Chapter Text
Fëanáro. Crown Prince, King, briefly commander of his people at war, and lately Lord of Formenos. Contrary to the expectations of some, he had settled into that last title quite comfortably, for one who had once torn his family apart out of a fear that his brothers had sought to steal away his position as the first two.
Probably, this acceptance had something to do with the reduction in paperwork, and war-training, that enabled a return to happy, forge-filled days, along with the occasional forge-filled night.
Not that his wife allowed that last very often, except when she was likewise immured in her work, in a creative fugue, or simply determined to finish that one last piece of sculpture.
Not that less paperwork meant no paperwork, but since the entire populace of Formenos was always aware of when their lord had been deprived of his forge time — for it showed in both face and demeanor — they could be said to take a little extra care to keep the paperwork down as much as possible.
Of course, being mostly Noldor, they well-understood the inescapable pull that one’s craft exerted, and they took great pride in the place of their lord as the single best smith the eldar had ever produced.
It was, however, rare to encounter the lord somewhere that was neither a forge (typically his own), his manor, or the main square.
Still, he was the same man who had — long ago — taken his family camping randomly in the woods around Valinor, or racing through the plains on horseback, or to the shore to see and admire the stars, and sometimes, that same energy would make itself known and demand movement.
Stretching his arms over his head, Fëanáro twisted his back and shoulders, loosening the muscles and popping his back, before rolling his shoulders back into alignment. Sometimes, a nér just wanted a nice simple walk along a river bank, in the late summer sunlight.
True, Fëanáro — like most elves — actually preferred the light of the stars to that of the sun, but the warmth of the sun soaking into tired muscles was a nice feeling and a rare one here, for Formenos was far enough north that summers were relatively fleeting.
Truthfully, it was late enough in the year that the weather normally would have already begun turning, but summer was hanging on for at least this one more day.
Still, despite that atypical lingering summer, the last thing Fëanáro expected, when he stepped through a gap in some bushes that he knew led to an open glade among the pines, was a group of several others, all lounging about the glade.
For a frozen moment, no one moved or spoke, not the elven smith and lord, nor the eleven neri upon whom he had stumbled, not even their horses or the wolfish hound that sat beside one of them.
It was a moment broken by a rustle of the bushes on the far side of the neri. A rustle that revealed itself in a moment to be a silver-grey goat, with black head, legs, and horns.
A subtle shift in posture and attention called Fëanáro’s attention back to the other neri, and more specifically to the vibrantly auburn-haired one that — from that shift — he concluded was the leader of the group of…
Maiar.
Fëanáro blinked. What were eleven maiar doing camped out — there were canvas shelters strung between the trees, low to the ground — a couple of hours’ easy walk from Formenos?
None of them seemed happy to have been discovered, either, though the leader looked more world-weary than annoyed as he stood up and bowed, the form that of a general polite greeting.
Fëanáro’s return bow, acknowledgement and return of greetings, was automatic.
“Our apologies for trespassing,” the leader said, shooting a sharp glance at one of the others when he shifted. “We were passing through on an errand and thought to stop for a while, to plan the rest of our travel.”
It was a claim that Fëanáro found very difficult to believe, given the state of them. Maiar, being shapeshifters, could be very hard on clothing, but those that spent even limited time around elves tended to pick up a habit of maintaining at least one nice outfit. The eleven maiar in the clearing, by contrast, were dressed in clothes that — despite being in decent repair, were still clearly more patch than original cloth. Nor did it appear that they had any other garb — or indeed equipment of any sort — for the saddle-bags of the horses were all hanging upside down on another low line, clearly empty and clearly still in the process of drying.
There had been a storm the prior night, Fëanáro remembered, remembered listening to the thunder rumbling through the sky, remembered watching the lightning for a time, before he’d gone back to sleep to the sound of the rain and snow hitting the roof. Despite all that, the ground had dried enough to walk on easily. Apparently, the saddle-bags had been less fortunate. The contents of the saddle bags, stacked neatly under the low-stretched canvas, appeared to be an eclectic collection of books — Fëanáro inwardly winced and hoped those had stayed dry — gemstones, bits of rocks, thread and needles, some pieces of fabric and leather, and a coiled rope.
Considering the care generally taken by the valar of their maiar, such a bedraggled appearance was highly unlikely of those that had been set to some task. Unlikely at all, really, especially with the absence of any other bits of clothing, not to mention the general lean, even hungry look to them.
Fëanáro had never, precisely, paid that much attention to the maiar, as a group, but he was hardly unobservant, and he’d lived in Valinor essentially his whole life. He knew how the maiar generally looked — both those with and without much exposure to the eldar — and this group just didn’t quite fit.
About the only remotely possible explanation he could come up with — and he was stretching with it and knew it — was that they had, perhaps, put off whatever task brought them here, and had had to scramble to begin it, leaving them woefully underprepared. Either that or that the task had been assigned in such a way that they legitimately thought great urgency was necessary, and were pushing themselves rather harder than whatever vala had assigned it to them might have expected.
Either hypothesis of which ignored a great many little details, not least of which why they’d bothered with horses rather than simply changing shape.
Very intelligent-eyed, very well-conformed (though again, somewhat underfed) horses, true, but horses nevertheless.
Either way, Fëanáro now had a new project. One that had completely driven out of his mind the new piston system he’d been toying with off and on.
“No harm done,” he replied. “Say, why not come back to Formenos with me, pick up a few supplies?”
After all, if they were determined to hold eldar-esque forms, and use horses, then they needed supplies. Fëanáro had never quite understood how the misconception that they did not got started, but the maiar — and valar too — did, actually, need food and drink when they held physical form, though they could go a rather long time without it at need, and the horses could definitely use a day or two of eating well and not doing much.
Fëanáro was just as glad that Tyelko wasn’t present. His third son would have had plenty to say — and none of it nice — about the state of the horses.
Not that Fëanáro cared, much, what a random group of maiar thought, but getting backs up made it harder to satisfy one’s curiosity, and he was undeniably curious.
The leader of the group paused, while the other ten shifted to watch him at least out of the sides of their eyes, despite keeping their open attention mostly on Fëanáro. A long pause, that turned into a quick, almost defeated sigh that had the rest of the group subtly deflating, eyes dimming slightly.
“We’re… forbidden from approaching claimed land,” the leader said, with another bow, deeper and more apologetic in form than the first.
Fëanáro grimaced, feeling his temper flash white-hot. He hated having to deny his curiosity, and to have another — not even present — act against both his curiosity and his authority was surely a step too far.
“Not from approaching Formenos, you’re not,” he replied, forcing his voice to come out without blistering anger. “The only one who can forbid you Formenos is me, and as a lord on my own land, I say you’re welcome, here and in the city, and none can gainsay me.”
The leader blinked, and a ripple seemed to pass through the group, there and gone, fading into neutrality once more with the leader’s suddenly much deeper bow. Of thanks, mostly, mixed with apology, though perhaps a little deeper than either would typically be associated with among the Noldor — even of Tirion, still less of Formenos.
A regional variant, Fëanáro supposed.
“When you put it like that, we’d be delighted for the chance to gather supplies, my lord.”
It didn’t take the group of maiar long to break camp at all — everything was packed and loaded within moments, the tasks and movements clearly well-practiced, and soon enough they were tagging along, back to Formenos, the leader matching pace with Fëanáro.
“What’s your name?” Fëanáro asked, glancing over at the leader as they reached the proper road and started along it. The road was dry — proper roads that drained easily rather than staying wet was something he never tired of — and perfectly level, so little attention need be paid to where one was placing one’s feet.
The leader hesitated for a moment, forehead wrinkling in thought.
“Ah, Mai, I believe it would be, my lord.”
Fëanáro quirked an eyebrow. “That’s more part of a name than a full one,” he pointed out. “What’s the original? I can probably help you out with a full one.”
The leader — Fëanáro was not going to call him ‘Mai’, that wasn’t really a name at all — blinked, obviously a little surprised.
“You speak Valarin, my lord?” he asked.
“Well, not fluently, you understand, though I read it better than I speak it, but I’ve got enough knowledge to work names back and forth,” Fëanáro replied. Really, it wasn’t even his Valarin fluency that would be most of use. As long as he grasped the root and meaning of the original name, it would be a matter of Quenya fluency — or rather, artistry.
The leader hesitated a moment longer, then gave a slight shrug. “It’s Mayazônôz, my lord.”
Fëanáro nodded, though he privately was inclined to wonder how a maiar with a name like that — it meant ‘the admirable’ or ‘admirable one’ — wound up in northern Valinor in the autumn, without anything along the way of appropriate gear and having been forbidden to approach civilization. Not to mention the matter of the horses, and the saddlebags, rather than simply changing form.
“Mai’s the appropriate stem then,” he said, “but you want to put an ending on it, and maybe a beginning, if there’s a particular reason or skill that led to that name. If there’s not, or if you don’t want to use it, then Mairon would be the simplest form, a direct translation and not all that far off from the original in how it sounds, either.”
Mayazônôz smiled, ducking his head, giving the impression of a bow, “Mairon, then. My thanks, my lord.”