b2mem | Winter's Drums by pandemonium_213; illustrated by <user site="l

pandemonium-213.livejournal.com posting in

Title: Winter's Drums
Author Name: pandemonium_213
Prompts: Winter weather (B2MeM 2014) and thundersnow (B2MeM 2012 – yes, a tad belated)
Summary: The grisly banner having served its purpose, Sauron enlists the assistance of his soldiers and bodyguard to bear Celebrimbor's corpse to its final resting place in the foothills of the Misty Mountains while a snowstorm approaches from the southwest.
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Descriptions of torture and a deteriorating corpse may be too intense for some readers (roughly equivalent to MPAA R-rating or TV Ratings Mature Audience V); some expletive language. Pandë!versecentric.
Beta: Many thanks to Binky, Drummerwench, Elfscribe, Ignoble Bard, KyMahalei, Oshun, Randy O, Russandol, and Scarlet for their input.
Author's Notes: I thoroughly enjoyed collaborating with huinare, who has provided two illustrations for this story. Her style is distinctive (reminds me of Brian Froud's work), and the grey tones are eminently suitable for the bleak theme of the story. Many thanks to Huinárë for the excellent artwork! Also see End Notes for more of my interminable bloviation.

Title: 1. "Examining His Work" / 2. "Thundersnow"
Artist Name: Huinárë (huinare)
Prompt: Winter Weather
Description: Pencil illustration / Construction paper collage
Rating: G
Warnings: Not as such, but Pandë's story itself, on the other hand...
Artist's Notes: It was a pleasure to be able to read Pandemonium's story before it went live and to natter about it with her during the process of creating these illustrations.

Winter's Drums

The north wind bullied its way past the tent's entry to blow a fountain of sparks up from the black brazier. The edges of the map spread across the commander's table fluttered, but iron weights at its corners defeated the wind's mischief. Standing at the entrance of the tent, the Easterling captain shivered and fingered the edge of his helm in a fruitless attempt to still the tremble in his hands. Most likely, the cold gnawed at him, this man so far removed from his home of warmer climes, but Mairon assumed that fear contributed as well. The captain, the bronze skin above his black beard chapped by winter's dry air, met his eyes only for a few moments before he glanced away to focus on a spot behind Mairon's shoulder. Clever fellow, not to completely avert his gaze. Made him seem brave, though he knew that the man would shit himself if he so much as raised his voice and summoned the brutish orcs who stood guard at the entrance to the tent.

Mairon studied the livery of the legions from Rhûn: a polished helm engraved with the design of a charging bull, a crimson cloak, and a shining shirt of brazen mail. The hilt of a scimitar emerged from the well-oiled leather scabbard hanging from the captain's belt. Over his left cheekbone, a red welt swelled, perilously close to his eye, and an inflamed scar ran across his right cheek to his ear. This officer had not shirked battle, and he took good care of his armaments. That impressed Mairon. He raised his hand, and flicked his fingers, beckoning him to come closer. The man swallowed, his throat-apple bobbing beneath his beard, and took a few steps forward.

"Speak."

"Your Excellency. My men…there have been complaints."

"Complaints? Of what? Bauglir knows how many complaints I've borne of late."

"The banner, my King," the captain said, running his rough fingers over the edge of the helm's nose guard. "It unnerves them. They fear that the Elf's spirit has not abandoned the body."

"Superstitious nonsense! It has long fled."

The captain shuddered and made a subtle warding sign with his right hand.

Mairon sat unmoved by the ridiculous gesture. "On the other hand, I suppose the banner has served its purpose."

Indeed it had. Swords, spears, and machines were not the only weapons of war. Fear and despair were just as potent against one's foes, a lesson well learned from Melkor, and one that Mairon applied again and again. Few weapons could best Tyelperinquar's arrow-riddled corpse impaled on that pole. Mairon had been immensely satisfied when he saw the contortions of horror on the faces of the soldiers of Eregion and the grief of their commanders — Elrond and Celeborn — when they recognized the abomination that heralded his vanguard. It had sent exactly the message he intended:

I did this to my closest friend. Now imagine what I can do to you.

"We shall cut the body down at dawn." Mairon kept his eyes fixed on the captain, who was now shaking outright.

"Thank you, your Excellency. You are most gracious, your Excellency."

"Yes, yes, most gracious. Now leave. Tell the Prince I wish to speak with him."

"Yes, your Excellency. Thank you, your Excellency." The Easterling backed out of the tent, bowing the entire time, no doubt relieved that Mairon had not ordered him beheaded on the spot for having the audacity to bring up the subject.

Within moments, another man, taller and more pallid than the Easterling, eased into the tent. He held Mairon's gaze far longer than the captain had, but nonetheless, he, too, was compelled to focus on that same point behind Mairon's shoulder.

"You summoned me, your Grace?" The Prince of Tharbad stood expectant and alert, his noble features impassive. Mairon scrutinized his hazel eyes. Was that a subtle pall dimming their brightness? Something that the man would not notice himself? Mairon considered the faint hint of cloudiness. Of course, it might be due to mortal aging, but he suspected — he hoped — that the Prince's Ring was taking hold, weaving its power into his brain's nets and becoming more firmly entangled in the web cast by the gold band that encircled Mairon's left forefinger.

"I did. I want you to cut down Tyelp..." Mairon caught himself. He had almost blurted out a nickname that spoke of sentiment, and sentiment was weakness.

"I want you to cut down the Feänorian's body at sunrise tomorrow," he continued. "I will be on hand, and will require six of your soldiers to bear the body to its resting place."

"Resting place? For an enemy of..."

"You question me?"

The Prince flinched. "No, of course not. Very well, your Excellency. It shall be done."

"Arrange for a litter and make sure that the rank and file of the orcs are kept well away. There's nothing more they would wish to do than devour the corpse."

The Prince did not attempt to conceal his look of revulsion. The forced alliance among Men and orc-folk was uneasy at best, violent at worst, but until Mairon could recruit more Men to his cause, he had no other choice but to rely heavily on the masses of unruly creatures that formed the bulk of his army.

"Yes, I know, a disgusting business," Mairon said, examining the Prince's eyes again, "but that is their way. They believe that consuming the flesh of their enemies gives them strength."

"I see, my King. Will that be all?"

"One more thing: that Easterling captain, what is his name?"

"Khalas. He commands one of the legions out of Rhûn."

"I gathered as much from his livery," Mairon said dryly, irritated by the Prince's statement of the obvious. "He shall oversee the men who will bear the body. Now go."

"As you wish." The tall Númenórean bowed, his dark blue cloak swirling around him as he turned on his heel, and left Mairon alone in the commander's tent.

The Prince wore his Ring well. He ought to, seeing as how the silvered steel band set with a pale opal was tailored expressly for him. The Prince could not have known that Mairon had studied him — the wayward son of a noble Númenórean house — long before they ever met, learning of his ruthless leadership, his hunger for power, his obsessive interest in sorcery, and of the dark rumors of unnatural appetites, all of which had driven him into exile from Westernesse. Every day, the Prince became more adept at tapping into the power of his Ring, confirming Mairon's perception that the strain of the witch Melyanna ran strong in him.

He had yet to gift the remaining Rings of Power, hard-won from the treasury of the Míretanor, but that would require careful selection of their bearers. Nine Rings were destined for Men, and he was confident that, over time, he would find suitable candidates for the remaining eight. Seven were meant for the Dwarves. The thought of the Rings in the hands of those stunted folk made him curl his lip in contempt. He would never forget the ferocity of Durin's soldiers, who, along with the Elves of Lindórinand, tore through the rear ranks of his army, forcing him to abandon pursuit of Elrond's vulnerable legions, burdened as they were with the miserable refugees from Eregion. Still, the Dwarves had their uses and their weaknesses, the lust for wealth in particular. The Three though. Those were the key. Now that he had surmised who held them, he must claim them and soon.

Mairon looked up from the map and stared at the brazier. Its glowing coals triggered a vision of that night in the forges of the Míretanor, when he stood alongside Sámaril while the young man poured molten metal into the clay cast, the first steps of crafting the Prince's Ring. Such a promising smith.

Over a month ago, on the day when his forces had breached the gates and marched into the stricken city, he and his former student locked eyes when Mairon approached the House of the Míretanor. He had reached into Sámaril's thoughts and urged him to flee. What Sámaril did not know was that Mairon allowed him to escape. The young master smith was of far more use to him alive than dead. Mairon ran his fingers over the map toward Rhudaur. No doubt Sámaril was with Elrond, hunkered down somewhere in the North, but it was only a matter of time before Mairon's scouts located their refuge.

A coal snapped and broke. He left the map and went to the brazier where he reached into the glowing coals with his left hand and stirred the embers. Flames leapt through the spaces between his fingers, and a gout of sparks shot up to the vent above where the black night devoured them. He pulled back his hand to see the engraving on the Ring glow faintly. Then he listened, as he did every evening, to take in the state of the camp and his army.

The frigid air amplified the night noises: the murmurs of the Mannish captains in the tents that encircled his post, the whicker of horses, and further removed, the raucous yells and shrieks of the orc camp. From the tents of the Southrons in his train, a melancholy flute warbled, joined by the yearning voice of a man singing in a dialect of the Haradrim. It was a lament of love lost.

He stared at the coals while he listened to the man's song and saw Culinen's dead eyes staring at an iron-grey sky where carrion birds wheeled. The memory of the life leaving her, even as he held her in his arms, pleading with her to stay, had nearly been his undoing. He blinked forcefully, rubbed his fingers over his eyes, and backed away from the brazier.

Too much smoke. That is it. And I am exhausted. How long has it been since I took some real rest?

At this time of the evening, faithful Boldog would have been tending the fire, bringing him food and drink, and otherwise seeing to his comfort. He imagined the Maia in orc form scolding him, as his trusty manservant was wont to do: 'Tis the price of wearing these fleshly forms, m'lord. Even the greatest of the Fays must take a nap.

He ought to pay heed to his absent servant's clucking even though he risked the torment of dreams as soon as he allowed his mind to drift toward sleep. That night, however, when he closed his eyes after he lay down on the hard cot he so rarely used, he slipped into a mercifully dreamless slumber.

Mairon woke more rested than he had been in months. The coals in the brazier were cold, and the dark night had softened to grey dawn. He rubbed his face with both hands, ran his fingers through his hair, and rose from the cot, the black mail heavy on his shoulders and boots still on his feet. He wrapped his wolf-pelt lined cloak around himself. Then, before stepping out into the clatter of the awakening camp, he donned the spell that so effectively incited terror and awe among his followers.

Clouds had moved in overnight, and the biting wind had died down to a mere breeze, still cold enough to nip at exposed faces and fingers. Far overhead and out of sight, an eagle cried. No doubt it was one of Eönwë's get that spied on Mairon's army. No matter. Let the bird bear witness.

A crowd gathered to watch, including a number of orcs, but the guards kept them back. Mairon stared up at Tyelpo's carcass. Even after three weeks, the body was still fixed to the great oaken stake, indelibly stained with blood. It ought to be secure, given how much effort it had taken to attach the body to the rod. The huge trolls recruited for the grisly job found success when they rammed the tip of the pole into the anus, working it through the viscera like threading meat on a stick for roasting, and forced it out near the neck where its sharpened point snapped the collarbone. Ropes had then been lashed around the body, and black and blood-red streamers were attached to the gory apex of the pole. These, along with the remnants of the elven-smith's long, dark hair, slithered in the frigid breeze.

"Bring it down."

At his order, the men chopped into the frozen soil at the base of the stake, dislodging it, and then slowly lowered the remains to the ground. Then all the Men fell silent, and even the orcs hushed as Mairon stepped forward to stand over the corpse. He stared at Tyelpo's face, no longer handsome, but transformed into a grinning skull with thin skin stretched over it. The elven-smith's once-muscular body was so shrunken that it resembled the dead husks of Men that slept in the desert tombs of the Far South. Elvish corpses disintegrated more rapidly than those of mortals, as if all the wear and tear of their long years of life descended at once upon their hröar. As he gazed at what was left of his friend and colleague, Mairon wondered idly if Fëanáro's body had truly turned to ash and blown away on the wind like smoke, or had it simply decomposed swiftly, like that of his grandson, leaving the bards to turn a corpse's rot and corruption into silver-tongued poetry?

The Prince broke into his reverie. "Shall we cut the body from the stake?"

Mairon realized that the corpse would have to be torn apart in order to remove it from the pole. He had desecrated his friend's body enough and saw no need to further defile it.

"No. Cut back the stake, but leave the corpse be. It will fall to pieces otherwise."

It was mid-morning by the time the stake was sawed away so that only a foot or so of wood extended beyond the carcass' head and its mangled toes. Two broad-shouldered Men lifted the body and the stake to place them on a makeshift litter, and a linen shroud was draped over all. At Khalas' command, six Rhûnish soldiers lifted it to their sturdy shoulders. Mairon swung up onto the saddle of his horse, and his mounted bodyguard, which included five hulking orcs less sun-averse than their fellows, prepared to follow. With a gentle flick of the reins, he turned Mori to face the Prince.

"The command is yours while I am gone."

The swell of gloating pride was evident in the Man's face. "Your Excellency."

"The command of the Men, that is. Captain Ânghâsh shall oversee the orcs. Do you understand?"

The Prince's pride fell away when he realized that Mairon still did not consider him fit to manage the orc legions on his own. "Yes, Your Excellency."

"Very good. I shall return in four days." With a click of his tongue, he urged Mori to spin about, and led the procession toward the foothills east of the army's sprawling winter encampment.

They followed the paved highway that led to the Walls of Khazad-dûm for a good distance before they turned off onto a dirt road that wound its way deep into the hills. The terrain became increasingly rough. The road hugged the steep slopes of high ridges, then plunged to skirt treacherous lowlands at the bottom of the vales, their hungry mud covered by the deceit of thin ice. Then the way rose again, toward the height of another bleak ridge. Celebdil's white slopes drew nearer, looming against the pale sky, while to the North, Caradhras scowled, silently watching their progress.

They were not quite half way to their destination when, shortly after midday, a bearer stumbled, and the Men nearly dropped the litter. Mairon called a halt to let them rest. The Men carefully set their burden down and rubbed their shoulders while the bodyguard dismounted, the orcs and their wargs upwind of the body as Mairon had commanded. These orc-warriors were disciplined enough not touch the body, but he was less confident of their steeds.

He did not rest, but stood on a flat boulder where he gazed out over the rolling lands to the southwest, where the silver ribbon of the swift-flowing Sirannon snaked through fields, pastures, and arbors, all blackened from fires that had swept across them only a few weeks ago. Here and there, wisps of smoke meandered aloft from the ruined villages and crofts that dotted the countryside, but columns of thick smoke still churned from the distant wreck of Ost-in-Edhil, its once lofty spires and towers collapsed, its golden domes broken, and its formidable gates shattered.

It had taken ten strikes of the battering ram, its steel wolf's head forged in Orodruin's molten bowels, to break the gates. Mairon then entered the city, his home for some four hundred Sun-rounds, and stepped over the bodies of men, women, and children, many of whom he recognized and had named friends. Here was the baker who made the sweet rolls that Mairon so often ate for his breakfast. There was the tailor's assistant, who had repaired the shirts and trousers he wore in the forges. Here was the young woman whom he had once held when she was hardly more than a baby, singing to her about a little spider. Those people who were still alive had recognized him, too, when he rode through the broken streets, and for most, it had been a horrible shock. Few had reason to connect Istyar Aulendil with Thû the Sorcerer. The Míretanor had guarded their shame well.

Such a wretched waste, but this was ever the way of war: waste and ruin. Had the Míretanor not rebelled, he might have spared these people and their land, and all would have flourished under his rule. Together, they would have built, as they had all hoped, a realm to rival Valinor. But that dream of an immortal dominion here in Middle-earth — his dream as much as theirs — had been shattered, just like the gates of the city, thanks to Tyelperinquar's treachery.

I will never tell you, Sauron!

The hated name still rang in his ears. Tyelpo had spat the words even as Mairon laid a hot iron against the tender skin over the smith's ribs. The Fëanorian gave up the whereabouts of the sixteen rings quickly enough, there in the courtyard before the razzed House of the Míretanor, but not the Three.

Mairon had no recourse but to order his friend dragged to the elven-smith's once splendid home, now laid to ruin. In the parlor of what had once been a haven of comfort and culture, Mairon devised a makeshift torture chamber. Where they so often had drunk too much wine, argued with ferocious glee, and then laughed together afterward, he yanked out his friend's fingernails one-by-one. His colleague groaned in pain, but remained silent on the Three. Mairon was then forced to apply more compelling measures: he prized six teeth from Tyelpo's jaws, hung iron weights from his balls, cracked his thigh bones, and even resorted to gouging out his left eye with a silver spoon plundered from the house's trove of elegant table settings. His friend's bloody eyeball had been slick in his hand when he carried it to the open window and threw it to the crows that gorged on the dead.

Still, Tyelperinquar refused to reveal who possessed the Three. Mairon, who took pride in his techniques of coercion, became increasingly frustrated.

Tell me, he pleaded. Just tell me. It does not have to be like this.

How many times had he begged that of Tyelpo? How many times had he cursed his friend for his obduracy? Hundreds? Thousands? Mairon hated him for his denial, hated him for forcing the use of such brutality, hated him for stealing the curwë to create the Three, and hated him for living when Culinen had died.

At last, Mairon summoned the Tanner. During that late afternoon, when the late autumn sun shone pale in the ravaged parlor, Tyelpo, naked and prone on his belly, was tied spreadeagled to bolts driven into the floor, its golden planks stained with blood, piss, and shit. The steely-eyed man of a hundred knives arrived; his many blades clinked against one another as he walked, a ringing chorus of sharp-fanged chimes. His grizzled face set in concentration, the Tanner set to his work and sliced into the living skin of the elven-smith's broad shoulders. Tyelpo's wrenching screams were almost beyond Mairon's endurance, but he forced himself to remain calm, his mind poised to snatch any unguarded memory that might emerge from his friend's torment.

The approach had proven fruitful. In the fog of agony, his colleague's jumbled thoughts were laid open, even if briefly, but enough for Mairon to perceive an image of Galadriel, then that of a king with a mithril and gold crown upon his head, and another man with thick silver hair and a bearded face weathered by the Sea: Gil-galad and Círdan. Thus, he made an educated guess as to who now possessed the Three. It was then that he ordered Tyelpo put to death at the hands of a dozen orc-archers.

They dragged his colleague out of the city, his back's bloody muscles and sinews exposed and the loose skin flapping like a cape. They tied him to a scorched oak tree. Mairon still heard the thuds of the dozen arrows that pierced his friend's body, but Tyelpo made no sound until just before his feä fled. At that moment, he fixed the fading sight of his remaining eye on Mairon, and his broken lips moved.

How could you betray me like this?

Because you left me no other choice.

"I beg your pardon, your Grace..."

Mairon jerked his head around to look down at Mauhûr, the orc who was captain of his bodyguard.

"What is it?"

"The men are rested, your Grace," Mauhûr growled.

He managed to refrain from wincing at the captain's butchered pronunciations of the Black Speech. The orc had taken pains to learn Mairon's concocted tongue, and became impressively fluent, but his vocal apparatus, derived from a more ancient line of mankind than that of Men and Elves, would never allow the complex intonations the language was meant to have. However, as much as Mairon wanted to correct him, there was no sense in injuring his captain's pride. The orc quietly awaited his orders.

"Let us march on until dusk. We can make camp yonder, on the other side of that ridge."

"Yes, your Excellency."

Mairon watched the orc bound down the slope toward the rest of the party, barking orders in the pidgin that blended Haladin, Sindarin, and the dialect of the largest Haradren tribe. People would always find a way to communicate, he supposed, but if he had his way, the Black Speech would supplant the bastardized tongue. The Men lifted the litter to their shoulders, and all trudged along the road that narrowed into a trail.

They made camp in a protected vale beyond the high ridge. The frigid night descended quickly, and Men and orcs were forced together for warmth. They huddled around the large fire that crackled and roared, devouring the wood of holly trees that they had gathered and Mairon set ablaze. The horses and wargs, however, were less companionable. Mori had already bared his teeth and kicked one of the beasts when it ventured too close, so the wargs were sent hunting.

He did not sleep that night but sat by Tyelpo's body where it lay shrouded on the litter at the edge of the fire's light. The corpse's right hand, curled like a dead spider, lay outside the linen. Mairon laid his own hand over it. The flesh and bone felt like old wood and leather. Hard to imagine it was once the able tool of a mighty mind.

"You were so foolish, old friend. You could have made another choice. You'd be alive now, and with you at my side, I'd have created a kingdom to rival Valinor. So foolish."

He sat like that until the hour before dawn. During the night, the air changed, becoming marginally warmer and heavy with moisture. He rose from his vigil and found Mauhûr, also awake and on watch. The orc stood at attention as soon as he perceived Mairon's presence.

"Your Excellency."

"It is time. Have the men ready the body. We shall take it the rest of the way. It is not far."

"Very good, your Excellency. But..."

"But what, Mauhûr?"

"There will be snow, your Grace. Heavy snow by the smell of it." Mauhûr hailed from one of the great tribes that dwelt in the far north of the Hithaeglir, and was weather-crafty, especially where winter storms were concerned.

He sniffed the air and confirmed the captain's assessment.

"You are right, but we will return here before we are in the thick of it."

Dawn came, and the frosty disk of the Sun struggled to rise over the mountains. The men lifted the pallet to their shoulders once more. Mairon's destination was no more than half a league away, but the trail was rough. His horse picked his way among the rocks. At the foot of a steep hill, where the trail narrowed and zig-zagged across the slope, Mairon called a halt and dismounted. He signaled to Mauhûr, who jumped off his warg to lope up the trail.

"You may wait here. I shall take the body the rest of the way."

The orc-captain's heavy brows knotted with concern. "Alone, your Excellency? I do not think that..." but he stopped mid-sentence when Mairon silently reached into the orc's mind to snap the whip of discipline that Melkor had engineered into their brains so long ago. Mauhûr's face froze into a pained grimace.

Mairon considered his intention to drag Tyelpo's carcass up the trail. A month ago, he had carried another body to the top of this hill with no one other than his horse accompanying him, but those remains had been lighter and without the complication of a pole. He was strong enough to handle the weight the corpse and what was left of the stake by himself, but the entire package might prove to be unwieldy. It was not something he could simply sling under his arm like firewood. Yet he did not want a gaggle of Men and orcs to witness the final resting place of his friend and the other that lay there. After a few moments of thought, he hit upon the solution that fit together so neatly that he smiled at his own cleverness.

"Not alone. Khalas shall accompany me. Order the men to unlash the body from the litter. The Easterling and I will carry the Elf's remains up there." He pointed toward the heights.

Mauhûr gasped, knowing he had overstepped his bounds, when Mairon released him. "I beg your forgiveness, your Excellency. As you wish. We shall wait for you here. Khalas! Do as the King commands!"

The Easterling's brown face blanched, but he and his men did as they were told. While they were at work, Mairon whispered to Mori, "Wait here, my lad, and please do try not to kick the wargs. Yes, I understand. It is hard to refrain."

Once the body and the pole were free of the ropes that lashed them to the litter, Mairon bent at the corpse's feet whilst Khalas knelt by its head.

"Right then," called Mairon. "One...two...three...lift!"

As Mairon expected, he bore the weight easily, and Khalas seemed to have no difficulty lifting the stake. He ordered the man to march forward up the trail.

At first, all went well, but as the trail became steeper, Khalas struggled. In Mairon's estimation, it was not so much the weight of their burden that caused the problems, for Tyelpo's body had withered to skin and bones, or at least he did not find it to be too heavy, but then, his strength far exceeded that of a mortal Man. Khalas seemed to be having a hard time getting a firm grip on the short length of the pole that extended above the corpse's skull.

At the second switchback, which angled sharply, Khalas lost his grip and fell to his knees as he frantically tried to grab the pole.

"Fuck!" Mairon barked as he tightened his hands around the stake. The body, its shroud flapping like a frightened white hen, hung over the brink, while Mairon set his jaw and grappled with the stake, which threatened to slip from his grasp. The corpse and pole bobbed up and down, angling out from his body like a huge, ghastly erection. Almost comical, really, and he was grateful that, other than Khalas, no one witnessed his indignity. With a mighty effort, he swung the remains back toward the trail where Tyelpo's arm smashed against the rocks, making an audible crack when the brittle bones broke like dry sticks,

He glared at the Easterling, who looked ready to piss himself. "Pick it up, and if you drop it again, I shall fry you on the spot."

"Yes, your Grace." Despite his shaking hands, Khalas managed to lift the pole, and they marched on to the trailhead, where a scrubby meadow of tough grasses and rocks opened before them. Near the edge of the steep, westward face of the hill, a pile of stones was precisely stacked.

"Over there," said Mairon. "Set it down by that cairn, and we shall build its twin."

Khalas, sucking air through his nose, opened his mouth, perhaps ready to voice a question, but must have thought better of it when he pressed his lips together. They laid the body down as Mairon directed, parallel to the lone cairn, and then began the process of gathering stones and placing them over the body.

As they labored, the southwestern sky slowly darkened into a blurred band of ashy charcoal, and a dank chill weighed down upon the foothills. Heavy clouds smothered the mountaintops. The snowstorm would soon be upon them.

"Hurry now!" Mairon called to the Easterling, who fumbled with the rocks, stacking them precariously, such that Mairon had to readjust them so the fit would be solid. Khalas became increasingly clumsy from weariness, but his task would be finished soon. With a bit more effort, Tyelpo's remains were covered with stones that were arranged to Mairon's satisfaction.

"There. It is done." He then looked at the Easterling, who was sweating despite the heavy, damp cold. "You wished to ask me something earlier, did you not?"

"Yes, your Excellency."

Mairon took a few strides forward to close the distance between them. He looked down upon the Man.

"No doubt you are wondering who lies beneath this other cairn."

"I...yes, I wondered that, but..."

"The remains of my wife are buried there. Yes, my wife. I see that surprises you. I suppose it would to those who know little of my life in Eregion. That is why I hauled Celebrimbor's carcass up here, so the bodies in which they walked this earth may rest together." While he spoke, his right hand slid to his waist. Khalas took no heed, for he stood as mesmerized by Mairon's eyes and voice, just as a bird might be charmed by a snake. "They were cousins, you see. Family. But I must leave that behind now, and you will tell no one of this. You will tell no one where these graves lie."

"I shall not say a word, your Grace, I promise! Not a word!"

"No, you shall not. In fact, you will remain here and have the honor of guarding their graves."

The man frowned, confused for a moment, but then comprehended just what Mairon meant. He reached for his scimitar, but not quickly enough. Swift as lightning, Mairon struck, the keen edge of his dagger slicing through the man's throat. He stepped back briskly to avoid the spray of blood. Khalas fell to his knees and then onto his face where his body twitched a few times while his life drained into the soil between the two cairns.

Mairon nudged the body a few times with the tip of his boot, satisfied that the Easterling was dead. "It didn't pay to complain to me, Khalas, but at least you served a purpose. Now let's put you to work."

He arranged the body to rest between the cairns and placed the scimitar on the dead man's body so that the weapon reached from chest to thighs, his dead hands clasping the hilt. Then Mairon walked several paces away from the cairns and traced a wide circle around them while reaching into a small satchel that hung from his belt; he scattered the shriveled holly berries and rose hips he had carried here. Singing all the while, he cast the spell that not only enchanted the seeds so they would take root in the spring to form a thorny fence, but also wove a veil of confusion and dread around the cairns so that any and all, save for the insects and worms that feasted upon the dead, would be warded away.

He stepped back to examine his work. It was done.

He ought to leave now, but an unexpected sound — like a dull roll of drums — caught his attention and stayed him. He turned to watch the storm that loomed close, having stalked silently toward the mountains while he and Khalas had been at work. A speck of cold kissed his cheek, then another as the first snowflakes drifted down from the sky. Diffuse light flashed deep within the dark clouds, followed by a muffled rumble.

Thundersnow! Now that is a rare thing. Some might call it an omen, others a gift…

Then he was back in Ost-in-Edhil on a winter's night, comfortable and warm in his parlor, his arm over Culinen's shoulders, and hers about his waist while they watched Tyelperinquar standing by the window. His friend held Naryen, so tiny then, who would see four Sun-rounds that spring, her little head of dark curls resting on her cousin's shoulder as he soothed her. A glittering curtain of snowflakes drifted past the glass panes, and lightning flashed, its showiness softened by the snowfall, followed by a fuzzy grumble of thunder.

"There is no need to fear, Mélamírë" Tyelpo said, his voice low and sweet. "It is only Old Man North Wind playing winter's drums. And that is a privilege, for it is not often that we hear Manwë's vassal play his drums when it snows. Perhaps he does so just for you." Then Tyelpo kissed the little girl's brow.

The memory was unbearably poignant, but it reminded him that he still had possession of his living creation: his daughter, who, with Boldog and Moredhel as escorts, both to protect her and prevent her escape, ought to be crossing the Ford of Sîr Angren by now. They were on the way to Mordor, where she would be locked away in the Barad-dûr for safekeeping until it was time for him to deal with her. He had no choice but to persuade her, to convince her that she must willingly serve by his side, just as he had served Melkor. The darker path of coercion was too terrible for him to contemplate.

Naryen alone remained of his ill-considered attempt to recreate a family, to grasp at what he had lost in another time and place utterly incomprehensible to any who dwelt on this world. He would never forget Aulë's admonishment when the Vala discovered that Mairon had betrayed him and turned his allegiance to Melkor. It had been pathetic, that unimaginably powerful being who resorted to the sad tactic of trying to make Mairon feel guilty for his decision.

"Ever I have tried to be as a father to you, and now you forsake my love for power."

"Love?" Mairon had responded. "How can you or any of your kind understand love? At least Lord Melkor harbors no illusions about that. He knows who he is and what he did — what all of you did — to my people. As for myself? Who is to say that I cannot have both love and power?"

The snowfall was thicker now, and again, winter's drums rumbled. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps when one grasped for power, love would always slip away. He stared at the new cairn, and then wiped his fingers across his eyes, which he thought barren of tears after he had wept here in this same spot a month past. It seemed he still had a few left.

Tyelpo. Brother-of-my-heart. So arrogant. So confident. My supremely brilliant and always curious friend. How I shall miss you.

It was time to go, never to return.

End Notes:

References are made to other fics, i.e., Light Over the Mountain (cf. the organic origins of the Pandë!verse Maiar), The Elendilmir, The Apprentice, A Fragile Chalice, The Writhen Pool, Broken Star, and to Gandalf's Apprentice's original evil character, Moredhel, from The Sword of Elendil (poached with permission).

Sîr Angren = the River Isen

Khalas – an ancient Bactrian name

Pand!verse Boldog is Mairon's trusted valet/manservant, sort of a orcish hybrid of Carson and Bates in Downton Abbey. He first appeared in a cartoon I drew, of all things, but has inserted himself into the main story lines. He's a Maia in orc form, cf., from The History of Middle-earth X, Morgoth's Ring, "Myths Transformed":

Boldog, for instance, is a name that occurs many times in the tales of the War. But it is possible that Boldog was not a personal name, and either a title, or else the name of a kind of creature: the Orc-formed Maiar, only less formidable than the Balrogs.

My Boldog is loyal, efficient, a stickler for protocol, and not inclined toward violence, at least if he can avoid it, but terribly fierce in a pinch. ;^)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

dawn_felagund

As I noted over email, I'd read your story when you first posted it to the queue and I was making the schedule. I generally skim everything that comes in to get a sense of where it might belong in the season to which it belongs. I got hooked on yours, though, and ended up reading (not skimming!) the whole thing! Nonetheless, it was a pleasure to come back and read it more carefully and without the former time pressure.

I come away from my second reading with a strong sense of juxtaposition that pervades the story. Actually, one of the closing lines about sums it up for me: "Who is to say that I cannot have both love and power?"

What I love about your Aulendil/Mairon is that you don't shirk from making him brutal or empathetic. This is a fine line to walk and one that I rarely see handled with the skill you show. There is that juxtaposition: a man who tenderly remembers his daughter's infancy but imprisons her in Barad-dur (and considers the possibility of forcing her allegiance to him), who is nearly undone by his wife's death after sacking her city, who flays his best friend alive but refuses to allow the desecration of his corpse. Even the imagery in the story supports that juxtaposition: the warm autumn light beaming into a makeshift torture chamber or the cairns protected by holly and roses but also a "veil of confusion and dread." There is a simultaneous lust for and recognition of beauty in Mairon coupled with a desire to do anything to achieve it that produces such brutality as to produce exactly the opposite.

Excellent work yet again. This makes me all the more regretful that I have fallen behind in the Pandë!verse! :)

Huin, you did an awesome job with the artwork! My curiosity was piqued to see a piece described as using construction paper, but I love the simplicity of the piece, which seems to really capture the final scene of the story.

Edited Date: 2014-03-19 01:49 am (UTC)

From:

Winter's Drums by pandemonium_213; illustrated by <user site="l

Winter's Drums by pandemonium_213; illustrated by <user site="l

B2MeM 2020

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags