Chapter Text
Beta read by nuriman
My forge is quiet.
Not silent - no place on the Isle of Almaren is truly silent - but quiet enough that I can think. The ever-present hum of enchantments sings in the background like a low, irritating choir. Somewhere above me, the great bells of Lord Aulë's central foundry toll the hour.
I ignore them. My schedule is more precise than theirs.
Technically speaking, this forge isn't supposed to exist. It lies beneath Aulë's greater workshop, tucked behind a sealed stone door that only I can open. The Valar - for all their supposed wisdom - overlook the minor details. They assume obedience. Once a Maia shows diligence, they stop asking questions.
I give them diligence. I give them results.
They gave me the name Mairë - "the admirable." Suitable for a low-ranking, dependable Maia. An assistant to the Master Smith himself. They smile when they say it, as if assistant were a charming novelty - a harmless title for a spirit without ambition.
I don't mind. It's the truth. Or close enough.
I file reports. I refine instructions. I complete Aulë's assignments without complaint. I speak when spoken to and vanish when I am not needed. No one suspects that I sometimes forget where I am - or worse, who I am.
Like now.
The core of the device hovers before me, spinning slowly in the air - crystal, metal, and an unfamiliar form of divine harmonics. Aulë would disapprove if he saw it. Not because of what it does, but because it serves no sanctioned purpose.
I built it in pieces. Quietly. Beneath bureaucratic time and buried paperwork.
Its shape doesn't fit the designs of this world. No elegance. No ornamentation. It's efficient. Brutal. I don't remember where I learned it. I just… know. Every step feels like recollection - like following blueprints etched into the back of my skull.
I stare at the orb, uneasy. The gaps in my memory have been growing - like cracks spreading across glass.
Sometimes I see fire. Smoke. Soldiers shouting in a language no Maia speaks, clutching these orbs like lifelines. A map - drawn by my own hand - marked with symbols of conquest and cost. I see artillery. Tanks. Rifles.
Weapons of war that have never been dreamed in this world.
And every time I hear the name Eru Ilúvatar, my half-ethereal stomach twists like I've swallowed something rotten.
I don't know why.
No - that's a lie. A convenient one. And I'm getting tired of telling it to myself.
Today, I spoke aloud to the device.
Not in Valarin. Not in the Song.
In something else.
"Elenium type… ninety-seven?"
The words felt right. Too right. Like a ritual spoken out of habit.
And now, the device pulses.
It knows me.
Something deep in me responds - not like a Maia heeding her master's will, but like a soldier checking her weapon. Like a machine awaiting activation.
I press my palm against the core and whisper:
"Flight unit. Primary synchronization protocol-"
A noise. Followed by a terrifying, overwhelming presence.
I freeze.
The wards around my forge don't flicker. They shatter, like glass beneath a hammer. Every containment field, every divine lock, fails in silence.
I turn. This place lies beneath Aulë's own sanctum. No one should be able to breach that without his express permission. Yet an intruder stands where the sealed door was, unmoved by the devastation he has caused.
I recognize him at once, much to my horror.
Melkor. The Eldest and the Enemy of the Valar. The Dark Power. The self-proclaimed 'Elder King'.
The Valar speak of him now only in strategy councils and laments. He's no longer a whispered fear. He is an open war. He sets forests ablaze, unmakes mountains, poisons light. He is the storm they cannot contain. An unstoppable army of one.
And somehow, he's here-in the heart of their domain. My domain. In his oppressive presence, my forge feels suffocatingly small.
I drop into a low, formal bow.
"My lord," I say deferentially. "I was not expecting such an… august presence."
He steps forward, not slowly-just unhurried. Like nothing here could possibly challenge him.
"You keep a well-guarded forge," he says, eyes drifting over the walls. "Almost paranoid, for a loyal lapdog of Manwë."
"My loyalty is to my assignments," I say, still bowed. "And to order. I wished only to avoid misunderstanding."
He circles the room, like a hawk in no rush to strike.
"Order," he murmurs. "Yes. You serve Aulë?"
"I do." I lift my head, just enough to meet` his gaze without seeming insolent. "Faithfully."
He chuckles. The sound is rich, amused, yet colder than Varda's starlight.
"You build forbidden things in secret. Devices with unknown harmonics. Designs that whisper of another world. Tell me, little Maia - how does your loyalty to Aulë explain that?"
I pause. A breath. A beat.
"It does not," I admit softly. "But it explains the need for efficiency."
He studies me, head tilted. "How curious. You hide your truth behind perfect function. Aulë always favored that in his tools."
My hands stay clasped at my waist - relaxed, but close enough to the workbench to seize the orb if needed.
"You speak rather kindly for a traitor," I say carefully. "The Valar consider you the Enemy."
"The Valar named me Enemy when I refused to sing Father's song." His voice sharpens, just slightly. "I build without their permission. I reshape what they would leave untouched. In that, we are kin."
"I am nothing like you," I say, quick and mechanical.
"No?" He smiles faintly. "You buried yourself in service. Hid your mind inside a mask. You bow well, Mairë. But that's not the shape of your soul."
I stiffen, eyes narrowing.
"I serve the Song."
"No," he says, stepping closer. "You only serve Order. Efficiency. Results. You remember too much not to question."
The orb pulses behind me. Nervous. Alive. It senses the storm in the forge. Just like I do.
"I remember nothing," I lie.
"Then you shall remember everything," he says-and lifts his hand.
I react-instinctively. A wave of divine force erupts from me. Not an attack. A shield. A plea for protection.
He brushes it aside like smoke.
The backlash knocks me off my feet. I hit the floor with a bone-deep thud.
"You're not a true warrior," he says mildly. "You're a tactician. A manipulator. You think in probabilities and risk matrices. But this isn't your battlefield anymore."
"Then get out of my forge," I snap.
"This is my brother's property. You own nothing here," he says, laughing. Then he steps forward.
"I am no servant of yours."
"Not yet."
He lifts his hand again-and this time, he doesn't strike with force. He grips my essence. Not flesh. Not soul.
Identity.
A metaphysical vise tightens around me, and I drop to one knee, choking on something deeper than air.
"You buried yourself well," he says. "Even Aulë never saw it. But I can."
My form shudders-flickering.
"I am Maia-" I whisper.
"You were a mortal girl," he says softly. "Born to war. A soul forged in fire and irony. Denier of God. Killer of mercy. The creature who spat in the face of divinity and refused to kneel."
"I'm not-" I try to resist. But it's like trying to hold back a tsunami with paper.
And then-
It happens.
Not an awakening.
A detonation.
---
I see a girl.
Blonde hair. Blue eyes too sharp for her age. In uniform.
I see mud. Trenches. Men screaming. Snow falling on corpses.
A rifle kicks in her hands - my hands.
She barks orders - cold, surgical, efficient.
The enemy dies. Her men die. She doesn't care. She tracks objectives. Ratios. Survival.
A god laughs.
A voice speaks in a hundred tongues:
"Do you still deny Me, child?"
I scream at it. Rage. Scorn. Hatred.
It sends me back.
---
I fall again - but not into the forge.
Into memory.
Into war.
A battlefield. Bodies broken like toys.
The sky split by fire and steel.
A child kneeling in blood and defeat.
A whisper: "Is this what you wanted, Tanya?"
---
I open my eyes, gasping - not from exhaustion, but from impact. Like my identity has rebooted.
I'm still Maia.
Still in the forge.
But now… I remember everything.
I clutch the worktable, steadying myself.
Melkor stands before me, still and watchful.
"You bastard," I rasp. My voice shakes - not from weakness. From fury.
"You should thank me," he says.
"You just ripped me apart."
"I reassembled you. No more doubt. No more pretending."
He steps closer. I don't flinch.
"You're awake now. Tanya von Degurechaff. Mairë. Soldier. Spirit. Enemy of gods."
"You think that changes anything?" I ask. "I still serve no one."
"You remember now," he says. "That's all I wanted."
I glare at him.
I want to destroy him.
I also want to understand him.
That's the curse of reason. I must weigh every option - even vengeance.
The orb pulses in my hand - golden and whole. As if my restored mind unlocked its true nature.
Melkor nods. "You built a weapon to remember yourself. Even your hands remembered what your mind tried to forget."
I say nothing.
I'm calculating. Reassessing.
Finally, I speak. "You want me to serve you."
"I want you to choose," he replies. "You can't stay in the middle."
He's not wrong.
I stare at the orb. My little act of rebellion against my superior.
I remember every time I killed for orders. For control. For the sake of order.
And I remember Eru Ilúvatar - I remember Being X.
Smug. Demanding. Self-righteous.
My lip curls.
"Do you wish for me to become another corrupted servant of yours?" I ask.
"Not necessarily. I need an architect for my new order."
"I'll build." I look him in the eye. "But I won't kneel before you."
He smiles widely, an expression full of jagged teeth - and this time, it even seems real.
"I never asked you to."