A Song Amidst His Torment by Elrond's Library  

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14

Maitimo finds his courage.

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“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)

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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

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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.