A Song Amidst His Torment by Elrond's Library  

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4

Mairon and Makalaurë negotiate.

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“Then the brothers of Maedhros drew back, and fortified a great camp in Hithlum; but Morgoth held Maedhros as hostage, and send word that he would not release him unless the Noldor would forsake their war, returning into the West, or else departing far from Beleriand into the South of the world. But the sons of Feanor knew that Morgoth would betray them, and would not release Maedhros, whatsoever they might do; and they were constrained also by their oath, and might not for any cause forsake the war against their Enemy.” (Of the Return of the Noldor, 108)

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Maitimo knelt on a plush feather pillow, a gentle breeze coming off the spring of the Sirion cooling his skin and ruffling his shortened hair. Steel bands encircled his wrists, resting on his lap, connected by chains to the looser steel collar about his neck. He shifted slightly, to relieve the pressure this position put on his joints.

He drank in the sight of his brothers. Makalaurë and Ambarussa were seated opposite the low table. Makalaurë bore a circlet over his braided black hair, a silver sister to their atar’s golden crown, and chain mail peaked out from the edges of his full-sleeved surcoat. Wine red with the golden star of their House embroidered large across the chests, the brothers matched, though Maitimo knew Ambarussa preferred hunting leathers to mail. He hoped Ambarussa was wearing mail.

They had come alone, leaving their horses at the treeline. Like Mairon, they likely had a small force in the trees and up the mountain. Too far for immediate aid, too few to overwhelm, but enough to bear witness, and to support if circumstances demanded it.

Pride and shame curled together: Pride that they had shown up at all; shame that they had to see him like this at all.

Captive. Bloodied. Shorn.

Mairon sipped at a glass of wine beside Maitimo, lounging comfortably. The low table between them and his brothers was laden with fruit and fine meats and both red and white wine. Delicacies they had long run out of, and had neither time nor resources to make themselves. Gifts that, despite being assured they were unspoiled and perfectly safe, neither of his brothers indulged in.

And of course, he wasn’t given anything either. Maitimo was there to act as a visual reminder of what was being bargained over, a symbol as all princes – no, all kings – were. His physical condition, the loose hair hanging barely reaching his ears, the bruises and wounds painting a patchwork pattern of fist and lash and steel boot were not personal, were never supposed to be personal. Maitimo had done nothing to deserve them. They were a symbol too, a message intended for one recipient only: his brother, his heir, his Regent.

He blinked, refocusing on the conversation. Negotiations for his release. For peace, even, between the Noldor and Angband.

“We are willing to release the Ñoldóran back to you under very specific conditions,” Mairon gestured languidly in Maitimo’s direction, wine sloshing in his cup. Maitimo barely suppressed a flinch.

“And what might those be, Mairon Melkondur?” Makalaurë raised an eyebrow, voice as neutral and impassive as Maitimo had ever heard it. None of his brothers were known for lack of passion, Makalaurë especially. Ambarussa had not said a word beyond the bare minimum of greetings, but his eyes bore holes in Mairon, who seemed unaffected by the scrutiny.

A ghost of ósanwë brushed against Maitimo’s battered mental shields. The familiar touch of Ambarussa was gentle, undemanding, even despite his unflinching gaze.

Brother, Ambarussa whispered. Nelyo, your hair …

Mind it not, Maitimo whispered back. It will grow again. How is Telvo?

Recovering. A trickle of fear slipped through. He’s angry, Nelyo. So angry. Súriwen helps, but–

Anger means he’s alive. Maitimo interrupted. Let him rage, Pityo. Fëanáro and our brothers did him great disservice at Losgar. Let him rage. He will come back to you.

All of a sudden a stabbing pain emanated from behind his eyes, making him wince. Through the tears that he furiously blinked away, he saw Ambarussa wince, gloved fist tightening in his lap.

“Why, an end to this pointless crusade, of course,” Mairon drawled with an indolent grin bearing canine teeth just a touch too long. He glared at Maitimo over his shoulder, and the lancing pain eased. “Don’t do that again, little Ñoldóran. Next time will hurt more, for you and your brother.”

“Forgive us, my lord,” Maitimo whispered hoarsely, eyes still swimming. “We did not mean to interrupt.”

Mairon put his glass of wine on the table, then leaned back and caressed Maitimo’s bruised cheek. He was gentle, yet oh so possessive. “You are forgiven, little Ñoldóran.”

Maitimo held his breath, shuddering at the Maia’s too cool touch, his magnanimous tone. If he had to, he would liken the feel to one of Nerdanel’s polished marble statues, smooth and delicate and far, far too impersonal to be flesh. He bore the touch, eyes downcast, even as it stung his pride. If I wouldn’t shatter my teeth trying, I would bite them off before he could touch me again.

Mairon hummed, then turned back to Makalaurë. “As I was saying. Retreat. Take your people back over the seas to the land of peace and plenty. Abandon these shores and this pointless effort.”

Makalaurë shook his head. “That way is shut to the Noldor. The Powers would not let us pass, even if we had ships to bear us hence.”

“Go south then. South and east. There is open land, and prosperous rivers, and the potential for your people to build themselves great cities. You will not find such opportunities in Beleriand.”

“We cannot.”

“Elu Thingol has claimed this land as his own, Regent, but even he has negotiated with me for a stalemate. You come with force of arms; you upset the balance. He, we, do not take to that kindly. It would be better for you and your people if you left.”

“I am not negotiating with the Sindar. I am negotiating with you for the release of my lord brother.”

“Indeed,” Mairon murmured, taking another sip of his wine. “Releasing Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran at all is contingent on the Noldor’s agreement to leave Beleriand and in so doing abandon your war on my Lord Melkor and his lands. Since you refuse, let us instead negotiate in half-measures.”

Dread dropped like a stone through Maitimo’s gut, limbs heavy with lead. He forced his head up, seeking Makalaurë, who at least had the decency to meet his eyes. His brother looked … distant. Regretful, perhaps, but seemingly already resigned to this. Maitimo held himself back from speaking, from reaching for them with ósanwë, knowing that somehow Mairon would sense it. But oh how he wanted the comfort of their minds against his in this moment.

“What guarantee do we have for his safety, then, if he cannot return with us? You’ve already bruised and bloodied him; what keeps you from disposing of him entirely?”

Mairon considered the question seriously, turning to Maitimo slightly. “We do not wish for war just as much as you also, likely, do not. Would letters, in his own hand on a seasonal basis suffice, in return for non-aggression from your people?”

Maitimo blinked, thinking fast. He raised a hand, chain links clinking quietly, to brush his shortened hair behind his ear, staring at Makalaurë hard. Willing him to understand.

“A braid,” Ambarussa interrupted quietly, evidently following Maitimo’s train of thought faster than Makalaurë was. Oromë bless his little brother's keen mind. “Letters in Nelyo’s handwriting, delivered when Menelmacar’s belt is fully visible on the horizon and when it fully disappears, and a small braid, in a healthy condition, cut, not torn.”

“And if there is any Noldor aggression, including death to our messengers, any and all consideration will be considered forfeit. Agreed?” Mairon looked eager, all smiles and wolf-like teeth.

Makalaurë hesitated, glancing at Maitimo. “Brother?”

All eyes turned to him. Ambarussa’s pitying, Makalaurë’s worried, Mairon’s flame-like in warning.

His mind turned the sudden change of circumstances over, breathing past the panic of the sudden loss of the hope that he would return to his own camp. Options, Maitimo, what options exist, what else can change, what leverage can you use … fuck.

Maitimo nodded slowly. “It’s your decision, Kanafinwë. I will abide by it, if that be your wish.”

Makalaurë flinched. Maitimo’s use of his brother’s ataressë was deliberate, for he rarely, if ever, used it in directly addressing him. Only Curufinwë routinely used his full ataressë. They stared at each other for a long moment, assessing each other's resolve.

“Agreed,” Makalaurë choked out, still staring.

Mairon smirked. “I’ll be generous, Aryon. We can revisit these terms in one hundred full cycles of Menelmacar, should both parties still uphold the agreement.”

Makalaurë frowned, bright eyes flashing. “Ten.”

“Eighty.”

Makalaurë opened his mouth to protest, but Maitimo just wanted it over with. “Fifty,” he said, resigned. “Stop arguing, Káno.”

His brother pressed his lips tight, almost bloodless. “Yes, Ñoldóran,” he finally said, bowing his head. “Forgive me.”

“Excellent,” Mairon said with relish. “Let us put it to parchment then.”

The drafting of this treaty, for a treaty it was, in truth, with Maitimo held as collateral, happened around him in a haze. Terms, time limits, trade access … none of it mattered.

He was being taken out of the picture. Any plans, any hopes, any opportunities were just gone. They were still grieving, oath-bound twice over. Ambarussa, both of them, shattered by their father’s actions, by their brother’s actions too, at Losgar. Any claim to being head of their House, any action that could have been taken to unify his brothers, to heal and mourn and pick themselves up again … was all in Makalaurë’s harp-calloused, sword-bearing hands. Maitimo would be unable to be there for his brothers, for his people, for his love …

A quill, white goose feather waving, was pressed into his right hand.

“Sign, Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran,” Mairon murmured, burned and blackened fingers gentle even as they gripped his wrist.

“May I have a few moments with my brothers before we depart, my Lord?” Maitimo asked quietly.

“Yes.”

Maitimo nodded, shuffling forward on his knees to approach the table. Two pieces of parchment, looping tengwar elegant and unfamiliar, lay before him, identical copies. He glanced at Makalaurë, eyebrows raised. His brother grimaced slightly, but nodded.

I, Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran, being of sound mind, do hereby agree to abide by the terms of this agreement between Kanafinwë Aryon of the Noldor and Mairon Melkondur, Lieutenant of Angband.

He signed, chains clinking with a quiet music.

Mairon stood, clapping a hand on Maitimo’s shoulder suddenly. “Don’t be too long, little Ñoldóran. We have a long road back to Angband.”

Maitimo nodded, eyes downcast. The heavy feeling of dread suffused his limbs.

“Maitimo,” Makalaurë said after a long moment. He reached across the table, palm up. “Maitimo.”

“Káno,” he responded with a sigh. “You did what you could.”

“It’s not enough,” Makalaurë sounded bitter, but Maitimo couldn’t bring himself to look at him. “Maitimo, please.”

He glanced up at that, eyes flashing. “What, Makalaurë?” he hissed. “You want me to tell you that I am content with this, that you did well? Do you want my assurance that this is what I wanted, that I will be safe or – or – or happy? Eru help us all, this has been a catastrophe building on itself since before the Silmarilli were even made! And you–”

“Maitimo. We know.” Ambarussa cut him off before his voice could get any louder. “We all know. But you have to keep yourself safe, as much as you can in that place. So you can come back to us. A lot can change in fifty years.”

Maitimo let out a humorless bark of laughter. “I know, Pityo. I know.” He sighed, and forced down the wave of anger and frustration with that breath. That is not what he wanted to leave his brothers with. “What will you tell the others?”

Makalaurë had tears in his eyes. “The truth, I think.”

“You will never recover any authority you might have had over Tyelko or Curufinwë if you do.”

“So be it.”

Maitimo nodded. He let his eyes drift over his brothers and to the glittering stream behind them. “Do me a favor?”

“Anything,” Makalaurë breathed.

“There’s a false bottom in my jewelry case. Keep the contents secret and safe, would you? You’ll know what to do with them, if the circumstances change.” Maitimo glanced back at his brothers. “Unlikely, given Losgar, but.”

Makalaurë and Ambarussa shared a puzzled look. “What’s in there?” Ambarussa asked.

Maitimo jerked his head over his shoulder, where he could feel the Maia’s eyes on his back. “You’ll figure it out.”

Time’s up, Mairon pushed towards him, a hint of impatience behind his words.

Maitimo flinched, the alien feeling of the Maia’s mind against his evoking dark places and rot and the heat of the forge. “I need to go,” he forced himself to say as he stood. “Give me a hug, and know that despite all that has happened, I love you both. I love you all.”

Ambarussa clambered over the low table and launched himself into Maitimo’s arms, fitting his lanky frame under his chin. Makalaurë moved slower, going around the table and then tentatively folding himself around both of them. They stood there for many long moments. Maitimo basked in the feeling of comfortable, safe hands touching his battered hröa, his brothers’ grief-stricken love enveloping his fëa. He kissed their hair, first Ambarussa, then Makalaurë, who was silently crying.

“Be safe,” he whispered, voice breaking as he tore himself away. “I love you.”

Maitimo turned, and walked willingly back into darkness.