A Song Amidst His Torment by Elrond's Library  

Information is necessary for a realm’s survival. Pain necessary for compliance. Reward necessary for loyalty. Land necessary to keep the people fed and clothed and occupied. Children necessary to fuel the machine of domination.

Mairon knew this. He knew it intimately. He knew it like he knew the Song in his ëala, and the shape and form of his fana. He knew from great and repeated effort how to run the remnants of Melkor’s great empire, how to move vast numbers of people great distances, how to balance the needs of his people with the brutality necessary to keep them in check.

Angband had not been destroyed in the War of the Powers; Mairon had defended it with a will unmatched, utilizing all his skill and resources to appear inconsequential to the Powers of the West. And it was here, in this armory-turned-fortress, that Mairon had begun sowing the seeds of discord that had plagued the inhabitants of Endórë for the past three Ages. After all, it was Melkor who had shown Mairon the mysteries of fleshcraft, but where Melkor used the fëar and hröar of those early Elves to create mindless beasts, it was Mairon alone that perfected the craft, creating an army that could think, but was still his.

Mairon was good at running Melkor’s empire. He was the best.

And yet, he wanted more.

Everything he had done, everything he wanted, was in service to his Lord. He was patient, the way stone was patient – time eroded his resolve, his purpose shifted with pressure and heat, wind and wave. Centuries came and went. Mairon was the undisputed ruler of this great empire, commanding the loyalty of the denizens of the pits and his fleshcraft creations.

If the stray idea lodged in his mind, came into his thought unbidden, even, that in time he could usurp the Dark Vala entirely and use this empire to further his own end, well. Nobody existed strong enough to challenge him in his own halls now. But Mairon held himself back from those thoughts, those dreams of dominion.

Rumblings from the West eventually heralded Melkor’s release from the Halls of Mandos, the occasional Maia fleeing over the Helcaraxë to join Mairon’s forces, bringing gossip, news, even the rare gift from the Dark Vala. New scripts that fed Mairon’s need for efficiency, gems and metals of unsurpassing purity. So Mairon bent his mind and his will to ensuring that Angband was ready for Melkor's return. He was glad that he had resisted the urge to usurp his Lord. Inviting his Lord’s anger would have been disastrous for him and his people.

For he would return, and any thought of treason was instead bent to securing his place and his agenda. Mairon would go to the Blessed Lands himself and drag Melkor back by the ear if he must.

Not literally, but the thought amused him.

Years passed. Angband grew stronger. Mairon sent out troops to secure new trade routes in the east and south, and if his orcs harried the followers of Elu Thingol, then so be it. He quietly coveted the pieces of gossip they brought back about Thingol’s half-Maia daughter, awed and horrified by Melyanna-sister’s daring, and tucked those rumors away for potential future use.

And Melkor came, eventually. His screams of pain and fury echoed across the mountains, and Mairon, ever prepared, came to his Lord’s aid. Gothmog-brother and several companies of his orcs herded Ungoliant-sister into the wastes, and Mairon stayed with Melkor, nursing his wounds and lending him strength until he could take control of Angband in a manner that would not betray his weakness.

Mairon crafted the circlet that held the cursed and hallowed gems from the iron that littered the echoing shores. Because Melkor asked, and could not do it himself.

Melkor was changed. And weak. And altogether incapable of taking charge of what Mairon had tended and grown in his absence.

So Mairon watched, and submitted, and bound himself to Melkor’s needs and desires. He plotted and planned and ensured that he, and he alone, was the true power behind Melkor’s dark throne. He would buy Melkor’s continuing favor, with his fana, with his ëala, with his Song, with his gifts.

By crafting a weapon powerful enough to take on the Elder King himself, high on his mountain throne, and all the other Powers too.

Mairon, at Melkor’s right hand, watched his plans unfold magnificently as the freshly-crowned Noldor King fell right into his trap.

Leave a Comment

“But even in the hour of the death of Feanor an embassy came to his sons from Morgoth, acknowledging defeat, and offering terms, even to the surrender of a Silmaril. Then Maedhros the tall, the eldest son, persuaded his brothers to feign to treat with Morgoth, and to meet his emissaries at the place appointed; but the Noldor had as little thought of faith as had he. Wherefore each embassy came with greater force than was agreed … Maedhros was taken alive by the command of Morgoth and brought to Angband.” (Of the Return of the Noldor, 108)

Of course it was a fucking trap.

Maitimo struggled against the grip the Maiar had on his arms, the heat from their shadowy fanar radiating off of them in waves as they marched him through the front gates of Angband. His hands were bound, his sword and helm somewhere in the dust miles away, his armor splattered with the black blood of Orcs. His hair was coming loose from his braids, drifting in front of his eyes.

Of all the things to be annoyed with, his hair was not at the top of the list, but close to it. Vain Maitimo, the part of his mind that sounded so like Makalaurë sang in his ear. Stand up straight, this is a stage. 

Bitter bile rose in the back of his throat as they passed under the gates, the air of the fortress cold and dark and itching. Maitimo swallowed heavily, trying to find that inner steel that would straighten his back and keep his eyes from lingering on the shadows. Proud and defiant he would have to be, a fiery son of Fëanáro Ñoldóran to the end.

If this was to be the end.

He heard the small whimpers of fear from the few survivors of his company that were being herded into the darkness. All the more reason to cling to his pride; he was Ñoldóran now, and his people would look to him here.

He tried to track the path they took, but it was not laid out in any sort of orderly fashion. The walls curved and twisted, akin to tunnels, and the floors fluctuated, like the ocean’s swells if they could be stopped in time. He got the impression they were descending to halls underground, but there was no way to know for certain.

One of the Maiar marched him straight to Melkor’s great hall, and forced him to his knees at the foot of the dais. The throne, large and imposing, rose high above him. It was, surprisingly, empty.

Maitimo knelt, listening to the hall slowly fill, eyes fixed on the empty space before him. Some amount of time passed, how much exactly was impossible to tell. He tried to shake off the hand on his shoulder, which got him an almost soft cuff that forced his head down. He blew his hair out of his eyes, which barely helped, and only resulted in the smell of burnt hair infiltrating his senses as some fell on his captor’s too tight, too hot, hand.

All too familiar steps eventually sounded behind him.

Thud, thud, thud. 

Melkor’s footsteps had always been heavier than the Eldar he circulated with, in Tirion. Easy to hear coming, but the force of his personality, the quiet smile and laughing eyes, made it easy to forget who they had spoken to, who they had learned from. The Noldor had been and continued to be touched by Melkor’s influence, damned and Doomed, and nothing could scrub that clean.

“Gothmog-son,” Melkor greeted the Maia at Maitimo’s side with a light touch. “Thank you for bringing the Ñoldóran … intact this time.”

Maitimo couldn’t help the grimace that stole over his face, grief for his atar still a fresh wound. Fëanáro’s body had crumbled into ash in Curufinwë’s arms, the flames of his spirit leaving his brother just as burnt as Telufinwë. And no one knew if Curufinwë or Telufinwë would ever fully recover, for burns of such severity were rare, if not entirely unheard of, in Valinor.

Maitimo had been oscillating between bone-deep grief and wildfire rage in the short time since Fëanáro had bound them doubly, then abandoned them all in dark Beleriand. Anger at his atar's fey mien. Grief for his atar's sudden death. Anger at Morgoth. Grief for Haru Finwë. Anger at the circumstances that had led to the rift between himself and his beloved. Anger at his brothers for Losgar, anger at himself for his inaction at Losgar … there was so much to be angry about. And so much to grieve.

Neither rage nor grief would serve him in the here and now, however, and so he forced his mind to shove all emotion into a corner, and focus.

“My Lord-father,” the Maia, Gothmog, rumbled as he bowed, and retreated. Maitimo stared straight ahead, still on his knees, breathing evenly around the lingering chill and aching grief. The glimmer of familiar light shone from above, but Maitimo schooled himself, letting the Oath curl tight but not overwhelm.

“Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran,” Melkor murmured. Maitimo could feel his eyes sweep over his battered armor and messy braids critically. “Never thought I’d see you taking up poor Finwë’s crown.”

Maitimo kept his face in a diplomatic mask of cold, distant neutrality.

“Of course, a mere Elda cannot possibly think to stand against me in single combat. The outcome was assured before it even began.” Melkor was taunting him, pacing slowly before his throne.

Maitimo kept silent.

“It would have been better if it was your father here, you know.” Melkor’s tone was almost conversational. Maitimo forced memories of salons and lecture halls and games of Arantyalmë out of his mind – the Melkor before him was not the Vala that he had known in Tirion; he had to make that divide clear. That was then, this was now.

“Fëanáro is the only one of the Eldar to really challenge me, for which I am profoundly in his debt, despite his animosity towards me. It really should be him on his knees before me, not the son with nary a spark of that Imperishable Flame that drew me like a moth to the light. It should be Fëanáro here. I did so wish to break him.”

“Your Maiar killed him,” Maitimo could not stop himself from growling. “But Fëanáro would have defied you with everything he had.”

Melkor hummed, stopping in front of Maitimo. He crouched before him, forcing Maitimo to meet his eyes. The Silmarilli gleamed, mere inches away, and Oath-bound recklessness threatened to overwhelm Maitimo’s good sense.

“Your people broke the rules of our parlay,” Maitimo said, sitting back on his heels. Anything to gain a little distance from those cold, oil-slick eyes. “In recompense, I’ll take what is owed me and leave with my people.”

Melkor snorted, a smile threatening the corners of his mouth. “And what do you think is owed you, little Ñoldóran?” he whispered. “What fair recompense do you set for this error?”

Maitimo let his eyes drift up to the iron crown, to his atar’s greatest work. They shone, they sang, they reached out with desperate voices like bells behind cruel iron bars. We are here, Maitimo, Little Nelyo, best beloved, first child, third Finwë, But Not Least.

Maitimo’s heart ached in time with the beating of the Oath to hear them so.

Melkor’s eyes widened, his smile splitting into a wide grin. He laughed, standing, breaking whatever brief connection the Silmarilli had made. “Mairon-precious,” he called over Maitimo’s shoulder. “What did you promise my dear friend Nelyafinwë in order to bring him to us?”

Maitimo blanched at the endearment, and twisted, following Melkor’s gaze. The Maia behind him had one soot-blackened finger in one of his soldier’s mouth, for all the world inspecting her teeth like Maitimo and Makalaurë had done at the yearly Alqualondë horse markets. The soldier, Línemírë, met Maitimo’s eyes, grim and defiant. Mairon kept a hand in Línemírë’s silvery hair, keeping her still as he bowed under the weight of Melkor’s attention.

“I promised him the same as I have promised all the Eldar that treat with me, my Lord,” Mairon said. His hair, already a pure gold, seemed to glow under Melkor’s attention. “I promised him peace, fair trade, and reasonable terms of tribute. And, ah, well, knowing how valuable they are to his family, I did offer a Silmaril to sweeten the deal.” Melkor started, clenching a gloved fist. “Just one!” Mairon released Línemírë with a shove, knocking her into another of Maitimo’s company. Fury rose - how dare this foul Maia mistreat his people! – and then fell, for what power did he have, kneeling, bound, waiting for judgment or deliverance?

“Just one!” Mairon seemed to sing, voice honey-sweet and placating as he paced closer. “But I knew he would come to us; I knew he would break the terms of the parlay himself! So nothing is owed, and we gain much, just as I predicted.”

Melkor just sighed, reaching out with a gloved hand to caress Mairon’s forge-yellow hair. Force of habit forced Maitimo to tear his eyes away, aware that in any other circumstance this would be obscene, an utterly private display of affection that was instead in the open, for all to see. Maitimo stared forward again, hoping to find the empty space between himself and the throne, but instead only finding Melkor’s knees, and the edges of Mairon’s jet-black, floor-length surcoat.

“You are not to bargain with the jewels again, Mairon-beloved,” Melkor said sternly. “They are not to leave me.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Mairon said, breathless, strangled. “For-forgive m-me.” His hand, soot-black fingertips blending up into a pale, translucent quartz palm, fluttered at his side, like he was resisting the urge to reach up and thwart whatever Melkor was doing out of Maitimo’s sight. Maitimo shifted, plate armor creaking, which had the absolutely unfortunate side effect of reminding the pair of quarreling Ainur that he was still there.

Melkor hummed, releasing Mairon and crouching before Maitimo again. His oil-slick eyes searched for something in Maitimo’s own, though for what he could not say. Maitimo stared back defiantly. “What are we going to do with you, little Ñoldóran?” Melkor murmured, brushing some of Maitimo’s hair out of his face. “What ever will we do with you?”

Maitimo growled, and with a sudden burst of strength and will, lunged at the Dark Vala, the ropes binding him falling away, hands reaching, grasping at the iron crown.

At the light, his atar’s light.

It was a hopeless, idiotic attempt. If he had managed to dislodge it, Melkor would have slain him there. If he had managed to take the crown, there was no reason to think the Silmarilli would hold the Oath fulfilled, that he might free his brothers even if he died in the attempt. If he had managed to grab it, there was no way out – he was in a hall full of his enemies, in a fortress with no discernible pattern of halls that could lead him to the surface. If he could succeed at any of this, it would mean nothing.

And yet … he had to try.

An attempt had to be made.

The Oath demanded it.

Melkor’s gloved hand caught Maitimo by the throat, lifting him skywards with a sneer. Animalistic panic left Maitimo scrabbling at Melkor’s wrist, holding himself up as his feet left the floor. Distantly, he heard the rest of the hall in an uproar, jeering and laughing as Maitimo panted, breaths coming shallower as Melkor began to squeeze.

The walls of his mind, silver shields and grey stone and diamond-hard intent, buckled under Melkor’s mental assault. Fingers that weren’t there scuttled and scraped, peeling back layers of Maitimo’s mind while he swung from a gibbet of his own making. Poking, prodding, no, no, don’t touch that–

“Beloved,” a quiet, melodic voice cut through the noisy hall. Mairon tugged gently on Melkor’s upraised arm. “I want him alive, beloved. Give him to me. I’ll make good use of him, and you’ll never have to see him again if you wish it to be so.”

Maitimo watched through swiftly darkening eyes as Melkor gave Mairon a considering look.

His knees hit the floor, the impact shuddering up his spine. His lungs ached as they heaved the cold, sickly air with relief. He collapsed, instincts overhauling diplomacy and optics and pride as he curled on the stone floor, arms wrapped around himself in a vain attempt to protect, to shield. The thrice-cursed braids had been finally jostled freed from their pins, falling in a tangled heap behind him.

Maitimo did not hear what Melkor said, did not know what accord they reached about his fate, or the fate of his people. He could only hear the rushing of his blood in his ears, and the whispers of the Silmarilli in his mind. They were far, far above him, calling, pleading; desperately wishing to be unbound, to shine, to protect him.

When Mairon finally prodded him into kneeling again, Melkor was gone. The halls were emptying. His people, the lonely ten that survived the slaughter just hours before, were led away. Línemírë met his eyes and bowed her head – a salute, maybe, or just an acknowledgment that to her, he had done his best. Maitimo watched them disappear into the darkness, a sinking feeling of dread low in his gut.

Mairon stood before him in the almost empty hall with a keen eye. “Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran,” he mused, melodic voice soft. “We’re going to get to know each other quite well, I think.”

Leave a Comment

“From the Elves of Mithrim the Noldor learned of the power of Elu Thingol, King of Doriath, and the girdle of enchantment that fenced his realm …” (Of the Return of the Noldor, 108)

Maitimo had lost track of how much time he had spent alone in the dark. The occasional presence bearing a torch passed by the door, light illuminating the barest space between floor and solid steel door, but they were chaotic in their timing.

He heard nothing. He saw nothing. He said nothing.

For lack of anything to do but wait, though for what he could not say, he tended his hair by touch alone. He undid his braids, letting the heavy fall of hair cascade into his lap. Loose like this, the ends would reach his mid-calf when standing, would pool at his feet when wet. Not that many people had ever seen his hair unbraided before, outside his immediate family – the scandal it would cause, in everbright and gossip-laden Tirion! Only … well. Best not to even think about him now. It hurt too much to ruminate on that particular loss; even amidst all the others, that hurt perhaps the worst. He finger combed it in its entirety, taking great care to work as much of the mud and blood out as possible. Deftly he braided the whole mass, carefully twisting the ends of burnt hair into the bulk of tight and even rows. He wrapped the braids around his head, securing them with what few pins he had somehow managed to keep.

A thick crown of copper hair in mocking imitation of the crown of gold he had so briefly inherited.

Despite taking his time, despite working without comb or water or oil, he knew that was only a diversion of a few hours at most. He waited, thinking. He forced the insidious coils of the Oath back from the stranglehold it had taken upon seeing and failing to even touch the Silmarilli, forced it into a seed next to his heart. He thought of his brothers, tried to guess what they would do without him.

And still nothing happened.

He let himself cry, just for a little, for his atar, fey and fell though Fëanáro had been in the end. For not-so-little-anymore Telvo, burned and screaming until the poppy temporarily put him out of his misery, and the slow and winding path of healing he was still on, twin and wife both by his side. For the empty feeling where golden fire used to burn, before loyalty and unwise decisions and distance had banked it; only the barest ember glowed amid the ashes, or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

Maitimo did not cry for himself. There didn’t seem much point.

And then, everything happened at once.

Torches and the glowing fana of some fire-Maia blinded him. He was caught in the harsh grasp of orcs, who dragged him hissing and spitting through the narrow halls and undulating passages.

The next few hours passed in a haze of ragged breaths punctuated by brief intervals of blinding agony. He had never felt anything like it, the lightning-swift lash, the blistering heat of iron, the slow-boil ache of clenched muscles and grinding teeth. Maitimo tried to disappear, to form a pocket of distance from his battered and bloodied hröa in his mind, but everything kept dragging his attention back to the present.

The fire-Maia and the orcs and the scarred elf wielding the lash said nothing. Not a word to question, not to taunt, not to attempt to give instruction in a language Maitimo could not understand. Only an eerie silence, punctuated by whatever they managed to wring from Maitimo’s throat.

He just tried to breathe. It had to end eventually.

Maitimo regained consciousness with his knees in a puddle of his own blood, as harsh hands lifted his limp body into a semblance of standing.

They returned him to the same damp room, dragging him again, but only because it was easier to collapse and let his skin drag on the rough ground than it was to attempt to walk.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

He awoke again to find himself tucked under a coarse, heavy blanket that had certainly not been there before. He took a few moments to catalog the condition of his hröa, finding the places that gave him a sharp stabbing pain, as opposed to the whole body ache that was a low-level pervasive sensation. Fingers carefully probed some of his hurts, to find them meticulously bandaged. He blinked, then blinked again, for something, no, someone was illuminating his barren room.

“Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran,” Mairon crooned from the corner. “Welcome back to reality.”

Maitimo tentatively sat up, back and sides screaming as the skin and his bandages shifted. Memories of Telvo’s bandaged form flashed before his eyes, the cracked lips and glassy eyes and swathes of white bandages flecked with red blood and yellow pus. He did not feel much better.

“Lord Mairon,” he croaked, voice breaking around the consonants.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Mairon was, in fact, the source of the light. A gentle steady glow, mostly concentrated around his molten-gold hair which tumbled loose around his shoulders. What he had thought was a natural darkening in his unnaturally pale skin around some of his fingers were actually the remnants of cracked burns, concentrated around the fingertips and radiating towards the palms.

There was something different about the Maia, though he held himself with the same poise and grace that he had in Melkor’s throne room all those days, or maybe weeks, ago. Relaxation, perhaps. Control.

“I have questions for you, Ñoldóran, now that you are awake.”

Maitimo hummed. “I … I would have thought the questions would have come … earlier.”

“During your time with Gorgol?” Mairon shrugged, flicking a lock of hair behind his shoulder. “His methods are brutal, yes, but not conducive to gathering the type of information I will have from you.”

Maitimo blinked.

“You held up very well, by the way.” Mairon stood, dragging his chair with him to the center of the room. “Most would not have remained conscious for nearly as long as you did.”

“Am I … Am I supposed to be pleased, to know that?”

“Proud, maybe.”

Maitimo huffed, then winced. “Do you do this to all your prisoners?”

“No.” Mairon settled in his chair again, mere feet away from Maitimo. “Most don’t need it.”

“What about my people? The ones that came here with me.”

Mairon clicked his tongue, tch, tch. “My turn to ask questions, little Ñoldóran. But,” the Maia smirked. “We can make a little game of it, if you like. A truthful answer from you and in return I can answer a question or I can mend one of your hurts.”

Maitimo slowly eased his weight back, the cool stones a balm against angry, inflamed skin. What did he have to lose? “Ask away.”

Mairon smiled, bearing sharp teeth. “How many Noldor came with you across the sea?”

In Tyelkormo-style literalness, he answered. “The ship I was on held two hundred and fifty-three people, twenty-six horses, and a herd of fourteen sheep. We landed with sixteen though. What has been done with the ten that came here with me?”

Mairon laughed, a full-body spasm of glee. “I’ll have to be more specific, ha! They have been put to work, mining, or in the kitchens. If they survive the first twenty or thirty years, I may take a keener interest, but I have no use for them now. Your brother, Kandafinwë, he’s in charge while you’re with us?”

Maitimo nodded slowly. “Kanafinwë, but yes. What are your plans for me?”

“That depends on how your brother responds to my letter, I think.” Mairon twirled a lock of golden hair around his burnt finger. “What was your relationship with Melkor like, in Aman?”

Maitimo blinked, the question unexpected. “Polite enough. He … he attended court, as a visiting Vala. He and I had a few conversations, a few games of Arantyalmë at small gatherings. Politics over wine and cheese and diversions.” Maitimo huffed. “What is your relationship with him like?”

“He’s my sworn Lord.”

Maitimo felt daring all of a sudden.

“Liar.” The hair-touching, the endearments, the fact that Melkor even listened, stood down when he very easily could have killed Maitimo right there. “That’s not all he is to you.”

“Melkor is my sworn Lord the way Eönwë is sworn to Manwë, or any other Maia sworn to a Vala,” Mairon snapped as he leaned threateningly into Maitimo’s space.

Maitimo, who knew with reasonable certainty that Manwë took certain liberties with Eönwë and High King Ingwë both, subsided, question answered. He raised his hands, palms out. “Peace, Mairon. Forgive me, I did not intend to upset you.”

Mairon snarled, leaning back again. He stared at Maitimo for a long moment before getting up and pacing.

“Ask your question,” Maitimo prompted into the silence.

“Your army’s total numbers, since I wasn’t specific enough before.”

Maitimo nodded. Provoking him again by pointing out that he had not framed it as a question would not serve him now. “I left before a final count of the dead from our last encounter could be reported to me. Before the battle we had around … forty-eight thousand soldiers with us.”

Mairon nodded absently.

“What are you going to ask my brother for?”

Mairon stopped pacing, sat back down. “I haven’t decided yet. A truce, maybe. Ransom, maybe. Are you married?”

Maitimo lied with habitual ease, used to dodging this question from all and sundry. “No. What are–”

Pain lanced through his body, lines of fire burning along every weal and lash-mark. He groaned.

“I told you not to lie to me, Nelyafinwë.” Mairon’s voice had gotten very quiet, and Maitimo stared back incredulously. “Try again.”

That was what he picked up on? All of it had been technically lies, even if the specifics had been true at one point, they were not true now. Maitimo still felt he had a duty to protect his people from their foes. After all, politics was mostly a game of half-truths, and Maitimo was a consummate politician.

Oh. Well. Of course. “Yes” or “no” answers could not contain a half-truth.

“Yes,” Maitimo whispered, and the pain receded just as quickly as it had come. “Yes, I am.”

“I’ll claim another question. Is your wife in Beleriand?”

“No.”

“Unfortunate.”

Maitimo winced as he shifted. “Better to still be on Aman’s shores, than here.”

Mairon shrugged. “Beleriand is beautiful, if you get to know her. Ask.”

He shook his head. “You said you’d heal something, if I wanted.” Mairon nodded, one eyebrow raised in wordless question. Maitimo indicated a section of his chest, bandaged, hiding a brand that still felt like it was burning. “This one.”

Mairon knelt before him, eerily close. He smelled like metal, hot metal from a forge, and smoke. His fingers, burnt but still dexterous, were cool against Maitimo’s skin as the Maia peeled back the cloth with careful, almost gentle attention. Tch, tch. Mairon clicked his tongue as the brand was exposed to the cool air.

“And here I had hoped you’d keep this one,” Mairon smirked. Maitimo glanced away from Mairon’s golden eyes to look at the burnt remnants of his chest. He hadn’t looked before the burning brand had been applied to his skin, and was too delirious to notice its shape during or after.

“It’s my symbol, after all.”

The eye stared back at him, red and swollen and shining. The corners met with upturned curls, the center was bisected with a cat’s eye pupil. Maitimo swallowed down a wave of nausea – not because of the wound, he had seen Telvo’s burns numerous times, held Curvo after their father died, but because of what it meant. He was his own person, he did not belong to this cursed and fallen Maia who looked at him with hunger and malice in his golden, cat-like eyes.

“Heal it. You said you would,” Maitimo said tightly, knowing he sounded like a petulant child and not caring. Memory flickered: Little Artanis, golden curls waving in the breeze, hands on her hips as she stood in front of him, skinned knee barely bleeding. ‘Arakáno pushed me, and he said you could fix it.’ Maitimo chuckled at her imperious mein, and Sang away her hurts. She nodded once as the skin smoothed over, then ran off again. 

Mairon hummed, low in his throat, and the brand slowly disappeared. He clicked his tongue again when it was finished, sitting back on his heels.

Maitimo watched him warily, but politeness, even to his captor, won out. Barely. “Thank you.”

Mairon nodded. He seemed pensive, and he did not say anything for a long moment. When he did speak, he was quieter than before. “What contact have you or your forces had with Elu Thingol or his daughter, Lúthien?”

Maitimo sighed. “Very little. I did not know he had a daughter.”

Another absentminded nod. Mairon did not press him on the vagueness of his answer, and Maitimo was not inclined to say anything more about the failed attempts to rally the Sindar to his cause. He let the silence linger briefly, then started: “I would appreciate another–”

Mairon reached out and tapped Maitimo’s forehead with lightning speed, and the words died in his throat. He tried to frown, and could not. He tried to close his mouth, and could not. He tried to clench his fists, or raise his arms, and could not.

Fear ran up his spine, coiling in his gut, as Mairon stood to loom over him. He tried to follow Mairon’s movements with his eyes, but could not. He felt him pluck out the few pins that remained out of his hair, tucking them into a hidden pocket of his surcoat. Maitimo’s braids fell heavily down his back.

Mairon tore the remnants of his used bandage into strips, still dirty with blood and the clear fluid of scabbing wounds. He bent over Maitimo, occasionally tugging at his braids, but Maitimo could barely guess what was happening. He tried to breathe deeper, to calm himself, but the paralyzation that held him kept him from expanding his chest. Shallow breaths, his sudden lack of movement, and his view obscured entirely by the skirts of Mairon’s floor-length surcoat were not helping the anxiety and fear crawling up his throat.

And then, to his mounting horror, one by one his braids were held tight, then released, their weight disappearing. Mairon stepped back, cut braids dangling from his fists, the bandages holding the braids in their woven shapes below where Mairon had cut them.

Centuries of carefully maintained growth, the thousands and thousands of hours spent brushing and oiling and braiding and styling. His careful cultivation of the admiration of others and the intangible power his hair had conveyed. The blessed feeling of his lover’s hands running through it, grabbing it, pulling it, braiding it for him. How careful he had been on the journey over sea and through battle after battle … it was all for naught.

Gone.

Gone.

It was all gone.

How dare this fallen Maia take this from him!

Maitimo raged, and knew that if he could move, he would not hesitate to throw himself at the Maia, who was calmly twisting the many feet of his copper braids into a manageable bundle.

Mairon smiled, all cat-like satisfaction and arrogance. “Don’t fret, little Ñoldóran. Hair grows back.”

He turned, dragging the chair behind him towards the door. “Get some rest,” he called as he opened the door to his cell. “I’ll return when your brothers want to buy you back from me.”

Leave a Comment

“Then the brothers of Maedhros drew back, and fortified a great camp in Hithlum; but Morgoth held Maedhros as hostage, and send word that he would not release him unless the Noldor would forsake their war, returning into the West, or else departing far from Beleriand into the South of the world. But the sons of Feanor knew that Morgoth would betray them, and would not release Maedhros, whatsoever they might do; and they were constrained also by their oath, and might not for any cause forsake the war against their Enemy.” (Of the Return of the Noldor, 108)

Maitimo knelt on a plush feather pillow, a gentle breeze coming off the spring of the Sirion cooling his skin and ruffling his shortened hair. Steel bands encircled his wrists, resting on his lap, connected by chains to the looser steel collar about his neck. He shifted slightly, to relieve the pressure this position put on his joints.

He drank in the sight of his brothers. Makalaurë and Ambarussa were seated opposite the low table. Makalaurë bore a circlet over his braided black hair, a silver sister to their atar’s golden crown, and chain mail peaked out from the edges of his full-sleeved surcoat. Wine red with the golden star of their House embroidered large across the chests, the brothers matched, though Maitimo knew Ambarussa preferred hunting leathers to mail. He hoped Ambarussa was wearing mail.

They had come alone, leaving their horses at the treeline. Like Mairon, they likely had a small force in the trees and up the mountain. Too far for immediate aid, too few to overwhelm, but enough to bear witness, and to support if circumstances demanded it.

Pride and shame curled together: Pride that they had shown up at all; shame that they had to see him like this at all.

Captive. Bloodied. Shorn.

Mairon sipped at a glass of wine beside Maitimo, lounging comfortably. The low table between them and his brothers was laden with fruit and fine meats and both red and white wine. Delicacies they had long run out of, and had neither time nor resources to make themselves. Gifts that, despite being assured they were unspoiled and perfectly safe, neither of his brothers indulged in.

And of course, he wasn’t given anything either. Maitimo was there to act as a visual reminder of what was being bargained over, a symbol as all princes – no, all kings – were. His physical condition, the loose hair hanging barely reaching his ears, the bruises and wounds painting a patchwork pattern of fist and lash and steel boot were not personal, were never supposed to be personal. Maitimo had done nothing to deserve them. They were a symbol too, a message intended for one recipient only: his brother, his heir, his Regent.

He blinked, refocusing on the conversation. Negotiations for his release. For peace, even, between the Noldor and Angband.

“We are willing to release the Ñoldóran back to you under very specific conditions,” Mairon gestured languidly in Maitimo’s direction, wine sloshing in his cup. Maitimo barely suppressed a flinch.

“And what might those be, Mairon Melkondur?” Makalaurë raised an eyebrow, voice as neutral and impassive as Maitimo had ever heard it. None of his brothers were known for lack of passion, Makalaurë especially. Ambarussa had not said a word beyond the bare minimum of greetings, but his eyes bore holes in Mairon, who seemed unaffected by the scrutiny.

A ghost of ósanwë brushed against Maitimo’s battered mental shields. The familiar touch of Ambarussa was gentle, undemanding, even despite his unflinching gaze.

Brother, Ambarussa whispered. Nelyo, your hair …

Mind it not, Maitimo whispered back. It will grow again. How is Telvo?

Recovering. A trickle of fear slipped through. He’s angry, Nelyo. So angry. Súriwen helps, but–

Anger means he’s alive. Maitimo interrupted. Let him rage, Pityo. Fëanáro and our brothers did him great disservice at Losgar. Let him rage. He will come back to you.

All of a sudden a stabbing pain emanated from behind his eyes, making him wince. Through the tears that he furiously blinked away, he saw Ambarussa wince, gloved fist tightening in his lap.

“Why, an end to this pointless crusade, of course,” Mairon drawled with an indolent grin bearing canine teeth just a touch too long. He glared at Maitimo over his shoulder, and the lancing pain eased. “Don’t do that again, little Ñoldóran. Next time will hurt more, for you and your brother.”

“Forgive us, my lord,” Maitimo whispered hoarsely, eyes still swimming. “We did not mean to interrupt.”

Mairon put his glass of wine on the table, then leaned back and caressed Maitimo’s bruised cheek. He was gentle, yet oh so possessive. “You are forgiven, little Ñoldóran.”

Maitimo held his breath, shuddering at the Maia’s too cool touch, his magnanimous tone. If he had to, he would liken the feel to one of Nerdanel’s polished marble statues, smooth and delicate and far, far too impersonal to be flesh. He bore the touch, eyes downcast, even as it stung his pride. If I wouldn’t shatter my teeth trying, I would bite them off before he could touch me again.

Mairon hummed, then turned back to Makalaurë. “As I was saying. Retreat. Take your people back over the seas to the land of peace and plenty. Abandon these shores and this pointless effort.”

Makalaurë shook his head. “That way is shut to the Noldor. The Powers would not let us pass, even if we had ships to bear us hence.”

“Go south then. South and east. There is open land, and prosperous rivers, and the potential for your people to build themselves great cities. You will not find such opportunities in Beleriand.”

“We cannot.”

“Elu Thingol has claimed this land as his own, Regent, but even he has negotiated with me for a stalemate. You come with force of arms; you upset the balance. He, we, do not take to that kindly. It would be better for you and your people if you left.”

“I am not negotiating with the Sindar. I am negotiating with you for the release of my lord brother.”

“Indeed,” Mairon murmured, taking another sip of his wine. “Releasing Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran at all is contingent on the Noldor’s agreement to leave Beleriand and in so doing abandon your war on my Lord Melkor and his lands. Since you refuse, let us instead negotiate in half-measures.”

Dread dropped like a stone through Maitimo’s gut, limbs heavy with lead. He forced his head up, seeking Makalaurë, who at least had the decency to meet his eyes. His brother looked … distant. Regretful, perhaps, but seemingly already resigned to this. Maitimo held himself back from speaking, from reaching for them with ósanwë, knowing that somehow Mairon would sense it. But oh how he wanted the comfort of their minds against his in this moment.

“What guarantee do we have for his safety, then, if he cannot return with us? You’ve already bruised and bloodied him; what keeps you from disposing of him entirely?”

Mairon considered the question seriously, turning to Maitimo slightly. “We do not wish for war just as much as you also, likely, do not. Would letters, in his own hand on a seasonal basis suffice, in return for non-aggression from your people?”

Maitimo blinked, thinking fast. He raised a hand, chain links clinking quietly, to brush his shortened hair behind his ear, staring at Makalaurë hard. Willing him to understand.

“A braid,” Ambarussa interrupted quietly, evidently following Maitimo’s train of thought faster than Makalaurë was. Oromë bless his little brother's keen mind. “Letters in Nelyo’s handwriting, delivered when Menelmacar’s belt is fully visible on the horizon and when it fully disappears, and a small braid, in a healthy condition, cut, not torn.”

“And if there is any Noldor aggression, including death to our messengers, any and all consideration will be considered forfeit. Agreed?” Mairon looked eager, all smiles and wolf-like teeth.

Makalaurë hesitated, glancing at Maitimo. “Brother?”

All eyes turned to him. Ambarussa’s pitying, Makalaurë’s worried, Mairon’s flame-like in warning.

His mind turned the sudden change of circumstances over, breathing past the panic of the sudden loss of the hope that he would return to his own camp. Options, Maitimo, what options exist, what else can change, what leverage can you use … fuck.

Maitimo nodded slowly. “It’s your decision, Kanafinwë. I will abide by it, if that be your wish.”

Makalaurë flinched. Maitimo’s use of his brother’s ataressë was deliberate, for he rarely, if ever, used it in directly addressing him. Only Curufinwë routinely used his full ataressë. They stared at each other for a long moment, assessing each other's resolve.

“Agreed,” Makalaurë choked out, still staring.

Mairon smirked. “I’ll be generous, Aryon. We can revisit these terms in one hundred full cycles of Menelmacar, should both parties still uphold the agreement.”

Makalaurë frowned, bright eyes flashing. “Ten.”

“Eighty.”

Makalaurë opened his mouth to protest, but Maitimo just wanted it over with. “Fifty,” he said, resigned. “Stop arguing, Káno.”

His brother pressed his lips tight, almost bloodless. “Yes, Ñoldóran,” he finally said, bowing his head. “Forgive me.”

“Excellent,” Mairon said with relish. “Let us put it to parchment then.”

The drafting of this treaty, for a treaty it was, in truth, with Maitimo held as collateral, happened around him in a haze. Terms, time limits, trade access … none of it mattered.

He was being taken out of the picture. Any plans, any hopes, any opportunities were just gone. They were still grieving, oath-bound twice over. Ambarussa, both of them, shattered by their father’s actions, by their brother’s actions too, at Losgar. Any claim to being head of their House, any action that could have been taken to unify his brothers, to heal and mourn and pick themselves up again … was all in Makalaurë’s harp-calloused, sword-bearing hands. Maitimo would be unable to be there for his brothers, for his people, for his love …

A quill, white goose feather waving, was pressed into his right hand.

“Sign, Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran,” Mairon murmured, burned and blackened fingers gentle even as they gripped his wrist.

“May I have a few moments with my brothers before we depart, my Lord?” Maitimo asked quietly.

“Yes.”

Maitimo nodded, shuffling forward on his knees to approach the table. Two pieces of parchment, looping tengwar elegant and unfamiliar, lay before him, identical copies. He glanced at Makalaurë, eyebrows raised. His brother grimaced slightly, but nodded.

I, Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran, being of sound mind, do hereby agree to abide by the terms of this agreement between Kanafinwë Aryon of the Noldor and Mairon Melkondur, Lieutenant of Angband.

He signed, chains clinking with a quiet music.

Mairon stood, clapping a hand on Maitimo’s shoulder suddenly. “Don’t be too long, little Ñoldóran. We have a long road back to Angband.”

Maitimo nodded, eyes downcast. The heavy feeling of dread suffused his limbs.

“Maitimo,” Makalaurë said after a long moment. He reached across the table, palm up. “Maitimo.”

“Káno,” he responded with a sigh. “You did what you could.”

“It’s not enough,” Makalaurë sounded bitter, but Maitimo couldn’t bring himself to look at him. “Maitimo, please.”

He glanced up at that, eyes flashing. “What, Makalaurë?” he hissed. “You want me to tell you that I am content with this, that you did well? Do you want my assurance that this is what I wanted, that I will be safe or – or – or happy? Eru help us all, this has been a catastrophe building on itself since before the Silmarilli were even made! And you–”

“Maitimo. We know.” Ambarussa cut him off before his voice could get any louder. “We all know. But you have to keep yourself safe, as much as you can in that place. So you can come back to us. A lot can change in fifty years.”

Maitimo let out a humorless bark of laughter. “I know, Pityo. I know.” He sighed, and forced down the wave of anger and frustration with that breath. That is not what he wanted to leave his brothers with. “What will you tell the others?”

Makalaurë had tears in his eyes. “The truth, I think.”

“You will never recover any authority you might have had over Tyelko or Curufinwë if you do.”

“So be it.”

Maitimo nodded. He let his eyes drift over his brothers and to the glittering stream behind them. “Do me a favor?”

“Anything,” Makalaurë breathed.

“There’s a false bottom in my jewelry case. Keep the contents secret and safe, would you? You’ll know what to do with them, if the circumstances change.” Maitimo glanced back at his brothers. “Unlikely, given Losgar, but.”

Makalaurë and Ambarussa shared a puzzled look. “What’s in there?” Ambarussa asked.

Maitimo jerked his head over his shoulder, where he could feel the Maia’s eyes on his back. “You’ll figure it out.”

Time’s up, Mairon pushed towards him, a hint of impatience behind his words.

Maitimo flinched, the alien feeling of the Maia’s mind against his evoking dark places and rot and the heat of the forge. “I need to go,” he forced himself to say as he stood. “Give me a hug, and know that despite all that has happened, I love you both. I love you all.”

Ambarussa clambered over the low table and launched himself into Maitimo’s arms, fitting his lanky frame under his chin. Makalaurë moved slower, going around the table and then tentatively folding himself around both of them. They stood there for many long moments. Maitimo basked in the feeling of comfortable, safe hands touching his battered hröa, his brothers’ grief-stricken love enveloping his fëa. He kissed their hair, first Ambarussa, then Makalaurë, who was silently crying.

“Be safe,” he whispered, voice breaking as he tore himself away. “I love you.”

Maitimo turned, and walked willingly back into darkness.

Leave a Comment

Warrior Falling, Year 1

Brothers,

It has been a few weeks since I saw Kanafinwë and Pityafinwë by the spring of the Sirion, but Menamalcar has set in the north, and so I am permitted quill, and ink, and this small parchment, and a small knife with which to cut my braid, which you will find enclosed.

I am recovering well from the ill-use I was bestowed before I saw you. There are other Eldar here, who have been here for far longer than I, who have ensured my hurts are cleaned and bandaged. I have spent the time attempting to learn the various languages that the other inhabitants of this place speak, to little avail so far. But I, apparently, have time, so perhaps I will master the language.

Until the Warrior rises again,

Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran

Warrior Falling Year 3

Dearest brothers,

It has been explained to me that you never negotiated explicitly for me to receive your responses, so if you have been writing to me these last few years I have not received them. If you have not, well, I will never know.

You did negotiate that the braid you receive be clean, so I write this freshly washed. A rare, twice a year comfort in this place, so I thank you for that, at least. I wish

I have recently been released from my little hole and been put to work. I have joined a group of Sindar and two of the ten that survived with me in the mines below this place. It is harsh work, but despite that, it is much more satisfying than sitting in the dark and waiting to write you all another letter.

With all my love,

Nelyafinwë

Warrior Rising, Year 6

Brothers,

I am alive. Just. Punishments here are grim indeed.

I cannot help but rage I wish this had not happ

They took I would not wish this on they mutilated

Makalaurë why how could you do this to me

There is no light in the dark. Hope is futile.

Eru protect you.

Nelyafinwë

Warrior Falling Year 6

Brothers,

Forgive me my last letter. It was never my intent to be so wrathful with you.

This place is full of senseless violence. Expectations and quotas are impossible to reach. Did I say the work was satisfying, all those years ago? I recant that, forget I ever said it. I wish for the solitude of that damp cell daily.

Musings on the exact separation of Eldar and Orc will have to wait until I have more parchment. But I have thoughts, and wonder if you do too. The language is broken and harsh on my lips, but even orcs sing work-songs.

Be safe.

Nelyafinwë

Warrior Rising, Year 8

Brothers,

Curvo will laugh at me, but I have somehow won myself promotion from the pits to the forges. Yes, by our standards I am and always will be a poor smith but here …

It comes with some benefits, in service of keeping myself as safe as I can in this place. Better rations. Rest days. The other Eldar here, who have been here longer, are kind when they can afford to be. We all scramble for the scarce crumbs of security.

The Lieutenant is often about the forges. He was certainly one of Aulë’s, before. His [REDACTED BY ORDER OF LORD MAIRON]

Stay safe.

Nelyafinwë

Leave a Comment

Maitimo’s days in the forges had a routine that was efficient as it was boring.

A elf-runner would wake him and the seven others that shared the same sleeping space. They would proceed in a line to the mess-hall, and receive a measure of bread and a bowl of something gray and gooey. Whether it had meat in it was entirely random. Once, early on, Maitimo had gotten a bowl with an eyeball of indeterminate species floating in it, and was shocked by how quickly the others volunteered to take it from him.

He would probably eat it now, if such an opportunity presented itself. How far the King of the Noldor had fallen.

Maitimo would then report to the forgemaster, a gruff and taciturn Avari with tattoos like waves down his arms. He would give them each materials, and work orders. The most common tasks were smelting and purifying ore into ingots, but it was fairly common for Maitimo to be set to work creating weapons, armor, and mail. But occasionally small items, like door-hinges or buckles or merit tokens, would be necessary. He would stay until he met his quota, receive his evening meal, and retire to his shared quarters.

He was fluent in Angband Sindarin by the time he had joined the forge-workers, though he knew he had to be learning a bastardized dialect of the language, cut off as it was from the culture of its origin. Maitimo was conversational in the language the orcs spoke by this point as well, for it was an even stranger mix of Sindarin, various Avari dialects, and a less intense and simplified form of Valarin. A strange language, to be sure, but he knew his father would have enjoyed teasing its logic out. If he had any energy, or paper, he himself might have relished the challenge.

The evenings were spent with the other seven of his crew, and they had grown quite close. They taught him their language and their songs and their stories. They took care of him in the aftermath of lash and burn and knife and boot. And he taught and cared for them in turn.

But the brutality of this place kept him isolated. They would not hesitate to turn on him should it be advantageous for them to do so. He would not hesitate to do the same.

They had, once, and it had cost him much. It was a lucky thing, maybe, that Maitimo had decided long ago that fatherhood would not be his path. An attentive brother, a doting uncle, but not a father. Lucky maybe, but he mourned the loss of this aspect of his manhood nevertheless. Lucky, maybe, that he had not lost more.

His crew had cared for him in the aftermath, but it had still taken days for the ragged gash between his legs to stop bleeding, to begin to heal.

The days passed. Boring, repetitive, and just a little bit safer here in the forges than in the mines, or in what his companions called the caves, the little solitary cells he had spent much of his first two years in.

The higher you go, the harder you fall, and so it was that though punishment was not given out as regularly, it was all the more brutal when it came. Failure to meet standards and quotas were met with the lash, brands, boots, and starvation. Catastrophic failure of craft, or showing resistance, would often result in a few days or weeks in the caves, depending on the mood of the overseers. When they returned, well. It certainly was no garden party.

Maitimo was back in the caves. A dagger had shattered in the quenching oil. He had cursed too loudly. He had tried to argue with the overseer. He had punched the orc who tried to walk him away from his workbench. He had, as should have been expected, received all the hospitality Angband had to offer.

And so, in short, Maitimo was having a no-good, very bad day. Just to round out the no good, very bad week in this Vala-forsaken year of this damned and doomed yen.

It’s not like it could get much worse, right?

He had been so good. Biding his time, giving them what they asked for when they asked, no questions or indignation. Completely compliant. Yes sir, no sir, please may I have another sir? Anything, anything to survive. Just another cycle, another week, another half year so he could write to his brothers.

Silent tears fell over his hands, trying to assess just how much damage they had done to his littlest finger when the Lieutenant of Angband entered his cell. Maitimo scrambled back, jarring his finger yet again in his haste. He tried, oh how he tried to make himself small before the Maia’s eyes, crouching there in the dark, shoulders protesting where the corners scraped against fresh wounds.

Tall and straight and clean and perfect, Mairon’s jet black surcoat’s hem swept over his leather boots, the little black beads glittering in the torchlight. He had left the door open behind him.

“Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran,” Mairon greeted him with a smirk as the silence and the staring grew too long.

“Lord Mairon.” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. Too many screams, so much pain; the years had made his voice unlovely even on the best of days. And this was not the best of days.

It had been years since Maitimo had seen Angband’s lieutenant this close, for Mairon kept his own forge space close but separate from where Maitimo worked, and was rarely down in the depths to begin with. But the Maia had changed, subtle shifts in musculature and fat. Lips pinker, cheeks fuller. The surcoat was still tightly tailored, revealing curves in the waist and hips and chest that Maitimo was sure had not been there, years before.

Mairon turned and stalked out to the doorway, breaking Maitimo’s gaze.

“Are you coming?” he asked, face half-turned back. The torchlight caught his yellow hair, a halo of gold and fire.

Maitimo blinked. This had to be a trick, a trap. He did not move. The only safe course of action was inaction.

Mairon sighed. “Come, Nelyafinwë.”

He frowned, trying to control his breathing. He slowly hauled himself up to standing, every muscle in his back aching, the skin stretching and tearing and rubbing painfully against the rough tunic he wore. Stay small, stay quiet, be unnoticeable.

Maitimo lingered by the door, unsure. He kept his eyes lowered, not interested in entertaining any thought of resistance today. Everything hurt too much. If he was being led to his death, that might be a relief, damn the consequences.

Mairon beckoned, the rings on his fingers gleaming, and so Maitimo followed. Surprisingly, Mairon did not bother to cuff his wrists or his ankles, or do anything at all to keep Maitimo close. He did not touch him. He instead walked confidently through the twisting and undulating halls, as if he expected Maitimo to follow like a trained and broken hound.

He was; he did. Two steps behind. The entire way.

It seemed like they were ascending. The air became cooler, less filled with smoke, less oppressive. They passed less orcs as they walked, more proud úmaiar and broken, cowed elves. None of them gave Maitimo more than a passing glance, but the úmaiar bowed and scuttled out of Mairon’s way.

Mairon led him to an unassuming door at the end of a long hallway. They were alone. Maitimo shivered. They must be much closer to the surface, maybe even near the peak of one of the three mountains above Angband’s black gate, and it was cold.

His rough spun tunic and patched pants and bare feet were not, in fact, suited to this clime. The forges, the heat of the earth, the work, the work, the work … it had been so long since he had felt a chill. He understood now why Mairon bundled himself so, long sleeves and long surcoat and even an overcoat. Could a Maia feel cold? Manwë’s winds did not seem to, but perhaps it was a difference of this place, Melkor’s presence acting on the natural world–

That line of thinking would have to wait. Mairon opened the door and stood aside, his arm out held in a gesture of welcome. Maitimo stepped through the door, passing Mairon with a wary look. He did not want to let the Maia out of his sight, but the grandeur of the space caught his attention, pulling his eyes up and away.

The Lieutenant of Angband kept an apartment that was brimming with wealth and comfort, easily rivaling the personal wing of the royal family in Tirion and nearly as large. The space was curved and open doors on either end of the room revealed halls that went back the way they had come, forming an apartment remarkably similar in shape to a horseshoe.

The ceilings arched overhead at varying heights following the natural contours of the mountain. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, providing a soft golden light. A grand window of small panes of glass sat embedded in the wall, overlooking the southern plains. Instinct drew Maitimo’s eye west, where his brothers should be, but the mountains and the darkness obscured any hope of seeing evidence they were still there.

Plush couches in red and yellow velvet sat in a semicircle around a low table, which was set with a dinner service for two. There was steaming soup in small bowls, a quarter of a small fowl roasted with herbs and lemon slices, fresh bread, and a salad on large plates. A glittering crystal carafe held a dark red, almost black wine. Maitimo’s mouth watered.

Mairon shut the door quietly behind him, but Maitimo heard the snick of a lock being engaged, and a jolt of panic thrummed in his veins. They were alone. He turned back, meeting Mairon’s golden eyes for the first time. Maitimo saw hunger there, happiness and satisfaction, like a cat right before he pounces on an unsuspecting field mouse.

The Maia did not give him a chance to question what such a look might mean. He swept past Maitimo without a backwards glance and knelt at the low table.

“Come, Nelyafinwë,” Mairon sang as he poured wine into a pair of goblets. “Come dine with me.”

Maitimo stepped forward, onto the rug which sank under his bare feet. He forced himself to hold back a moan of pleasure, the softness of the pile a soothing balm to his fëa in a way he hadn’t known he was missing.

He knelt, stiffly, the bruises and cuts from Angband’s hospitality making themselves known again as he sat on his heels. He waited until Mairon had finished pouring the wine before bowing at the waist, centuries of court dinners and good manners the only thing holding him back from shoving an entire slice of bread into his mouth. Whatever this was, he was not going to let a slip of deference rob him of this meal.

Mairon bowed back, just deep enough to show his elevated social position over Maitimo. He wondered absently about cultural influences over time, whether they were poorly reenacting rituals that dated back to the mythic days of Almaren that had been introduced by the Valar to the Eldar as they came to Valinor. Change came so slow to the Powers, it very well might be the case.

“Eat,” Mairon said, the fullness of his lips stained red with the first sip of wine. “Drink.”

Maitimo forced himself to eat slowly, though every instinct learned over the last eight years yelled at him to put as much into his stomach as he could bear. Starvation makes for a greedy table guest, and he could ill afford it.

All the while, Mairon was silent, eating just as slowly, content to watch Maitimo under long lashes and bright, mischievous eyes.

“Why?” Maitimo asked, breaking the tense silence, his meal mostly complete. He tore his bread into bite-sized chunks.

“Why what?” Mairon sighed, swirling his wine.

“Why have you brought me out of the forges, my Lord?”

Mairon hummed, smiling slightly. “I think I have a better use for you in mind, Ñoldóran. But first, the meal, and a bath, and some tending to your hurts. Then, and only then, will I entertain questions about your future.”

Maitimo nodded even as his anxiety spiked. It wasn’t time for a letter to his brothers, he had one hundred and eighteen cycles until the next opportunity came. The bread was hearty, toasted seeds cracking under his teeth. “Will you send me back to the forges, my Lord?”

Mairon finished his wine. His golden-yellow eyes had not left Maitimo’s body throughout the entire meal, his attention unwavering despite how quiet and withdrawn he had been. Maitimo shivered. Now they flicked away, over Maitimo’s shoulder, then back.

“Later, Ñoldóran.”

Leave a Comment

The bath was divine.

Mairon had Sang away the worst of his hröa’s hurts. Bones snapped back into place, skin knit together with only the thinnest of scars, even the worst bruises faded from black and purple to a nasty yellow. Oh, it hurt, the Singing, to put several months of healing through his body in several minutes instead, but the bath soothed the tension and chased away the lingering tremors.

Hot water and lemon scented soap and oil for his hair – recently cropped about his shoulders again – and blissful relief from the golden gaze of the Maia lord. If he closed his eyes, he could delude himself into thinking he was in Tirion again, before Silmarilli were made, when all his woes were related to court and courting. Thoughts of that time, of safety and the petty concerns of municipal water management and gold ribbons flashed under his eyes. He blinked, seeing the uneven dark stone of Mairon’s apartments, and sighed. Memory could be worse than reality. Tirion was far away, the court broken, his love left behind.

He stayed in the bath until the water cooled.

Mairon had left a box of supplies by the door, courteously enough. Quickly, efficiently, feeling more and more vulnerable the longer he stayed unclad, he combed through the box, finding everything he might need. Pants and a loose shirt of a soft linen went under a thick, blue, fur-lined robe with bell-like sleeves that belted around the waist. Maitimo combed through his hair, the wood pale and polished. Everything in this box was in accordance with his tastes in slightly chillier Formenos: the oil smelled of sandalwood and lavender, the sleeves were large enough to hide his hands in, the robe was long enough to brush against his ankles. At the bottom of the box were two white ribbons and a pair of slippers, very similar to the shoes he had worn on feast days where he had been expected to dance with the ladies of Haru Finwë’s court.

The strangest thing was, of course, that everything fit him, and fit him well. His height had been the bane of many a tailor and cobbler in Tirion.

How was it possible, then, that Mairon could have clothes made to fit him? For how long had he been planning his removal from the pits, from the forges? And for what purpose? Why was he here, being treated with care and respect, fed identifiable meats and fresh bread?

How long would such treatment last?

Maitimo struggled, dual emotions dueling back and forth. Thrust, parry, thrust again. Greed, and wariness. Desire, and fear. He wanted to keep this, this new and comfortable and luxurious situation. But he knew it could not last. It would not last, unless he had something to pay for it with. Nothing in Angband came for free, and gaining the attention of the powerful in this place did not bode well.

He had nothing. The rags he had come here wearing, and anything else he had needed in his time here, had been paid for with favors to the Eldar overseers. An extra shift here, a cock in his mouth there.

And waiting for the hammer to fall, to shatter him again, after giving him this tantalizing piece of dignity …

Maitimo shuddered. He’d rather not dwell on that, so he focused on his hands, braiding his hair. Two three-stranded braids, close to the scalp, white ribbons from the box securing them under his ears. This simple act, of running clean hands through clean hair, felt almost as good as the bath itself.

The last thing in the box, the dark wood almost concealing it completely, was a hand mirror. A copper plate, polished so smooth as to be reflective, in a wooden frame and a handle carved in the likeness of two veiled figures, back to back. Maitimo’s fingers gently traced the back of it, the mirrored side face down. He hadn’t seen himself clearly in nearly a decade.

He did not have to look.

He did not want to look.

He did not know what, or who he would see if he did.

He needed to know.

So he looked.

The face staring back at him was gaunt, cheeks sunken, all angles and hollows. His eyes were too wide. His nose was crooked from healing poorly. He flicked his ears, frowning at the notches where he had once had piercings. Silvery scars, thin and healed, criss-crossed over his skin. His braids were neat, the white of the ribbons a stark contrast against the water-darkened red of his hair.

He knew this face by touch alone, but to see the evidence of Angband, to know for certain just how much the pits had changed him from the prince he had been in Tirion …

He slammed the hand mirror down, breathing hard.

He felt sick.

The dissonant notes between his internal image of himself, what he somehow still expected to see, and what he had actually seen tugged at his fëa. He sank into a crouch, hugging his knees, burying his face in the dark blue robe.

This face was not his, this body strange and alien. Maitimo he had been named, well-formed, his beauty renowned, his place in the House of Finwë, first of the House of Fëanáro, assured. The Noldor revered beauty, held it the pinnacle of worldly virtue. To be beautiful was to be trustworthy, pure, close to the Powers and the Flame Imperishable – close to Eru Ilúvatar. Vain, the internal voice that sounded like Makalaurë accused often, no less famed for his own beauty. Yes, Maitimo was vain, he knew it, and had embraced it. Cultivated it, formed a public image of himself around it. Used it to his advantage when he could afford to hide his clever mind behind a pretty face. Never had he had a reason to believe that that vanity was in vain, undeserved, unwarranted.

Now, now though … the familiar eyes that looked at him in that mirror had been surrounded by a stranger's repulsive face. He was unlovely, unmanned, impure.

He wallowed in the feeling, skin crawling with the dissonance – tiny fingers, poking, prodding, tugging, cutting on the sharp edges of himself – for an immeasurable amount of time.

A knock on the door, tentative and shaky, startled him out of his misery.

Right.

Mairon, and whatever he had planned for him.

An unexpected, yet familiar face met his eyes as he opened the door. Línemírë, one of the ten who had come into Angband with him. He had seen her in passing a time or two, never long enough to talk. She stood back, away from the door, hands clasped behind her back. She wore a blue gown, whose tone matched that of his own robes, likely from the same dye vat, or even the same bolt of fabric. Her hair was braided down one side, white ribbon blending into the silver of her hair where it fell over one shoulder. Her blue eyes – eye, one was missing under a mess of scar tissue that marred half her face – stared back at him, the Light of the Trees strong and undiminished.

“Línemírë,” Maitimo said dumbly, blinking in shock.

“Ñoldóran,” she nodded, dipping into a shallow curtsy. “Lord Mairon had some business to attend to. He said he would be back before the next work-cycle starts.”

Maitimo nodded. He drank in her visage, reveling in the sweet taste of his mother-tongue in his ears. So long had he spent speaking, thinking, dreaming, in the strange and broken mix of Angband Sindarin the other Eldar spoke, and Black Speech of the Orcs, that Quenya felt strange and yet comforting.

“It’s good to see you, Línemírë.” Maitimo had not known her well, would not have counted her among his circle of close friends, but they had known each other in Tirion. He had danced with her often at his grandfather’s grand dinner parties; attended the same lectures at the university on occasion. Circling just outside each other’s orbit.

And then the Darkening, and Alqualondë. He had noticed her fierceness in the fighting on the quays, elevated her quickly to be among his host after the Second Battle, which Tyelkormo had, in his usual unimaginative way, named the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, the Battle Under Stars. What they would call future battles under the stars, he had no idea, but that really wasn’t his problem right now. No battles would be started until he was free, at least not started by the Noldor hosts. He thought, he hoped, that Makalaurë would not be so foolish as to break the treaty he had wrought, leaving Maitimo and what was left of his ten behind as collateral.

All that talent, all that fire and fierceness and drive, all that had done was lead her here.

Yet another thing to add to his list of regrets.

“And you, Ñoldóran,” she said with a faint smile. “Come. We have some time yet.”

He kept his face impassive as she led him back to the first room. The table had been cleared of the dishes Mairon and Maitimo had eaten from, replaced with a bowl of fruit and another carafe of water. Línemírë took an apple from the bowl and sat gracelessly in one of the ugly yellow couches.

“Take some. You’ll not be in trouble,” she said, loudly biting into the apple. “He wants you healthy again. Fattened up. Eat.”

He frowned, sitting more carefully, arranging the skirts of his new overrobe neatly over his knees. He resisted the impulse to tuck his feet up, to make himself small. He wasn’t particularly hungry – and what a strange realization that was! – but he took his own apple anyway. The skin was smooth, pale pink and yellow. Firm, not a single bruise. He gently scraped a nail over its skin, the waxy coating crinkling into a thin ribbon. It smelled like the apples in Yavanna’s gardens, summer-bright and warm.

“Why?” he finally asked.

She shrugged, swallowing another bite. “Some project of his. Lord Mairon was not specific with the details, said he’d explain once you were here. Just that we, you and I, are to be healthy and strong again.”

Maitimo grimaced, thin fingers going white over the apple in his hand. Rumors swarmed often through the elven population, each theory somehow designed to unleash new dreads among them. Theories of what happened to those who displeased the Maia Lieutenant were often even more gruesome than those victims of Melkor. Mairon had ruled over Angband’s denizens far longer than Melkor had, and had the reputation to match.

“How long have you been up here?”

“In Lord Mairon’s apartments? A dozen cycles or so, not long. He brought me from the spinners and weavers. Where were you?”

“Forges. Mines before that.”

Línemírë squinted at him, her bright eye considering. “But you’re a terrible smith, by your own admission.”

He rolled his eyes, huffing a laugh through his nose. He remembered that conversation, mid-dance, her trying to puzzle out his craft, trying to find something in common to talk about. She had asked, baffled, and he had laughed, the bright mind of his husband laughing too where he was listening in. “In comparison to my grandfather, father, and brother, absolutely. I know enough to be passable here.”

Línemírë nodded. “Passable must be enough.” She paused, taking another bite of her apple. “I would have thought they’d keep you, out of all of us, out of the pits.”

“Why? Because of my title?”

She shrugged. “Because exposing you to the possibility of death seems like a poor logistical choice. Ransoming you back to our people would give them a lot of leverage.”

Maitimo smiled, a sad and tired thing. “They already tried.”

Línemírë raised her singular eyebrow. “And?”

“And I’m still here, am I not? Collateral that protects Angband from the Noldor and the Noldor from Angband until tensions get high enough that somebody snaps and another skirmish is fought, at which point I truly am fair game, just as everyone else.” He ran his thumb across the surface of the apple in his hand again, another curl of wax appearing, then falling onto his lap. “I am powerless in the face of the decisions of others.”

Línemírë glanced at the door and lowered her voice. “Nobody has any power here, not even you, Ñoldóran. You never had any. Titles mean nothing. Even our dear Lieutenant is bound, for all that he plays at power. Remember that, Nelyafinwë. He has power over us, fëa and hröa, but it is all borrowed. Moringotto is the true Master of Angband. Even the Lieutenant bends over for him.”

He took a bite of the apple, almost entirely to delay the need to respond. He knew it, had internalized it a long time ago. It was the first thing he had to truly let go in this place. Power, which once he had wielded effortlessly with the blessings of his grandfather and his father both, was a commodity in Angband. Tart juice and brightness burst over his tongue, the memory of Song and a nightingale’s twittering and a Maia’s graceful dance flitting across his mind like a half-remembered dream.

“So we wait, and see what Fate has in store for us,” Maitimo smiled. “At least we will have each other.”

Leave a Comment

Then Fëanor swore a terrible oath. His seven sons leapt straightway to his side and took the selfsame vow together, and red as blood shone their drawn swords in the glare of the torches. They swore an oath which none shall break, and none should take, by the name even of Iluvatar, calling the Everlasting Dark upon them if they kept it not; and Manwe they named in witness, and Varda …

Thus spoke Maedhros and Maglor and Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir, Amrod and Amras, princes of the Noldor; and many quailed to hear the dread words. For so sworn, good or evil, an oath may not be broken, and it shall pursue oathkeeper and oathbreaker to the world’s end. (Of the Flight of the Noldor, 83)

Three. And then none.

Three Silmarilli. And then they had been stolen.

Third Finwë. And then none given the distinction of fourth.

Three times two brothers. And then none, for he was alone.

Three times his golden love had had to ask. And now he, too, was lost to him.

Maitimo’s life was a comedy of triplicates.

Because, of course, the fucking trap that had led him here, that had been sprung nearly a decade past had tendrils. Reaching, seeking, catching, clawing, cutting oh so deep until Maitimo was maneuvered exactly where the Lieutenant of Angband wanted him. He had played right into his waiting grasp, the leading partner in a dance Maitimo hadn't even known he was following in.

Which was why, Maitimo reflected, he was sitting in Mairon’s luxurious apartments, sipping sweet wine, playing arantyalmë with the Maia in question, as Línemírë looked on. Her hands were busy with a bit of mending, darning a sock before the hole got too big.

Maitimo considered himself quite skilled in the game of arantyalmë. It suited his temperament, and growing up playing Fëanáro, and later Finwë and Nolofinwë, gave him ample opportunity to practice in ever-bright Tirion.

That, of course, did not stop him from getting his ass handed to him, again and again.

Mairon played with an intensity that rivaled his father, but Maitimo’s heart, and head, wasn’t in it. He was distracted.

Time was running out. The grace period Mairon had given them, time generously given to consider the offer they had been extended, was swiftly ending. And Maitimo still had no answer to give.

Well, no. Maitimo knew the answer he would give. He would do what he had to, in order to survive. He could see no other way.

He just didn’t like it, and, like a petulant child faced with the prospect of doing the unpleasant chores parents gave all children, he had been avoiding thinking about it.

A return to the pits was not an option, where Mairon had not, could not enforce the terms of the treaty his brother had negotiated. Mairon’s job was to keep Maitimo alive. All it would take is a lone orc, or an indignant thrall, or regaining the dread Vala’s attention, and then … well, Maitimo would be another houseless spirit, held here forever. Dead, and bodiless. Just a pittance of potential energy that Mairon or his lackeys would use, use up, experiment with until he was well and truly nothing.

He would abandon his brothers to fulfill the Oath their father had sworn them to twice over. He could not. He had to survive. He had to get out of this place, to help them, to protect them.

Mairon advanced a foot soldier, pushing the attack.

But Makalaurë was not stupid. Maitimo knew that behind the airy, care-free, overly-emotional poet’s guise lay just as much steel as any son of Fëanáro had. Just as much conviction, just as much drive, and just as much intelligence. Makalaurë would come to the same conclusion Maitimo had.

That while yes, they had negotiated for fifty years of peace, the odds of both groups upholding the terms would be … nigh impossible. There were too many variables on either side. Some orc patrol would get too close, some Elda would break ranks, and everything, everything would be forfeit. And even if, somehow, they managed to get to the end of those fifty years, to get to the point where they had agreed to renegotiate, the compulsion, the drive of the Oath would never allow them all to just walk away.

He moved a knight into a new position, barely considering the implications as nerves roiled in his guts.

Maitimo would be trapped here, forever. Caught as collateral in a war they had started, almost won with the Dagor-nuin-Giliath that had sent what little remained of Mairon’s army – for it was Mairon, not Melkor, who was truly in control of the military here – fleeing back to Angband like a handful leaves in the wind.

Despair, wretched hopelessness clouded his mind. He would never be safe here. He would never see his family, his beloved – no, can’t think about that – his people again.

The knight was dispatched dispassionately. Maitimo pushed another foot soldier forward, capturing one of Mairon’s Seers, which was quickly taken by Mairon’s Queen. Maitimo sighed, casting about for a move that wouldn’t immediately end the game.

Maitimo could be honest with himself and say that the trade, the reward for his consent to this plan might not be worth the suffering, the death, the agonizing violation and degradation it would bring him. But on the other hand, he knew the pain going back to the pits would bring. He knew, and no amount of bravado could keep him from quailing under the threat of continued torment. This incarnate flesh was just flesh, after all, and flesh will do anything, say anything, to not be in pain.

Mairon’s proposal, while risky, and life-altering, would give him the opportunity to survive this ordeal. It would keep him safe. Fed. It would give him time. Time he needed. Wanted. Desperately, so desperately desired.

Could he survive this? Not intact, but he might be willing to gamble. His chances looked better here than in the pits.

Maitimo shook his head ruefully. This game would be over in five moves or less, no matter how he played it. “I yield,” he murmured, tilting his King with the tip of one finger until it fell.

Mairon smiled from the other side of the low table. He swirled his glass of wine with all the air of a satisfied cat.

“Well played, Nelyafinwë.” Mairon paused, looking thoughtful, but not angry. “But, you are distracted. You had multiple opportunities to take pieces that you did not exploit. I expect better from you.”

Maitimo closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Nodded. Bowed in ritualized reverence over the board. “You’re right, I was. Forgive me, my Lord. I was …”

All he has to do is say yes. The hot bath, the private room, the comfortable bed, the sweet wines, the fresh fruits and creamy cheeses and identifiable meats, the warm fire, the safety, the time. All that could continue to be his. He just had to say yes.

He had to condemn them both, swear them both to a path they would both suffer from.

He opened his eyes, looked up at Línemírë to find her watching him back from the couch, her countenance soft with compassion and understanding. So much of the last few weeks had been spent talking. Talking about Mairon’s proposal, what it would mean, what it would do to them both. Whether they could both bear the burden of what was being asked of them. Whether it was a cost they were willing to pay.

She had agreed, but he would live with the consequences far longer than she would.

He just had to say yes.

Mairon glanced between the pair, head tilted in bird-like attention. “You were…?” he prompted, as the silence grew unbearably thick.

Just say yes.

Línemírë nodded, the faintest of smiles hovering in the corners of her mouth, and Maitimo felt the dread settle in his stomach, his limbs heavy. He raised his wine to his lips, moving slow, as if through a sea of honey. The wine was sweet, cloyingly thick on his tongue. He swallowed, and, absurdly, wanted to weep.

Say yes.

Voice thick, quiet, he sealed his future, their fate. “We … we accept your proposal.”

Mairon leaned back, blinked twice, like he hadn’t expected Maitimo to acquiesce after all. Maitimo watched Mairon’s gleaming white teeth slowly emerge under an unsettling, predatory smile, and a distant part of himself quailed. Oh, what had he done?

“I see,” Mairon purred. He relaxed, seeming to go boneless in the embrace of the couch seat at his back. “All of it? Both of you?”

“Yes,” Línemírë nodded. “But we ask, respectfully, for greater assurance.”

“In what form?”

“An Oath in return for ours, witnessed by Eru and a Vala of your choosing.” Línemírë glanced down at Maitimo, and Mairon followed her eyes.

There was so much they did not know about the kind of binding oath Maitimo had sworn with his father and brothers. Rumors only, speculative gossip, idle mentions about the binding of Maiar to the service of their Vala.

But there was an undeniable aspect of his fëa that had been altered after that day in Tirion’s great square, under the great boughs of silver Galathilion. Maitimo unconsciously rubbed at his throat, remembering the striving need to reach for the Silmarilli on Melkor’s brow, and the animalistic panic that suffused him as Melkor crushed his windpipe under blessing-burnt hands.

Mairon hummed. Nodded once. “To Eru Ilúvatar, but no Vala.”

Maitimo frowned. “Does the Lord of Angband not know about this?”

Frustration, or perhaps anger, flashed through Mairon’s molten eyes, and was gone by the next heartbeat. A pause, as Mairon sipped at his wine. “I would not concern my Lord with this,” he said into his cup.

Maitimo would laugh, had it been a courtier using that line in an effort to skirt around Haru Finwë’s authority. But it was Melkor they spoke of, and so Maitimo did not laugh. He merely considered the Lieutenant. Memory flashed, of that first day, kneeling in that black hall, as Mairon bargained for Maitimo’s life.

“I want him alive, beloved. Give him to me. I’ll make good use of him, and you’d never have to see him again if you wish it.”

“How long have you been planning this, my Lord?” Maitimo asked, voice light even as his heart tightened in his chest. He paused, then threw caution to the wind. “Behind his back?”

Mairon froze, eyes tight. “Long enough, little Ñoldóran.” He glanced up at Línemírë. “I’ll swear to Eru, and so will you both, and only then will we begin.”

And so the comedy of threes continued.

Three Oaths sworn, securing his future and his fate.

Leave a Comment

Warrior Rising, Year 10

Brothers,

I am alive, healthy. My outward situation has improved, despite [REDACTED BY ORDER OF LORD MAIRON]. I am no longer in the forges, though I doubt I will be able to say where I have been removed to. Such [REDACTED BY ORDER OF LORD MAIRON].

Despair is a potent thing. Such emotions were rare, or unheard of, in the days of our youth. Is it [REDACTED BY ORDER OF LORD MAIRON] or was it [REDACTED]? Do you feel it too, the change in the [REDACTED]?

The ten that survived, I gave you their names long ago. None survive. Please let their families know.

Forgive me, I’ve been given to maudlin musings in the days approaching [REDACTED BY ORDER OF LORD MAIRON]. I wish … perhaps if I had more faith in the ability for things to change, but this [REDACTED] seems like [REDACTED]. Fifty years is an eternity, and even that has no guarantee of being the end. Time and circumstance have never been more against me.

[REDACTED BY ORDER OF LORD MAIRON]

[REDACTED BY ORDER OF LORD MAIRON]

[REDACTED BY ORDER OF LORD MAIRON]

With all my love,

Your Nelyafinwë

Maitimo was conscious throughout the surgical altering of his hröa. His own choice, though one half-regretted as cold hands pushed and pulled at the contents of his abdominal cavity. No pain, just pressure, and the running commentary of Angband’s foremost master of fleshcraft. Strange, the disembodied feeling of, well, the lack of feeling over the lower two-thirds of himself.

He could have chosen to sleep. He could have chosen not to witness this. But he had been conscious for every other way his hröa had been mutilated, from whip to brand to being unmanned some four years previous. He would not let Mairon change him so drastically without his oversight.

And he had chosen this. He had consented. Mairon had proposed this months ago. Given him time to think, time to consider, to weigh his options, to back out. He had said yes. He had said yes, bound his fëa to Mairon’s project with yet another Oath in the name of the One, Eru Ilúvatar, witnessed in the Valarin name of Mairon himself.

Too secret was this project of Mairon’s, Maitimo had learned, that even Melkor could not know, could not stand as witness as Manwë and Varda had for the first, a marriage hidden from all and sundry, and the second, which had set him on the path to return to the land of his grandfather to recover what had been lost.

Maitimo just kept losing.

He stared up at the ceiling, listening with half an ear as Mairon sang, sang Songs to his blood. Of staying, of clotting, of flowing along paths old and new.

Línemírë’s body lay cooling next to him. He had held her hand as the chemicals and Song had worked their way through his spine, numbing and paralyzing everything below his neck, enough that he could keep breathing, but not much else. Línemírë had stayed smiling until the drugs had forced her into a sleep she would not wake from.

She had consented to that too. She had wanted that.

“What do you know about what happens to a fëa in this place, after a hröa is unable to sustain itself?” she had whispered in the dark, huddled sleepless before a dying fire. Mairon had left them to their own devices long ago. “What happens to your fëa if you die here?”

Maitimo had frowned. Had shaken his head. “Námo takes–”

“No,” Línemírë had cut him off, gesturing sharply, single blue eye flashing. “Moringotto traps and rapes fëar, keeps them here, uses them to power the wargs, the beasts, the war-machines. Manwë Súlimo doesn't know. Nienna Núri does not know. Námo Doomsayer has no idea what happens here because no fëa has ever left here intact once they arrive.”

Maitimo had shuffled closer, gathered her in his arms as she had trembled. “Why are you telling me this?” Maitimo had whispered.

“I want out. All the way,” she had whispered back, voice barely audible, hope a quavering thing. “He said he’d let my fëa go to the Halls of Mandos, if we say yes.”

Maitimo had held her close, squeezing gently the way he had always done with any of his younger brothers or cousins when they came to him upset. “But only if we both agree.”

Maitimo knew he would never have the strength, the courage, the bravery, the hope, to meet death with a smiling visage as she did. If he were to die, it would be an angry, desperate fight to live, to find a way to survive. It must, it had to be. He could accept nothing less from himself. And yet … he had consented, because survival came before all else.

He stared at the ceiling because he did not want to see her face, relaxed in death, turned to face him. He did not want to see the mess Mairon had made of her hröa, harvesting what of her that would become his, that would give his body the ability he had been born without. He did not want to look down, look and witness and accept what changes Mairon was inflicting on his hröa.

He had said yes. They had said yes, together.

This was only the first step, the first of three significant violations he had agreed to endure. The rest could come in the years, decades to follow.

There would be no hope of it ending. Makalaurë would never capitulate, not even to get him back. Oath-bound desperation would force him to abandon Maitimo. He had had the thought before, in his lowest moments, but it had come to the forefront of his mind as he had considered what his future in Angband would look like, in those months of rest and recuperation.

He floated, listening, waiting for it all to be over. Mairon had no assistants, did not trust the discretion of others for this. He filled the small room the pair occupied with his own singing and the occasional comment.

“And this vessel connects here, and the rest is excess.” Mairon muttered, clinically detached as something, some part of Maitimo that was now not a part of Maitimo slapped wetly in a bowl by his feet. “After all, this artery doesn’t need to travel as far now.”

Maitimo grimaced. Mairon Sang again, of holding, bonding, staying, of blood flowing where it should, to keep this part of her that was now his alive. Maitimo tried to ignore it, the Singing, the process. He lay there, forcibly still, watching the torches flicker.

“Would you like me to clean up the mess they made of you a few years ago?” Mairon suddenly asked, his voice curious and somehow softer, gentle. Like he cared, or something akin to caring. “Take away the excess tissue, reshape it? I should have thought to ask before we started, but we have time before the spinal block wears off.”

Maitimo blinked, surprised that his input was wanted, now, of all times. Memory flashed, of the satisfied leer the Orc had made, holding a bloody knife in one hand, his testicles still in their sac in the other. The way he had thrashed, being held down by the familiar hands of his work-crew, forced to partake in the brutality of his castration even as they had instigated it. Maitimo could still taste the memory of blood that had filled his mouth as he bit his tongue to keep himself from passing out right there on that dirty, hateful floor. He would have shuddered, had he been able to shake off the memory physically, but he could not, and so the reaction was contained only in the shaking of his ears.

“You’re already down there,” Maitimo sighed, resigned. “You may as well.” A sudden, sardonic thought struck him, and he gave a half-laugh, despairing. “You’ll be seeing it often enough, it might as well be pretty.”

He heard Mairon chuckle. “I suppose so!”

It was over before the torches could gutter out. Mairon stood, stretching, his face bearing the mien of a satisfied cat, apron and removable sleeves as red with blood as any Fëanárian banner. The smell of burning flesh slowly filled the room as Mairon incinerated the contents of the bowl, bloody bandages, and other sundry implements that were, Maitimo supposed, of no more use. No evidence of the makeshift surgery would remain, could remain. Maitimo watched as Mairon … puttered.

He dared ask, with Mairon in the far corner as he stored his collection of cleaned scalpels and other metal tools. “What will you do with Línemírë’s body?”

Mairon paused, looked over his shoulder to the pair – the corpse and the living. He shrugged, careless. “The same I would do with any other dead thing here.”

Maitimo felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes for the first time that day. Despite everything, all the pain of the day and the pain and suffering that would follow, that was what brought on tears. Oh, he knew, and Línemírë deserved better, deserved more, than to be butchered and fed to the thralls or the wargs or the wolves. “And her fëa?” he asked thickly.

“Gone, as I swore. Do you doubt me, Nelyafinwë?” Mairon approached, untying his apron and loosening the ties that kept his sleeves attached to his arms. He dropped them all carelessly on the floor, and they burst into flames with barely a flick of the Maia’s fingers.

“I have very little evidence to suggest the ëala of a Maia may be bound through Oath in the same way the fëa of an Incarnate may be,” Maitimo answered, a note of challenge in his tone. “Even in evoking the name of the One.”

“Oh, little Oathbound Ñoldóran,” Mairon smirked, running a possessive hand over Maitimo’s hair. “There is much you do not know about the nature of the Music and the Themes that make us, but you’ll just have to trust that, while the breaking of such an Oath is possible, it is so incredibly unpleasant as to be a strong deterrent. She’s gone to Mandos as she asked. I wish him the best of luck in piecing her back together.”

Línemírë’s whispering resounded in his head, a prophecy unknowingly made. No fëa has ever left here intact. Grief and protectiveness threatened to overwhelm him. Reflexively he reached for her, and only belatedly realized he had squeezed her hand with conscious thought. The combination of Song and chemical that had kept him immobilized was wearing off.

“Oh good,” Mairon praised, his plush lips curved into a faint smile. “That would be our cue, to get you settled in. You’ll be sore, to be sure, but you should be able to start walking again in a cycle or two. Four at most.”

Maitimo forced himself to push away the grief. The regrets of the past must fall away in the face of the necessities of the present. Harsh lessons learned in the days after the Trees had fallen. He nodded in understanding, then grimaced as Mairon picked him up with strength that did not seem to fit the Maia’s smaller frame. How undignified, to be cradled against his captor’s chest, face hidden in the crook of his neck, like an over-sized infant, or the way married men carried their wives into a new home. Never mind his lack of clothes, a state of undress he would not be able to rectify himself, and was doomed to happen in the Maia’s presence, again and again and again until … well. Best not to get his hopes up.

By now Mairon’s apartments were as familiar to him as his own townhouse in Tirion had been. Three doors, then the hallway narrowed. Mairon had to shuffle sideways to attempt to avoid banging Maitimo’s feet, but Maitimo had the sneaking suspicion they’d still grazed the wall. He still couldn’t feel his toes. The hall opened suddenly into the main room, with its great south-facing window and gaudy yellow couches. Maitimo counted Mairon’s steps across the room for lack of any visual cues. Seven more than his own, which made sense. Mairon was shorter than him. Everyone was.

Down the other hall, wider, with higher ceilings, and to the last door of this hall to the room he had been given. His own space, privacy. A stuffed mattress, soft sheets, feather pillows, thick woolen bed hangings, all to keep him warm and comfortable. All this he had bought in his weakness and despair, and would keep, so long as he let Mairon continue doing what he wanted with Maitimo’s hröa.

He caught sight of the rest of his body as Mairon eased him into the bed, his bed. He had expected … more, somehow. Only a faint redness, a slight swelling of the incision remained, a clean sweep from hipbone to opposite hipbone, Sung closed to join a multitude of other scars that littered his hröa. He had not been bandaged; he didn’t need it. It was as healed as Mairon could Sing it.

Mairon built up the pillows behind him, arranged Maitimo’s hröa to his satisfaction, humming a song with no power behind it. Mairon was full of music, full of motion, reminding him of … well. Maitimo sighed, quietly and suddenly wishing for the raven-black hair and kind smile of his Makalaurë instead of the golden corona and predatory eyes of Mairon. But he could not have his brother, nor any other member of the House of Finwë, to comfort him here. Not here. Absolutely not here.

Mairon proffered a cup of water, clear and cold, condensation beading on the surface of the red and black glazed pottery. Maitimo tried to raise his arms, to take the cup and drink, to do it himself, but his hands only twitched. Dead weight, the last shuddering gasp of a deer laid low by the hunter’s arrow, the flopping of the fish slowly suffocating when raised out of the sea.

Maitimo did not bother to hold back his groan of frustration. “Fine,” he snarled, instead of cursing Mairon.

Mairon, in stark contrast, wordlessly leaned in, pressing the cup to Maitimo’s lips with gentle hands, his eyes soft with care, or perhaps pity. The water was a relief, relieving a need Maitimo had barely registered. When had his mouth gotten so dry? And then, the thought: when had it become normal not to be thirsty?

“There,” the Maia said, pulling back. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Maitimo stared. “Which part, the indignity of being helped to drink?”

“Everything we did today.” The Maia’s voice was quiet, contemplative.

Maitimo did not dignify that with an answer. He turned his head, staring vacantly into the middle distance. The silence stretched. Mairon huffed a little laugh. “Come now, Nelyafinwë,” he crooned. “Don’t tell me you’re rescinding your part of this bargain already? ”

Maitimo jerked his head, a reflexive rejection of the thought. He had to do this, he had to keep saying yes, he had to survive. He had to.

Maitimo saw, rather than felt, Mairon pat his knee, then rose and left without another word. He was alone, alone with his thoughts. A worse punishment could not be devised.

Leave a Comment

All who dwelt in Aman were filled with wonder and delight at the work of Fëanor. And Varda hallowed the Silmarils, so that thereafter no mortal flesh, no hands unclean, nor anything of evil will might touch them, but it was scorched and withered. (Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor)

“What do you think your wife will think of you, should you ever leave us?” Mairon asked, weeks later, over yet another game of arantyalmë and a glass of wine. “Your hröa matches hers closer than it did in the days of your youth.”

Maitimo blinked. Wife? What wife –

“I suppose I’ll figure that out if the opportunity makes itself available,” Maitimo shrugged, trying to cover his confusion with nonchalance.

Mairon hummed, pushing a foot soldier forward. “You don’t think she’ll be upset, with you unable to father children on her?”

Maitimo shook his head, still trying to remember when he had ever given Mairon the impression he was married, much less to a nís. “I’m the eldest of all my brothers, and older still than all but one of my father’s own siblings, and certainly all of their children and their children’s children. I’ve done my fair share of child-rearing. We had little desire for more.” His Seer took the foot soldier.

“Plenty of experience, sure, but … they say it’s different, raising one of your own.”

Maitimo raised an eyebrow. “Who says? I cared for each of my brothers and the veritable swarm of cousins, uncles, aunts, and all their children when they came as diligently and with as much love as their own parents ever did.”

Mairon pushed a castle forward with a shrug. “You Incarnates are bound closely to your flesh. It follows that progeny, children of your own flesh and spirit, would be closer than that of siblings or other … sundry relations.” He paused, taking a sip of wine. The light of his hair and the candles above sank into the liquid, the deep red almost black. “Do you think your wife will mind, then, the children you’ll have here?”

What fucking wife? 

“A problem for the future,” Maitimo shook his head. “That I will handle, if the opportunity becomes available.”

Oh, right. Memory snapped into place. Mairon had asked, so many years ago, if he was married, and he had lied as he always did because he had to, and been punished for it. And Mairon had just assumed, and Maitimo had done nothing to disabuse him of the notion.

He wished he could still feel Findekáno through the bond their marriage had made between them, one once full of laughter and song and bright, golden happiness. But the situation had become unmanageable, disastrous even before he had joined his family in Formenos. And even seeing him on the beach, covered in the lifeblood of the Teleri, fighting with him back-to-back, even that had not opened that bond for long.

Embers now, where a gleeful, inviting hearth had been. The faintest spark. He dared not breathe on it, lest it go out entirely.

Maitimo avoided thinking of him, of his love in this place, refusing to sully his memories of his happiness with the present, refusing to let Mairon use the name of his husband to his own ends.

But Mairon had poked, and memory was a balm. Of course he had thought about what Findekáno might say about this, about taking Línemírë’s womb into himself and using it to further his own survival. He would carry her with him for the rest of his days – however long that may be – and his love would, if they ever did meet again, much less reconcile, have to accept that this had been the price of his survival.

Maitimo hoped he would understand.

He dared to hope for forgiveness.

He dared to wish.

The game of kings and soldiers proceeded apace, Mairon and Maitimo pushing pieces across the black and white board in contemplative silence. The fire crackled in the hearth, cheery and content.

“May I ask a question, my Lord?”

“You just did,” Mairon said with half a laugh. “But yes, little Ñoldóran.”

Maitimo sighed; how long had it been since he had done the same to Artanis, or little Itarillë? “Your hands. When I was brought here, they were blackened. Never have I seen coloration like it on any Maia or Quendi, and though they seem perhaps less so, it hasn’t changed.”

Mairon did not look at his own hands, just pushed his King out of check. “I did not hear a question.”

Maitimo fought the instinct to roll his eyes and put Mairon’s King back in check. “What happened?”

A foot soldier was placed between the King and Maitimo’s Seer, blocking him. When it came, Mairon’s voice was monotone, no emotion nor opinion colored his words. “My Lord-husband took the Silmarilli, as you know, and brought them here. I was the one to make his crown, and set the gems.”

And so, he thought to himself, Mairon had crowned Melkor. Finwë had been crowned by Ingwë, who in turn had been crowned by Manwë, and so the power flowed from the King of the Airs unbroken all the way to himself, captive though he was. He wondered idly at the ambition of the Maia. The trap he had lain, the scheme he had maneuvered Maitimo into with little sight of the whole.

Maitimo put Mairon back in check. “Varda hallowed them, after they were made.”

“Oh, was it Varda-mother’s blessings?” Mairon snorted. “I should have known. The bitch always did love her silly lights.”

Maitimo blinked at the casual blasphemy, though of course Mairon would have a poor opinion of the Powers of the West. “They haven’t healed then, these past years?”

Mairon rubbed his thumb against the skin of his blackened fingers absently. “It’s less bothersome than it looks. The pain is … exquisitely unique.”

“Check mate,” Maitimo murmured, pushing the last piece into place to corner Mairon’s King.

Mairon chuckled, conceding defeat as he always did – with a smirk, and a sip of wine, every line of his fana screaming vengeance and demanding satisfaction.

“Why, does the condition of my fana concern you, dearest Nelyafinwë?” Mairon drawled, saccharine sweet and sarcastic. “You’re very kind to care.”

That was new. Dearest. Maitimo hid his disgust at the endearment behind a bland smile. “I don’t. Call it academic interest.”

Mairon laughed, seemingly delighted. “I think, instead, I should be the one asking about the condition of your hröa, don’t you?”

Maitimo shrugged as he leaned forward, resetting the board. “If you insist.”

“Have you touched yourself?”

What.

“Pardon me?” Maitimo gave his captor an incredulous look.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Nelyafinwë. I’m willing, this once, to give you the option between … well, a self-assessment and trusting you to tell me if there’s a problem. Or you can strip here and now and I’ll do it myself.”

How the fuck was he supposed to know if there was a problem with his new configuration? It’s not like he’d ever actually touched a nís to know what was normal, and what was not. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I will do it myself.” He glanced up to find Mairon’s eyebrows raised, looking expectant. Like he wanted Maitimo to do so now. “Later.”

Mairon rolled his eyes. “Melkor did say you Noldor were a bunch of repressed prudes. The intricate rituals to touch anyone’s flesh, especially another man’s … Elu Thingol’s people have the right idea of it, honestly.” Maitimo held his tongue as Mairon got up, shaking his head, pale but burnt hands fluttering as he settled his skirts around him. “I’m being summoned,” he said with a wan smile. He paused at Maitimo’s side, bent over, caressed his cheek and gently tilted Maitimo’s face up. He still smelled of hot metal, forge-bright. “Be good, darling,” Mairon smirked, laid a possessive kiss to Maitimo’s forehead, and left.

Maitimo sagged, his spine loosening into the comfort of leaning against the couch seat. Despite having plush couches, Mairon spent most of his time with Maitimo kneeling or sitting on the floor in front of the couches, at the low table that occupied the center of the main room, the lower curve the apartments bent around. And so Maitimo also spent a lot of time on the floor.

It was not unfamiliar. If anything, it was too familiar, with the brood of growing children and the ritual of court that established itself on the Great Journey, long before he as a grandson had even been a possibility Finwë imagined. Even before Finwë had joined them in Formenos, there had been few, if any, chairs in the public parts of the palace. Finwë had, in the earliest days of his kingship, held court in his tent, on the ground, Míriel Þerindë ever by his side. That had not changed as they organized the building of Tirion together.

He watched the fire in the grate for a while, missing Finwë. Tirion. Findekáno.

There was nothing for it. Maitimo knew Mairon would come back, maybe in a few hours, maybe in a few cycles, and expect Maitimo to be able to say something useful about his hröa. He sighed, picked his way over to his room, and started undressing.

He hung these red robes next to the blue ones he had been given that first day. He had three, now, that he wore in rotation. When he awoke next, he would wear the black. The linen shirt, one of five, went into the wardrobe as well. It wasn’t soiled enough to need to be washed.

He wished he had a distraction. He tried humming to himself, a silly, soothing tune with a repeating progression and nonsense phrases about ducks on a lake.

Maitimo unbraided his hair, uncaring if he pulled at his scalp, heedless of the strands caught in the knots of the ribbons that bound them. He wouldn’t be able to keep his hair long anyway, he knew better by now. It wasn’t worth it, to be careful. The ragged ends of copper brushed the tops his shoulders, now, unbound. The slight curl was returning, now that he could care for it at all.

The pants finally fell next and Maitimo left them on the floor. Sloppy, messy, completely out of the ordinary.

He eased himself, naked, onto the bed. Reached for the bed hangings to close them, to leave him in complete darkness. Noticed his hand was shaking. Took a deep breath. Tried to steady his hands and the roiling nerves in his gut.

He had chosen this path, so why was it so difficult to face the results of that choice?

Maitimo, engulfed in pure blackness, tried to relax.

When was the last time his love had touched him tenderly? The last time he had touched him at all?

The darkness hid them from all eyes except Varda’s stars as Findekáno led Maitimo through their marriage bond to where he was, into a copse of hardy trees, windswept from being so close to the coast, dormant from the lack of Treelight. Maitimo stared, drinking in the way the gold threaded through his beloved’s braids reflected the light of the torch. There was still blood on Findekáno’s cheek. 

They said nothing, standing there under that tree. 

Findekáno took what he needed from Maitimo’s body, rushing, rough, teeth biting and nails raising welts on his skin. And Maitimo had let him, mostly, understanding and willing to accept this as his penance and punishment. And in the space between their minds, an unfathomably deep pool of anger-frustration-regret-heartbreak barely displaced by the desperation-desire-love-forgiveness that flowed between them. 

“I hate you,” Findekáno murmured into his neck as they lay, panting, the tree’s limbs breaking up the stars in fractal patterns. 

“I know.”

“You knew I’d rush in after you.”

And then Maitimo had left him behind, with every intention of coming back, of convincing his atar of the reasonable, strategic path. Guilt pricked.

He picked a different memory, a better memory.

The townhouse Maitimo maintained was large, larger than he needed for one bachelor, but he paid his household staff well to maintain it. Ostensibly the extra rooms were for his brothers, and Makalaurë was often in residence. But tonight the guest room was occupied by a cousin. 

Or rather, should have been. Said cousin, who, despite having been rejected twice, was still doggedly arguing in favor of a scheme that would undoubtedly go poorly for them both late into the Mingling.

It hadn’t. None of their various meddlesome relations had ever had a clue. They had been exceedingly careful.

He was tired of denying himself, and Findekáno, having learned not an insignificant amount of rhetoric from watching Maitimo himself at court, was slowly destroying each and every one to the older ellon’s arguments. Giving in was reckless, would complicate his life so much more than it already was, but … he wanted. He wanted, in a way unfamiliar and yet it was the most natural thing in the world, slow to wake as it was.

And so he took. And he took and took and took everything that was offered to him, the starving man at a feast he was. Maitimo drank down moans, gulped on desperation, devoured soft skin, consumed every part of Findekáno. His Findekáno. 

That kiss changed everything, and nothing. 

That was a good memory. Happy. A simpler time. Maitimo let his hand fall to his half-hard cock, palming it the way a lover might, teasing, feather light, soft. He let himself feel his body, riding sensation with the lack of any visual stimuli. His heart, strong and galloping. His stomach, full of food and satisfied. He traced scars, tiny bumps and ridges that hadn’t been there the last time he touched himself but were, nevertheless, part of him.

Void, the last time had been at Formenos.

Maitimo let himself imagine his hand wasn’t his own, the distance a balm, a gift. And so Findekáno’s hand drifted low, rubbing gently at the scar that had been his testes. Findekáno would kiss him there, maybe.

His husband’s touch drifted lower still, until touch ceased to mean anything.

Fingers slipped into a cavity, warm and wet and solid. But there was no sensation other than what the hand that both was and wasn’t Findekáno’s could feel. Just dull numbness, a foreign otherness. Findekáno’s hand scissored him open – that he could feel – the pressure and the strangeness of muscles moving in ways they never had had reason to before. He clenched down on Findekáno’s fingers, the way his husband liked, but it just wasn’t the same.

Some part of him was relieved. Now he knew. It didn’t hurt – it didn’t feel like anything. The stretch was strange. But this was still his body, his cock might still please his Findekáno once more, if. If. If …

Findekáno’s hand drifted back to Maitimo’s cock, the slickness on his fingers barely acting as a lubricant but better than nothing. He got lost in the sensation, Findekáno tightening and rubbing exactly the way he wanted, needed …

His climax rolled over him, a slow thunder through his chest.

Maitimo let out a shuddering breath, half a sob and half a laugh. And then another, and another, and then he was truly crying.

Findekáno would never forgive him.

Leave a Comment

Thick black lines swept over rough paper in clean curves. Charcoal blackened fingers smudged the lines into a blur, movement captured in the stillness. Muscled forms hinted at in minimal strokes, a black-haired figure astride an equally black horse, hair flying in the freedom of an open plain.

“Who is this?” a soft voice asked, standing above him, behind the couch Maitimo had curled up on. So absorbed was he in his sketches, he had failed to hear Mairon’s approach.

Maitimo looked up at Mairon, who was holding out another sketch to show Maitimo what he had found. Maitimo’s stomach dropped, dread making his limbs heavy. Findekáno’s lovely, smiling face stared out of the page, caught in a moment of carefree laughter. An indulgence of sentimentality, a dangerous risk.

“A cousin,” Maitimo muttered, reaching for the sketch, but Mairon lifted it out of reach, peering at it.

“He’s quite comely. You’re a skilled artist, Nelyafinwë.”

Maitimo’s lips lifted, a half smile of acknowledgment. “Charcoal is not my preferred medium, but I make do with what I have.”

Mairon arched a golden eyebrow, still inspecting the sketch of Findekáno as he walked around to the front of the couch. “And ‘making do’ includes taking paper out of my desk?”

“You’ve left very little to occupy me with,” Maitimo retorted smoothly. “I am not an old hound, content to sleep by the fire for cycles on end. I need something to occupy my mind, or at the very least my hands.”

“You are certainly not old, little Ñoldóran.” Mairon laughed, lazily handing Maitimo the portrait between two fingers. Maitimo took it with a feeling of relief as he collected the papers into a neater pile, burying Findekáno’s happy face between a landscape of the Pelóri and an imagined still life of Finwë’s crown surrounded by five round fruits and a multitude of flowers – fifteen of them, in two groups of four and one of seven. The sketch of the horse and rider went on top, and the entire pile deposited on the table, next to the arantyalmë set.

Mairon sounded honestly curious as he asked, “What is your preferred medium, then?”

“Thread. I embroidered, primarily, but I was known to dabble in weaving and nalbinding. I also painted.”

“Why past tense?”

Maitimo shrugged and held out his hands, fingers spread, offering them for inspection. “Angband has not been kind to my hands.” His fingers, once long and straight and graceful, bore the marks of burns and cuts and breaks that had not healed cleanly. They ached, occasionally, when the wind blew in through the fireplace from the north.

“With time and patience, skills once thought lost may return,” Mairon said softly, distantly. “I have been neglectful of this aspect of your care. It may take a few cycles, but I will bring you what you need.”

Maitimo tucked away that mournful look for later consideration, and merely nodded. “Thank you, my Lord.”

A pause. Maitimo met Mairon’s eyes, and what he saw made him want to flinch.

“Come, Ñoldóran. It’s time, I deem.”

Maitimo breathed through the dread that suddenly radiated through his chest, eyes dropping to the pile of sketches. He half-wished he had left the sketch of his beloved on top, to give him strength. But the same half, protective of the memory of happier times, knew thinking of him now would sully every recollection of happiness they had shared.

Not with what was to come.

Mairon held out his blessing-burnt hands. Maitimo stared at them for a beat too long.

“It will be easier on both of us, I dare say, if you do not resist me,” Mairon reached out, caressing Maitimo’s cheek before tangling his fingers in Maitimo’s unbraided hair. “You swore to bear my children, Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran, to blend the line of Tata with that of Eru, in exchange for all the indulgences I can offer you. Remember?”

Maitimo nodded slightly, and Mairon’s fingers tightened in his hair, making him gasp out, “I do.”

“Good.” Mairon’s smile turned predatory, all teeth and no humor. “Then let us begin.”

The kiss, when it came, was hard, cool, possessive. Mairon’s tongue slipped between Maitimo’s teeth, overwhelming him with the smell of hot metal and the chill of a mountain’s peak, his neck held in place with a grip of iron. Maitimo tried to hold still, to allow the violation, but his body recoiled from the intrusion without conscious thought.

Mairon reared back, open palm connecting with Maitimo’s jaw with a stinging slap. Hot copper spread over his tongue, where teeth had cut into his cheek. Maitimo snarled, teeth bared, as Mairon’s hand forced his neck to bend at an unnatural angle.

“Yield,” Mairon growled.

Just say yes.

Maitimo closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through his nose, to relax into the hold. The ache in his neck eased, slightly, and he could feel Mairon’s eyes on him, waiting to see if Maitimo would tense again, would try to fight his advances.

“I yield,” Maitimo whispered, eyes still closed, an echo of all the games of arantyalmë he had lost, that he would continue to lose. “Forgive me, my Lord.”

Mairon hummed, a smile audible in his voice. “Better.”

The second kiss was easier. Mairon licked into his mouth, again, and Maitimo’s only resistance was in the way his hands tightened into fists, clutching the skirts of his robe until his hands hurt. The hot-metal tang of Mairon mixed with the copper of his bloody mouth in a nauseating assault on his senses. So caught up in trying to stay still, he barely noticed Mairon’s free hand working to free the buttons of his robe.

Maitimo caught Mairon’s wrist, pulling him gently away. When Mairon broke off the kiss, mouth already twisted in frustration, Maitimo shook his head, heedless of the tug on his hair. “Please, let me, my Lord. It’ll be quicker.”

Maitimo made efficient work of the buttons and shrugged out of his overrobe, leaving him in his plain white shirt and loose pants. Mairon looked on, indulgent, hand still in Maitimo’s hair. He seemed content to leave it there, to use his hair to keep him in place, to remind him of his place, of his agreement, to direct his movements.

It was an intimacy Maitimo had so rarely allowed of others in the days before the Trees fell, reserved almost entirely for his beloved, and only occasionally his parents or brothers. But Mairon seemed not to care at all. Had, in fact, slowly made Maitimo numb to his touch with the constant caressing, petting, and tugging over the time he had spent in Mairon’s company. The Noldor were prudish about their hair, Maitimo knew, compared to other groups of Quendi. Held it, culturally, more erotic than it probably actually was.

He’d be lying, if he said he wasn’t already hard, had been since the slap.

He’d be truthful, if he said he hated that.

“May I?” Maitimo reached for the lacing at Mairon’s side that held his black surcoat tight against his fana. This one was devoid of smooth obsidian or glittering jet, rich instead with goldwork embroidery that coiled over itself, snakes chasing each other across the hems and cuffs. Mairon nodded, a slow smile building.

Maitimo loosened the knot, slowly pulling the tension of the lacing tie loose where it spiraled up Mairon’s ribs. Still sitting on the couch, Maitimo had a decent vantage of the way Mairon’s erection pushed at the fabric.

He could have let his hands drift, to tease, to stroke and fondle. If this was any other person, in any other situation, he might have. Certainly, if it had been his beloved, he would have. As it was, he let his hands fall to his lap, and waited.

Mairon loosened his grip on Maitimo’s hair, stroking his thumb over the curve of his ear. “Good. Thank you, dearest.” The endearment made Maitimo’s free ear flick back in annoyance, and Mairon huffed a small laugh. “Your choice, on your back or on your knees.”

Maitimo blinked, made a snap decision. “Back.”

Mairon took a step away, tugging at Maitimo’s hair, leading him off the couch to kneel on the plush carpet, then laid him on the floor in the space between the couch and the low table. It was easy, too easy, to just follow the tugging, to reduce the pain, to get it over with. Mairon finally released his hair, and shoved at the table, giving them some more room.

A leather boot nudged at his bare foot. “Pants, Nelyafinwë,” Mairon said, even as he slipped out of the surcoat.

He couldn’t do it. His hands were shaking too much. A single layer of fabric, once taken for granted, now the only thing between him and his ruin. He tried, oh how he tried, to steady his breath, to still his hands, to comply. His heartbeat, too rapid, refused to calm. Fear demanded action, demanded violence, demanded something besides laying down and letting the world have its way with his flesh.

Mairon loomed, watching, frown marring his perfect features. “Nelyafinwë,” he said, a thousand warnings in his tone.

Maitimo grimaced. Closed his eyes. Tried again, but his fingers did not cooperate, couldn’t get adequate grip on the laces to pull them loose. Shook his head, the barest motion of denial.

“Please, please, my Lord,” Maitimo whispered, begged with the ease of the thrall who would do and say anything to avoid the lash. “F-for-forgive me, please–”

His begging subsided with the touch of cold fingers against his mouth. “Hush, Nelyafinwë.” Mairon murmured, as he eased the pants off Maitimo’s hips himself. “You are forgiven. This time. The next, I may not be so generous. Do you understand me?”

Maitimo jerked a nod, shuddering on the exhale through his nose. “Yes, my Lord,” he mumbled against Mairon’s touch, forcing his hands down, flat against the carpet, the pile tickling the space between his spread and tense fingers. “I can do it. Forgive me.”

He heard rather than saw Mairon smile as he crooned from somewhere between his legs. “Good boy. My pretty little Ñoldóran.” Cold hands trailed up Maitimo’s bare thigh, down his neck, settled on his chest to hold him in place. Maitimo had no illusions of his ability to wrestle himself free; Mairon was strong, and determined, and Maitimo just had to take it or be punished.

He is being remarkably patient with me, Maitimo thought, in an analytical, detached, hysterical way. That almost makes it worse.

Two fingers plunged into the new cavity between his legs, scissoring him open in a motion remarkably like his own self-exploration some cycles ago. Maitimo clenched his jaw, clamped down on the unwanted and unexpected intrusion, hissed at the chill.

Just as quickly as Mairon’s fingers entered, they left, and were replaced with Mairon’s cock. He sheathed himself in Maitimo in an expertly fluid motion, and just like that, all the tension fled Maitimo’s hröa. Something unspeakably strange unfurled in his chest, spread through his flesh, suffused his bones. He relaxed. His mind went quiet, overwhelmed by sensation.

“There we go,” Mairon murmured quietly, gently. His free hand thumbed at Maitimo’s cheek. “That’s it. See, that isn’t so bad, is it?”

Maitimo relaxed into the touch, a quiet little moan escaping from his lips. He opened his eyes slightly, peering out from under his lashes. The light from the seemed to burn brighter, the carpet under his hands was softer, everything was slow and sweet and heightened.

Mairon started moving between his legs, and the sensation was strange, and unlike any other sexual experience he had had in the past. It was numb, dulled, a dragging pressure on nerves firing that had not quite finished integrating themselves into his mind. Maitimo found himself growing more vocal, breathing heavily around moans and gasps as Mairon leaned over his prize, kissed Maitimo, and Maitimo kissed him back, slow and sensual.

Maitimo let his hands wander up Mairon’s back, skimming the long shirt that Mairon still wore up to touch smooth skin. Acting out of pure instinct, following the motions and habits of the long years of pleasing his own husband, he brought his hands forward to thumb at Mairon’s chest. Soft breasts met his hands, filled them. Breasts like a girl’s, young and in the first flush of lust.

Mairon let out the most undignified squeak against Maitimo’s mouth when Maitimo pinched his nipples. He pulled back, wordlessly took Maitimo’s wrists off his tits and restrained them, holding them in one hand above Maitimo’s head, pinning him against the floor. “Don’t,” Mairon said firmly. “Not there. Never there.”

Maitimo nodded, and Mairon picked up the pace of his thrusts, rolling his hips forward, the inexorable tide battering the cliff side, until he stopped, shuddering slightly.

Mairon released Maitimo’s hands, dragged himself upright, still sheathed inside him. Maitimo watched, distantly curious as Mairon laid both hands over Maitimo’s lower abdomen and began to hum.

Maitimo could feel his fëa moving in response to Mairon’s tune. It became a living thing, malleable, twitching and jittering under his skin, coalescing in the space between his hips where there was … nothing.

The hummed Song commanded his fëa to latch onto something that just … wasn’t there.

Maitimo felt the edges of disappointment, of grief, start to rear in his mind, but then Mairon was pulling away, standing up with a face full of thunder and a voice full of frustration and fury.

And Maitimo, bereft of the fullness that had made him feel suddenly so complete, was left laying on the floor – his hair a wreck, his shirt tacky with sweat, his thighs sticky with fluids he couldn’t identify, still hard and wanton. He shook with residual fear and renewed self-disgust and utter confusion at what had just occurred. “What–”

“It doesn’t work if she’s not part of you, wholly and completely, body and spirit, Nelyafinwë!” Mairon growled, tying his own pants around his full, round hips. “You need to … fix this.” He waved a hand carelessly, gesturing at all of Maitimo. “All of this.”

Maitimo, skittish, startled, shaking, pushed himself up and away from the angry Maia until his back hit the couch seat behind him. Panting, bordering on hyperventilation, he wordlessly stared up at Mairon.

Mairon grabbed his surcoat and stalked out, not a hair out of place.

Leave a Comment

Maitimo, knees pulled to his chest, holding himself as tightly as he could, let go of the control he had over himself. He let emotions he had been holding back for these past minutes, hours – all the time since he came to Mairon’s apartments, really – rip through him with terrifying speed. His heart, his lungs, his fëa all felt jagged. His eyes ached from the force of his tears.

The events of the last quarter-hour replayed in his mind, picking out details, leaving him more and more confused.

His reactions, while Mairon had taken him – the languid bliss; the sweet kisses he had accepted and returned; the sensual and habitual touching he had before only given to his lover, his husband! The quiet grief of failing to conceive …

Where had that come from?

What the fuck was that?

What had he done?

He had known. He had agreed to the surgical alteration of his fëa, accepted Línemírë’s womb into himself, consented to the multiple sexual encounters it would take to get him pregnant, or to mix the lines of Tata with Eru, or whatever flowery language Mairon wanted to use.

He had said yes.

He had said yes to every step, because he had wanted to survive. He had wanted to survive long enough to go – not home, but back to his brothers, his friends who had followed him into Beleriand. To find a way back to his beloved, if he would take him back.

He had said yes because he thought he could handle it. Out of an excess of hubris, or pride, or arrogance, he thought he could take it and survive it.

He had said yes.

And yet, confronted so starkly with the realities of his choice, the consequences of saying yes for all the wrong reasons, he …

He hadn’t wanted this.

The Eldar didn’t have a word for this.

A flash, a memory of flipping through a book – a compilation of oral stories of the Great Journey. One had stood out, of a nís thought lost, returning to her sister, unmarried but pregnant. That had been enough of an oddity that Maitimo had read closer. The sister, who narrated through the page, described what her sister birthed – something monstrous, which Maitimo now recognized as orc-like – and the slow decline of the mother. She faded from the world. Laid down, and never got back up.

Maitimo stared at the flames in the grand fireplace, barely seeing them through the film of unshed tears. Fire … Fire cleansed, purified. Introduced flexibility, made metal malleable and strong.

He wasn't metal. What was dirty and spoiled in him could not be purified in fire. Fire would only hurt him.

He was so tired of hurting.

He was so tired.

Laying down and never getting back up somehow sounded very appealing.

He didn’t have time. If he wanted to leave this place, or at least the appalling realities of his flesh, he needed something faster than the slow fading he had read about.

Maitimo slowly got to his feet and shrugged on the discarded robe, not bothering with the buttons or his pants, ignoring the cold seeping into his bare feet. He turned, bent, fished the sketch of his husband’s happy face out of the pile of papers. Traced the lines of his kind eyes with his own, wished they were real, committed them to memory.

The paper burned so easily, edges curling and disintegrating into ash.

Maitimo’s hröa moved without conscious thought, down the hall to Mairon’s laboratory. In a stroke of luck, or perhaps naive arrogance, the fool had failed to lock it. Maitimo looked around, found what he was looking for, and the tools he’d need.

There would be a poeticism in doing this here, on the cold table where Línemírë had gone to Mandos, but Maitimo quickly realized he was shivering, the needs of his hröa coming back to the forefront. He was cold. Tired. Sticky with unfamiliar and too familiar fluids, now tacky and drying. He reeked of sex. The space between his legs ached.

The bath, then. There was no sense in being uncomfortable.

Water could cleanse as much as fire, after all.

He walked in an exhausted daze, not really seeing the apartment, or his room, or the bath. Steam rose from the surface of the water as it spilled from the pipes – warmed from the mountain itself, far below, piped up through a combination of clever physics and Song. Maitimo let the water run. He dragged the chair from the vanity over to the edge of the bath, deposited his pilfered materials on the chair and started shedding his clothes, leaving them in a haphazard heap.

He normally took better care of his clothes. He just didn’t care anymore.

Maitimo slipped into the bath. The heat immediately began its work of loosening tense muscles, soothing aches, loosening the mix of dried semen and vaginal fluid from his skin. It was almost enough to deter him from trying.

Not quite enough, though.

He turned, leaning over the edge of the bath. His hands were steady as he unscrewed a jar of clear liquid and filled the syringe as much as it would allow. He had noted this jar, and particularly where Mairon had put it, after it had been used to kill Línemírë.

Maitimo could only presume it would do the same for him.

He set the needle against his skin. Took a deep breath, pushed it into a vein. Took another breath, and pressed down the plunger, letting the liquid slowly mix with his blood.

His hand spasmed, a flinch as his mind caught up with the actions of his body. The syringe fell out of his hand, needle catching and cutting. He hissed in vehement frustration, clamping his traitorous hand over the freely bleeding wound. He heard the syringe shatter, watched the rest of liquid that would take him away from this place seep into the grout of the stone floor.

Before he could get annoyed, or even worried, the feeling in his chest changed from tense resignation to a blooming sense of euphoria, a warmth spreading from his heart to the tips of his fingers and toes.

He floated. Settled deeper into the bath, he closed his eyes, and waited.

It didn’t take long.

His head felt like it was humming, a thousand thousand bees buzzing in the apiary that was his skull. Round and round, the bees flew, arching over his eyebrows where dew coalesced into droplets for the little creatures to drink. They settled in his stomach, in his gut, in his loins, buzzing and shaking and squirming. They shook themselves apart, little pieces of wing and leg and fuzz dissipating into mist.

Maitimo was weightless, he was flying, the stars behind his eyes moving in rhythmic waves, in a dance only Varda Elentári or Eru Themself could interpret.

The blazing fire that had met him that fateful night, the joining of two fëar into a single, stronger whole, the completeness, the rightness, the unadulterated bliss of finally, finally, finally having unrestricted access to the interiority of another’s mind, to call Findekáno HIS and really mean it, even in the privacy of his-their mind, the mingling of light and joy and madness, rushing to heights of pleasure and satisfaction never dreamt of, long, long ago in the silver and white city he might still call home someday …

It was nothing compared to this.

He could picture Findekáno’s lovely face, an indulgence he had not let himself have for years and years, but which he had been quietly taking comfort from in recent months. Findekáno smiled sadly at him in the space between his eyes, the touch of his gold-laced braids ghosting across his cheeks, the weight of him settling under his skin. He glowed with a vitality Maitimo could not match.

“Dear one, best beloved,” the ghost-Findekáno whispered. “What have you done to yourself?”

“Trying,” Maitimo breathed. He licked his lips, his tongue worrying at fuzzy caterpillar skin and dewy wings. “Trying to get back to you.”

“But you left.” The ghost-Findekáno should have sounded hurt, but his voice, his whisper was nothing more than a statement of fact.

He had left. He had left Findekáno behind. “Better,” he mumbled. “Safer. Happy. You’re not here.”

“I’m here now.”

“Yes,” Maitimo let the weight, the heat of his husband sink over his hips, his chest, his face. Ghostly hands caressed him, pulling his arms into the weightlessness of water. He palmed himself, callouses both rough and soft on the sensitive skin of his cock, swiftly re-hardening under his touch. He could feel Findekáno’s eyes on him, the ghost of a kiss on his cheek.

Maitimo distantly recognized the arousal, his body’s base response to stimulation, as an aftereffect of how he had been taken by Mairon, on the floor, like a bitch or a broodmare. Here he was in control – Findekáno was touching him now – but the memory of Mairon’s attention, his weight, his voice, blurred with Findekáno. Findekáno’s hair shifted, golden ribbon becoming streaks of fiery blond and then back to black. Maitimo growled, forcing his husband to stay centered in his mind.

He came with a sigh, the tension of decades of fear and the base need to survive releasing in one, deliciously golden orgasm, the liquid burning in his blood took him higher, and higher still. “Love you,” he mumbled, but Findekáno dissolved into golden light before he could say it back.

No matter. The stars were enough. They would always be there, even as all other lights went out, faded, were eaten.

Nothing seemed to matter. He floated in the gentle embrace of the sea, lights swirling behind his eyes like the vortex of a thousand lightning bugs, winking in and out in a kaleidoscope of color.

A bright blue star became Línemírë’s gleaming eye, and thinking of her brought her fully into the space between mind and eye and heart. His chest ached, his breathing erratic. He had failed her, fully and completely. She was dead, gone to Mandos, and it was his fault.

Línemírë stared at him, single eye calm, a smug smirk on her lips that said I got the better deal and This is what you deserve and You’ll see me soon and You had better be sorry. But she said nothing. Not for a very long time.

He quailed under her gaze, shuddering under the force of her attention.

“You’re dying,” she whispered. “A true scion of Míriel Þerindë; you’d rather die than face the complete annihilation of the self that is motherhood.”

“That’s not what happened,” Maitimo muttered, but Línemírë transformed into that of his grandmother, silver hair in the braids of a bride, eyes closed in gentle repose, hands folded beneath her breast. Her deep blue dress was embroidered with gold wire and silver beads and silk in a faithful reproduction of the roiling sea amidst Manwë’s greatest storms. This was the very visage of Míriel Þerindë as he had seen her countless times in Lórien, unwithered, and utterly still.

There was no force behind her attention, though he could feel it nevertheless. He could feel her rooting around his fëa, finding every nook and cranny, delving into every depth, uncovering every secret long held dear to his heart.

“Unhappy you are, child of my House,” Míriel murmured, her musical voice bouncing around the edges of his hearing, though her lips did not move, her eyes did not open. “Weary you are, child of my hands. Changed you are, child of my fire, changed from what you are to what you ought not be.” She paused, and Maitimo rubbed his thumbs against the tips of his fingers, the sensation reminiscent of silk thread running under his hands, or black hair and gold ribbon being braided under his careful attention. “So set upon your path, you would allow yourself to be transformed, neither nér nor nís.”

“I am myself, Haruni, as I always have been.” Maitimo wanted to argue more vehemently, but everything felt so heavy, and he was weak in the wake of the dragging force in his blood.

“Your Oaths will not allow your fëa to escape your hröa as mine did, child of my grief, unless the hröa is destroyed. Completely. Utterly.”

Maitimo made an unhappy sound in the back of his throat – the bees were back, vibrating and dancing along the lines of sinew and skin.

“You are dying, but you must live. This is not yet your time. Tears and blood aplenty will you shed, but you must live. You must see yourself through until the last days of my House are utterly spent. This do I charge, child of my wrath: Live. Find your strength. Fight the Shadow that lies upon your heart. Do whatever you need to do to survive, and I promise you, child of my love, you will see the days of your hope and peace renewed. Follow me only when your task is complete, and no sooner. Be bold, be steadfast, be vicious. Survive, child of my Finwë. Rest. Sleep.”

The Míriel of his mind’s eye did not move, but he could feel her lips brush his forehead, a kiss of benediction, of forgiveness, of mercy. Perhaps even love. Maybe even acceptance.

He slept.

He stirred not as his face slipped below the water of the bath.

Leave a Comment

Maitimo rose back into consciousness slowly. The space between his ears felt hollow and yet completely stuffed full of wool roving. His throat ached, like someone or something had wracked tiny claws down the sensitive membranes from his nose to his gut. His lungs hurt, burning with each inhale. His mouth was terribly dry and his tongue felt like a mouse had died on it many, many cycles ago, a putrid stench he could taste.

He tried to open his eyes, and immediately his stomach rebelled. He lurched forward, twisting to expel what contents of his stomach had away, away from him, off the side of the bed he found himself on, somehow.

Quartz-pale hands moved too fast for Maitimo’s eyes to track, holding the chamber pot under his chin as he spit up a dribble of bile and not much else. Cool hands tucked his hair behind his ears as he wretched, stomach heaving up nothing. He coughed, and shuddered.

He fell back, his tongue now tasting like the mouse had continued decomposing there for a few more cycles. His back hit Mairon’s chest, pressing them together from thigh to shoulder in a cruel pantomime of the way he’d often wake when Findekáno had dared to spend time asleep with him.

Mairon said nothing, just continued reaching around him to place the chamber pot on the low table beside his bed, and proffered Maitimo a cup of water, the same red and black stoneware that most of Angband’s pottery ended up as.

Maitimo, still feeling very sluggish, his mind not entirely caught up on just how he had found himself here, raised himself on one elbow to drink. The putrefying mouse feeling disappeared in the wake of his hasty consumption of the water.

“What happened?” Maitimo rasped out. His voice sounded harsh, like he had been screaming for hours. He had no memory of that particular variety of torment. The information his hröa was feeding him did not add up to his memory. He gulped down the rest, putting the cup on the table when it was empty.

Mairon hummed, a thoughtless sound of consideration. “Come here,” he murmured at last, tugging Maitimo into the circle of his embrace, bracketed by strong arms, smoothing the quilt around them. Maitimo lay there, warm, being held, as the humming seemed to turn from thoughtless to purposeful. The aches in his joints left him, the shuddering itch for something his hröa craved eased, the wool packed into his skull dissipated and he could think again. Maitimo sank further into the bed, letting out a sigh.

Right.

“How much do you remember now, dear Nelyafinwë?” Mairon asked quietly.

Maitimo huffed a little laugh, though nothing about this was funny. “Enough to conclude that you’re furious with me.”

“Indeed.”

“You didn’t lock your surgery.”

“A mistake I shall not be making again,” Mairon sighed. “You are incredibly lucky, Nelyafinwë, in that you somehow did not get enough of that concoction in your veins to kill you outright, and that I came back in time to keep you from drowning in your own damned bathwater.”

Well, that explained how he got into his bed.

“Forgive me,” Maitimo whispered, knowing it would do him little good to beg but determined to try anyway with a thrall’s stubbornness. He turned in the circle of Mairon’s arms to face him, nestling his head into Mairon’s chest, feeling the curve of his breast press up against his nose. “I’ll be good, it won’t happen again. I’m sorry. Please.” He was babbling, fear welling in his throat. “Please, don’t punish me. I’ll be good, please, please forgive me.”

Mairon began to run his through Maitimo’s hair, gently detangling the strands between his fingers. The tug felt good, almost. Familiar.

“We’ll see. At least … tell me why.”

Maitimo frowned into the space between them, face still buried in Mairon’s chest. Here, at least, he could keep his expression from betraying him, from prompting Mairon to punitive action. “Why what?” he finally asked, voice breathy and rough.

“Tell me why you tried to destroy yourself so.” Mairon’s voice was flat, neutral. In contrast, his hand kept running through Maitimo’s hair, smooth and rhythmic. And the thing was, of course, that he did find it comforting. He hated just how much he wanted that gentle touch to continue, how it soothed his fëa. Hated it because it blurred the lines he was trying to draw between them. This was not a confidant, this was not his friend. This was someone who had butchered his hair and violated every other part of his body too.

Maitimo was silent for a long moment, weighing how much to say, how much to trust. How much debasement, how much vulnerability could he offer to escape the worst punishments he knew Mairon could enact. How much of this moment he was willing to sell. “I couldn’t – I thought I could do this. I … was frightened. I am frightened. I know I swore, I know, but it – you left and I –”

“You cannot send yourself to Mandos just because you are afraid, Nelyafinwë.”

Míriel’s ghostly, musical voice echoed in his memory, just as real, as if she really had been before him. You must see yourself through until the last days of my House are utterly spent.

“I know that now,” Maitimo muttered. After all, it didn’t work. He was still here, in Angband, in Mairon’s apartments. He was still bound to be Mairon’s woman – and how he shuddered to think of becoming that – to bear his child, to raise it until Mairon could use it in his own schemes. He was still here, secreted away, alone. No one was looking for him. Not even Melkor knew.

Mairon shifted, extricating himself from under Maitimo’s head to sit up. Maitimo watched warily under half-hooded eyes as Mairon leaned against the headboard. His hair was perfect, of course, long and loose and golden, but the expression on his face betrayed his weariness, his resignation. He had abandoned his customary black surcoat for just a shirt, neck and collarbones bared in the low firelight. There were fresh bruises littered under his skin, purple and red marks, a history of grasping hands and gnashing teeth revealed only by the aftermath.

He threaded his fingers into Maitimo’s hair again, letting his hand rest there, probably intending it to be a comfort, but Maitimo could only think of the way Mairon had used his hair as a leash. It had been better, when that hand had moved lightly through his hair.

“You’re not the first one to struggle with this, if that’s any consolation,” Mairon mused.

Maitimo blinked. Tried to respond, but coughed again, his throat still aching. “What.”

Mairon shrugged, a careless smirk gracing his perfect lips. “What, you thought I was making this all up as we went along?” His voice took the same tinge that Curufinwë’s took as he explained his latest research interest, somehow completely invested and utterly exasperated that Maitimo wasn’t keeping up. “No, you’re not the first elf I’ve attempted this particular project with.”

Maitimo’s mind spun. “Is that … is that why you treat me … like a lover? With the touches, the endearments?”

Mairon nodded. “It is intended as a comfort, to ensure such a … violent reaction as you displayed does not happen. Again.”

Maitimo nodded slowly. Aulë’s creature indeed, not quite able to leave a failure as a failure. “How many?” he rasped out, perversely curious, himself a son of a student of Aulë to the end.

“Three women, three men, including you. So, six total over the past Age or so.”

Maitimo shuddered. He had to ask, though he already knew the answer. “What happened to them?”

“What do you think?” Mairon smiled, petting Maitimo’s hair again. “They died, or ended themselves, and I used their spirits for other purposes. You though, I have a good feeling you’ll survive this. You have come from stronger stock, an elder line of those who woke by Cuiviénen and you were born under the gaze of Manwë Súlimo and his ilk, besides. And,” he shrugged, “you’ve made it this far.”

Maitimo did not respond. No survivors. Well, maybe he would get his wish, after a fashion.

“Elmo made it the farthest,” Mairon sighed, letting his head fall back against the headboard. “He was one of Elu Thingol’s brothers, you know, the King of Doriath.”

“I am aware of Elu Thingol,” Maitimo said, as the expectant pause lengthened. “You know that already.”

“And what of his brothers?”

Maitimo shook his head, pressing his forehead into Mairon’s hip. “Olwë–or Olu in Sindarin, perhaps–was the second brother, and made it to Aman with their sister. He became king in Elwë’s–Elu’s–absence.” Maitimo shrugged one shoulder, voice low. “He’s the grandfather of some of my youngest cousins. I knew there was a third brother, and a second sister, that never made it across the Sea as well.”

“Fascinating,” Mairon drawled. “Well, that third son, Elmo, made his way here. Strong of will and heart, as you might expect from a Prince of the Quendi, but.” Mairon sighed heavily. “The child died not long after his birth. And the methods I had used to give dear Elmo the ability to bear a child could not withstand another. Yours is more robust, it shouldn’t fail.”

He seemed, to Maitimo’s ears, overly earnest, like he was trying to not only convince Maitimo, but also himself. That it all would be all right, that it all wasn’t as dangerous and horrifying as it seemed. And Mairon had explained, in great detail, exactly what he would do in the time before Maitimo said yes to it all, but had failed to disclose that Maitimo was merely the latest in the long line of sacrifices made for Mairon’s dreams.

A long pause, while Maitimo digested it all, before Mairon broke the silence again. Quiet, and sad, like he was sharing a secret. “I had him killed, just after your people arrived on these shores. My Lord would have found out.”

Maitimo’s gut clenched, in fear, not in nausea. “And he won’t find out you’ve resumed this track with me here?” he asked through numb lips, higher in pitch with the touch of panic gripping him.

Was it dread or abhorrence that motivated this fear, or was it the possibility of seeing, of being in reach of those greatest works of his atar and then failing, again, that drove him to seek out a way to stay away from Morgoth’s damned reach?

“Hush,” Mairon soothed. “You’re safe, dearest Nelyafinwë. He has forgotten you. He never comes here; he never will. I’ve ensured it.”

Maitimo nodded. It would not do to ask how. Mairon had been exceedingly secretive of the exact specifics of his marriage to Melkor in the past, though the ring of bruises around his neck and the changes in Mairon’s fana served to bolster the theory Maitimo had held for centuries.

Which was, of course, that Ainur fanar were much more closely linked to incarnate experiences than they preferred to let on.

“Nelyafinwë,” Mairon’s stern voice, and the hand in his hair, shut down that line of thinking swiftly.

Maitimo turned his head, looking up to meet Mairon’s eyes in a wordless inquiry.

“Nelyafinwë,” Mairon said again, gentler. “I have done everything I can to ensure your safety here. I have turned all my power and knowledge to the cause of shaping you to my purposes as safely and seamlessly as I can. I have given you all that I can for your comfort, and will continue to care for your physical and intellectual needs as you express them. I have done all of this to better facilitate your ability to uphold your part of the Oath we swore together.”

“I understand,” Maitimo said softly.

“And as such, you already know what is expected of you. To submit to the process of creation, to bear my child, to raise it to the best of your ability until such time as it serves me to introduce him to Angband’s court.”

“I know.”

“And as such,” Mairon continued, hand in Maitimo’s hair tightening. “I will not countenance the sort of misbehavior you’ve displayed recently. You will be good, and sweet, and yielding to me. You will take what I give you without balking or complaint. Do you understand me, Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran?”

Maitimo nodded. He had no choice. This was the deal he had made, and these were the consequences. That remarkable patience Mairon had displayed towards his lack of spine had finally met an ignominious end.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Perhaps, in time, you might even beg me for it.”

Leave a Comment

“Thereupon Fëanor left him [Olwë], and sat in dark thought beyond the walls of Alqualondë, until his host was assembled. When he judged that his strength was enough, he went to the Haven of the Swans and began to man the ships that were anchored there and to take them away by force … Thrice the people of Fëanor were driven back, and many were slain upon either side; but the vanguard of the Noldor were succoured by Fingon with the foremost of the host of Fingolfin.” (Of the Flight of the Noldor)

Warrior Falling, Year 12

Brothers,

You are ever in my thoughts, as I hope to be in yours. I have survived to write you another letter, though my heart is heavy with [REDACTED BY ORDER OF LORD MAIRON].

[REDACTED BY ORDER OF LORD MAIRON].

There is a small amount of comfort in thinking of Nerdanel in these dark days. Not the least for her strength of will. Perhaps if we had not followed

There is little to do [REDACTED BY ORDER OF LORD MAIRON] but I am well. I will continue to be well. And if all continues to go well, the next thirty-eight years will pass quickly.

Stay together. Stay safe. Stay.

With all my hope for brighter future,

Nelyafinwë

It took some time for Mairon’s apartments to regain a sense of normalcy in the wake of his attempt to destroy himself. Mairon was courteous, overly deferential even, to Maitimo’s needs.

Delicacies made their way to their table – fresh fruits and sugar candies, smoked pork belly and whole quails, white bread and thick noodles in broth. The frequencies of their games of arantyalmë, their usual way to pass the time when Mairon wasn’t absorbed in the minutia of running their fortress, eventually slowed to only an occasional instance. Their desire for competition waned – both had shown themselves able players of the game of kings – and it was by unspoken agreement that they put it aside in favor of each pursuing the crafts of their hands.

Mairon, to Maitimo’s surprise, did occasionally occupy his time with a fiddly handcraft – clockwork automatons, he called them, each gear, spring, and wire fitting together with delicate precision. They often took the shape of little rodents, barely the size of a mouse, grey-black metal designed to blend into the shadows. Mairon had explained, with no small amount of pride, that once assembled he used scraps of fëar to empower them to listen, to act as his little spies. Maitimo had nodded along, no small amount of horror in his throat, as Mairon chattered away, filling the quiet spaces with his dreams of an autonomous soldier, nay, an autonomous army with such strength that he need not wait so long for the generations of orcs to grow and breed and train. The Dagor-nuin-Giliath had nearly obliterated Angband’s forces, which inwardly made Maitimo delighted, and proud, betrayed only by the faintest upward twitch of his lips.

It had taken some time, but Mairon had eventually secured needle, thread, fabric, a tension frame, even a small collection of ceramic and metal beads for Maitimo, allowing him to embroider and sew. Mairon had been right, to Maitimo’s consternation. The skills he had thought lost did come back easily. It was not difficult to adjust to the shape of his battered and scarred hands, and the calluses came back quickly. It was not long before he was adding embellishments to his meager wardrobe. Gusting winds and restless waves stitched in white and blue thread swirled along the hems. Stars littered the sleeves and shoulders, patterns mimicking those he had seen in the neverending darkness as the swan ships crossed the Alatairë.

It might almost be sweet, the domestic scene the pair of them made: Mairon seated on the floor in front of the low table with tweezers in his hand as he assembled his clockwork creations; Maitimo hunched in on himself on one of the garish yellow couches, needle flashing as he stitched.

It gave him entirely too much time to think.

It made him realize that the state of affairs as it stood was untenable.

Mairon had taken advantage of Maitimo’s fear, had manipulated him into accepting the current state of things.

There was no way out. Trapped in this tiny apartment, trapped in his own flesh, trapped as a mere foot soldier in the games Mairon seemed determined to play. As the fox will gnaw and tear at his own limb to free himself from the snare, Maitimo had attempted to free himself, to slip out of his flesh and sue for Námo’s pardon, if he could. Failing that, he fell back into old habits, simpering and promising compliance to stave off the worst hurts, making himself small in the face of the consequences of his actions.

The state of affairs was unbearable.

Was he not a son of proud Fëanáro? Was he not a Prince – nay, the King! – entitled to his people’s fealty and adoration? Where was his pride? Where was his spine? Where had his stern mein and commanding presence disappeared to? Where was his calm confidence, his clever hands and cleverer tongue?

Hiding in the dark, perhaps, disassembled piece by piece, stitch by stitch under expert, Silmaril-burned hands.

But what was broken might be reassembled.

What was frayed might be mended, stitched anew, made stronger.

The ghostly echoes of his true-blooded Haruni’s voice resonated in his fëa, bolstering a growing conviction: Do whatever you need to do to survive, and you will see the days of your hope and peace renewed. 

How could he disregard her words, those of the Lost Queen, who spoke despite Maitimo never hearing her voice? Drugged hallucination, perhaps, but her words stayed lodged in the space between his throat and his heart, haunting him, lifting his spirits. Maybe it wasn’t really real, but it felt just as real as a memory, and above all Maitimo wanted, desperately, to believe.

And so, with the conviction of a person with nothing left to lose, with no way out of the tangled web entrapping him, he set aside his fear and reservations and took action. 

Be bold. 

Now, Maitimo stood over Mairon, hand extended in blatant invitation. He noted, with some small amount of satisfaction, that his hand was steady, even as his heart thundered in his ears. Mairon looked up, a flash of annoyance quickly turning to inquisitiveness. He placed his tweezers down, perfectly parallel to the edge of the table. 

“What’s this?” Mairon asked with a smirk. “You’ve never expressed interest in dancing before.”

Maitimo scoffed, shook his head. “Not with you, certainly. No, I had something else in mind.”

“Oh?” Mairon said, even as he took Maitimo’s hand and leveraged himself into standing. “What’s that, dearest?”

It kept surprising him, just how small Mairon was, how he kept losing height. Maitimo positively towered over his captor. Mairon made up for it in intensity, in raw power, in sheer presence, but he still only came up to the middle of Maitimo’s chest. 

All of which to say, Maitimo had to bend quite a ways to lay a searing kiss on Mairon’s mouth. He brought his free hand up to tangle in Mairon’s loose hair, to pull his head back and up to give Maitimo access to those plush lips. The hot-metal taste that was Mairon assailed his tongue as he began walking forward, forcing Mairon back until his knees met the couch. 

With a nudge, Maitimo pushed at Mairon’s shoulder. Hands still clasped together, Mairon fell back with a gasp, his other hand lifted as if to protest. “What are you doing, Nelyafinwë?”

Maitimo forced a wry smile, gentling his voice, making himself sound sweet and pliant. “What does it look like I’m doing, my Lord? You brought me here to serve you, did you not?”

Mairon peered up at Maitimo with a frown. Oh, that was satisfying, to have put Mairon on his back foot, enthralling to have him at Maitimo’s mercy. Maitimo answered his unspoken question by catching his free hand, kneeling over Mairon, settling himself on his lap, pushing their clasped hands back into the couch until Mairon was pinned, back arching. 

“I see.” Mairon’s voice sounded strangled, breathy and surprised. “I confess, I – I did not expect this.”

“Is it not the point of arantyalmë? One must go on the offensive to capture the enemy’s King?” Maitimo leaned in, pressing their cheeks together to whisper, low and sultry, in Mairon’s ear. “One of us must yield, my Lord. And it won’t be me this time.”

Be steadfast. 

Mairon let go of a shuddering breath in Maitimo’s ear. When he finally spoke, he had regained some level of composure, his voice smooth. “If you insist.” 

Maitimo rewarded this with a lick up Mairon’s ear, gently worrying the tip between his teeth. “I do,” he murmured. “Keep your hands there.”

He had no reason to think Mairon would obey. He fully expected him not to. But as Maitimo dropped off the couch to begin to work at the ties of Mairon’s pants and draw them off, Mairon kept his hands exactly where Maitimo had left them, looking down at Maitimo with a bemused sort of indulgence. 

He left Mairon’s shirt on, out of an abundance of caution, an earlier command echoing in his ears. Mairon’s customary surcoat had been discarded some time before. In the interest of comfort, presumably, as he worked, but it made this endeavor a measure easier. 

The long habit of centuries of being married to another man had Maitimo dropping his head, working at Mairon’s half-hard dick with his mouth. This wouldn’t work, after all, if Mairon was not interested and Maitimo did pride himself, somewhat, in this skill. He kept his jaw pliant as he swallowed around the head, humming with satisfaction as Mairon groaned and his length filled out in Maitimo’s mouth. He stayed there on his knees, working Mairon with soft lips and dancing tongue, trying to ignore just how much stronger the hot-metal and copper smell of him was between his legs. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, but it was ... distinct. 

“Enough,” Mairon said, dragging his fingers through Maitimo’s hair with only the slightest amount of force. Maitimo sat back with a smirk, hoping his false confidence would be mistaken for real. He pointedly eyed Mairon’s hand, and Mairon huffed a laugh, returning it to where it had been. 

Wordless, Maitimo slipped back into Mairon’s lap, their bare thighs rubbing together as he settled above Mairon’s cock. He hadn’t bothered with his own pants when he had woken. This was all part of the plan, of course. Keep moving forward, always advancing, reach the target state with as few interruptions or changes as possible. Press for the advantage and accept no failure as permanent. 

Be vicious.

Tactics such as these he had learned through hours of hypothetical thought experiments. In the darkness of the vaults of Formenos, standing proud despite the weight of a thousand thousand stones and all of Fëanáro’s expectations, seven sons played games of war. Lacking maps of the East, they played out these hypotheticals on their own soil, estimated numbers represented by river stones clashing in the inked valleys between the Pelóri and the Sea, laying siege on Taniquetil, rolling over Tirion with the inexorable certainty that Fëanáro could rally and arm his followers for whatever may come, whoever may stand in their way. 

It had started out as simple games, but as the fell light in Fëanáro’s eyes grew stronger, if’s became when’s, imagined concerns about food and supplies became very real stockpiles in warehouses raised for that purpose, and the seven of them organized themselves around Fëanáro’s bright star. 

The slaughter at Alqualondë was planned, contingency upon contingency, each son effortlessly pivoting into the next aspect of the assault as circumstances changed and Fëanáro called out orders into the darkness. And in each plan, each instance, Maitimo had, with unwavering certainty, included Findekáno in his calculations, knowing his husband would never pass up the opportunity to be the fucking hero, even if it meant Eldar blood on his blade. 

And in the aftermath, well.

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

“You knew I’d rush in after you.”

“I was counting on it.”

“Fuck you, Russo.” Findekáno’s voice was raw, exertion and emotion running roughshod over his throat. “Fuck you, fuck your father, fuck the horse you rode in on. How dare you.”

“Atar never believed that you would, but I know your mind as well as I know my own, Findekáno. I knew you wouldn’t – couldn’t leave well enough alone.” Maitimo should have stopped talking a long time ago. 

“You knew.” That rough voice had gone soft with disbelief. “I thought – you planned this – they were innocent in this, Russo!”

“Yes.”

“You would make a liar of me, as well as a kinslayer?”

“It was what had to be done,” Maitimo sighed, the delicate play of tree branches against the starlit sky reminding him of ragged lace, or cracked glass. “I would have you as you are, meldanya. Yourself, and no other.”

Findekáno was silent for a long moment. He stood, arranging his clothes into a semblance of presentability, and stalked off into the darkness without a word. His mind was closed. 

And would stay that way, closed and seething, until Losgar, where the force of his fury at their betrayal would ripple across the sea, knocking Maitimo to his knees in the sand as his youngest brother screamed in pain and his father, furious, threatened to leave him behind, disown him, kill him if he did not comply. 

What a fucking mess.

Shaking his head, as if a simple motion could shake off memory, Maitimo returned to the present, back to the task he had set himself. 

The bliss of being full of Mairon’s cock was somewhat expected, though still strange. That unnerving full-body warmth that spread out from groin to the tips of his fingers and left him boneless, speared through. Yet another way to ensure Maitimo’s compliance, the Oath he had sworn to Mairon transformed his senses, twisted and amplified what little desire he had into more, more, more. 

Maitimo collapsed, panting, slumped forward to rest his forehead on the back of the couch. He could feel Mairon’s head nestled into the crook of his neck, the warmth of his breath filtered through his clothes. 

He didn’t want to move. He couldn’t. It felt so good, to be so full, to be pliant … 

Everything else was secondary – this, this was his purpose. To be a thing, a willing sheath, a receptacle, an object for Mairon’s use. 

To be bred.

Nothing else mattered.

He drifted, awash in a sea of sensation. 

“Do you need some help?” Mairon asked, amused, after they had stayed in that configuration for a few minutes. “I applaud your tenacity, but this isn’t going to work if you aren’t going to do the work to fuck me.”

Maitimo ground down, rocking slowly. It wasn’t enough. He whined, high in his throat in frustration before giving in and nodding, pressing his cheek into Mairon’s golden hair to make sure Mairon could feel it.

He felt Mairon grab his hips, and then the swooping sensation of falling through space, out of his control. When he settled again, Maitimo found himself pressed into the couch on his back, Mairon looming above him. Still connected at the hip, Maitimo shifted, opening himself further, hands clasping the backs of his thighs, wantonly spreading his legs like the whore he was.

“That’s better,” Mairon crooned, sly smile on his face as he began to thrust into Maitimo. “Isn’t it?”

Maitimo could only moan, arching his back, exposing his neck, wanting more. Mairon was right, it was better this way. The world was so much simpler, like this. 

“That’s it,” Mairon continued to murmur, not sounding even a little winded. “Opening up for me, taking me so well. This is what you wanted, isn’t it, sweet little Ñoldóran? To accept my seed, to grow fat with my get?” 

Maitimo couldn’t help the tiny, affirmative whimper that escaped him, nodding along with the pace of Mairon’s hips, looking up at Mairon from under his lashes. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, my Lord.”

“He will be mine. Beautiful. Skilled. Clever. Strong. Fast.”

Maitimo frowned. “Ours.” 

Was he not to carry this hypothetical child? Nurture it? Labor to deliver it? Feed it, raise it … love it? Did that not give him a claim to it, perhaps even the greater part?

Mairon, who had up until this point kept his hands braced on either side of Maitimo’s head, buried one hand in Maitimo’s hair, wrenching his head to the side so Mairon could bite the lobe of Maitimo’s ear. “Mine,” he hissed as he shuddered, spilling inside Maitimo. 

Mairon kept his grip tight on Maitimo’s hair, breathing hitching slightly as he hummed the same tune he had after that first, disastrous attempt. 

Maitimo had no thoughts of fighting the Song as it writhed – living, twitching, jittering – under his skin, manipulating his fëa into compliance with the command of the Song. He was drunk on the feeling of fullness, of a job satisfactorily done. He wanted this to work. Mairon laid an ice-cold hand on Maitimo’s abdomen, and the Song spun in the space between his hips, taking the potential they had wrought and forming it into something concrete. 

The hummed Song took on a tone of stern command, the cadence taking on that of the Song of staying Mairon had Sung over Maitimo’s body to keep Línemírë’s womb alive and intact. 

Mairon broke off the Song, frowned down at Maitimo’s body, then sighed heavily. He unceremoniously slipped out of Maitimo, stood, grabbed his pants, and wordlessly disappeared down his wing of the horseshoe-shaped apartment. 

Maitimo stared after him, grief and regret taking root in the space that had been full of anticipation and relief. 

He had been brave.

And he had still failed.

Leave a Comment

“There are, however, no matters which among the Eldar only a nér can think or do, or others with which only a nís is concerned.” (Laws and Customs of the Eldar)

Deep in the vaults of Formenos, single minded in his intensity, Fëanáro barked out a terse “Again!” at each scenario that did not meet their objective. The piles of stones returned to their places, and seven commanders ran the the siege of Taniquetil again.

Failure was inexcusable, the pressure to succeed greatest on he who was eldest.

Again.

Sex was but a way to translate blood and bodies into motion, into meaning. 

Again.

Maitimo went to Mairon.

Again.

Maitimo submitted to Mairon. 

Again.

This was the battle to be won.

Again.

The safety he would gain was worth the suffering, the hissed breaths and pulled hair and strangled orgasms. 

Again.

Power grows from the shaft of a cock, after all, and Maitimo could still grasp at this meager source of power, take it inside himself, use it to his own ends once the deed was done.

Again. Again. Again.

Just say yes.

Again.

Something changed, in the doing. The drag on his nerves, that numbness slowly disappeared as time dragged on, making the intensity of sensation when Mairon took him all the stronger. It made it easier, this Oath-induced drive that bound them both to the purpose of blasphemous creation. It made him easy, pliant and willing and eager, even, to be bred. Like alcohol, the Oath he had sworn to Mairon made it easy, and Maitimo doubted he could go through with any of this without it. He needed it.

Findekáno had never made him feel this cock-drunk. Desire had been distant, in those Tree-lit days, slow to wake, and once woken, smoldered, and only ever for his husband. If it had been anyone else pursuing him as ardently, as fiercely, as boldly as Findekáno had, Maitimo would not have entertained the thought. They had been melotorni, heartfriends, trusted and loved before Findekáno proposed going further. Marriage, and thus copulation, had not interested him then. Findekáno had been special, a force all his own.

The why was outside of his purview – Mairon wanted a son for an unknown purpose; it wasn’t for Maitimo to question. The how was intimately known, had been pounded into him time and time again. And the when … it was only a matter of time before it actually worked. He needed only to endure.

His head buried in his arms, naked ass in the air, drunk on Mairon’s cock, Mairon Sang. Maitimo’s fëa twitched into the shape Mairon desired, and finally, finally stayed there.

A spark. Tiny. The barest hint of the presence of a fëa that was not his and certainly not Mairon’s ëala but something strange and different and distinct and very much alive.

Maitimo shook, the relief spreading like a wave throughout his body. He was exhausted. His own fëa relaxed back into the shape of himself, released from Mairon’s Song with a snap.

Mairon laughed, delighted, hand still cupped around Maitimo’s belly, as if he could reach in through the long-healed incision and caress the nascent child inside him. He drew back, petting Maitimo’s trembling thigh with a bit more force than he did to offer comfort, guiding him to lay on his side on the bed.

Maitimo peered up from under his lashes. He straightened out his legs, ignoring the click of a tendon in one of his knees, and rolled a little to rest on his back. Mairon had propped up one of Maitimo’s pillows and sat, lounging against the headboard, looking as satisfied and smug as a cat having stolen an entire mackerel from the Teleri markets. His golden locks were perfect as always, but despite this he looked debauched in just his shirt, cock still smeared with Maitimo’s fluids and his own spend.

“So.”

Maitimo took a steadying breath through his nose. Exhaled. The regret and misplaced guilt that usually threatened to overwhelm him was mercifully absent. Only giddy elation, and satisfaction.

He had gotten his leverage.

The child was a bargaining chip. It was what Mairon wanted most, but to get it, he had to give it to Maitimo. And now it was in Maitimo’s possession, to do with what he willed. Mairon had something to lose, something he desired, and to get it, he had to keep Maitimo safe, and happy, and above all, unharmed.

“So,” Maitimo said, letting a loose smile play on his lips. Not wholly genuine, but genuine enough to fool his captor. “What now?”

Mairon smirked. “Now we wait. Patiently. Previous experiences suggest gestation of a permaia takes longer than that of a typical Elda son.”

“That, you may have warned me of! Is there anything else I should be aware of, my Lord?”

“When the hunger hits, let me know.” Mairon’s voice dropped, quiet, earnest. “This will not be easy for you, but I will do what I can. I can only hope that, despite everything, you can trust that of me.”

Maitimo nodded. “I do.”

He really did, was the thing. He trusted Mairon’s care, so long as it was in service to his aims. He certainly had goals far beyond the confines of these apartments – managing his husband, managing the other denizens of Angband, keeping the tense but ultimately peaceful relationship between Angband and Doriath and the nomadic Avari. Watching the Noldor.

But for the narrow confines of the situation that Maitimo found himself in, he did trust Mairon. Mairon had provided Maitimo with whatever he needed for the last four years, from food to clothes to entertainment to craft. Alone, yes, he had only Mairon for company, but he had had the chance to breathe, to heal, to process.

Many times he had wept for Ambarussa and Curufinwë’s burns. For the sundering from his mother, left behind in Aman with only bitter words of parting for solace. For the anger and the distance that separated him from his husband. For his father, the flames of balrogs and his own fëa licking greedy around his bones until he succumbed, consumed wholly and completely until only ash remained.

He would never be able to erase the screams of his family from his mind. His own suffering was immaterial in comparison.

And oh, how Fëanáro had howled.

Time had also given him time to plan. To analyze his strategy, to gather information.

If he ever was allowed to leave, the Noldor would be in a strong position to oppose Angband’s might.

If.

Maitimo sighed. Despite the fire burning steadily in the hearth, he shivered. Gathering himself, he rolled to his feet and padded over to his wardrobe. The black robe would suit, today. Anything to hide himself from Mairon’s continually leering eyes.

“Washing up?” Mairon asked, voice light and triumphant with his success.

Maitimo nodded, quirking his lips up into a smirk despite his annoyance. “You got slick in my hair, my Lord, after preparing me.” Mairon still loved to manhandle Maitimo by grabbing his hair, which fell to his mid-back by this point, wavy and luxurious and well-tended. Mairon had come to him soon after he had woken, so his hair fell loose and brazen around his bare torso, not a braid to be seen. He hadn’t had time to put it up.

“My apologies,” Mairon murmured, completely unrepentant. He stalked past Maitimo into the hallway, and Maitimo quickly heard the sound of rushing water, a bath being drawn.

Maitimo had hoped to bathe in solitude, but he would have company regardless, it seemed. He indulged in a heavy sigh that no doubt Mairon could hear through the walls, then padded after his captor to share in the creature comfort that was a hot bath.

He stopped in the doorway, realizing with a jerk he had never actually seen Mairon without his shirt on. Loose, untied, but never completely off. He knew why, had inadvertently groped the reasons why when their efforts had begun … but. It just hadn’t struck him as strange until now. It was just a quirk of Mairon’s, something to be accepted and not commented upon.

Mairon stood, back to Maitimo, exposing his bare and utterly smooth back to Maitimo’s inspection. He had regained, in the last few years, some of his height, and the planes of his fana were harsher. His hips had narrowed, his shoulders broadened, the muscles on his arms more defined.

Distinctly masculine, this fana had shifted back to be.

The sinking feeling of dissonance and … perhaps envy skittered over his mind, tugging tiny hooks into the mental image his had of himself and prying it back to reveal the truth of his own shape. The softness that had just barely begun to collect on his thighs. The softness of his skin, especially on his face. The way his nipples had changed, in color, shape, and sensitivity. Even the quality of his orgasms had shifted, a rolling wave as opposed to the swift sharpness of a virile thrust.

Something more feminine.

And his hröa would only change more, in the coming year. Or longer. He knew how Nerdanel’s shape had changed with each subsequent pregnancy, had seen each of his aunts shift with the arrival of a new cousin, had supported a multitude of friends and friends of friends as they joined the ranks of new parents. Would have, if Fëanáro and Finwë had asked him to find a bride ...

Mairon’s melodic voice broke through that line of thought. “Join me, dearest Nelyafinwë,” he said, glancing over his shoulder before clambering into the bath. It was large enough for four (though with Maitimo’s height, they’d still be quite close), the stone rim built up to about hip height on Mairon. Steam curled off the surface, caressing Mairon’s porcelain skin and teasing his hair as he sank beneath the surface.

Maitimo started, shaking off the bulk of the dissonance, though it prickled under his skin all the same.

They washed in silence. Mairon was seemingly content to let the quiet sit between them, still exuding an air of satisfaction, mixed with a certain level of distraction. He kept staring off into the middle distance, face twitching in the way some did while conversing in ósanwë. Maitimo kept waiting for Mairon to say something, anything, but nothing came.

“A question,” Maitimo asked into the tense silence, hair newly washed and de-tangled. He was finger-combing oil into it, eyes closed, letting the heat soak into his bones. The heat was a balm, to his knees and hips and his fëa.

Mairon hummed an acknowledgment. Maitimo could feel the weight of the Maia’s eyes on his skin; he could imagine them roving over his face, his hair.

Maitimo kept his voice low, even, controlled. “Do you hide your body because your Lord-husband has changed your fana, or merely because you honestly prefer fucking with your shirt on?”

This was a test. A test of Mairon’s patience, yes, but also how much Maitimo would be able to push, with his new condition. How much indulgence he could now demand without getting hurt. How much leverage he truly had. How much Mairon valued this child.

Maitimo opened his eyes to find Mairon’s face twisted in confusion.

“Explain what you mean,” Mairon said flatly. He leaned forward, tense.

Maitimo continued, heedless of Mairon’s tone and the posture that promised violence. “When I first came to Angband, your fana looked much as it does now. Flat chested. Tall. Masculine. But when you brought me out of the forges, you had lost some height. And that first time you took me, your chest was softer, like that of a nís. And you told me I was not to touch you there.”

“Again, I ask why you care about the condition of my fana, Nelyafinwë.”

“And again, I answer you. Academic interest. I never spent much time with Maiar in Tirion, and certainly not in such proximity or … intimacy. There is little enough to do here but observe you, and think.”

“Is this not common knowledge in the Blessed Realm?” Every time Mairon mentioned Aman, his lips twisted in a derisive sneer, and this was no exception.

Maitimo shrugged, used to this reaction. “A pattern may be observed without it being remarked upon. Many Maiar I had cause to know regularly kept themselves shapeless. Winds and clouds and light. But most kept their distance.” Huan, of course, was a different story entirely,

Mairon snorted, relaxing, one arm carelessly draped over the edge of the bath. Of course he would see himself superior in this matter, and Maitimo would stroke his ego as much as necessary. But despite his posture, his voice was tight. Uncomfortable. “To your question, it matters little.”

He frowned, fingers working a loose but serviceable braid into his hair with the ease of long practice. Loose enough to dry, but not tangle.

But Maitimo was Fëanáro’s son regardless of his shape; he couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Let me rephrase. Do you seek to shape me into your woman in a perverse parody of the way the Lord of Angband is shaping you into his wife?”

Maitimo watched the Maia blink, once, twice, before blurring into motion. Cold hands wrapped themselves around Maitimo’s throat and buried into the base of his braid. Mairon towered over him, water cascading down his bare fana, breathing heavily. Maitimo flailed, hands tugging at Mairon’s wrists. His lungs burned, forge-hot, as he tried and failed to catch a breath.

“Too bold, Nelyafinwë,” Mairon hissed, holding his head up by his hair, anger in every line of his fana. “Much too bold. There is no similarity in our situations. Your shape is what I tell you it is. Do not concern yourself with mine.”

Maitimo didn’t have a chance to answer before Mairon let go.

“And I am the Lord of Angband,” he spat. “This is my fortress, my army. Not his.”

Leave a Comment