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As story told, Gandalf declared that for the night's repose, they would seek sanctuary at this hearth of esteemed ally. Bilbo peered past the wizard’s billowing cloak and beheld a sprawling, sturdy manor - single dwelling that seemed deceptively simple yet stood steeped in silent splendor. It was nestled where the rugged, rocky ramparts of the mountains met the whispering, wintry woods, surrounded by a secret, silver-misted garden where vegetables, fruit trees and flowers bloomed in defiance of the heights.
The Grey wizard struck the heavy timbers of the door with his gnarled staff. Minutes later, the door parted to reveal a tall, towering and handsome person. His long, lustrous hair was loosely gathered into a braided bind, a few stray strands escaping from beneath a stained, saffron-colored kerchief that swept the hair from a fair brow. He was clearly wearing a work apron and didn't look like he was waiting for guests any minute. A wide, wandering smile bloomed upon the man's lips as eyes lit with recognition.
"Gandalf!" - he cried vibrantly and merrily, - "by what wondrous whim of fate do you find your way to my threshold?"
Bilbo experiences a sudden, disorienting shift, realizing with a bewildered blush of embarrassment that this tall, robust, dirt-dusted craftsman is actually an elf. And never in his life has he yet to meet one!
Gandalf leaned upon his staff, eyes twinkling like trapped tears. He explained that he was escorting a brave band on a grand, grueling gamble toward the Lonely Mountain. Then, turning toward the travel-worn company, the wizard gestured with a graceful flourish.
"Behold, my friends! This is my cherished comrade, Celebrimbor - Son of Curufin, Grandson of Fëanor, High Lord of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and Silver-first."
Mithrandir then indicated the dwarf-lord, introducing Thorin Oakenshield, the rightful heir and direct descendant of Durin the Deathless. Thorin’s dark eyes widened in sudden, stark surprise, breath catching in a tight throat.
"Gandalf!" - the King cried, tone rich with reverence, - "why did you not warn us that we were venturing to the domain of the great Elven-smith? The very Master who fashioned the immortal, iridescent gates of lost Khazad-dûm - the Doors of Durin themselves! Great friend of all dwarves, Lord Khelebrimbûr!” - without hesitation, Thorin dropped into a deep, dignified bow, and every dwarf in the company followed suit, their beards brushing the stones in profound, powerful homage.
Celebrimbor flushed with a modest, mild embarrassment, waving away the weighty titles and formal praises with a gentle hand.
"Ah, noble dwarves, please, case with such burdensome boons and regal rituals," - Celebrimbor countered with soft and sincere voice, - “within these walls, we are all but weary wanderers and fast friends." - he returned the bow with a graceful, gallant incline of head, eyes warm with long lasting kinship.
Meanwhile, Bilbo simply stood in a silent, shadowed corner, blinking in bewildered blindness. The hobbit understood absolutely nothing of these ancient, ancestral legacies or the storied, secret histories being traded like gold between the merchants.
"My home is your home," - the elven-smith declared with a warm, welcoming gesture, ushering the weary travelers into the quiet sanctuary of his dwelling.
The dwarves and the bewildered hobbit crossed the threshold into a spacious, splendid hall, furnished with an elegant but earthy simplicity. Polished oak tables and sturdy, stone-carved benches stood under high vaulted ceilings, smelling faintly of sweet pine and beeswax. Instantly, the company claimed the space with their characteristic, clamorous charm. The dwarves settled in with boisterous laughter and sudden, spirited snatches of song, their deep voices echoing off the wooden rafters as they eagerly discussed the legendary depths of what was long lost and the peerless prowess of their host that was still creating. Bilbo, feeling terribly out of place, slid quietly into a darkened corner, perching awkwardly upon a small wooden stool and clutching his brass buttons in silent confusion.
Seeing their exhaustion, the master of the house smiled, - "please, rest well," - Celebrimbor murmured softly, - "and I shall bring some hot tea and wholesome treats to indulge your spirits."
The artisan stepped away into the adjoining kitchen, but when the elf returned bearing silver trays, delicate ceramic cups and a steaming kettle, another had joined. Following closely behind Celebrimbor was a majestic, mesmerizing figure.
"Olórin," - a voice chimed, low and lovely, like the resonance of a golden bell, - "as always, you delight in arriving as an uninvited guest."
To Bilbo, watching from his quiet shadow, it seemed as though the very skies had parted. The hobbit’s breath caught, mouth hanging open in silent, starry-eyed wonder. This was surely the most beautiful, breathtaking vision he would ever behold in his short, simple life. The stranger was draped in an ephemeral, almost transparent short tunic that clung like morning dew to a flawless, marble-carved frame. His hair was a magnificent cascade of fiery-copper, woven into a loose braid that seemed to hold living, glowing sparks of flame trapped within the red tresses. Upon a fair, flawless forehead burned what looked like a singular, brilliant star, casting a warm, celestial halo around his face. His eyes were twin pools of piercing, molten gold, marked by thin, vertical pupils that held the ancient, untamed mysteries of creation, and the visitor moved with a fluid, floating gait that seemed to illuminate the room, banishing the night itself.
Gandalf offered a slow, solemn nod, gnarled hand resting on his staff, - "greetings, old friend," - the wizard murmured.
A delicate, mocking smile touched those beautiful lips, - "a friend, truly? I did not think we counted ourselves as such, Olórin."
"I simply do not care to make unnecessary enemies," - the wizard countered while carrying a quiet, weighted caution.
Suddenly, Fili and Kili scrambled forward in a frantic, feverish race, their eyes wide with instant, unadulterated adoration. They threw themselves at the feet of the golden visitor, voices overlapping in eager, earnest promises. They swore to serve this fair majesty with unwavering faith as brave knights in the name of their patroness, to conquer the dreadful dragon of the North, reclaim the treasures of the Lonely Mountain and dedicate every heroic triumph to his incomparable, incandescent beauty.
The majestic being let out a soft, dismissive huff, a dry, elegant chuckle vibrating in his throat, - "I have absolutely no need for slain monsters or treasure gold," - he remarked, gaze cool and detached, - "nor shall I offer any divine blessings for your endeavors."
Celebrimbor stepped forward, a faint, fond blush warming his cheeks as the smith gestured to the luminous figure, - "my friends, allow me to present my beloved husband. You may call him Annatar."
Thorin bowed low, dark eyes searching the radiant face of the person, - "are you, then, like the wizard here?" - the dwarf-lord inquired with quiet reverence.
Annatar offered a slow, enigmatic nod, - "indeed," - he replied, voice a smooth purr, - "I am one of the Ainur."
One by one, the proud pedigree of each dwarf was proclaimed with a solemn, sounding pride. The grand names of Durin’s line echoed through the sturdy wooden walls of the hall, celebrated with clinking mugs and deep, rumbling laughter. Yet, when those molten-gold eyes sharp and shimmering finally drifted toward the quietest, darkest corner of the room, the majesty paused.
"And what of this one?" - Annatar asked, a cool, curious tilt to his head, - "a half-man? Half-breed of human and dwarf?"
Bilbo flushed a deep, embarrassed crimson, small fingers twisting nervously in his velvet pockets as he lowered gaze from that blinding, beautiful presence, - "a hobbit, sir," - the halfling mumbled sounding terribly soft and simple in the vastness of such presence, - "Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire."
The Maia lingered on the unfamiliar word, tasting it on tongue with a slow, thoughtful whisper, - "a hobbit..."
In time, the rowdy company grew quiet. The heavy, wholesome food and the comforting, crackling warmth of the stone hearth worked their slow, sleeping magic. One by one, the loud dwarves began to nod off, their boisterous, bold songs dissolving into soft, rhythmic snores. The husband of the great smith had long since slipped away from the gathering, vanishing as silently as a passing breeze. Sitting in his shadowed nook, Bilbo concluded in his innocent, simple hobbit-heart that the beautiful, bright creature was just shy - a delicate, quiet soul who found the noisy, chaotic ways of travelers too overwhelming for sensitive nature. Well, surely he can relate to this feeling!
Half-asleep on his armchair, the halfling was suddenly stirred by the low, hushed whispering of Gandalf and Celebrimbor, who stood huddled together by the dying dance of embers of the hearth.
"...Numenor," - the elven-smith murmured, a sudden, dark sorrow and rare, sharp bitterness tightening his gentle features, - "they deserved every drop of their watery, weeping doom. They dared to touch him, Gandalf! They stole my husband, dragging him in chains to their arrogant king, trying to enslave one of the Ainur in the name of eternal life…"
Bilbo shivered in the dark, a cold, creeping dread striking his chest at the mere, horrifying thought of any cruel hands daring to harm or shackle the luminous, fire-crowned Annatar. Oh, no wonder he doesn't like companies.
"Mairon proved more than capable of managing his own retribution," - Gandalf whispered back, intonation like dry autumn leaves scraping across cold stone, - "the king’s pride was his own undoing, and the Great Sea claimed what was owed. Numenor is but ash and salt now, buried beneath the boundless waves." - the wizard paused, ancient, twinkling eyes searching his companion's face, - "but tell me, my friend... do you never yearn for the capital? For the silver towers and the glorious, gilded workshops of Eregion?"
Celebrimbor let out a soft, sighing breath, gaze drifting to the glowing coals, - "no. I grew so weary of the endless weight of kingdoms, of the pride, the politics and the heavy pressure of Ost-in-Edhil. We have found a quiet and secret sanctuary here in the shadow of these silent peaks, and I have absolutely no desire to ever return. We are content. And Mairon... Mairon seems truly calm, truly at peace."
His gaze drifted slowly downward, settling upon the palm of his own right hand. Starting from the tip of the smallest finger and climbing upward in a twisting, ugly spiral, a massive, raised scar violently bloomed across the pale flesh like a crown of scorched, cutting flowers.
The wizard followed the craftsman’s gaze, a somber, silent sympathy softening his weathered face as he beheld the ruined skin.
"It is true," - the Celebrimbor murmured in a low, bittersweet whisper, - "we of the House of Fëanor are famed for holding our bitter grudges for an eternity, nursing our wrath like the Dark Lord his precious gems. But not in this case. Mairon and I spent centuries weaving this fragile peace, patiently tracing a slow, sacred common tongue after all the ruin we once wrought upon each other."
The Maia let out a soft, sighing breath, gnarled hand tightening slightly upon his wooden pipe which he yet to light, - "you performed a magnificent, miraculous service for the entire world, my dear friend. You saved one Arda from a dark, devouring doom."
The artisan let out a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle, shaking his head in the dimming firelight, - "oh no, dear Olórin," - Celebrimbor replied, eyes warming with a deep, defensive tenderness, - “first and foremost, I saved Mairon from the violent, devouring abyss of his own mind. The salvation of the world was merely a pleasant, accidental byproduct."
And from his dark corner, Bilbo listened, sleepy mind utterly unable to grasp the weight or importance of this quiet conversation, yet feeling a strange, soothing comfort in the gentle, low murmur of their voices, which eventually lulled him to sleep.
Gandalf quietly closed the heavy wooden door behind himself, stepping out into the cool, whispering night air. He found Mairon, completely on purpose, sitting silently upon the stone steps of the porch, a solitary figure gazing fixedly into the infinite, lifeless, ink-black void of the starry sky.
"Still seeking the shadow of One who shall never again stand beneath these stars?" - the wizard asked even softly.
The rogue Maia broke suddenly from the silent trance, a sharp, hostile glare snapping toward the Grey, his gold, slit-pupil eyes flashing with a dangerous, defensive heat.
The wizard walked forward and sat down upon the cold stone beside the quiet watcher, - "I shall not insult your intelligence by asking permission to share your solitude," - the power in an old man’s body murmured, leaning against the railing, - "we both know you would have refused me."
Mairon squinted, gaze drifting back to the dark horizon, - "how painfully perceptive."
A long, heavy silence settled over the porch, broken only by the distant sighing of the mountain wind through the pines. After a time, Gandalf spoke again, tone gentle yet firm, - "you know, deep within your immortal heart, that you did not betray him."
"I have no desire for your hollow words of alleged comfort, Olórin," - the fiery spirit spat back sharp as squeezing broken glass, - "nor do I care for your tedious, philosophical preachings."
"Yet, I cannot simply walk past a soul so clearly submerged in silent sorrow and crushing grief," - fellow Maia countered.
Mairon let out a long, weary sigh, slender shoulders sagging slightly as if acknowledging the utter futility of trying to flee this stubborn, meddlesome messenger of one very sorrowful Valar.
"I suspect a more headstrong, difficult Maia could scarcely be found in all the long, winding history of this world," - the wizard continued, a faint, fond smile touching bearded lips, - "you served your master to the very brink of the void. Therefore, Mairon, I say it again - you betrayed no one."
"Why, then, does the guilt cling to me like boiled oil?" - the former lieutenant whispered, tone cracking with a raw, long-hidden vulnerability, - "now it feels as though I simply walked away, abandoning His memory to the dust, leaving Him forever alone."
"Yet, I am almost certain His final, fateful decree was not a command for you to destroy your own essence in a desperate, deadly bid for vengeance, nor to wither away from the shame of defeat," - the old man observed.
The copper-haired watcher turned face away, staring down at his pale, ringless hands, - "no... it was not."
"There is your answer," - Mithrandir concluded, - "thus, you must endure. You must exist, lasting through the quiet ages, so that when the End of Days finally comes, you may stand before Him and tell of every, well, I guess in your case, horrific beauty, every scary wonder and every weariness you lived through."
Mairon closed eyes, a careful bitter, beautiful smile touching his lips, - "how easy, oh one of weeping lady lackeys, for you to say."
"And even easier to pretend that you shall be all alone on your own meaningless brooding," - the wizard replied, getting his pipe from the sleeve, - "when the warmth of a living, skilled and scared hands is already waiting for you inside this house, beyond my honest reasons to understand, except for true love."
Mairon turned sharply, golden eyes locking onto the dark window pane that overlooked the stone porch. For a fleeting, tense second, the Maia wondered if Celebrimbor was standing just behind the glass, quietly catching their hushed words in the silence. But, then he would not understand a word they were saying… And rolling those burning, beautiful eyes toward the starry sky one last time, the red-haired spirit looked at the wizard, - "sometimes," - Mairon murmured, a dry fondness slipping into his tone, - "I think he is completely out of his mind. He is the last one from the family line that doomed the person I love the most. I should have tortured him to death and then crucifie… I almost did… And he's still here with me…"
The fellow Maia let out a hearty, genuine laugh, cupping the warm bowl of his pipe to keep the embers from flaring too bright, - "you two are entirely deserving of one another. And remember - Celebrimbor is a victim of his family as much as the rest who came to know Silmarils," - he chuckled, - "though I must agree, to bind oneself to a creature of your fiery temperament, a person must indeed be either utterly mad, or a Dark Vala himself!"
"Very funny," - Mairon drawled, voice dripping with smooth, silver sarcasm.
"Care for a smoke?" - the wizard asked unexpectedly, reaching deep into his other voluminous sleeve to produce a second carved wooden pipe.
The fiery Maia stared at the offering, a faint, amused smirk tugging at his lips, - "what do you keep in those robes, Olórin? A secret warehouse? But... why not," - Mairon accepted the pipe, cradling the polished wood in slender fingers.
The old man struck a spark, lighting their pipes with a gentle wave of the hand. Almost immediately, the pilgrim began to blow his signature, perfect rings of grey smoke, watching them float lazily into the cool, dark night. Mairon watched them for a moment, then took a long, slow puff. With a soft, deliberate exhale, the Maia shaped his own silver smoke into a miniature, crimson-tinged dragon. The tiny beast swept through the air, diving straight through one of the wizard's floating rings and setting the edges ablaze with a brilliant, momentary spark.
"Speaking of which," - the wizard remarked, eyes twinkling under bushy brows, - "you wouldn't happen to have any need for a dragon, would you? We happen to have one on our horizon. Word has it he is the very last of the truly great drakes of his line."
Mairon leaned back against the stone railing, watching the tiny smoke-beast dissolve into the starry night, - "one should never be so foolish as to believe common rumors..."
The following dawn, the brave little company set forth upon their long, perilous path toward adventure, their heavy boots crunching against the frosty mountain gravel. On the threshold of departure, Annatar stopped the smallest traveler. Bending lower, the Lord of Gifts slipped a small, unadorned band into the hobbit's palm.
"Half-man," - Mairon murmured, a rare warmth coloring voice, - "you are the only one in this boisterous band who humbly cast down your eyes, neither warrior nor soldier. You do not seek grand victory or magnificent prize. Take this. It is a simple, secret ring. Slip it upon your finger in moments of dark, desperate danger and it shall deliver you."
A day later, the quiet manor was filled with a much softer, sweeter melody of the song of old…
Celebrimbor was gently roused from his slumber by his beloved husband. The Maia slipped into the bedroom, carefully placing a silver tray loaded with fresh, fragrant fruits and ripe summer berries onto the bedside table before crawling onto the mattress to settle beside the sleeping elf.
The artisan blinked against the soft morning light, offering a sleepy, puzzled smile, - "to what do we owe this delicious indulgence, dearest? You are in an extraordinarily excellent mood... and I highly doubt it is due to your brief reunion with old friend Olórin."
"Oh, quite the contrary," - Mairon replied with a mysterious, mischievous grin, stretching lazily across the soft sheets, - "we are about to embark on a little journey of our own."
"A journey?" - Tyelpe echoed, sitting up with a sudden, startled laugh, - "what journey could you possibly mean?"
The Maia plucked a ripe, scarlet strawberry from the tray and pressed it gently against the elf's lips. A drop of sweet, ruby juice escaped, and the craftsman happily ate the berry from those slender fingers, licking the lingering sweetness from the hot skin.
"Why, a magical, mystery journey, of course," - the cunning spirit whispered, - "we are going to find me a dragon."
"A dragon?!" - the elven-smith exclaimed, tone cracking with sheer, amused disbelief, - "do you truly wish to adopt that drake as a pet?"
"And why not? I used to have many…" - Mairon mused dreamily, leaning his chin on Celebrimbor's shoulder, - "I have been meaning to expand my magnificent magma pool anyway. A little fire-drake would keep the waters perfectly toasted." - he selected a sweetly-sour pomegranate, repeating the delightful trick.
"Ha! And what comes next?" - Celebrimbor chuckled, shaking his head, - "shall we capture a pet Balrog and walk it on a leash through the garden?"
His spouse merely shrugged, a wicked, playful spark dancing in his eyes, - "everything is possible, beloved... absolutely everything."
To seal his playful victory, the golden-eyed spirit threw a bare, shapely leg over the artisan's waist, pressing their bodies close together, and popped a ripe, dark blackberry directly into the elf’s mouth.
The craftsman chewed the sweet fruit, letting out a soft, defeated sigh, - "fine, then. If I must tolerate a dragon in our yard, I have one non-negotiable condition - for the next thousand years, you must return to your fair, white hair!"
A scandalized, dramatic scowl instantly twisted those perfect features, - "what? Do you dare suggest that you do not adore my fiery tresses?!"
"I adore them immensely, beloved," - Celebrimbor answered softly, fingers gently tangling in a red lock, a tender warmth in his eyes and then kissing it, - "but a husband is surely allowed his sweet and delightful preferences."
The Maia rolled his eyes with a theatrical, loving huff, - "fine. Fair, white hair it shall be."
"Then we have a treaty, my love," - the elven-smith whispered, pulling the beautiful spirit down by shoulders and sealing the bargain with a deep, sweet-lipped kiss that tasted of summer berries and everlasting night.