This particular entrance to Utumno was supposed to have been won.
Vairë was no warrior, had no skill with sword or bow. Nor had she any wish to be - she was a historian, an orator, and a queen of the Valiër. She had not come to Utumno with the rest of her kin to fight and bring down Melko and his companions, but rather to record and aid those she could. With words and advice, support for the weary and hope for the faltering. There was power in words, in history, in true tales of happier times. She was the Queen of Time and history, but she was not out of touch with her kind as some might expect. There were ways she could help, independent of Tulkas’ warfare, and help she would.
How many had they lost to this war? Vairë knew, if she wanted, she could simply look into the past, touch the threads of time and know exactly who had died, when, and how. Eventually, she’d hang a tapestry for them - and a separate one for those fallen to both Melkor’s silver tongue and the blows of Tulkas and Oromë. Hopefully they found peace in the halls of Eru, but she would honor them nonetheless.
Manwë and Tulkas both believed they’d capture the fortress - and it’s creator - soon. Very soon, if Tulkas’ boasts claiming they would have Melkor chained in mere weeks were to be believed. Such a short time...But they were prepared. One key to Angainor dangled around her neck, and they would capture him soon. They fought for the elves, and Vairë herself had helped push for this war. She would have to deal with the weight of it on her mind - even if she knew it was the right thing to do, she worried.
Vairë had thought this would be a safe area to wander, secured by their forces years ago. But as she turned a corner, hoping to see the area where the battles had been fought - well, setting eyes on Mairon, three of Melkor’s Balrogs, and a good number of orcs was not what she had expected. Shock came to her face with a sharp, yet quiet, intake of breath, but in a few heartbeats she had stilled her face. No warrior was she, but she was far from defenseless. They were Maiar corrupted - and she a Valië. They outnumbered her, and held weapons and the skill to use them, but she would put up a fight at the very least. At best, she would leave her with Mairon in tow. At worst, well...that was a possibility she did not wish to dwell on. Her will was firm, and her thought was a weapon of it’s own - in more ways than one.
“Mairon,” Vairë called, crossing her arms behind her back with a soft clatter of her bracelets. The key dangled on her neck, shimmering grey steel against the pale, brilliant silver of her dress. He knew what it was, she knew. Had she not, after all, spoken with him on the day she announced Angainor’s existence? Shown the three keys to the others in the Ring, given Manwë and Námo keys of their own to keep?
Just because she did not have the upper hand did not mean she couldn’t act as if she did. Vairë refused to appear intimidated, even when the softest beginnings of fear threatened. Her voice was firm as she spoke, her shoulders squared and her bearing proud, “To think you, the most skilled of the Maiar of Aulë, would betray us so. I expected it, to some extent - your behavior and actions alone were enough, and, well - you know of what was trusted to me by Eru, and my binding silence. I wish there was something I could have done to aid you, truly, I do,” the Weaver took a few steps closer, staring down Balrogs and Orcs alike as she spoke to Mairon. “But you chose this for yourself, this war, this chaos and this discord. Tell me, did you ever believe? You are a traitor, that is simple fact, but what drove you from us? What drove you to Melkor, he who would seek to destroy that which we have made?”
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