Chapter Text
Almaren, Almaren, Almaren.
This is not what had been promised when they descended upon Arda, Mairon likes to think, though this thought is best kept to himself. Yet he has it all the same, and ponders: It is not fair that Maiar have been made to serve, and Valar to be served. And it is not fair, that he was born maia and no vala, for he would have better fared as lord of his own domain, rather than a cog in the wheels of someone else’s.
Anyway, it is only minuscule, this edge of dissatisfaction. Just a tiny flicker against his fëa, nothing than can’t be squashed, and nothing that ought to grow.
It is harmless, and thoughts are his own prerogative. It is not as if anything will come out of it.
For when has ever a candle become a blaze?
“Here you go, Mayazônoz.”
Aulë drops the bundle of parchment in Mairon’s arms, and bestows him a splendid smile. His hand, bigger than Mairon’s head, comes to settle on top of it - proceeding to give him what could only be called as a ruffle.
Mairon briefly wonders when he has become a dog, before graciously accepting the parchments. “For when is it due, my lord?”
That big hand shrugs the words away. “There is no due date in mind. I only trust that you will give it the highest of priorities, and present me the work in time.”
But how can it be on time, if he does not know which time?
Mairon does not say so, though. He almost never says so, never speaks these horrid thoughts that nestle in his head and make him feel guilty afterwards. It is as if they have a life of their own, and he can control them no more than the shape of Arda, or Aulë’s mind. Though that might not be fair, Aulë’s mind, Mairon has recently discovered, might get nudged in the right direction if one just knows how to.
It was a fascinating discovery. The use of words, since then, only used to deliver information and receive it, could be further used. If Mairon chose them carefully, and said the things in a precise, neat order, each sensibly linked to the other, then it might influence what the other is saying. Is it not truly riveting? The only use of speech, not even action, can directly influence the thoughts, words, and will of others.
He will stress over the work, Mairon knows this. That he has no particular delay in mind will either make him push it aside until he works in urgency, or it will consume him and have him finish it in two days of time- when perhaps Aulë meant months.
Mairon itches to ask for a specific date. It would save him many days of turmoil.
“You seem deep in thoughts, my little maia,” Aulë is saying- and ah- Mairon has not been listening then! “What is it that consumes your attention so?”
“The work you have given me, my lord.”
Aulë laughs at that, and yet Mairon fails to see why. It is not as if he meant to be funny. “I have given it to you seconds ago, and already it pulls your focus away? You are very commendable in your diligence.”
Is he? Isn’t it common, or expected, to think of the work given when he has just received it? Mairon blinks for all answers at first, and nods- for he does not know what to say. He settles for, when it seems evident he’s expected to reply: “If you say so, my lord.”
“I say so!” Aulë’s voice rumbles like thunder.
Not the angry kind, though, not the way Tulkas sometimes is, storming through the forges and demanding whatever hits his fancy. It irritates Mairon to no end, not so the entitlement for Tulkas is Vala and can do as he pleases, but the disruption it causes inside the forge. It inevitably sends the maiar scurrying like thousands of bugs, either distraught or distracted, and it causes delay in their work.
“Walk with me a bit,” Aulë tells him next. He lays his beringed hand on Mairon’s shoulder, engulfing it with the size difference, and pulls - as gently as he can - Mairon to his side. He always wishes to be gentle, Aulë, but he is not always; for he is simply too vast and too tall for gentleness. “I wish to hear of your thoughts about the smithery, and all that I am too intimidating to hear.” He winks at Mairon then. “I am aware that not all comes to my ears, but I trust you shall tell me what I need to know and keep to yourself what I need to.”
Mairon follows his steps, thus, clutching the bundle of parchment to his chest. He ought to build something that could hold them all, he absently thinks. Something sturdy that wouldn’t make his arms so full. Perhaps he can think about it when his work is done, or if there is ever a lull in it.
They pass in front of the furnaces, though Mairon steps a bit further from it to avoid losing one of the parchments, and make their way through the smithery. It is a bit as if a beehive: tunnels carefully constructed not to crumble, slithering their way through the mountain they had dug into, and rooms with each a set purpose.
There are the furnaces of course, but also many workshops: with each their designated use. Some for jewellery-making, some for practical inventions, some even for what passes as weaponry (mostly for Oromë and his maiar.) Then there are the cellars, who hold the raw material they need; and the garden - otherwise Yavanna would have been displeased - and of course the cleaning rooms. West of the furnaces, there are also the rooms: which have all desks and beds, for though they have no use of sleeping some of the maiar have taken a fancy to it. It is a large place but they are large in numbers too, and so it has been decreed it shall be three maiar per room.
Only the headmaia has the luxury of his own room; and then of course, there are the large suites for Aulë and Yavanna themselves, who surpass in glory the rest of the mountain.
Aulë is leading Mairon to his very private workshop, which is an honour he did not receive yet, and which unfailingly makes him nervous. Does this mean he has to repeat things of high value, or else he will never again be invited there?
So, Mairon babbles. He tells Aulë things in order of importance, decreasing. It goes from projects undertaken by the Maiar to some inventions made under the reason of practicality, to the little friendships and more blooming between some of the maiar, to the reordering of some rooms and their inhabitants. He tries to emphasize some of the subjects, giving them more importance than they truly hold, for the sake of sounding well-informed.
Aulë seems to see right through it though, if the little smile lurking on his lips is any indication of it. Still he comments not on the matter, and lets Mairon babble to his heart’s content. He nods when there is need for it, asks questions when the moment demands it, and agrees when approbation is needed.
For a fleeting moment, Mairon wonders if Aulë truly wished information - or if this was an excuse to hear Mairon talking. But it is absurd, there is nothing to gain in this, nothing of worth for their lord. Is there?
“But all these questions might be better suited for the headmaia Rušurikhastāz, my lord,” Mairon tells him, somewhat confused. “He is the one in charge of supervising the forges for you.”
“Are you teaching me on how I rule my own domain?”
The words are amused, but Mairon does not understand the amusement in it, and his face blanches some. He wrings his hands above the parchments. “I would not dare, my lord.”
Aulë rumbles once more with laughter. “Be at ease, Mayazônoz. I was only jesting, you do not need to take it to heart.”
Mairon swallows back that he has no way of knowing when Aulë is jesting and when he is not, though he meticulously catalogues that the little crinkle of his eye means good humour. It is worth it to note it for later. Sometimes the features speak louder than the words, and Mairon is keeping a little mental notebook for all the facial expressions there are: so that he might associate them with meaning.
“It is noted, my lord.”
A little sigh comes from said lord, and again Mairon isn’t certain of why, but he presents a bow. He says next, a little exhausted, even though they have not yet reached Aulë’s private workshop: “If I could be permitted to retire so I may work on the tasks you have given me?”
Eyes as dark as mountain-stone seem to sweep through him, and for a moment Mairon anxiously awaits the answer, but then Aulë’s handle settles once more on his shoulder. Their Vala is very fond of touch, using it as a replacement for words sometimes. “You may,” Aulë nonetheless says. “But take it easy, it is not as urgent as you will make it. Enjoy some rest with your fellow maiar. Perhaps you might even go out of the mountain and witness my lady’s gardens; some additions have been made.”
Mairon has very little appreciation for the work of his lord’s lady. It is not that it is lacking in beauty, but it has so very little use. What is the point of oxygen? What is the point of photosynthesis? What is the point of nectar gathering, of pollinisation? Yes, it helps grow, but is it really of use for them?
Still, he says: “Of course, my lord.”
And there’s that.
Later it might be said that even in Almaren - Mairon, Gorthaur, Tar-Mairon, Necromancer, Sauron - has had the skill to bedazzle and enchant those around him. It is quite not true.
Not that he is disliked, but he mostly keeps to himself. He has little friends amongst his kind, and even less for the maiar of Aulë, for he does not look kindly on their wanton need for gossip. Yes, gossip. Such a useless thing, that distracts them from their work and causes them endless speculations. Yet it seems to fascinate them even stronger than their work, and such fascination ends in whispers trailed within the mountain.
It is such weak gossip too. There is not much to talk about in Almaren, so it is about the Valar and their courting to each other, or it is about the friendships amongst the Maiar, and sometimes more than that. It always seems to turn again the same subjects: who fancies who, and who dislikes who. Mairon has neither care nor time for it.
His few friends lay in presently three individuals. There is Eonwë of course, or Ionowez in their singing tongue, the herald of the Eldar King Manwë. Follows Iþilwê, or Ithilwë, named for her soft footsteps and discreet fëa and who follows the lady Vana; and the last is Telðâmaz - or - Teldamaë, who - for his whispering complaints about it - is in service of the Vala Oromë. It is not a service he enjoys so very much, or so he has admitted in a moment of weakness, for there are so many hounds following Oromë, and they bite.
Mairon has never said anything about being dissatisfied with the Vala he is bound to. He is not, truly. He might be dissatisfied with a few things, such as the gossip, but he does not regret Eru binding him to Lord Aulë. It allows him to work, and to create, and there is no greater purpose.
Today he is taking Lord Aulë’s advice on stepping out of the mountain. It is a fine day as it is always in Almaren, the few clouds above the sky all painted white and not dark, and the lamps shining their bright light upon the realm.
He has decided to see Eonwë first, for he has not spoken to his friend in a long time, and his steps have taken him to the bottom of the peak where the maiar of Manwë sometimes rest. Hopefully, he thought of finding Eonwë there - and it has not missed.
Eonwë is, as always, ecstatic to have him visit. He had engulfed Mairon in an embrace that included wings, and pulled back, joy overwriting his features. Then, he had dragged Mairon by the wrist to the meadow where the grass grew high, and made him sit there with him - eager to learn of everything that has passed since they had last seen each other.
They’re there now, sitting within that meadow, trying their best not to squash any living life of the Lady Yavanna.
“He has asked you to come to his private workshop you say?” Eonwë is asking, as enthusiast as ever. “But why did you not stay longer, that you might have the chance of seeing it?”
“Work awaited,” Mairon says, as if there is no other possible answer. His fiery-golden eyes trail over the grass, spotting a spider tending restlessly to its webs. “It precedes any other aspiration I might have.”
“But this was part of your work,” Eonwë gently nudges. His wings are sprawled behind him, wide open, and the feathers ruffle with every breeze. “It was an invitation by your lord, the work could have waited a little more.”
Mairon does not know how to say that he felt uncomfortable with the onslaught of questions, and the expectations he could not grasp. That it felt as if his heart was pounding in his chest not to know, and that with the stakes so unclear it made him feel as if each answer of his could lead to disappointment. Clarity is important. Clarity can make him answer adequately, but if he does not know, how can he tread through the conversation?
It is not a problem Eonwë seems to face. Either Manwë is clearer in his speech or either Eonwë has none of the failings Mairon seems to have - in either case, there is a little flicker of jealousy in his heart. Why must he be made so?
“Hopefully the invitation will come again. If I finish the work quickly, and it is to my lord’s standards, then it might be sooner than later. But enough talking of me, what is it you have been up to? Is there any news?”
Eonwë does not immediately answer, which is sign that yes there are news, and they are not of the nice kind. It is something Mairon has noticed: if someone immediately jumps on the answer, it is usually of the joyful kind. If someone dally-daddles, hesitates, or ponders his words, then the subject to be approached is difficult.
Mairon does not push more. Another thing he has discovered from talking to the rest of his kin, silence sometimes pushes words better than talking.
And indeed, no longer than sixteen seconds past, Eonwë sighs. Which is another sign of a trouble. The sigh is long, and it is directed towards the ground, as if Eonwë does not wish to meet Mairon’s eyes.
“Some more maiar have been disappearing,” he finally replies. “We do not know for certain what has happened of them, but we can take a guess. It is Lord Manwë’s brother, you see. We do not know why but it seems he is stealing Maiar from other domains.”
“Stealing maiar..?”
Mairon was not aware that maiar could be stolen, as if raw materials from the cellars. He frowns quietly at the thought. To what use?
“Yes,” Eonwë says, looking aggravated. “We have no formal proof of course, which means my Lord can not act on demanding retribution, but it seems highly plausible. They have been disappearing, and they have been spotted talking to him days before the disappearance. One even left a letter. He did not speak of where he was going, but he spoke of being dissatisfied with his current service!”
“Disatisfied?” Mairon echoes, hollow.
“Yes!” Eonwë seems to mistake the echo for outrage. “It is heresy, do you not think? They have been given countless freedom by their Vala, and affection, as well as power, and they call themselves dissatisfied. What more could be given? Are the lands not our perfect haven, for ours to shape?”
For the Valar to shape, Mairon does not say. Or if the Maiar do some shaping, it is only by the will of their lord, none out of their own volition or initiative.
“Is there truly no clue as to where they could have gone?”
“None,” Eonwë says, quietly. “Or perhaps beyond the lands we can reach, and on to the part of Arda that Lord Melkor has claimed. If truly they have been stolen by him, and with him should they be. But it is too far for us to seek there, and what can we do if the Maiar do not wish to return?”
“Are they truly stolen then, if they left of their own will?”
Eonwë’s wings flutter angrily. “Is it truly their own will, or is it machinations and lies from Lord Melkor, who has turned their minds against their own?”
Mairon half-closes his eyes for a second, before opening them again. Absently, he zeroes on the little spider he spotted earlier, and sees that it has now captured a fly in its web. Is it for sustenance?
“Has it happened before?” Mairon asks, turning towards Eonwë. “That Maiar have had their minds manipulated by Lord Melkor?”
He wonders if it is the same principle as the one he used with Aulë, and what makes of him then. Manipulation, it is equally frightening and fascinating. What it used by words? Mairon knew how to nudge in the right direction with words, but to turn one’s mind completely, and better - or worse - against itself? This was something else entirely. How easy was it? Could he fall prey to it?
Surely not, if he was aware of the manipulation.
“It has,” Eonwë replies. He tucks his wings closer to himself. “Before we descended upon Almaren. Do you remember it not?”
Mairon isn’t sure he does. His memories of before are muddled. He remembers a great singing, so strong he had been pulled towards it, and he remembers making the decision of leaving the timeless halls. He remembers being put in the service of a Vala, and remembers what it is like to be chosen as a maia: to have servitude written in golden ink over his fëa.
“Tell me again of it,” Mairon says instead.
“I do not know whether there is much to say. He sang, and a song powerful and of discord, and many of our kin sang with him. It was the first manipulation, you see, that he turned their heads with his singing and pulled them away from Eru All-Father.”
“A different kind of manipulation then,” Mairon insists. “He did not use words, he used the Song.”
“Does it make a difference?”
Mairon shakes his head. “I am only trying to understand how he proceeds. It is easier to be guarded against it.” And perhaps because he too, wants to know, how. How to shift simple nudge into full agreement? How to change completely a mind only with words? Is it only achievable by Valar, or is it something even maiar can do?
If only he knew, then Mairon would be guarded indeed against it. And perhaps, he’s thinking, it could help him to put an end to the endless gossip within Aulë’s mountain. Well, this is useless thinking anyway: not that it would be good to indulge in such manipulations. Though they would be harmless, and for the greater good, no? If it would be to have the Maiar work further? Mairon isn’t certain. Manipulation is bad, that much is certain. But are there degrees to it, or is all of it bad?
He does not know who could have a heart open enough to listen without judgement, and offer him advice on it.
Eonwë sighs again, and wraps a wing around Mairon’s shoulders. “I shall not let it happen to you. If you ever see a hint of his presence, then call for me, and I will protect you.” His eyes are warm and sincere, the pale blue of the skies beyond the clouds. “I will not let him steal you.”
Mairon’s cheeks warm, in a way which is not caused by the furnaces. “Nor shall I let myself be stolen.”
A laugh! “I shall think not either. How then would you work on your projects, or craft a thousand more of wonders? There is no other place for you.”
It is said with warmth, and in hopes of lifting Mairon’s spirits, but he is not sure it is working. Indeed, there is no other place for him- and yet, yet, he is not fully happy with it. But it is alright surely. Complete happiness could not be reached always, and perhaps it will come with time. Perhaps, with the passing of ages, he will find utter contentment.
Mairon has to cling to this hope.
“I am content,” he says, the way he’s been starting to use words to please others rather than deliver factual information. “-to be here with you, Ionowez, beholding the beauty of our lands.”
The happy crooning that Eonwë offers in exchange is worth the little exaggeration. It is harmless, Mairon tells himself, and it makes Eonwë pleased.
One of the parchments Mairon had been loaded with was not a task for Aulë, but for the Lady Yavanna. She has her own Maiar of course, so it is a little surprising - and irritating - that he should be the one doing the work, but Mairon has no leeway to refuse.
So it is that he finds himself, after having finished two bracelets, one wrist-cuff and a belt, strolling the gardens of the Lady Nienna herself. It seems there is a plant which only grows there, which is not convenient at all for the Lady Yavanna needs it often.
He has a rough sketch of what to look for, which is at least that. The petals are supposedly of a dark blue color, with a golden centre. Mairon isn’t certain to know what they will be used for, but he is not asked to ponder that, he is asked to retrieve them.
So his steps take him there.
Mairon does not really like the gardens of Lady Nienna. It seems as if a perpetual misery hovers above them, which fogs the mind and poison the thoughts. If there is anyone who’s abandoning themselves to manipulation, for certain it is her, for why else would anyone suddenly start to feel despair when they come close? The despair does not come from him, it comes from this place.
Still, he grits his teeth and shoulders on. Mairon continues to try looking for the little flowers, trying his best to remain reasonable and not begin cursing. He’s learned of cursing a while ago: this way of using words to mean abominable things, and he must admit to falling prey to it once or twice. Tiny curses, though. Pest be of this. Or I hope this breaks. Or Begone foul thing.
Mairon is knee-deep into the grass, trying to find these flowers - pest be of them, pest - when he hears the Singing.
It must be Lady Nienna, he thinks at first. Or one of her Maiar - although he has never heard nor seen them. It does ignite some curiosity in his heart. He wonders what they look like, these fleeting Maiar. Perhaps, like those of Ulmo, they have not taken fully humanoid shapes. Perhaps they look like blobs of tears floating around, or perhaps they are as the old trees that bend to touch the ground.
The singing, at least, is beautiful. He has yet to hear of one which is not, of course. Mairon can not help but come a little closer to it, trying to find the owner of this voice.
“Hello?” he asks to the wind. “Who treads these gardens?”
“Who treads them indeed?” replies the wind.
Well, it must not be the wind but it seems like so. Mairon has yet to identify the face behind the voice, and so he turns here and there in search of it. Softly frowning, he puts his basket - empty of flowers - on the ground. “Show yourself!”
A chuckle is carried by the wind. It is a soft thing, not threatening but neither lamenting like the Lady Nienna makes it be.
“So very demanding,” it says. “Do you make use of treading where you do not belong, and dictating answers from those who do?”
Mairon flushes. A deep red colours his cheeks like two dots of paint, and he fights the urge to toy with the bracelets or rings adorning his hands. He has taken the habit of turning them, again, and again, when a situation makes him anxious. It has been noticed, and the headmaia Rušurikhastāz had almost asked him to remove them from his hands - if they proved to be such a distraction.
Fortunately he managed to convince him not to, and took to dig his nails deep into his palms if the urge ever proved too hard to fight.
“I am not demanding anything,” he says. “-but I am curious. If I introduce myself first, will you follow?”
“.. Perhaps.”
“My name is Mayazônoz, then. I am one of the Maiar of Aȝûlêz. I have been sent here to retrieve flowers for his lady-wife. And who are you?”
The chuckle grows, which allows Mairon to finally spot the stranger. It is no wonder he has not seen them until now, for they have climbed one of the willowy trees, and are resting against one of its thick branches. “Here you are,” he breathes.
“Here I am,” the stranger replies, not unkindly. They smile at him, a large thing bereft of warmth, and their pale face is curtained by dark hair. It seems as if a river of silk, endless, pitch black and with no shine to it - as if it was consuming the light by its sole presence. Mairon is immediately fascinated. “Fine, fine! I shall present myself as well, or it will be said I have failed at the most basic rule of politeness. You may call me Thû, and I dwell in Namawāz’ land, Mandos.”
Namo’s land? The stranger is one of Namo’s? Mairon’s eyes widened. He has never met any Maia of Namo either. They are the most secretive kind there is, for they very rarely leave their land, and even less interact with the rest of their kin. It is no wonder that Thû did not initially wish to introduce himself.
“Are you also in this garden for errands?” Mairon asks, next. His curiosity is like a flame within the furnace now, growing with each passing second. He has a thousand and one questions he would like to ask - each carefully written in a notebook he hides under his workdesk. “Is it for the flowers?”
Thû laughs once more, and it is gentler this time - like the chirping of birds in the morning. “Not, Mayazônoz, I am not here for the flowers. An errand, I suppose you might say that- but I fear your presence has interrupted it.”
“Have I?” Mairon hesitates. Should he retreat then? But he has been tasked to come back with the flowers, and he has yet to find them. Additionally, his curiosity is not yet quenched. “It is a shame,” he settles on, flatly.
Curious pale silver-like eyes trail their gaze upon him. “We shall see if it is. You are here for flowers, you said? Which kind?”
“Dark blue, with a golden core. Have you seen of them? Do flowers grow in Mandos?”
“As a matter of fact, they do,” Thû says, amused. “A very specific kind but they do all the same. Are you this interested in flowers? I must confess I have not seen the ones you speak of.” His words are punctuated by a little twirl of the hand, before his fingers close on a wayward leaf. He tears it from the tree, inspecting it. “No. This one is rather green.”
“I said a flower, not a leaf. The first is a reproductive organ which produces gametes and allows for pollinisation. The second is a vegetative organ which is primarily for photosynthesis."
“Ah!” Another cackle, this time louder. “Forgive me for the misconception. I see the semantics are strong with you. I shall not repeat the mistake, if you could only forgive me.”
Mairon squints. Are the words genuine? He is not certain, yet does not want to offend his only chance of talking to a maia of Namo.
“There is nothing to forgive,” he chooses to say instead, settling for neutral ground. “I have only learned of the distinction because of the work attributed to me. I might have made the same mistake if not.”
“How magnanimous,” Thû grins, arching an eyebrow. He crumples the little leaf within his grasp, letting it fall from between his fingers. “Now consider me educated on the matter. So! Shall we have a look together at these flowers you’re looking for? Two sets of eyes are better than one.”
Mairon pointedly grows a third eye on his forehead, and blinks. “The number of eyes does not matter much when we can grow them to our fancy.”
More laughter. Mairon does not quite understand what it is he is saying that is so amusing. He absently toys with one of his rings, before catching himself and digging instead pointed fingernails into the soft flesh of his hand. There.
“It was just a saying, little golden maia. Except if you do not care for my assistance?”
“I do,” Mairon is quick to say. “I do, and I would be grateful for it.” Even more grateful if he could sneak in a few of his questions, and even more if they were to be answered. This is an opportunity he will not squander. “Would you join me on the ground?”
For all answer, Thû jumps down from his branch. He lands gracefully on the grass, uncaring of the vegetation he stomps on, and offers another smile to Mairon. “I shall, and I did. Now let’s look for your flowers: it should not take so much time, vegetation grows aplenty but dark blue should be easily spotted.”
Mairon closes the third eye on his forehead. He nods, and bends to pick up the basket earlier disregarded. The note did not say how many flowers he should pick, so Mairon had a look at previous errands made and the average number of flowers per picking was of seventeen. He should aim for twenty then, as excess is better than scarcity, he thinks.
“You have not answered,” Mairon tries again, sneaking another look at the maia of Namo. “What takes you to the gardens of Nienāðilūz ?”
His hair clashes with his pale skin, a few shades lighter than Mairon’s. He does not have freckles though - whereas Mairon has chosen his fana with a multitude of golden ones. The closer he gets to the lamps, the more of them bloom upon his features.
“My own errands, snoopy little maia.” Thû turns to him and arches an eyebrow again. “It is the only answer you shall receive. Now,” he adds, looking rather pleased with himself. He starts to walk around, crouching here and there to try finding the flowers. “Tell me a bit of yours. How come it is you who searches for the flowers and not one of the Maia this Lady possesses?”
Possesses? This is not the appropriate word, Mairon can not help but think. The shadows of a frown lurk near his features- but it does not appear.
“She is the Lady-wife of my own lord. It is an honour for me to do this work,” he replies. Mairon brushes his fingers through the grass. “And it is amongst the work I have received, and so shall I complete it.”
“So very diligent.”
“One must be or else there is chaos,” Mairon tells him, miffed.
Thû stands from his crouch, and extends one of his long fingers that pokes him. It is quick enough that Mairon does not have the time to be outraged at the familiarity. “And chaos is inherently bad?”
“Well of course it is bad!”
“Oh? Why?” Thû chirps, taking a step back, peaceably. He resumes the search for the flowers, pushing back a strand of hair behind his ear. “Tell me more.”
Mairon remains a little too cross to take the offer for peace. “Chaos is the natural enemy of order, and without order there is no neatness. Without neatness there is no work to be done, and with no work to be done, what-is-the-point?”
Thû holds his hands up, and quips, remarkably amused: “I did not wish to offend you, I am only teasing. I know that you and your kin that dwells within that mountain take work, and the neatness it demands, very seriously.”
They do. Or they all would- if only that gossip were to disappear. Mairon can only wonder of the work that could be made then. If only his Lord Aulë or the headmaia were to do something about it. Pass a rule perhaps, a command of a sort.
“Ah- would you look at that,” Thû suddenly exclaims, pointing at something on the ground. Mairon’s eyes follow - instinctively opening three more on his cheeks and forehead- only to find little specks of blue, and gold. The flowers!
“You found them!”
“We did.”
Mairon shakes his head in abnegation. “It was mostly you,” he says, pleased. He smiles now, a quiet little thing. “We have to cut twenty of them.”
“Twenty? Why so specific?”
Thû crouches all the same, pulling the flowers by their roots to ensure they are whole, dropping them in the basket without taking care of cleaning the dirt. No matter, Mairon shall wash them before presenting them to the Lady Yavanna. He crouches next to Thû, close enough that their hair brush against each other- and starts pulling, albeit more gently than Thû, the flowers one by one.
Mairon tells Thû of his little calculation, which elicits another round of laughter. But what is it that makes him laugh so?
It irritates him, mildly. He will not voice it, but Mairon will be more careful with his words. Is it the principle of a calculation which amused Thû? Should he try telling him of this new domain of mathematics and see if it makes him laugh further?
They finish plucking all the twenty flowers, and a little silence passes between them, before Thû stretches. It is a gesture Mairon has not yet seen on an Ainu, and he observes it with quiet fascination. He will have to try it later, within the privacy of his rooms.
“I believe it is my cue to make my leave,” Thû tells him, with a grin. He extends his hand again, not to poke this time but to pat Mairon’s shoulder. “It was fun, little golden maia.”
Was it?
“But you haven’t answered any of my questions-!” Mairon blurts out before he can repress the thought. He hoped to at least cross up to five of the ones he wrote in his notebook. “You can not leave now.”
Thû’s grin widens until it reaches his ears. “Ah? So many questions? I am in a hurry, but I can answer one- only because I enjoyed our little activity.”
One? Only one? Mairon anxiously turns his rings once more. Which one? He would have to create a coefficient of importance for each question, and then if some bear the same then weight it against each other once more time-
Thû pokes his nose this time. “Do not go deep within yourself. Just ask the first question that comes to mind.”
The first that comes to mind?
The first that comes to mind. The first-
“Are you of the belief manipulation by words can only be done by the Valar or is it something even maiar could do?”
Thû startles at the question. His eyes go wide in surprise- enough so that Mairon regrets, ardently, this stupid question of his. He wrings his hands-! He should not have done it so! He should have weighed the questions-! But he had been pondering this and- when Thû said the first thing that came to mind-
He regrets it now! Mairon swallows, just as Thû continues to be still from the surprise. He should not have asked this to one he did not know so well! What if Thû decides to repeat his words to his own lord, who would then tell Aulë- and what if Aulë misunderstands the reason for his curiosity- and what if they believe he has too been influenced by Lord Melkor-!
But Thû does not repeat the question to his lord.
What Thû does, is laugh.
He roars with laughter, something loud and unashamed, this hilarity that comes deep within. He is almost doubling over from it, one hand pressed against his chest, and laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
“Ah, ah-!” he cackles, when he has managed to pull himself up. “Little golden maia, are you not full of surprises! Which kind of question is that?”
Mairon flushes with embarrassment. “I- It is just-”
But Thû cuts him off, waving his hand. He wipes at his eyes where little golden tears have formed, and says: “Ah- no, no. I do not believe it is exclusive to Valar. It is a skill - or it depends as you see it - that can be achieved by all. Even the firstborn, when they will come to exist.”
Even the firstborn-!
Thû continues to giggle with delight, shaking his head. “This is the first time I have been taken so much by surprise!”
His laughter trails long after him, when he finally goes, leaving Mairon with a question half-answered and so many more born from it. So it is possible, he thinks, eyes wide. It is possible but he does not know how.
And it is, apparently, so easy that even the Firstborns will manage it.
Who could believe such a thing?
A little comment if you enjoyed ? ❤️
Have you guessed who are Mairon's friends in Almaren? :p