melkor speaks. Aulë favors him, watches over him when time allows. Many a time, Mairon has turned from his work to find his master standing at this shoulder, observing his efforts. If he says that such close scrutiny does not cause him some measure of discomfort, Mairon would be a liar. "...is this what you came to the forges to do? Speak to me, of credit and of power?"
Melkor leans forward and lightly places a cold hand on Mairon's shoulder, keeping it there with an increased, reassuring pressure when Mairon does not flinch or move away from the touch. "I came out of simple curiosity, Mairon. What followed my arrival was, I would like to believe, a favorable turn of events for the both of us."
"And do you ask me to leave with you?" Mairon's gaze meets Melkor's, and he feels no fear--he finds that he, too, feels a certain curiosity.
"I am no master unto you, and do not aim to be. Whether you stay or go, be it with myself or with another, or alone, is not for me to ask of you." Melkor removed his hand and flicked a strand of black hair away from his face. “But know that you have a choice in what you do.”
Mairon watches as Melkor departs, making his way toward the outskirts of Valinor. He brings his right hand to eye level, turning a ring on his thumb to show his initial, etched delicate into the silver.
“Mairon!”
He turns to see Curumo standing in the forge’s doorway. A few of the others stand not far behind, looks of concern clear in their faces.
Mairon turns the ring back inwards. As he approaches the door to return, Curumo gives him a questioning look.
“He was no threat,” says Mairon in explanation as he resumes his place at his worktop. “Thank you for maintaining my fire.”
“It was no trouble,” Curumo replies. “Do you plan to tell Lord Aulë, or shall I?”
“I shall speak to him,” answers Mairon as he surveys the forge and his fellow Maiar. The song takes form again, slowly, as they rejoin in work. Next to him, Curumo nods at his response and takes up the plate he had been shaping. Mairon looks at his own toolset, at the partially completed ring slowly setting in its yet-wrong shape. He hesitates before taking it up again--it must be melted down, he has left it too long--and slipping it into a pocket on his shirt.