Alloy

Mairon has noticed a long while ago that he doesn’t experience any feelings anymore. The only thing he has is his goal, and he follows it for days, months, years, and ages. The idea of time is nonexistent to him; the line between life and death, his own and others', is rased forever. He himself is an ambition. How can an ambition feel? The last resurrection proved to be excruciating. Not having a physical body hasn’t spared him from feeling it still, and with it experiencing such pain, such agony, as if he has been skinned alive. He has succeeded in binding his spirit to Dol Guldur. And then — the spirits of his faithful Nazgûl as well. The stronghold has been built in the perfect location: on the edge of the forest, peopled with the most spineless Elves there could be. Ones whose fathers have feared the unknown so much so that the initial Sundering of the Quendi has taken place. So naturally, when Ungoliant’s spawn had heeded his call and swarmed the Southern part of the woods, the Sindar cowardly fled North, and even there they buried themselves underground. Now no one rivals his power. Only once had his peace been broken by the ever vigilant Olorin, and Mairon had had to leave his lair for a time. But that had been only a small nuisance, nothing more. Now everything unfolds in no manner better. Mairon is soon to join forces with the last dragon alive — Smaug the Terrible. The waiting should be brief, more so for a being as ancient as him. Mairon’s conscience is so far from the Seen world that he doesn’t notice a strange commotion in the fortress that looks desolate to the eye. The Orcs fluster and shout; something clangs and slams. Orcs have never been discreet, but this time they are undoubtedly reacting to something foreign. Mairon forces himself to concentrate on the tower’s ruined passageways and stairwells. As luck would have it, he can simultaneously see everything in his stronghold. In some way, he is this stronghold… Olorin. Again. In his typical habit, reckless to a fault. And with him he has Narya, one of the Elven Rings; how fortunate! Mairon surges forward to him and his prompt Orc-captor with all of his essence, but… Soundless steps, light as air, fleeting over the stones of the tower — over his stones — bring him to waver and divert his attention from the prey. Could it be?.. Mairon simply watches, as if bewitched, how the gallant Elven Queen rases the unfortunate Orc with nothing but her will. She is now more adamant and deadly than she was what seems like yesterday to him. Finally, he bethinks himself and gathers his voice from nothingness to intimate his goal. He has always told her the truth. And ‘always’ is something lasting and serious, even for him… Galadriel seems to shudder slightly, but she manages to carry Olorin down the stairs. She is so gentle with him that Mairon notices something awaken in the back of his mind. A sliver of a shade that is some forgotten feeling. Envy? Mairon has no recollection of this. ‘You cannot fight the shadow. Even now you fade… One light alone in the darkness,’ he spouts, smitten with this sudden, barely tasted sensation. She has always been alone; this tirade could send her sprawling. One after one, his Nazgûl enflesh in the Seen world. She cannot defeat them alone. ‘I am not alone,’ she retorts and smiles briefly. And two others appear. The High Istar and the Half-Elf. They viciously fend off every blow of the Nazgûl without fail… But Mairon is indifferent to this, for he cannot make even a small part of his consciousness turn away from Galadriel. And the envy reborn in him burns ever brighter. And with it, shapes of other feelings sparkle in his whole being. Another Istar comes and rescues Olorin, fleeing with him. But she stays; she doesn’t leave her allies. Mairon watches from the Unseen world as if from afar. As if it has nothing to do with him. And then all of a sudden, he can watch idly no more. Everything he has ceased feeling long ago, has thrown away like a burden, comes back and burns him impetuously and insufferably. This is not the pain he feels every moment of existence, the pain he is used to. A fiery wave of past feelings burn his very being, the ambition he has become… Shutting it all away by force of will, he exposes himself to the Seen world. As much as it is within his power without the Ring: in a form of a shadow, engulfed in flames. Now, when the veil of creation doesn’t part them anymore, Galadriel seems to shine like the moon. He has grown wholly unaccustomed to such bright lights, and if only he had eyes, he would have shut them to save himself from being struck blind. ‘It has begun,’ Mairon speaks. The Istar and the Half-Elf stand petrified as soon as he appears. They can slay the Nazgûl like children, two against nine, but they are no match for Mairon; he is out of their reach in the Unseen world… It is a pity that he let Olorin slip through his fingers, but right now he shall devour at least one of these three. Ruin one of the pillars that hold all of the decadent Middle-Earth. ‘The time of the Elves is over,’ gurgles his infernal voice. ‘The Age of the Orc has come.’ Enough of him hiding, bringing his design to life in the dead of night, like a thief. The day has come for them to know that soon Middle-Earth will be healed at last. Just as he promised. Suddenly, something flares up with an unbearable white light. It is her. The light is brighter than before, even though he couldn’t imagine anything brighter. Galadriel has turned to the Unseen world and stormed his abode. She has no sword or armour. She is barefoot. But the weapon she holds can wound him as no sword ever could. For she wields Light itself. ‘You have no power here… Servant of Morgoth. You are nameless, faceless, formless! Go back to the void from whence you came! ’ she sings, emanating light with every part of her body and soul. “Servant of Morgoth?” He has done more than enough to cast this past aside. Galadriel herself has said it once, and now he knows it on his own without a doubt. And he has a name. Thousands of names — he cannot remember all of them now. He knows that all those in Middle-Earth call him The Necromancer now, but he also vaguely recalls some of the previous names. There even was one that her lips have uttered without hatred or disdain. He cannot remember it now, but why wouldn’t she say it? The Light is weaving into her song and tears apart his being, his ambition, all of his feelings, born anew. Every time he has been obliterated, he was never sure if he would be able to come back. So maybe in a moment she shall destroy him forever. But even if she would, so be it. He is not afraid of such an end.