Alloy

He slams the floor violently with his hammer, using all of his inhuman might. A prime disciple of Aulë! A glorious Maiar smith, who has discovered the ultimate alloy for death-conquering elven Rings! And for months now, he has been incapable of making an infinitely simpler alloy. This thought first came to him at Celebrimbor’s workshop when they were searching for a way to make a crown for Gil-Galad. Mairon glanced at Galadriel and wondered what crown would befit her. Maybe it should have some exquisite blackening or be encrusted with flower-shaped gems… But the crucial thing would be the ore. The colour should impeccably match her otherworldly hair, its gleam — golden in the rays of sun and silver under the moonlight. Those days, he had often yearned to feel that hair between his fingers, even if just a strand. It had looked so soft and dulcet to touch… Now he has built himself a stronghold with a forge of his own, one that Celebrimbor couldn’t even imagine. And the idea that flashed by his mind then has got a hold of him now. So he’s got down to work. An alloy that is bold as gold and ethereal as silver. This task could occupy him for several days… It has occupied him for years. Despite all his endeavors, the ores wouldn’t yield. Mairon has tried all and everything; he fused them, added traces of every ore known to him… Now his forge is swamped with ingots of all sizes but none of them the one. There also have been days when everything would simply fulminate, similar to mithril in Eregion workshop on that day. Even though Mairon carefully calculated everything over and over again. It has come to pure madness, when he would willingly lock himself up in the forge and spend restless weeks counting, measuring, smelting — and inevitably suffering a defeat. The thing he had come up with to amuse himself and to prove his mastery has transformed into an obsession. One time he even caught himself thinking that he cared not for the healing of Middle-Earth unless this simple and insignificant task was resolved. Today was eminently unbearable. The ingot would set slower than ever, maddening its moulder to no end. When at last it was all solid, the surface lit up with that exact sparkle he strived for and could not reach… But then it grew dim in less than no time. It happened instantly; nonetheless, Mairon had felt a sickening surge of false triumph before everything crumbled yet again. 'Better when it is all wrong from the start, than like this', he thinks, overwhelmed with despair, as he is on his knees looking at the crackled floor tiles under his hammer. He is on the verge of weary, delirious laughter. Galadriel must be preparing for war tirelessly, making alliances with other free peoples, gathering an army to obliterate him — and here he is! Wasting his time to forge a crown for the one who would rather die than wear it! He is just asinine. Asinine and pathetic. Mairon kneels up, leaving the hammer on the floor. He picks up the ingot — the colour is flawless, but this alloy is bleak and blurry — lifeless. He scratches the top with a needle — a fresh scrape tarnishes right away. As soon as he drops it into the melting-pot, the ingot starts to distort. There must be a way to keep this gleam… He should give up this ordeal without delay, but an idea suddenly ignites in his mind. Mairon leaves the alloy to melt and hurriedly turns to his quenching cauldron. Quenching is used only with steel to make the weapons stronger. There is no sense in quenching gold or silver, but maybe… He kindles a fire under the cauldron and starts pacing to and fro, barely able to wait. At last, the alloy is liquified and the quenching water is boiling hot. It’s now or never. Mairon takes the pot, pours his alloy into the mould, and then drowses this filled mould in boiling water. The vapour makes it hard to see anything, but he stares breathless, determined not to blink. When the water stops fuming and the ingot becomes quite solid, Mairon feels a victorious smile crawl upon his lips. Finally! The alloy is finally a perfect replica of the white gold that is her hair. He scoffs, suddenly realising that in all two years of his research, he has never thought what he would carve out for the actual crown. Not one draft has he made. No matter. At least he knows how to adorn it. With sea pearls.