In the forges of Aulë there dwelt Mairon, the fairest of the Maia. He was hammering now, as he so often was, working on a new project - a new pair of twin swords, with intricate golden snakes intertwining along the length. He had poured himself over this for many days and many nights, certainly not because he needed to prove himself to the other Maiar, certainly not because he needed to run from the coursing hatred and self-depreciation. He was Mairon the Admirable, for Eru’s sake.

But here he was, spending countless hours at the forge, hammering his feelings away. His red hair was swept haphazardly over his shoulders, long loosened from its braid, and his skin was flushed from the heat. Sweat dripped from his brow, caressed the line of his nose, and dropped onto the anvil. Drip, drip, drip.

Hearing a noise, Mairon whirled around. “Who’s there?”

The hour was late, and the night was whispering her secrets in the dark air. He knew he shouldn’t be afraid, and yet…