“Sauron had never reached [Melkor’s] stage of nihilistic madness. He did not object to the existence of the world, so long as he could do what he liked with it. He still had the relics of positive purposes, that descended from the good of the nature in which he began: it had been his virtue (and therefore also the cause of his fall, and of his relapse) that he loved order and coordination, and disliked all confusion and wasteful friction. (It was the apparent will and power of Melkor to effect his designs quickly and masterfully that had first attracted Sauron to him.)”

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The History of Middle-Earth X: Morgoth’s Ring

It was inevitable, really. He tried to avoid it for as long as he could, but his orders from Eru are clear: help destroy the ring he so desperately longs for, the well of gold into which he poured the better part of his spirit – or lose the fragile fana he’s currently inhabiting – the one fragment of spirit he still has left. And so Mairon has come to Bree, a crumbling city with festering sewers that reek of excrement and decay, all in search of a ranger called Strider.

He knows little of this man, but already he despises him.

The surge of life around him is nearly overwhelming. The streets are bustling with trade, children running to and fro as dogs and pigs and sheep wander unchecked. It is loud, vibrant, chaotic. Above all else, Mairon abhors chaos.

A ruddy-faced dwarf offers him a mug of ale. The very air thrums around him, insistant. Perhaps the alcohol will dim his senses enough to dull the cacophony of noise and light assaulting his senses. He doubts it. Even in this elven fana, his fea is far stronger than any of the Eldar. He takes the drink, anyway.

The alcohol burns on its way down. The sensation is there, though he senses no change to his awareness. He wonders how long it will take – if at all. He has never been drunk before. Mortal men are weaker of spirit than the Eldar. Unlike the elves, whose immortal fëa will remain in Arda until the world itself comes to an end, mortal men will inevitably die. Even the long lived Numenoreans eventually faced death. By their very nature men are crippled, bound intrinsically to their hroa, easily swayed by the pleasures of the flesh and even more easily threatened by the loss of it. For this reason Mairon disdained them, but he also found them more useful as pawns. Their weaker spirits left them more malleable, more easily corruptible. He knows his disdain is likely driven in part by his master’s own dislike for the Secondborn. Weaker in spirit even than the elves, yet somehow held in just as much esteem (if not more) by their Creator. But Mairon is not Melkor, and as he watches the inhabitants of Bree rush too and fro with joyful urgency, he is reminded of this fact.

Their spirits are weaker, their command over matter and flesh more precarious and inconsistent. Yet somehow they are brilliant. The very mortality that dims their spirit increases the fervor of their days, and while perhaps of duller substance than their Eldar brethren, the passion with which they live seems to burn with an intensity so brilliant it almost makes up for the lack of brightness. Life here is quicker than that amongst the elves, more hurried, more purposeful. Like a candle burning, swift to melt but all the brighter as it dies. And when they end, their end will be final, though as to their ultimate fate even Mairon does not know. For that is the Gift of Men, the Gift of Illuvitar, the ability to pass beyond the walls of Arda and be truly liberated from the confines of the world. It is a gift even Mairon cannot possess, and for that very reason he is here now, submitting to Eru’s plan rather than exist as an angry but impotent spirit, doomed to stew in his hatred and resentment as the seasons change and the ages pass, able only to watch and seethe and suffer until the end of days and the Dagor Dagorath. Because he too, is bound to this world. And while his powers have been diminished (mostly, though he hates to admit it, by his own actions), his fëa cannot be destroyed.

He removes his hood. He has no need for it, he realizes. Not here. These brightly dying mortal men do not know him. He is not sure, should he look into a mirror, that he would even recognize himself. This is the first time he’s donned a fana not of his own choosing.

The air is filled with the scent of roasted pork and baking bread. Mairon does not need food to survive. Moreover he knows that eating or drinking will only increase his fea’s dependence on this fana. As one of the ainur, particularly the lesser maiar, Mairon knows that the more he engages with bodily faculties, the more difficult he will find to go without them. But the aroma of freshly baked bread is mouthwatering, and Mairon is curious. Mairon has always been curious. Curious of the Music he and his brethren sang, curious of the wonders the forge master Aule showed him when they descended to Valinor, more curious still of the potential order Melkor promised if he forsook his master and came to his side. Curiosity is dangerous, Mairon has learned. But surely curiosity about bread will not be his downfall.

He is bound to this fana, anyway. More than a “habit” or a “customary garb,” it is his shackle. He may as well enjoy it.

There is a quiet charm about the place. It’s certainly no Ost-in-Edhil, but neither is it an abandoned shell. There is purpose amidst the chaos, even if he can’t quite see the order. But there is warmth. And there are cats.

So. Many. Cats.

Mairon doesn’t know whose house this is or why they have left it unlocked. Nor does he know why the entire dwelling is covered nearly floor to ceiling with felines, sleeping and playing, purring their content and hissing their annoyance. Yet somehow it is quiet. Somehow, things are still.

Yavanna had tried (and failed) repeatedly to impress upon him the importance of living creatures. A waste, perhaps, but being favored by her husband Aule, she had sought to foster a bond with him. Yet despite her efforts, Mairon had always vastly preferred the rigid, predictable nature of metal to the free-spirited Children of Illuvitar. It could be molded and shaped, but always according to a preordained pattern or rule of motion. The Children, however, were infinitely more difficult to persuade. Even if it was for the purpose of the greater good. Even if it would lead to a neater, tidier, better world.

“[Sauron’s] capability of corrupting other minds, and even engaging their service, was a residue from the fact that his original desire for ‘order’ had really envisaged the good estate (especially physical well-being) of his ‘subjects’.”

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The History of Middle-Earth X: Morgoth’s Ring

At any rate…these cats aren’t so bad. They’re actually kind of…calming. Even if they won’t obey his commands to sit or stay.

He ventures out into the streets once more. He can feel it before he can see it. From a couple streets away the heat of the forge calls to him, flame drawn to flame. He is first and foremost a spirit of fire, and it has been long since he last held a hammer in his hands.

Outfit:
Head: Lesser Secret of the West Helmet (crimson)
Shoulders: Rare Mathom-Hunter's Mantle (crimson)
Back: Cloak of the Raven (crimson)
Chest: Anorian Campaign Robe (steel blue)
Hands: Leather Gauntlets of the Leaping Stag (crimson)
Feet: Lesser Memory of the West Shoes (sienna)

Aulë was good to him. Melkor had been brilliant, but Aulë was warm, soothing, like sunlight after rain or the feeling in a smile. Melkor’s flames had shown brighter, but in his presence Mairon ever felt the tinge of frost. Fire, ice, Melkor cared not for the means of destruction. Only that it was achieved, that he might at last be at peace.

Here, now, in the craft hall of Bree, surrounded by the heat of a forge, Mairon feels something akin to a peace of his own. The quartermaster nearby asked him to make a simple buckler shield. Easy. Trivial, even. But there is comfort in the clang of the anvil, the familiar way his hands curl around the hammer, the way soot and ash pepper his skin without burning the way they should a mortal. Order, process, purpose. This is beauty, even if the metal is cheap and the coals are nearly spent.

“Morgoth had no ‘plan’: unless destruction and reduction to nil of a world in which he had only a share can be called a ‘plan’. But this is, of course, a simplification of the situation. Sauron had not served Morgoth, even in his last stages, without becoming infected by his lust for destruction, and his hatred of God (which must end in nihilism). Sauron could not, of course, be a ‘sincere’ atheist. Though one of the minor spirits created before the world, he knew Eru, according to his measure. He probably deluded himself with the notion that the Valar (including Melkor) having failed, Eru had simply abandoned Ea, or at any rate Arda, and would not concern himself with it any more.”

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The History of Middle-Earth X: Morgoth’s Ring

He had thought Arda abandoned by the Powers. But he is here of Eru’s accord, and in this chaotic mess of a city he has seen the finger prints of Aule and Yavanna in equal measure.

Perhaps it is time to go see this Strider. He has a mission to fulfill, after all, even if it is not his own.