A Song Amidst His Torment by Elrond's Library  

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17

Maitimo meets someone new, and defends his names.

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Shaking, shuddering, teeth rattling against each other like dice in a cup, and above all else completely alone, Maitimo held the child against his belly, their face just barely above the water. 

They were breathing, but not yet completely separate from him, a single cord binding their hröar, while the bright light of their linked fëar shone in the middle distance of his mind. But they were quiet, as if still dreaming inside him, tiny fists clenched. 

Maitimo could only stare, wide-eyed in shock and in pain and the lingering traces of fear – familiar friends, those feelings – at the child. His child. 

Mairon’s child.

But Mairon wasn’t here.

It was only Maitimo, and the child, and the lukewarm bath, and the blood that swirled along slow currents out and away from between his thighs. 

Maitimo understood, now, viscerally, why Nerdanel had typically spent the first few Minglings in relative seclusion following the arrival of yet another brother. The bone-deep exhaustion caressed his heart, circled his lungs, suffused his shoulders with languor. He wanted, desperately, to sleep. Could feel his eyes start to drift into reverie. 

The child stirred, their eyes screwed shut.

“Hush, little one,” Maitimo whispered, Quenya coming naturally with the rush of affection that squeezed his heart. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and we can both have a cry about it … later.”

The child, predictably, did not listen, for how could they understand? They were mere minutes into a new and everlasting life. They began to wail, shrill and piercing. 

So Maitimo, hands still shaking, at least attempted to wash the child, gently rubbing at the creamy substance that coated her skin in patches, working it out of her cap of dark hair. He sang, low and soft, a lullaby to soothe them both.

He forced himself to ignore the aches in his knees and ankles that made themselves known now, having paced for long hours in anxious solitude; in his shoulders and neck where he had strained and panted and gripped the edge of the bath. And all this, all this in service of the delivery of his child.

A daughter.

Not a son like Mairon desired, had been talking about these past four seasons. Mairon had been very clear, from the beginning, that he expected a son, a boy, eventually a man to stand at his side and rule Angband with him.

Maitimo didn’t know how he would react to a daughter.

The last contractions brought the afterbirth, sinking to the bottom of the bath unceremoniously, and with it a final separation. What had been one was now two. 

He reached over the lip of the bath to retrieve thread and a knife to cut the cord. The afterbirth went in one of Mairon’s surgical bowls, to be dealt with or disposed of later. When he wasn’t so fucking tired.

“Hush, little shadow,” he murmured, the endearment coming naturally off his lips, as it had as she had grown, whispered in secret, in darkness, away from prying eyes and sharp ears. “Hush Lumbelincë, it’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

His daughter was as clean as could be, so he placed her in the basket he had made for this exact purpose. Fabric strips in various colors twisted over a core of rope, bound together by wrapping the fabric into the row below it. Straw lined the bottom – easily replaced when it inevitably became soiled – with a plain and serviceable blanket as padding. It was large enough to cradle her for many years, by which time she might be ready to occupy her own bed. 

She waved her tiny fists in the air, face screwed up to scream again as his hands left her. Maitimo dove into the middle distance of his mind, touching hers and soothing her gently out of panic. 

He worked now to clean himself, draining the tub and refilling it. He scrubbed quickly and methodically. He felt more himself now, sore as he was, than he had in four seasons. 

His pregnancy had indeed lasted far longer than was normal – he was due to write his fourth letter since becoming pregnant in just a few cycles, by his count. Two years. The first year had been a haze of nausea, vomiting, fatigue, and short-tempered irritability which Mairon could hardly punish or censure. 

The second had been punctuated by increasing waves of self-loathing as his body changed, as his chest grew, as his hair began shedding far more than usual, thinning out his hard-won growth. And the dread as one year passed and the months kept crawling by with no change, not knowing exactly when the contractions would begin.

And still, ever the refrain. I chose this. I wanted this. This is what I asked for. I invited this child into myself, to keep myself safe. I must survive this. I chose this. I wanted this. This is what I asked for.

Mairon had not touched him, in anger or in lust. And that had been a blessed relief. 

Maitimo knew his body would continue changing, but he already felt lighter now that his hröa was entirely his again. Grateful that his labor had been … easy, for certain definitions of the word. 

He was alive. His true-blooded Haruni’s affliction lay not on his head. His daughter was alive, whole and healthy. 

And the Oath he had sworn in Mairon’s name, had vanished, and his fëa was lighter for it as well. He had done what he needed to. All that was left to do was simply obligation to the little life they had created. 

Maitimo eventually dragged himself, sore and trembling, out of the bath. The supplies he had gathered he left haphazardly strewn around, to be dealt with later. Nothing mattered, not in the face of his daughter’s growing hunger and his own exhaustion. 

So he shrugged on the long chemise he had sewn for himself, picked up the basket by its fabric wrapped handles, and hobbled slowly to his room. 

Sleep claimed him then, propped up against a veritable mountain of pillows, the child on his chest sated with her first meal.

And with it, the dreams.

A girl dressed in grey, raven-black hair braided in a child’s braids, laughing as she ran up to him, high and sweet. Her cheeks were round as apples and just as flushed when she smiled, yelling, “Atya!” with gleeful abandon. 

And then

Taller, now, but her braids were still that of a child, messy and unkempt. She sat, knees to her chest, in the window casement, a strange silver light falling on her face. She had wings sprouting from her shoulder blades, peeking up from over her shoulders and wrapping around her, as if hugging herself. Bloody tears fell in a steady stream from her eyes, carving deep tracks in her cheeks and dripping off her chin. An embroidery hoop lay at her feet, the work abandoned. 

And yet

Taller still, a woman grown. She stood straight and proud beside Mairon in front of the iron throne, Melkor’s baleful eyes and the light of the Silmarilli cowing her not at all. Mairon gestured, and she dipped into obeisance, wings large and strong, half-spread and relaxed. With an even, melodious voice, she declared, “Maironiel I am, who casts a shadow over the face of the sallow moon in the doomed land of shivering Beleriand.” Melkor raised a single eyebrow. 

And still

She soared through the night, bright eyes dancing as she flew over tree-tops. A great fortress of stone atop a barren hill rose before her, lit by pinpricks of torchlight and the stars above. Around her neck, a small reliquary of white bones captured in a glass jar on a fine chain rattled in the wind. 

And now

She knelt, now, obsidian eyes glassy with enchantment, in a grand throne room that was slowly shaking apart. Stone shrieked and cracked, water thundered past in a torrent. A woman stood over her with Song on her lips and viciousness in her eyes as she raised a knife that flashed before she brought it down—

Maitimo woke with a start.

Mairon stood at the foot of his bed, a queer look on his face.

“My Lord,” Maitimo croaked, voice rough.

“Nelyafinwë. I smelled blood, and thought … well.” He paused. “It is no matter what I thought.”

Maitimo shifted Lumbelincë into the crook of one arm so he could shift himself into a more upright posture. She squirmed at the disturbance, still asleep. “I would not,” he grunted. “Contrary to some of my past decisions, I do intend to survive you.”

Mairon grinned. “Good.” He came around the side of the bed and sat. “Let me see him, then.”

“Her.”

Mairon blinked.

“A daughter, my Lord.”

He blinked again. Sighed, shoulders drooping. Nodded. “Let me see her, then.”

Maitimo held her out, and she began squirming, protesting the change. Mairon held her so hesitantly, delicately, like a component part of one of his automatons, cradled in the crook of his arm. His free hand traced over her body, a hum under his breath. She flinched, likely at the chill of his fingers and began to cry, great sobs wrung from her small body. 

Maitimo wanted to comfort her, to take her back, but he could not, did not. He did not dare reach for her in fëa, open his mind where Mairon might slip in, unwanted. 

He did not know how to act – so much of the last five years had been learning Mairon’s tells, learning how to keep himself safe from Mairon’s changeable moods, to keep himself pliant and willing and content even as violation after violation was heaped upon him. 

But she was so small. And so new. And the rush of feeling he had for her – protectiveness, at the least; love, perhaps, with time – made him uncertain. 

So she wailed, and Mairon ignored her cries, simply humming louder. Dread and curiosity both built in equal measure in his guts. He failed to restrain a twitch of his hands, an aborted motion to take back his daughter, but Mairon’s golden eyes flashed to his, quelling him. So Maitimo watched, and waited. 

He somehow felt it, in the space between the three of them, in his fëa and the bond between himself and his child, when Mairon fed a tiny slice of his own ëala to her, as he had done periodically in the last two years. She quieted, peering up at him with newly opened, bright eyes. 

Mairon smiled, tracing her cheek with a burn-darkened finger. “That’s it,” he praised, soft and crooning. “Have you named her, Nelyafinwë?”

“I would dare not be so presumptuous as to give her an ataressë – ah, a father-name, my Lord,” Maitimo murmured, deferential. He and Mairon spoke Sindarin, or the Angband dialect of Sindarin, so the Quenya term was jarring. “I have … I have given her an epessë, or … after-name, perhaps.” Mairon raised an eyebrow. “I needed to call her something, my Lord,” Maitimo spread his hands, pleading for understanding. “I knew not how long you would be away, and she deserves something more than just gwinig.”

Mairon chuckled. “I do not disagree. Nor am I displeased. I just had not realized the Noldor might have multiple names, nor that you yourself have kept yours from me.” 

Maitimo was certain that Mairon could smell the sudden fear that had to be emanating off him in waves. His face felt suddenly numb. He had been so careful, guarding his amilessë and his own epessë jealously. Nelyafinwë he was here, the name that dripped from Mairon’s plush lips and was sent in letter after unanswered letter. He was Maitimo only to himself, Russandol only in his imagined conversations with his beloved. 

“My Lord –”

“What have you called her?”

“Lumbelincë. Little shadow,” he whispered. 

Mairon raised an eyebrow. “Quenya is not acceptable; it is not the language of this place. Your contribution to her begetting cannot be so obvious to Angband’s court.” Maitimo nodded, eyes downcast. He fought back tears, his composure finally cracking at being denied his mother-tongue yet again. “Thuringwethil, I name her, secret as she must be.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Mairon transferred little Thuringwethil back to Maitimo’s arms, where he let her feed from his chest for a few quiet minutes, grimacing at the sensation. But she settled once more into sleep in his arms when she was satiated. 

Mairon Sang then, hands resting gently on Maitimo’s abdomen. He Sang of staying, of clotting, of cool water that soothed aches and reduced swelling. Maitimo did cry then, silently, purely out of relief as the residual aches fled from his hips, his back, his thighs. Even if it was temporary, the pain was gone, and he would ever been glad of its ceasing, creature of flesh as he was.

Mairon let the final notes trail off, the power trickling away. He leaned back, reclining on one elbow by Maitimo’s feet. “You’ve done well, dearest Nelyafinwë,” he said into the resulting silence. 

“Thank you, my Lord,” Maitimo whispered, knowing it to be a compliment. 

“So. Tell me about these extra names of yours.”

Maitimo sighed. “You know my ataressë. Nelyafinwë, third Finwë, with my grandfather Finwë the first, and my father Curufinwë the second. It is … my public name.” 

“Curu … skilled? Like Curumo-brother?”

Maitimo nodded. “Curumo abides in Aulë’s Halls, where my father learned his art, and met my mother.”

Mairon suddenly seemed lost in memory. “Did you know him well, Curumo-brother?”

“Not well. Our interests never aligned when I was a guest in Aulë’s Halls.”

And just as suddenly, Mairon dismissed the line of questioning with a careless wave of his hand. “He was always a bore. Your father named you, but the fact there is a distinction implies your mother gave you one as well.”

“Yes.” But Maitimo held his tongue.

“And it is …?”

“Private.”

He did not want to share this. He had nothing but his own name in this place, and to surrender that would be to truly resign himself to his fate, to lie down and never rise again in hope he would leave this place one day. This was too important. 

“Private,” Mairon repeated dryly, poking Maitimo’s thigh, a gentle reminder of Mairon’s power over Maitimo. “Try again.”

He fought to keep his voice even even as he snapped, “You have your secrets, Mairon – you who were beloved of Aulë, you who He mourns for still – from the Valar and your Lord-husband and from your people and probably even from yourself.” Maitimo trembled, from his audacity and anger both. Never had he said Mairon’s name aloud, bare of title or deference. “I have given you all of the rest of myself, and a child besides. Let me keep this one thing.”

Mairon stilled. Maitimo so rarely pushed back. They stared at one another, challenging, waiting to see who would concede first, whether Mairon would dare move against him in punishment. 

The air was honey-thick with tension.

“I should tear it from your mind,” Mairon muttered. 

Maitimo raised his eyebrows, unimpressed, seeing the concession for what it was. “But you won’t. You still need me hale and whole, to raise Thuringwethil, and to keep my brothers in line besides.” 

He had seen the remnants of Eldar who had had their minds split open by Mairon or some other úmaia, their vacant stares and silent tongues. They breathed, yes, but only just. Would lie down and fail to rise, until their corpses would be butchered and distributed among their fellows. Mairon could not afford to give Maitimo such treatment. 

And they both knew it.

Maitimo let a smile grow, slow and bold. “Lord Melkor knows it. But I’m sure you’d rather he forget I exist, so you dare not ask him.”

Mairon laughed once, eyes wide, incredulous but quiet, as a concession to the sleeping infant in Maitimo’s arms. “Well played, Nelyafinwë.” He flicked his fingers, tipping an imaginary King over in surrender. “Very well played.”

 

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Chapter End Notes

Lumbelincë – little shadow (girl)

Thuringwethil – secret gloom/shadow woman

In Maitimo’s vision of Thuringwethil’s introduction to Melkor’s court, she quotes the Leithian, “Thuringwethil I am, who cast / a shadow o’er the face aghast / of the sallow moon in the doomed land / of shivering Beleriand” (Lay of Leithian 3954-3957). Now, in the Leithian, it’s Lúthien who says this line in the disguise of Thuringwethil, but … Thuringwethil has no speaking lines in the canon, as far as I could find, so we make do with what we have.