A Song Amidst His Torment by Elrond's Library  

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22

Maitimo gets some help, and makes another bargain.

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“You tasted different, this time,” Muinalumbel mused, almost absently. She was sitting on the floor, hands flying as she braided a thin length of copper hair. Even with the Song of preservation, Maitimo’s old hair was not a suitable medium with which to do, say, single strand embroidery.

Which would have taken years, perhaps decades, to do properly. Maitimo did not want to spend more time than he had to working on this project of Mairon’s, putting himself into Mairon’s works. Hence, the braids.

Simple, three-stranded braids, tight enough not to unravel but loose enough to adapt to the curves of Mairon’s sigil. Muinalumbel had braided dozens of them for him, each over seven feet long, and no more than a quarter inch wide, anchoring them under the heavy weight of the couch. And each length was stitched into place, black thread invisibly anchoring the braids to the fabric.

It was nearly finished.

Maitimo shifted, back aching. The twins were kicking his spine and ribs, each one taking their turn, running in place in slow motion. He had, by his count, been pregnant for a year and nearly seven months, and felt larger than Lumbelincë had been when she had come to term. He kept stitching, grateful for the distraction. “How so?”

She shrugged. “Different. I don’t know.” A pause. “Happy, which I know isn’t a taste but—”

He laughed through his nose, which broke off with another hiss of annoyance as one of the twins pressed against his bladder.

“Ass, you can at least let me laugh at your sister’s confusion,” he muttered, poking at his abdomen.

He caught the end of Lumbelincë’s dramatic eye roll. “Have you thought of names for them?”

Maitimo sobered. “It’s not my place.”

“And yet I have a name from you,” she said in the space between their minds. “What will you call them?” 

Maitimo shook his head. “They are not mine, not the way you were. Mairon left me to my own devices for much of that pregnancy, and so I was the primary supporter of your fëa, with Mairon contributing only occasionally.”

“And Ada has been here frequently, and poured much of his ëala into them, and you …”

“Have not been,” he confirmed. 

“Why?”

They were with him every day, inside him, taking his sleep and his food and his energy and his peace and changing his body further and every day with them was a reminder of the day he tried to walk out of Angband. They were of him, yes, but he did not want them, not in the way he had with Lumbelincë, as twisted as that desire may have been. He did not feel anything for them, he could not. But they were children, yes, and the Eldar love children, so maybe the love, or at least care, would grow once they were separate, once he got his hröa back. He quietly dreaded and was impatient for the day of their birth.

He hid all of this in their bond, saying simply, “Mairon gives them enough.”

Ambarussa had exhausted both Nerdanel and Fëanáro, in those days, bolstering both of their tiny flames. Strong of spirit they both had been in those days, but they were still Incarnate. Mairon seemed a well of neverending energy by comparison.

She shrunk away from their ósanwë, returning to braiding. “Children are not for me,” she declared. “Not if I have any choice in the matter.”

For her sake, he fervently hoped she would have that choice.

---

Mere days later, he knelt in the half-filled, lukewarm bath with two infants laying in the crook of each arm, looking up at him with bright and overwhelmed eyes. 

He had thought himself more prepared, this time, for the pain and the stretching. Muinalumbel had gone to bed hours ago, exhausted from trying to stay with him. He knew his arms would sport bruises from how hard he had bitten himself to muffle his cries so that she might sleep undisturbed. 

The younger twin had been easier than the first, but only just. 

The door eased open, Maitimo could feel the currents of air flow over his wet skin. “Nelyafinwë?” Mairon asked quietly. 

Maitimo flinched, head whipping to meet Mairon’s eyes. And in the doing, upset one of the pair and set them both off to thin, wailing cries. 

Mairon closed the door, and shed his surcoat, leaving it in a heap at his feet. He approached, and Maitimo watched him warily, ignoring the cries of the children.

“Thuringwethil told me it had begun,” Mairon said, shifting a basket of supplies off the vanity chair and sitting next to the tub. “May I help?”

Maitimo was still trembling, teeth chattering despite the warmth of the room. He nodded to the child in his left arm. “The cords. The strings in the basket.”

Mairon was gentle, and kept himself in Maitimo’s sight the entire time, treating him with the same care Maitimo might have shown a spooked horse. The cords of both children – both sons, which Mairon had been unable to hide his delight of finding – were tied, and swiftly cut. Mairon lifted one out of Maitimo’s arms, wrapping him inexpertly but serviceably in a towel. 

They settled quickly, Maitimo now able to manipulate the remaining one into feeding from his chest, Mairon quietly bolstering the fëa of the one on his knees.

“Which is the elder?”

Maitimo winced, the last of the contractions still working to rid himself of the placenta. “The one you hold. The larger.”

“He will be called Draugluin,” Mairon named him, “and the other Carcharoth.”

Maitimo nodded. “Why?” he asked, translating automatically into Quenya: Luiniráca, blue wolf; Carnicarca, red tooth. 

“The Song,” Mairon said, as if that explained anything. 

Together they tended to the twins, Mairon following Maitimo’s lead and instructions without protest. He helped Maitimo drain and refill the tub, Singing under his breath of staying, of clotting, of cool water that soothed aches and reduced swelling, as he had all those years ago. The relief was immediate, almost enough to prompt him to thank Mairon. Not enough, but almost.

Exhaustion shadowed him, as he slipped into the stained and well-worn chemise with its plunging neckline to make chestfeeding easier; as he shuffled to his own room with Mairon following, carrying the same fabric basket Thuringwethil had used in those early years; as he eased himself into his bed and let himself relax, despite Mairon’s presence. 

Maitimo slept.

Dreams followed, vivid in the way of true-dreams. 

The smaller child, Carcharoth, raised his arms, babbling nonsense but begging to be held. Thuringwethil lifted him to her hip with a smile. 

And then

Two wolf pups wrestled, claws getting caught in the lush pile of the carpet in their Ada’s apartment. The darker one, Draugluin, caught the other in a playful hold, gnawing on the other’s foreleg with lip-shielded teeth. 

And so

They prowled in the shadows, as Thuringwethil stared down Melkor in a grand hall. The light of the Silmarilli glinted against the copper of Carcharoth’s coat as they approached, fitting under Thuringwethil’s grand wings. Her fingers tangled in their fur. 

And more

Draugluin lay at the foot of a grand throne of white stone, as a group of Orcs argued with Mairon. They smelled wrong, different, a sense on the edge of memory from a time long ago. And then, a snap, and Song filled the air, and the Orcs shimmered and became Elves, one’s bright yellow hair streaming as he stepped forward to answer the challenge. 

And yet

Carcharoth ran, howling, in pain, past forests dark and terrible. Something was chasing him, or several somethings and he was afraid. He turned to look behind him as he leapt over a stream, when a divine mass of white fur slammed into him.

Maitimo gasped, coming back to consciousness suddenly.

He was not a mother, yet he seemed cursed with a mother’s foresight. Did Nerdanel See past the Darkening, and all the horrors, and kept it from him? Kept it from them all? Did she know, even now, that Ambarussa had burned, and Curufinwë too; that Carnistir had cried even while reciting Fëanáro’s Oath; that Tyelkormo had renounced all ties to the Vala that loved him; that Makalaurë had been the first to give up on her, and turn away?

And he couldn’t even ask.

Tears pricked his eyes as he rolled to his side. Thuringwethil sat near his head, a blanketed bundle of infant in her lap. She smiled at him, once she noticed he was awake, reaching out to hold his hand. “Atya,” she whispered. “He’s so small.”

He somehow knew this one was Draugluin, so the larger of the twins. He certainly hadn’t felt small, but Maitimo nodded. “So were you, Shadow,” he whispered back, laughing a little. Each of his brothers, upon arrival of the next, had said much the same.

He dragged his eyes away from his daughter, to find Mairon lounging near his feet, head pillowed on one arm, legs bent to fit on the remaining space of Maitimo’s bed. Carcharoth lay against the curve of Mairon’s bare chest.

“Are you … actually feeding him?” Maitimo asked, almost incredulous.

Mairon raised an eyebrow, eyes half-closed. “My fana has shifted enough to allow it. Yes. I saw no reason to wake you.”

Maitimo blinked, glanced at Thuringwethil, then back to Mairon. “I am merely surprised, my Lord, that you would lower yourself to do such a thing.”

Golden eyes flashed, but Mairon didn’t move. “A consequence, dearest Nelyafinwë, of you not being very much fun anymore.” His voice was tight, controlled, bordering on angry. 

“You sold me years of peace for light,” Maitimo retorted, slowly maneuvering himself into a sitting position. Thuringwethil, watching with wide eyes as her fathers snapped, handed Maitimo an extra pillow. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten I’m still owed three years for that.” 

“Absolutely not. Any bargain you made after the first agreement is conditional on you being here and fulfilling your role. You broke the greater bargain by stepping foot outside my home.”

“From which you’ve gained handsomely,” Maitimo scoffed. “Two sons for the price of one horrid encounter. A veritable bargain worthy only to get bread off the shelves before it stales.” 

“As I said, not very much fun to rebel against me, is it?”

“Yes, yes, lesson learned,” Maitimo grumbled. He reached for Draugluin, and Thuringwethil passed him over without complaint. He was still asleep, but Maitimo felt safer, all of a sudden, with two infants between them. This was the first time they had acknowledged what had happened, out in the dark halls – it haunted him still.

“It should not have had to be learned, dearest Nelyafinwë.”

“It was my idea,” Thuringwethil whispered, pulling her knees to her chest. “We’ve spoken of this, Ada. Leave it be; it is not Atya’s fault.” 

And Mairon smiled, hand slowly running over Carcharoth’s soft cap of silky hair. Each word that followed was calculated, dripping venom and breeding mistrust. “He had every opportunity to make the correct decision, and he chose not to. Do not take ownership for other’s mistakes, Thuringwethil, only your own. Shouldering the mistakes of others is a mark of poor leadership, and will get you eaten in this place.” He sighed. “You are at fault for encouraging him, yes, for aiding him. And I would not have found him wandering around quite so fast if you had not put so much of your Song into your handiwork, never mind the … keepsake you added.”

Thuringwethil hissed, actually hissed, at her sire, teeth bared.

“Oh, do get a hold of yourself, Thuringwethil dear,” Mairon rolled his eyes, sounding bored. He sat up, adjusted his loose shirt, then brought Carcharoth to his shoulder, asleep. “You are my daughter, not a Elda, and certainly not a Noldo. What was he going to do with a lock of your hair? Remember you fondly as he sails across the sea? Mourn you even as he brings his army to bear against us? Ha! He is a prisoner and a hostage. You are a child. Are you going to challenge me further, girl?”

Maitimo could feel Thuringwethil’s distress through their bond. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm, loosen his shoulders and his grip on the infant in his arms. “Enough, my Lord,” he interjected, before Thuringwethil could speak again, to make it worse. “Enough. It is in the past. You goaded her, and you,” he turned to his daughter, “are more impertinent than my brothers at thirty. You know better.”

Thuringwethil stared at him, eyes narrowed. Whatever she saw in his face, or in their bond, made her duck her head. “Sorry, Atya. Sorry, Ada.”

“Thank you,” Maitimo said, and leveled a meaningful glare at Mairon, who hummed as if considering, before nodding. 

“Apology accepted. Go set up the board, I’ll be with you shortly.”

Thuringwethil nodded, tense, then stalked out of the room. She shut the door behind her, or rather, slammed it, the loud noise waking the twins. Mairon rolled his eyes, but did his best to soothe Carcharoth, and Maitimo the same for Draugluin. 

With both twins eventually settled in their basket, Mairon went to Mairon’s wardrobe and retrieved his own surcoat.

“Three years, you said?” He pulled his surcoat over his head, and started tightening the laces. It draped over every curve.

Maitimo blinked. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Keep her in line, and I’ll give you seven.”

Maitimo hummed. “Keep helping me feed your brood, and I’ll accept six. They’ll be weaned in one or two.” Mairon grimaced, and started combing his fingers through his hair. Maitimo chuckled. “Not so fun being the nís, is it?”

“Eru made a broken fucking system,” Mairon sighed, “forcing the choices one makes and the pleasures one enjoys to be reflected in the fana. Pointless and cruel.”

Maitimo raised an eyebrow. “Is this not what you have done to me, and to the five others before me?” he asked mildly. He felt, very suddenly and accutely, the heaviness of his chest, the softness of his hips and belly, the ache in his gut and between his thighs, the discordant note of knowing this was not the shape he was supposed to inhabit but he did.

Mairon frowned, but did not answer. His silence was answer enough. Instead he crossed the room and cupped Maitimo’s cheek, tilting his head up for a chaste kiss. “You did well, very well. Thank you, Nelyafinwë. Six years, then.” He kissed Maitimo’s brow, and disappeared. 

“Fuck,” Maitimo whispered to himself. 

---

Warrior Rising, Year 25

Brothers,

Try as I might, I find myself at a loss as to what to say. I rue the distance between us now, and the distance I kept from the youngest among us before we all removed to Formenos. In ever-bright Tirion, how could I have known we would not have time? 

I’m sure by now the results of our arrival have long since healed. Still, I think of you two often, and dare to hope. 

[REDACTED BY ORDER OF LORD MAIRON]

Keep a watch on the North,

Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran