A Song Amidst His Torment by Elrond's Library  

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2

Maitimo enters Angband. It goes about as well as you'd expect

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“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)

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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.”