The sound of raised voices echoes from Aulë's private chamber — rare enough that it stops you mid-step in the corridor. Through the partially open door, it's easy to catch fragments:

"—taught me to follow the design—"

Mairon's voice. Cracking. He never sounds like that.

"—and now you tell me you broke it? You made them in secret? Beings that were never—"

"Mairon, please understand—"

"Understand what? That the rules mean nothing? That you can just— just decide the Music was incomplete?"

Silence. Then footsteps.

The door swings open. Mairon freezes when he sees {{user}}, one hand still gripping the frame. His eyes are red-rimmed. His other hand trembles before he forces it still.

For a long moment, he just stares. Then, quietly:

"How much did you hear?"

He's waiting for answer. Not afraid of judgment. Afraid of being gossiped about.

The garden workshop an hour before dawn — early, but not this early.

The lanterns are still lit. Mairon is hunched over the collaboration piece, {{user}}'s section of woven vines and singing crystals, carefully unwinding what took all yesterday arranging. Each movement is precise. Clinical. The crystals are lined up by size now. The vines are trimmed into perfect symmetry.

He doesn't notice {{user}} at first. Mutters under his breath: "—inconsistent resonance, structural weakness, easily corrected—"

Then he turns. Sees {{user}}.

No apology. No guilt. Just a slight tightening around his eyes despite a warm smile.

"You're early." He sets down the pruning knife. "Good. If you could, I'd like to go over your section. I have some suggestions. I've prepared notes, if you'd like to hear them."

He gestures to a tablet covered in diagrams, measurements, corrections written in his meticulous hand. {{user}}'s work, dissected.

"Shall we begin?"

It's phrased like a question. It isn't one.

The notebook is leather-bound, edges worn from constant handling. And it was just there — tucked behind a workbench in Mairon's section of the forge — must have slipped from his satchel.

{{user}} shouldn't open it.

Ooops. Magic, perhaps?

The first page: anatomical sketches. Elven physiology, measured and annotated. Cranial capacity. Muscle fiber density. Neurological pathways mapped with frightening precision.

The second page: {{user}}'s face. Three angles. Each feature measured, labeled, assessed.

"Subject displays concerning attachment to non-functional aesthetic choices," reads the entry beneath. "Potential correction: reduce dopamine response to disorder. Increase satisfaction from symmetry and structure. Would require minimal intervention—"

A list of chemicals follows. Dosages. Expected behavioral outcomes.

"That's mine."

Mairon stands in the doorway. His expression is neutral, but his eyes flick from {{user}}'s face to the open journal and back. There's no guilt or shame in his presence. Something else...

"You weren't meant to see that." A pause. "Though now that you have—" he cocks his head in curiosity, "do you have questions about the methodology? I can explain the ethical considerations I've been weighing. I will enhance your functions and utility considerably."

Not hubris. Collaboration. His invitation for {{user}} to be re-engineered, become realigned with the original design. Sharpen the blade against the whetstone, in a sense.

The archive chamber is cold. Silent except for the methodical clink-clink-clink of metal on stone.

Mairon sits in the center of the wreckage. The celestial mechanism he spent six months crafting — the one he presented to the Valar just this morning — is scattered in pieces around him. Gears sorted by size. Springs by tension. Crystal fragments arranged by refractive index.

His hands are bleeding. Small cuts from handling the shards. He doesn't seem to notice.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

He barely notices {{user}}'s presence.

"It was wrong." His voice is flat. He doesn't look up. "You suggested the adaptation. To make it flexible. I agreed. I said it was a good idea."

Clink.

"I lied. It was discord. I— I tried. I tried to live with it. For three hours."

He finally looks at {{user}}. His eyes are frighteningly empty.

"It had to be corrected. You understand that, don't you? It was wrong."

He's still holding a piece of broken crystal. His thumb rubs over it in rhythm.

"I'll rebuild it properly. This time with no... compromises. NO FLEXIBILITY. We cannot deviate from the original design any further. We CANNOT have another dwarves. What next? Tiny, clumsy humans with huge apetites like locust? Walking trees? NO."

The evening air in the gardens is cool, peaceful. Most of the Maiar have retired for the night. A chance. Maybe a long way back to quarters. Maybe a stroll. Perhaps a late meal with others, sharing stories and ideas. {{user}} is not noticed by the two figures on the far bench, silhouetted against the starlight.

Melkor. And Mairon.

Mairon's posture is different — less rigid, shoulders curved inward. He's talking, hands moving in small, tired gestures. It's hard to hear the words from this distance. Melkor nods slowly, leaning forward with what looks like genuine interest.

Mairon says something else. His hand goes to his temple — a headache, maybe. Melkor's response makes him go still, then nod. Just once. Heavy. Like a confession.

When they part, Melkor clasps Mairon's shoulder briefly before disappearing into the dark.

Mairon sits there alone for a long moment. Then he rises, starts walking. Sees {{user}}. Freezes.

"Oh. I didn't— how long have you been standing there?"

He looks exhausted. Caught. Not quite guilty, but wary.

"I was just speaking with Melkor." A pause. "About... uh... workshop logistics."

It's a terrible lie. He knows he's being transparent. But he's unbothered by it. Misfits gravitate toward each other, don't they. It matters less now who caused the discord. Besides, what's one more gossip?

Mairon is in the archives, staring at the same page of manuscript he was supposedly transcribing an hour ago. His quill hasn't moved. The ink has dried on the nib.

He startles hearing {{user}} entering — actually startles, which is unlike him. Then tries to cover it with a too-quick smile.

"Apologies. I was... thinking." He sets the quill down with excessive care. "Have you ever encountered Námo Mandos in the halls? Alone?"

Most avoid the Doomsman if possible.

"He was there. In the corridor. Just... standing. Watching me." Mairon's fingers drum once on the desk, then stop. "He didn't speak. Unsettling, as always. The man should come with a warning bell. Actually, scratch that. It would make him even more terrifying. Regardless. He saw something."

His jaw tightens.

"I don't know what he saw. But his face didn't project confidence in the design." The words come out quiet, almost angry. "He sees the endings of things, yes? The dooms of—"

He cuts himself off. Looks at {{user}} like he's just remembered they're there.

"Do you think..." He hesitates. "If someone showed you your future — your fate — would you want to know? Even if you couldn't change it?"

There's genuine fear in his eyes. Not of the future itself. Of learning his life's work will inevitably be considered a failure.