It is not Strider who awaits him upon his return to Bree, but Olórin himself, appearing just as old and ragged as he had the first time he greeted Mairon. Indeed, Olorin is the one who welcomed him back to the shores of middle earth with a moldy robe to cover his naked form and an unmistakable laugh of triumph in his eyes.
Brothers though they may be, Mairon despises Olorin.
It doesn’t help that with his powers bound he is now the weaker of the two, something which was never before the case even when they both roamed unchecked and untethered on the shores of Valinor. As a wizard, Olorin’s powers were weakened even further. Now, however, standing before his celestial sibling — the both of them trapped in somewhat mortal flesh – he is keenly aware of how easily his brother could smite him, save for one key fact:
“The One wants me to help you.”
“The One” – not “father,” as they might have once have called Him back in Valinor – though Mairon considers himself an orphan now for all intents and purposes. Still, he cannot fathom why error would send him back, much less less interest him to the care of one who hated him so much as Olorin. Perhaps this is more divine punishment than a chance at redemption, a suspicion only further bolstered by Olorin’s curt greeting of, “Necromancy, Mairon? Have you learned nothing?”
The admonition is accompanied by a stern, disapproving stare. Mairon scowls. He probably shouldn’t, but he finds himself arguing, “Considering the location, it would have been convenient.”
It would have been heresy,” Olorin scolds, “not to mention reckless. That fragment of a spirit you call a fea hangs together by a thread. Be grateful the damage this time wasn’t permanent.
The rest of the conversation passes much without incident, thanks largely to Mairon holding his tongue and feigning obeisance – a skill he perfected back in Numenor. By the end of it, however, he has his new mission: Go to the lonelands and seek out the wizard Radagast, or as Mairon once knew him, Aiwendil. At least he will be rid of Olorin.
Mairon wastes no time. He doesn’t bother waiting for daylight; instead he gathers whatever minimal supplies he might need, changes out of the worn travel clothes that now reek of death and corpses, and tacks up his horse.
Aiwendil is – as is his nature – hard to find. Mairon had little interaction with him back in Valinor, but as a disciple of Yavanna he was often struck by wanderlust, disappearing for days on end to consult his four-footed friends or seek the wisdom of butterflies. The Aiwendil that Mairon remembers is full of fantasies and prone to distraction, finding beauty in the unpredictability of nature and easily lulled into trust.
In many ways, he is Mairon’s polar opposite.
He finds him eventually in the ruins of Ost Guruth, surrounded by a camp of Eglain who appear just as wary as they do unwashed. He should probably try to gain their trust, or at the very least to appeal to their better senses and try to gain some sort of welcome, but Mairon is tired, and his back aches from riding across the lonelands for the past several days, so instead he marches straight into the tower.
If Radagast knows who he is – as he MUST — he shows no hint of it. Instead he welcomes Mairon with warmth and encouragement, eerily reminiscent of the Vala he once served. For a second Mairon’s distain falters. Back before his turn, Yavanna had always been kind to him. Perhaps it was because he was favored by her husband Aule as uniquely guifted among his servants; perhaps it was because she was too blinded by the brightness of his flame to see how far the shadow had already crept.
Of all the Valar, Yavanna surely must hate him the most.
Aiwendil sends him into the nearby marsh to clear out wights – and, more importantly – the gaunt necromancers who have summoned them. It feels like a test, though by all rights and reason there’s no way Olorin could have sent word ahead of him of his misdeeds in the Barrow Downs. Unless he sent a bird. Come to think of it, there was one in Aiwendil’s tower.
At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. He sets to work, burning bones and rotted flesh until nothing remains but smoking ash and smouldering cinders. The wights mean nothing to him, but the so called gaunt-men feel more personal. These were his servants, after all, creatures bred by him and his master and instructed in the ways of necromancy to gain control over spirit and flesh. By destroying them, he is undoing his very own work.
The gaunt-men bear the sigil of Ivar the Blood-hand, one of the five gaunt-lords these necromancers answer to. He returns to Aiwendil with the news, and the result is unsurprising: they are to enter Agamaur, the northern reaches of the red marsh, and hunt Ivar down. Mairon is less than pleased with this course of action, but he is now certain this is indeed a test – one he will not fail.
They set out. Once again true to his nature, Aiwendil is easily distracted, pausing frequently in their quest to save the local wildlife. Once again, Mairon is reminded of Yavanna. Several times she had tried to instruct him in the way of earth-rearing and forestry, and each time he had turned her away, eager to return to more useful, more malleable materials to forge. Staring at the rabbit huddled up against Aiwendil’s feet, trusting and wide eyed, a part of him almost regrets it.
Aiwendil crouches down, whispering to the rabbit in hushed, soothing tones. It is odd, Mairon muses – for all that his fana resembles an old man, Aiwendil’s fëa remains bright eyed and young, elven ears arching upwards past his head like antlers and vines twisted through his dark hair. But here in the physical realm his fëa is but a pale green mirage hovering around the periphery of Radaghast’s worn robe. Faded, restrained. Nothing like Olorin, whose fëa – while seemingly much more adapted to his new form – remains terrifyingly bright.
He spots another fox cowering in the brambles. With a flick of his fingers it comes forward, seeking out his warmth. Something in his fëa lurches. He isn’t used to Yavanna’s creatures accepting him anymore. He reaches out, running the four fingers of his right hand through its fur. At last he stands. “Tolo im,” he tells it in sindarin, suspecting it will be more familiar with the modern dialect than the older Quenya. “Come with me.”
If Radagast finds his new companion out of character, he doesn’t say, flashing an approving smile before moving forward. The fox follows at Mairon’s heels, eyes bright and intelligent.
Together they push farther into the swamp. At last they find Ivar, cowering amidst a small army of wights and shades. Oddly enough, faced with his former servant, all Mairon feels is disgust.
Together they fight. Despite his frail form, Aiwendil weilds significant power. Watching him proclaim his loyalty to Eru the One even as he stands up to Morgoth’s monstrosity, Mairon feels something almost akin to respect.
Ivar flees. Mairon watches him go, the sound of his cowardice accompanied by the creaking of old bones. He knows what Aiwendil will ask, and resolves not to wait for the command.
“I’ll follow him,” he says.
Aiwendil smiles. “Go. Oh, and Mairon?”
Mairon turns. The wizard winks at him, knowingly, and for a second his Fëa pulses. The swamp vines around Mairon’s feet seem to writhe and coil, clawing at his ankles. “Don’t even think about mistreating that child, now,” Aiwendil warns. Me and my brethren’s powers may have been restrained so as to avoid temptation, but I suspect your current powers may be even more limited.”
He winks again, and the vines receed. “Now be on your way, brother.”
Brother.
Mairon speaks before he even realizes what he means to say. “Do you –”
Aiwendil pauses, raising his eyebrows promptingly.
Mairon swallows. “Do you ever talk to her?” he whispers.
Aiwendil considers the question. “Occasionally. Though not as often as I used to, and rarely directly.”
“If you do…” Mairon balls his hands into fists, keenly feeling the space where his ring finger once wpuld have laid against his palm. He shakes his head. “Nevermind.”
But even as he walks away the words echo in his mind, so loudly he is sure Aiwendil must hear them, too.
Tell her I’m sorry.
He and his new fox companion – he decides to name him Aiwendilwe – set off.
Outfit:
Head: Ceremonial Hat of the Elder Days (default)
Shoulders: Salvaged Elven-made Leather Shoulderpads (red)
Chest: Worn Fighting Shirt (red)
Hands: Gauntlets of the Hidden Blade (red)
Legs: Trousers of the White Tree (burgundy)
Feet: Worn Fighting Boots (red)
Back: Cloak of the Grey Company (red)
Warsteed:
Head: Tide-Breaker's Head-piece (crimson)
Body: Quintessential Ranger's Caparison (crimson)
Feet: Leggings of Bree (crimson)
Saddle: Quintessential Ranger's Saddle
Gear: Marauder Accessory
LOTRO Adventurer 