A Song Amidst His Torment by Elrond's Library  

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13

Maitimo wakes up.

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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.”