#forgedinfellowship

[fellowshipofthefics]

On May 27th, we celebrate all the fantastic forgemasters of Tolkien’s world, be it the Great Smith Aulë, the legendary Fëanor, the Lord of the Rings himself and many more! Grab your hammers and create some fanworks for your favorite craftspeople, spread the word and use the #forgedinfellowship tag to share your masterpieces. 

Happy creating and have fun! We can’t wait to see what you all create for Forged In Fellowship this upcoming weekend!

Special thanks to @cilil (please credit her if you use this banner!) and @i-did-not-mean-to for putting this together! It’s such a fun idea, and we loved the concept of getting to celebrate this day, and encourage others to do the same.

[polutrope]

ohh I love the Silm prompts! may I request either 7 (could not escape and would not yield) or 11 (because he is the son of his father) for Celebrimbor? ~ maglor-my-beloved <3

Thanks for the ask @maglor-my-beloved, and glad you like the prompts! I went for a combination of both. Also sharing today as part of @fellowshipofthefics Forged in Fellowship day.

Celebrimbor at the sack of Sirion, 875 words. Angst.

Warning for moderate violence and a canonical character death.

* * *

What if his father had been among them? It was the first question Celebrimbor asked himself when he smelled the smoke and saw the flames licking the night sky on the outskirts of Sirion.

The next thought, when he pulled his hauberk over his head, was the sickening realisation that, if Curufin had been among them, the mail may have hung less heavily on his shoulders. That he would have lifted his sword more willingly against his own father. The one who had stood by when it was forged, the one whose approval Celebrimbor drank up with a wretched thirst. 

Hatred, that poison he had spent years drawing from his heart, now coursed hotly through his veins. 

Celebrimbor was not a kinslayer. And despite his burning rage, he had no wish to become one. But now, they offered him no escape. To flee would be far worse than to fight. 

He pushed back against the clawing fingers of his bitterness and girt himself to face them—the foes of his chosen kindred—with calm determination. 

He ran through the streets, calling forth the small contingent of fighters Gil-galad had placed under his command. His voice competed with the clamour of others orders: to take up arms, to seek shelter, to fly to the ships, to guard the Lady. His courage contended with the chilling drone of a chorus meant to inspire terror: the voices of seasoned warriors led by the greatest minstrel the Noldor had ever known. 

It did not take the Fëanorians long to force their way to the centre of the town. They spilled out over the quay. Few resisted their advance. Some threw themselves into the river rather than fight. Whether seized by the madness of terror or because they would rather drown than take up arms against another elf, Celebrimbor could only guess. Others, many of them once-warriors of Gondolin, resisted fiercely, unhesitating as their axes bore down upon distant kin, eyes glinting with cold light as their swords found the weak points in their opponents’ armour. Driven, perhaps, by memories of ice and betrayal that had eaten away at them for five long centuries.

Celebrimbor did not allow his gaze to rest on the faces of any of the Fëanorian soldiers. He lifted a fist, signalling to the archers on the roofs behind him to nock their bows. He lowered it, and a spray of arrows whizzed through the air. Few found their mark. 

One of the enemy soldiers turned on him. Celebrimbor drew his sword, his muscles instinctively flexed to fight. His gut churned. His thoughts were elsewhere, where they could not persuade him to drop his weapon and run. 

Then the soldier addressed him. “Lord Celebrimbor.” 

Celebrimbor tightened his grip on his sword hilt, resisting the urge to lower it. The man’s name came to him unbidden. “Calandur.”  

Having spoken it the rage in Celebrimbor’s breast cooled.  Calandur’s jaw was set, his mouth drawn down into a frown, but there was no threat in his eyes.

“Stay behind us, lord.” 

With that, Calandur spun around with a great cry. “A runandor!* Faithful servants of the House of Finwë!” he shouted. “Redeemers! Now is the hour! Turn! Turn and stand your ground!”

Suddenly, a wall of bodies encircled the remaining Fëanorian soldiers. They had only two ways of escape: to cut through their own people or to leap into the river. 

The progress of the battle came to a gasping halt. Then one of the Fëanorian commanders shattered the stillness with a cry. Celebrimbor caught the glint of a long russet braid as he turned to see that his soldiers were gathering around him. 

He caught the river of red that spilled from his neck when an arrow sank into the flesh above his collarbone.

He watched him fall.

As easily as if he were a withered leaf upon the bough, Amras Fëanorion fell. 

In the moment of shock that followed, Calandur and two others stepped forward and tossed the thrashing  body of Celebrimbor’s uncle over the quay’s edge. It was a mercy. Fëanor’s youngest son would receive no burial rites; but nor would a hateful swarm descend upon his corpse, hacking to pieces one who was—who might have been—a noble lord of the Noldor.

Fierce fighting resumed, with the defenders of Sirion now gaining the upper-hand. Celebrimbor was blocked from entering the fray by the tight circle of those who called themselves Redeemers. 

It was then he realised there was another choice. To escape was not to yield. To escape was to preserve; to dare to hope.

He called to one of his archers to follow him, then ran down the quay, untethered a sturdy fishing dory, and leapt in, bidding the other elf to join him. Then he rowed furiously into the darkness, towards the Cape and the ship havens. There was little hope that the people of Sirion would prevail, even with the aid of the Fëanorians who had turned against their lords. But there would be survivors, and they would need strength and skill and courage if they were to rebuild their ruined lives in the years to come. 

It would not be Celebrimbor’s lot to die here, needlessly; not yet. 

* * *

*'A runandor!' is Quenya for 'O Redeemers!'. Thanks to Shihali on the SWG Discord for the translation.

It’s my headcanon, based on a map in The War of the Jewels with a dot labelled ‘Ship Havens’ on Cape Balar, that there were actually two settlements on the Bay of Balar: one built on or very near the actual mouth of the river Sirion (called simply ‘Sirion’), and one, much smaller and chiefly for the purpose of shipbuilding and mooring, on Cape Balar to the northwest (called simply ‘the Cape’). Almost all the survivors of the sack of Sirion were those who were at, or fled to, the Cape at the time of the attack.

I also headcanon a Beleriand-born Celebrimbor, though there could be other reasons he is not a kinslayer.

[cilil]

Forged in Fellowship Aulë ⚒ Mairon

Characters: Mairon; Melkor, Aulë and Yavanna are mentioned. Background Angbang Synopsis: Mairon remembers his time on Almaren and thinks about his old master. Warnings: / Author's Note: Written for Forged in Fellowship. The companion piece featuring Aulë's perspective will be linked above.

Many had told him he would rue the day he left Almaren to be with Melkor. 

Mairon had not once regretted his decision. 

Too many things had bothered him, some more, some less significant; yet all in all, he hadn't been happy in his old life. And he doubted anything or anyone could've made him as happy as being with his beloved did. 

Mairon wasn't shy when it came to voicing these things; not anymore, not after Melkor had opened his eyes to the truth and helped him see all the ways in which he had been wronged by the other Ainur. 

The thinly veiled suspicion in their eyes, the whispers behind his back, because many thought fire spirits couldn't be trusted. The way Yavanna in particular had looked at him whenever he had used his element in her presence. The jealousy of his fellow forge Maiar whenever he excelled in his craft and how they had shunned him yet still asked for help. How he had sometimes felt lonely and misunderstood because of his inability to connect with most others and questioned whether something was wrong with him. The fact that Aulë hadn't praised him and rewarded him as much as he felt like he should have, especially when he hadn't been made chief among his folk–like he had desired ever since Eönwë had acquired his exalted position at Manwë's side. 

Aulë...

Mairon held up the ring he had been toying with for the last few minutes and stared at his golden reflection, allowing himself to think about his old master for a moment. 

Despite all the anger that still lingered, he couldn't bring himself to hate Aulë. 

Aulë who had found his talents valuable and taken him in. Who had made his first tools for him and taught him everything he knew, things he loved and skills he valued to this day. Who had raised him and cared for him instead of their divine creator, whom Mairon had neither really seen nor spoken to since his birth. Who, despite all the rebukes he had received, would always pat his head in the end and tell him he loved him. Who had hugged him at times and told him he could always come to him for help. 

Mairon slipped the ring back onto his finger and admired the way it enhanced and adorned his fána.

If only you understood me better, Aulë.

Though I suppose in the end I did not come to you for help.

But does it really matter? Could you have kept me when my beloved was already waiting for me, offering his hand, promising to give me everything I always wanted, but you wouldn't give me?  

He knew the answer to that. He couldn't have stayed on Almaren no matter what. His love for Melkor would have always been greater than any attachment to Aulë, as was his need for freedom from the petty rules and laws of their creator. 

Mairon could imagine what Aulë would say if he was here with him, or how horrified he would be if he knew what he had done for Melkor over the years. Perhaps his old master did know and had denounced and disowned him already; though deep down, he had a feeling it was not so, even if he kept telling himself it might just be wishful thinking. 

Aulë had never been a vindictive kind of spirit. In fact, Mairon knew he understood how he and Melkor felt restricted by Eru's will, but unlike them he wasn't willing to stand his ground and fight for what he thought was right, and that was where they parted ways. 

"I hate him," he whispered, bringing the ring close to his lips as if the Vala could hear him through the metal. Cursing their divine father–such blasphemy would have never been permitted on Almaren, yet here in Melkor's domain, he could speak freely. 

"I hate him and your brethren with their petty rules and their lofty halls and houses and gardens. I will burn it all to the ground if my beloved wills it...

... but I do not hate you." 

taglist: @asianbutnotjapanese @bluezenzennie @edensrose @eunoiaastralwings @fellowshipofthefics @floraroselaughter @i-did-not-mean-to @melkors-defense-attorney @singleteapot

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[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

The Glass Rose

Pairing: Melkor x Mairon 

Themes: Soft 

Warnings: None 

Word count: 600 

Summary: Mairon struggles to make the ultimate gift for Melkor 

Rules and tag form here

A/n: This is my little contribution for Forged in Felloship by @fellowshipofthefics

The forge was hotter than the deepest pits of the deepest mines in all of Arda. Mairon did not mind the heat. He did not feel it or even care for it. All he could think of was the vision slowly coming to life in his hands.

Mairon was a most patient and skilled Maia, but this, this vision that haunted his every waking hour, made him doubt himself and threatened to drive him mad. This creation was not his first attempt, you see. Mairon had tried and failed again and again. The growing pile of broken glass was proof of it. He was still determined. He had already mastered stone and clay and steel. He was determined to master this. And he was determined to give it to Melkor as a surprise. This would be his first gift for his lord and he wanted it to be perfect.

He studied his newest attempt. More color was needed. Mairon wanted red, true red, the color of blood and rubies and autumn leaves, a color that was most difficult to obtain even in the best of times. He still attempted it, adding just the right powders, hoping and praying it would work this time. The furnace blazed even hotter than before. Mairon consigned pipe and glass to the flames again, excitement and dread gnawing at his insides. Every time he came close to touching his dream, it would shatter into a million little pieces along with his heart and drive him closer to agony of the acutest kind. But he was determined still. Mairon pulled out the pipe and carefully added his own breath. The pipe rolled in his hands. Molten glass fought and bubbled and yielded. His dream started to take form. Mairon nearly smiled. Nearly. He still had a hundred steps to go and a hundred different things to do. He did not stop, not until he was satisfied.

And he was satisfied. Exhausted and more than a little worse for wear by the end of it all, but satisfied. He studied the delicate confection after it had cooled. It was fragile and clear, and worth the time and skill he poured into it. He hoped Melkor would appreciate too.

"So this is where you have been hiding all this time." The sound came from one being, and one being only. Melkor was here. He had been hiding in the shadows, watching him the entire time.

Mairon, startled, nearly dropped his creation. The sigh of relief that followed when he opened his eyes and found it still safe in his palms was the loudest he had ever heard. "How long have you been standing there, my lord?"

"Long enough." Melkor smiled—a slow, wicked smile that made Mairon's heart flutter. "Second place to a forge," he pouted and walked over, his boots clicking over the polished stone floor. "You wound me, precious."

Mairon looked at his hands and sighed. So much for surprises now.

"I had a reason, my lord," he said, hoping Melkor would like his little offering.

"Oh?" Melkor tilted his head and flashed that smile again. "And what would that reason be, precious?"

Mairon swallowed and held out his hands. He closed his eyes and braced for the worst. And heard nothing but silence. Seconds slowly turned into minutes, and Melkor said nothing. Mairon felt like screaming. Or crying. Or running away. Perhaps all three thrown together. He was close to doing it when Melkor finally said, "It is beautiful, precious."

Mairon blinked and opened his eyes. The glass rose was no longer in his hands. It was in Melkor's instead. The Lord of Angband studied the rose, its thin, delicate stem and touched each life-like leaf and petal with reverence. "You made this for me?" he whispered softly.

Mairon nodded, his head bobbing like a nervous bird. "Yes," he said, wringing his trembling hands. "Do you like it?"

"No gift has ever been finer," Melkor murmured. "I will treasure it always."

Tags: @cilil @asianbutnotjapanese @floraroselaughter @fictionfordays

[elves-in-a-system]

Thanks for tagging us, Thorin! (tagged by @dwarves-in-a-system)

Happy May 27th, everyone! We forgot to make something as well, so we'll just recommend some books :)))

1. If you liked Lord Of The Rings & The Hobbit, go read the Earthsea Series by Ursula K. LeGuin!! It's so amazing!

2. I'm a personal fan of The Dark Tower series by Stephen King :>

3. !!! Read Jurassic Park!!! It's really really great!!!

Thanks :))

Legend:

Red: Rog

Orange: Glorfindel

Regular: Elrond

Purple: Lindir

All: All

psst, hey @i-did-not-mean-to ! Thanks for helping set this up! We and the dwarves are very excited :))

(also the dwarves are setting up a banquet in the innerworld! and in the outside world, we're eating ramen on the coffee table 😂)

[dwarves-in-a-system]

Happy May 27th, friends! We didn't make anything for it (someone forgot 🙄), but we do have other stuff!

Dís made moodboards themed on her and Thorin, so I think those might work :p

here ya gooo

please enjoy and repost them as you please ^^ just remember to give credit!

I will make more later, so I'll add them to this post!!

Diggy Diggy Hole by RichaadEB & Jonathan Young on Amazon Music (and Spotify!)

https://music.amazon.com/albums/B09YVR8FYS?trackAsin=B09YVM91TG&ref=dm_sh_a9qZFbE5pLaWymMVxqjypRz6k

https://open.spotify.com/track/2YI7Ug0tU8DjNgR3yXbeGa?si=cnzw0AgdR7y8OET-JEWhCQ

Happy May 27th! (again)

Legend:

Orange: Fíli

Blue: Kíli

Red: Dwalin

Purple: Dís

Green: Gimli

Regular: Thorin

All: All

now the elves will make a post, in @elves-in-a-system!! Over to you, Elrond.

(oh yeah, and thanks for helping set this whole thing up, @i-did-not-mean-to !)

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Gold and stone

Here's my entry for the "Forged in Fellowship" Event...

Words: 1.4 k

Characters: Mairon, Fëanor, Thorin, Celebrimbor, OC

Warnings: Violence, anger, dismemberment

Kra stomped closer to the archway of the hidden cavern—she did not know why she hesitated, after all, she had trained for this exact thing since before the Northern Mountains had been sundered.

Rgu waved them onwards, his jerky movement reminiscent of a stone shower that would never hit the ground.

“It’s them or us,” he reminded the young combatants one last time as they fanned out into the dark underground tunnels in which their enemies were said to have hidden their secret weapon.

Fire Magic, Kra thought with a shiver of disgust. Since long before she had first been called from the mountain to protect her people, the fire wizards of the south had been their fearsome foes and the most dreaded threat to the health and happiness of the Stone Giants.

Now, Kra was not, as a matter of fact, anywhere near gigantic. Truth be told, she was barely bigger than the wooden constructions in which the meat-people lived. She might never have amounted to much within her own race if it hadn’t been for the singular blessing or curse that had been bestowed upon her by the grace of the ancestors.

Often, she believed that she would never have made it into the elite group led by the legendary Rgu—hero of the volcano wars—if it hadn’t been for this singular trait of hers that turned her into a coveted resource for her enemies.

Indeed, veins of precious gold ran through her pearlescent, grey body. The Stone Giants themselves had little use for the ore, and to them, Kra was nought more than a youngling born with a peculiar colouring such as they were wont to appear in every other race that reproduced in one way or another.

For the fire wizards though, her iridescent opal eyes and shimmering veins were invaluable treasures that they would hew from her flesh to melt in the heart of their voracious deity.

“Stay close,” Rgu warned, but Kra was tired of being treated as if the stone she was made of was less strong or enduring than that of any of her fellows.

Stubbornly, she ducked into a low corridor and was out of sight before Rgu could catch up with her.

She had not expected the steep slope and grunted in surprise as she slipped and slithered down a good distance before catching herself at the last moment before she could collide with the smooth, faintly glowing wall of a domed cavern.

Blinking slowly, Kra let her senses adapt to her surroundings—she had been trained to pick her way through much rougher terrain than this seemingly artificially built vault, so she didn’t lose much time before striding onward.

A low rumble of astonishment escaped her though when her luminous eyes fell on the statues lining the curved sides of the grotto. They were small enough to look like oversized dolls to her and so expertly crafted that they looked almost alive.

Bending down carefully, Kra squinted at the delicate writing carved into the small pedestal on which the life-like rendition of an unknown people rested.

“Fëanáro Curufinwë,” she read and shivered as under the influence of a powerful premonition.

Frantically, she strode along the rows of likenesses—many had been destroyed but a few were still eerily intact. Nevertheless, it was the decorations and insignia of the surviving statues that made her feel so uneasy about how vibrantly vivacious they looked to her.

“Fire Magic,” she hissed again. The plan of her people’s enemies unravelled before her stunned mind and blurry eyes—they would attempt the most unholy of rituals, necromancy, to call back to life terrible foes to further their own agenda.

At another time, in another world, beings who mastered a certain array of skills had reverently been called “smiths”, but, to Kra, they had never been anything other than the demons her minders had described when it had been time to melt into the foot of a mountain for rest.

As was the wont of her species, Kra had not been “born” such as the meat-people described it. In the tradition of the Stone Giants, prophets and wise men observed elusive portents and allotted the newest member of the tribe to deserving units when it was yielded into their care by a blessed mountain or hill.

Kra had always been told that the quake that had brought her forth from the smooth flanks of the western mountains had been as monumental and impressive as she herself was underwhelming. She tried hard not to be bitter about that kind of comment, but she failed more often than not.

“Kra?” Her commander’s voice drifted down a narrow shaft. Take that, she thought in a fit of puerile pettiness, you could not even come down here if you tried, you big lump of stone.

Her eyes returned to the statues—there were a few that seemed to be of the same kind of incarnates and just as many that seemed…different. Dismissing those who struck her as forefathers of the meat-people she knew to be quite harmless, Kra focused on the pointy-eared and the squat, solid-looking ones instead.

Never had she met anyone looking quite like that.

Furthermore, the stone tools they were holding looked frighteningly refined—secrets lost to the tide of time, no doubt—and she couldn’t keep herself from retreating in quiet horror.

Only after staring at a deceivingly dainty statue dedicated to some ephemeral entity called “Mairon” for a while did Kra realise that a low buzzing hum had started to punctuate her every thought.

Against every rule of conduct and caution she had ever learned, she lifted her hand and touched her golden fingertips to the graceful curve of Mairon’s cheek.

The world around her seemed to collapse into an entirely unannounced stone avalanche—dust rained down on her and was set alight by a horrifying glow that she did not immediately recognise as coming from her own body.

“Let me have a sample,” a slightly scratchy and vaguely distracted voice resounded and Kra whipped around to stare at the statue of one “Telperinquar known as Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion”.

She had expected to gaze upon his pleasant, immortalised features, strongly reminiscent of the first statue she had examined, but where the once dimly shimmering stone had been, stood a creature of flesh and bone, staring up at her with barely contained curiosity.

“What are you?” he asked, stepping closer.

“What are you?” Kra roared back, shrinking towards the far wall as she understood that her ill-advised intervention had somehow realised her enemies’ plan in a way all their fumbling magic never could have.

Guilt surged within her—hot and devastating—when she fully grasped the extent of her unforgivable transgression and the grave consequences it would have for the safety of her people.

“Tyelpë?”

“Pointy-eared, leaf-munching bastards!”

In a rockslide of words and accusations, the former statues regained their bearings in the living world by hurling insults and declarations of love at one another, to Kra’s deep confusion and involuntary amusement.

“Look at all that gold,” one of the short, stout ones—"Thorin II” according to the person who had commemorated him a bit too well—exclaimed dreamily and, to Kra’s dismay, all their strangely gleaming eyes swivelled back.

Identify, grasp, destroy, she thought mechanically. This was what she had learned and studied—they were but beings made of soft flesh and yielding bones, weren’t they?

“How did you do that?” Mairon asked in a dangerously smooth and charming voice. “What magical powers did you deploy to summon us from the nether worlds to this filthy, dusty sphere of existence?”

The accusatory sharpness of his tone made Kra flinch back violently, her shoulders crashing into the stone behind her with a sonorous bang. “I,” she stammered, “I didn’t. At least, I did not mean to.”

“Who are you? What do you want?” she breathed, betraying her nervousness as well as her relative youth. This one seemed different—dangerous—and she distrusted him instinctively.

“He’s a demon!” Fëanáro, looking much more imperious and intimidating in the flesh than his statue had suggested, barked.

“Grandfather!”

Kra’s head was spinning. She had heard about the bonds beings bound to their flesh and its weaknesses built, but she had never spent enough time with any of them to observe this fascinating phenomenon. Clearly, they had family relationships much more complex and conflicted than she had ever experienced, and, which interested her far more, they seemed to yearn for others in ways she could not fully understand.

The way the creature who had asked for a sample of her very lifeforce looked at the demon Mairon suggested underlying currents of resentment and desire that intrigued Kra exceedingly.

“Are you a goddess?” the short, stocky one asked. “I am of the Khâzad—Thorin, king of the Longbeards— and I am honoured and humbled to meet one who is made of stone and ore. Your appearance and my reawakening shall sound in the years of glory and victory of my people.”

He seemed earnest enough, Kra thought, but the way his eyes traced the glimmering patterns snaking through her mineral self made her undeniably uncomfortable, nonetheless.

“I am neither a goddess nor a wizard,” she said firmly; she realised now how reckless it had been to let them drive her against the wall. Pulling herself up to her full height, she skirted a rocky outcrop and peered discreetly around.

She would not make it up the ravine from whence she had come again—her only choice was to go on down the hall and hope that there would be another exit big enough to allow her to wriggle through.

“Let us examine you,” Thorin pleaded even as he loosened a hammer from a loop on his belt.

Kra considered her options; she could try to run, but she didn’t want to lead them back to her people and endanger the whole colony, she could attempt to murder them, but she was not sure whether it was possible to kill the undead, or—and this seemed to be the best choice at this moment—she could try to lure them away and lock them in a stony tomb at the first opportunity that presented itself.

Thus far, they had not done her any harm, but she recognised the greed in their eyes. That alone might not have swayed her gentle disposition against them all that quickly, but she could also sense the crackling power emanating from them.

Without knowing anything about them, she was convinced that they had once been wielders of mighty spells of dark and destructive Fire Magic.

“Look at that, Tyelpë,” the disconcertingly smooth demon purred. “Look at that gold. I am sure it is enchanted. Maybe…” There was a darkness thrumming in his voice now—Kra knew not what terrible plague he sought to conjure up by tearing her limb from limb and giving her flesh and bone over to the voracious fire he’d whip up, but she could sense that it would be perilous beyond her wildest dreams.

“Have you seen her eyes? Have you seen that light in them?”

Kra inched her way along the wall, getting ready to break into a run as soon as she had cleared the semi-circle in which those strange and terrifying creatures had arrayed themselves to stare her down like a pack of hungry wolves eyed a wounded lamb.

Her earliest memories were of the masters telling her about the dangers of the desires ingrained deeply in the soft, malleable flesh of other races, and yet, Kra could never have imagined the terrifying intensity with which these strangers seemed to covet every part of her being.

“I am not…” she tried one last time to convince them that neither her eyes nor the veins of gold marbling her body would help them regain whatever love or power they had lost, but the sheer madness in their crazed eyes betrayed that they were beyond listening to reason.

So she ran.

As fast as her heavy steps could carry her, Kra barrelled down the dark passage in a blind panic—the only thought on her mind was to get away from them and from their lunatic screeches about peoples and realms that were so old and obscure that she had never even heard of them.

Names rained down on her—amplified by the echo of the narrowing tunnel—like hail. Lost masters, lost wives, lost magic.

“I cannot bring them back,” she wailed again. “You can destroy me as you did them, but it will avail you of nought.”

The steps behind her slowed, then fell silent.

Kra gasped.

She was in another spacious cavern, round and devoid of a second exit. In the middle of the room stood an anvil of absurd dimensions and a furnace was let into the wall opposite her, blazing brightly.

“Fate,” one of her captors and soon-to-be tormentors laughed wryly behind her.

“Indeed,” Kra whispered, whirling around to watch them slink into the chamber warily; whatever grievances they might have had with one another were clearly forgotten or set aside momentarily as their glowing, energetic eyes roamed greedily over her form.

She waited until the last one had cleared the mouth of the tunnel before closing her eyes and banging her fist into the nearby wall. With a mighty, outraged roar, the stone bent to her will and sealed the tunnel.

As their surroundings shifted to redistribute the weight of the unyielding mountain anew, Kra smiled.

She had accomplished her mission—nobody would ever find them here. The very passage through which they had come had been swallowed and forgotten, and her strange jailors would never breach the containment of the curse that had bound them to their stone replicas.

“Do your worst,” she hissed and broadened her stance. “You and me? We’re less than history now, less than a memory even, we’re mere shadows at sunrise.”

As they sprang upon her, clawing and tearing, Kra almost pitied them for the ambitious but entirely vain folly that had condemned them to this miserable fate of dying alone and unheeded, caged by their own dark desires and irredeemable weaknesses.

“Arda remade,” the demon Mairon cried out triumphantly when his hand plunged into her as if breaking the surface of turgid water. “The time has come!”

Lots of love from me!

[cilil]

Forged in Fellowship Aulë ⚒ Mairon

Characters: Aulë; Mairon, Melkor and Yavanna are mentioned Synopsis: Aulë remembers a certain Maia he lost ages ago. Warnings: / Author's Note: Written for Forged in Fellowship. The companion piece featuring Mairon's perspective will be linked above.

The hammer looked so small in his hands. 

Aulë weighed it on his palm, a pensive expression on his face. It had been so long since he had made this one, a simple yet trusty and sturdy tool for a young Maia to learn his craft. He knew most of his students still had theirs, some proudly displaying it amidst their personal collection, some keeping it in a safe place; this one, however, he had decided to hold on to himself. 

This hammer had belonged to Mairon once–or Sauron as he was now known as, though Aulë couldn't bring himself to use that name. The memories of the talented, passionate young Maia he had known were too strong, too vivid in his mind still. 

He had heard about many terrible things of course, from Elves returning to Valinor as well as other Ainur who brought news from Middle-earth–tales of a cruel, malicious being, eagerly and gleefully serving his dark master, said to be just as evil as he was. Sometimes Aulë didn't want to believe them. Sometimes he just wanted to close his eyes and ears and refuse to listen, though deep down he knew it to be true. 

It hurt to lose his dear Mairon to corruption and to see how far he fell. Aulë knew he must have done something wrong, had often asked himself what it was and what he should have done differently. He had tried his best and loved him dearly, loved him to this day, and though he had to admit to his failure, he was still determined to make things right; be it by helping other Maiar or being there if Mairon ever returned, if fate would be so kind. 

Perhaps it was foolish to do so, but Aulë still believed in him. He believed in the Maia who had wanted to build and create, to improve and make things right, who was proud and passionate and ever eager to learn new things. He believed that there was still good him like a flame that would never be truly extinguished, just like he believed Melkor hadn't always been evil–though, admittedly, he wasn't sure if he could still find it within himself to forgive the one who had taken advantage of his kindness and taken his beloved student to drag him down a path of ruin alongside him. 

Mairon hadn't always been easy, as Yavanna occasionally reminded him, that much was true. He hadn't liked teaching and helping others very much and had often been impatient with his fellow Maiar when their progress was slower than his own, but Aulë had thought–maybe naively–that it was something that could be worked on, an opportunity for growth and learning. 

The hammer rested upon his palm, a silent reminder of ages gone by. Never again would things be as simple as they had been back then, that much he knew. Aulë closed his eyes with a sigh, fingers gingerly closing around the ancient tool. Even after all this time, he missed his Maia and he hadn't stopped believing in him; even if Mairon no longer believed in himself, even if no one else did. 

He was the Inventor, the Great Smith, the Maker of Arda's substances, he possessed the patience of mountains and was steadfast and unwavering like diamond. If there was nothing else he could do for Mairon and all the other Maiar that had been lost, then Aulë would wait for them to find their home one day. And when that day came, he would be there to speak in their favour, to help his brethren understand the ambitions many of his people held and, if Eru willed it, to guide his students back to a righteous path and mend the rifts and wrongs they left behind.

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