A Song Amidst His Torment by Elrond's Library  

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16

Maitimo connects some dots.

Moreover their shape comes of their knowledge of the visible World, rather than of the World itself; and they need it not, save only as we use raiment, and yet we may be naked and suffer no loss of our being. … But when they desire to clothe themselves the Valar take upon them forms some as of male and some as of female; for that difference of temper they had even from their beginning (Ainulindalë)

Warrior Rising, Year 13

Brothers,

The stars turn, but I am not convinced of the truth of the adage that the Elentári sees and knows all that pass under her star’s light. I am not convinced she hears any of us, for how could she and still turn a blind eye to all that happens here on these shores? If the rumors of this place are to be believed and somehow I hope they are not, for Atar’s sake, Námo Doomsayer might have some excuse, but Varda? We know them to be real, we walked with them and learned from them and raised our voices to sing with them. We know them all to be mighty indeed, in thought and word and deed, yet ... And yet. Doubt clings to me, brothers, for they claim they made the world for us, and Varda Elentári is said to see all, and yet how can she turn a blind eye to the suffering of this place? How can she, and Manwë Súlimo – or even Eru Ilúvatar! – allow this to be? Is this suffering part of the Music? Should it not be a sour, discordant Note in the Theme? Arda Marred, yes, but surely there must be a limit before they are compelled to intervene?

I find myself wishing I had listened more to Findis, for surely the Elentári’s handmaids know the mysteries better than any of us. 

I have told you in the past I have been kept separate from the others here. Very little changes here, but I am as safe as I can be. It won’t last; nothing does. But it grows steadily, day by day.

I do occasionally get news of you all – it is incredibly frustrating to have a one-sided conversation over decades, don’t you agree? – so I am glad to know you all are nearing completion of the settlement by the lake. I would be remiss in not reminding you to keep yourselves out of trouble, if only so you know it is truly me writing these! 

I miss you all.

With all my love, 

Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran

Maitimo’s fingers twisted a thin but long, strong braid into his hair, adding a length of white thread through the last third of it. The ends of the thread he wrapped around the end, securing it with needlessly decorative knots. Red and blue thread he combined, wrapping them and tying them off with a simpler knot about halfway down the braid, around his shoulder. 

His leaf-bladed thread snips cut his braid easily. A length of hair as long as his forearm fell into his hands, to be coiled up and sent to his brothers. A gift, a symbol. Proof of that he lived. 

He could only hope that his brothers could infer, from the length, from the knots, from his letter, that he was safe. Angry. Hopeless. Sick with nausea and hunger in equal measure. Plagued with doubt and melancholy. But safe. 

Maitimo folded his letter, slipped the braid inside. Went to Mairon’s writing desk and found the red sealing wax. It melted, dripped like blood onto the paper. Lacking a seal or stamp, he pressed his thumb into the half-hard wax.

He left it on Mairon’s desk, and thought nothing of it for some time.

Weeks later, Maitimo settled in front of the fire in the hearth, letting the light spill over his sewing, the warmth suffusing his bones. He hummed as he stitched, the linen soft under his fingers as he joined the layers together. A plain thing, this child’s dress would be, the fabric an undyed, natural beige and unadorned. There was plenty of space in the seams and hems to be let out, again and again and again as his child grew.

He found himself making music far more now. Humming and whistling and singing songs under his breath. The Quendi may be the speakers but in truth they were all, to the very last, from the lap of luxury to the very depths of the pits of Angband, singers. Lays and cradle songs and work songs in Quenya and Sindarin and even the harsh language of the Orcs erupted from his throat, fell from his tongue to drip into ears that could not have yet even formed.

Makalaurë would weep, he thought with a self-deprecating laugh, to hear how he butchered his brother’s songs. Maitimo was a fair singer, but he could easily admit when his family outdid him.

But the little spark between his hips grew day by day, flaring in sleepy recognition and not-quite thoughts in response to his rumbling voice. They were too small, yet, to reach out with their permaia fëa, but he could tell the little one was content.

So he hummed, and he sewed, and let his mind wander.

He had begun to draft an essay in his mind, intending to hold it until something about his present situation changed, for Mairon was a specimen to be studied in this, not a collaborator, and to include him in his musings would taint the evidence before him.

The common wisdom was thus: the Ainur had, upon entering the physical world, chosen forms that usually aligned with their inherent nature. The Ainur were not bound by their fana’s expression of their nature, for they could shift the form of their fana at will. But that nature, that inherent understanding of one’s temper and identity does not change with the changes in their fana.

The fact that this aligned so well for the Valar with the major divisions of bodies the Incarnate Firstborn had been given was usually chalked up to an inherent aspect of Eru Ilúvatar’s Music.

There would be males, there would be females, there would be those who existed between or outside the other two.

Unless, all of that was just common wisdom, but not fact. That which everyone knows, but was rarely interrogated, rarely challenged.

But despite the proliferation of Ainur in Valinórë, making a study of them was difficult, not the least because they usually had their own tasks, and rarely deigned to stay close to the Eldar. But Maitimo had spent the last five years observing Mairon, in situations from the mundane to the intimately compromising, and he now had compelling evidence that the common wisdom of the nature of the Ainur was fundamentally wrong.

There were some Ainur in Valinor that were unmarried, uninterested in carnal experiences. These were, on the whole, perfectly androgynous. Perfectly between and outside the mode of masculine or feminine. Nienna Núri was always hooded and veiled, and Ulmo Shipsinker did not don raiment at all, on the rare occasions all the Valar assembled in the Máhanaxar.

These virginal Ainur often had no outward expression of gender, but the married ones were always a matched set. Manwë Súlimo and Varda Elentári. Námo Doomsayer and Vairë. Oromë and Vána. Ossë and Uinen. Eönwë and Ilmarë. Elwë and his Maiar wife Melian, even, from what he had gathered over the years.

One male, one female.

One penetrator, one penetrated.

Tilion, who often took Incarnate lovers among Oromë’s Hunters, according to Tyelkormo, was thus masculine though unmarried as he pined for Arien. Arien, by contrast, was a Maia bordering on the feminine but not particularly strongly. Eönwë, who Maitimo knew from both rumor and a rather unexpected experience on Taniquetil centuries ago, was a lover of Manwë’s, but had a wife in Ilmarë. And so both Manwë and Eönwë kept their masculine forms, as they had a partner to dominate, to penetrate. Even as they might shift from one body plan to another – taking on the forms of animals, as Huan had, or strange and alien hybrids – their inherent masculinity or femininity shifted with them.

Consider, by contrast, Lord Mairon, Lieutenant of Angband. He who the dread Vala called “precious” and “beloved” instead of “son” or “child” as would be typical for the power difference between them. He who, the rumors said with a hushed sort of confusion, was Melkor’s husband. His equal in power and control. Superior, even, to the Dark Vala, in the loyalty Mairon was given from the denizens of Angband. Trusted. And yet … Mairon, a servile Maia to Melkor’s might, submitted, and was penetrated, and so was being forced into the role of wife, and his fanar – both of them, the elf-like and the much rarer wolf – were an expression of his nature, and had slowly changing to match it.

And so he had taken Maitimo, as if he were Mairon’s wife, and as such began the long labor to edge his fana back into masculinity. And, he thought, dread sinking in his gut, Mairon would have to continue fucking him, or another, if he wanted to maintain his fana’s shape.

The Quendi did not have this problem. More tightly bound to their hröar, they grew tall with their flesh. The division of bodies – male, female, and those outside or between – tended to stay static over time, regardless of one’s sexual preferences. Transitioning across the boundaries of those divisions took time and a great deal of Song, but it could be done. One of Maitimo’s cousins from Nerdanel’s side of the family had done it.

And so had he, in a way.

Only time would tell which parent’s nature his permaia child would cleave to most closely. He had thoughts, and maybe the faint glimmer of hopes, for who this child would be and what their future would hold. 

But he knew, also, who had sired this child. And where he was. And what this place would twist them into, under Mairon’s influence, under Melkor’s malignant cloud of hate. Mairon may think that the blood would win out, but Maitimo had seen the effects that lack of proper care as a child could have on the fëa, in Fëanáro and little Tyelperinquar both. This was no place for a child.

Maitimo was under no delusions. His window of influence would be infinitesimally small, in the vast expanse of this child’s immortal life. Less than forty years, at most, if Makalaurë did manage to negotiate for his release.

Had it really only been thirteen years? 

“Nelyafinwë.” Mairon’s silky voice interrupted his thoughts. Maitimo glanced over his shoulder, where Mairon stood by the door that led to the rest of Angband. The door Maitimo had not yet dared attempt to pass through on his own, fear its own insidious jailer. 

“My Lord,” Maitimo greeted, setting aside his sewing. He maneuvered from his tailor’s seat into a proper kneeling position, bowing politely at the waist. 

Mairon shut the door behind him, and as Maitimo rose he quickly cataloged Mairon’s appearance – the slightly rumpled collar of his surcoat, the hint of bruising that was mostly hidden by the fall of his perfect golden hair, the drops of black blood on the cuff of the shirt that peeked out from his overcoat – in an effort to gauge the Maia’s mood. 

“Set the board,” Mairon nodded curtly towards the table where so many meals and games of arantyalmë had been shared between the pair of them. He turned on his heel before Maitimo could answer, disappearing down his wing of the U-shaped apartments. He hadn’t bothered to lock the door behind him. 

It would be foolish to take advantage of that.

So instead of even allowing himself to contemplate what lay beyond the door, Maitimo took his time. He set a kettle of water above the fire to boil – wine, even watered down, made his stomach roil, so Maitimo had turned to tea. Where it came from, where any of the fine produce and succulent meats and tart juices Mairon supplied him, honestly, was a mystery. He simply did not know enough about the land’s capabilities, and the peoples who inhabited it, to guess. 

South, certainly. There wasn’t anything north of Angband. Just the ruins of Melkor’s first dreams, and ice. Endless ice. 

He had just finished lining up the foot soldiers when Mairon returned. He knelt across from him at the low table, quietly considering the starting position as Maitimo poured them both small cups of tea from the pot. Maitimo pushed the cup towards Mairon with a soft, only half-feigned smile. He was in a good mood, could afford to be generous with his smiles. 

Mairon bowed slightly before taking up his tea, Maitimo returning the ritual motion. The notes of lavender and bergamot were soothing. 

Mairon waved wordlessly, indicating Maitimo should begin the game. They played, the only noise the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the clink of game pieces against the board. 

To Maitimo’s eyes, the Maia seemed tense. He had changed to a clean shirt, a different surcoat – the one with the embroidered snakes on the cuffs and collar. His hair was braided, a single loose plait that spilled over his chest that conveniently hid the bruising Maitimo know was there under its mass.

“How has the nausea been since I last saw you?” Mairon finally broke the silence, pouring himself another cup of tea. 

It had been a long time, ten work-duty cycles at least. Keeping track of time had gotten more difficult with how often he was sleeping. “It comes and goes,” Maitimo said with a shrug. “And before you ask, the child is the same. Quiet, but content.” 

Mairon reminded him of Fëanáro, during Nerdanel’s second pregnancy. Maitimo had nearly reached his majority – had already begun attending lectures at Tirion’s university, helping Finwë with various projects, but had not yet established his own household – when Makalaurë had been begotten, and Fëanáro was constantly doting, attentive. Overly so, if Nerdanel’s rolling eyes were to be believed, though Fëanáro had seemed to willfully not notice them. Nolofinwë and Anairë had been much the same when they finally decided to have children, Nolofinwë gently teasing Maitimo for not having a wife of his own to dote over despite them being nearly of an age. 

Both men had ceased showing such affection to their wives by the time their last respective children had been born, the discord between the brothers slowly simmering with discontent, spilling over to drip into all aspects of their lives. It would more than a century still, before it reached its peak, the point of a sword leveled at a vulnerable throat.

“Good,” Mairon murmured, capturing one of Maitimo’s foot soldiers. Regardless of Maitimo’s reassurances, he could still feel Mairon’s thoughts brush against his own, assessing the truthfulness of Maitimo’s words. Finding no lie, he poured power into the bolstering of the fëa of their child with his own ëala. It felt to Maitimo like witnessing the raw energy of a waterfall from the pool below, pounding in his ears and chest and making him feel small and powerless against such a mighty force. 

“Good,” he repeated. Mairon’s shoulders fell, seeming to finally relax into the domesticity of it all. “I will be sending your letter soon.” 

Maitimo nodded, refocusing. He shifted a Seer out of a dangerous position. “I left it on your desk a while ago.”

“I know. You will write another.”

Maitimo arched an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I can’t send what you’ve written, though your doubts about Varda-mother’s gaze are not unfounded,” Mairon smirked, shrugged. “It says too much, and if I redacted all that I could not let leave this place all that would be left would be a greeting and a signature.” 

Maitimo blinked. “You’ve been redacting my letters?”

At whatever he saw in Maitimo’s face, Mairon laughed, loud and long and annoyingly cheerful. When he settled into mere chuckles, pillowing his cheek into the palm of one quartz-pale hand, his smile was dancing on his lips, yellow-gold eyes honey bright. “You thought I would just let you tell your brothers, who I remind you do still have an army at their backs, about this place, about me? What I know of them and their settlement, what they should know about my armies and the condition of my thralls? Ha!” 

Warrior Rising, Year 13

Brothers,

Forgive me my brevity, I have been informed my first draft was insufficient and I have not the time to think properly about what else I wish to say to you all that will not be redacted under the [REDACTED BY ORDER OF LORD MAIRON].

Keep yourselves and our people out of trouble. I doubt I need to remind you that my life depends on your control, but I shall do so all the same.

I miss you all.

With all my love, 

Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran

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