A Song Amidst His Torment by Elrond's Library  

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6

Maitimo glimpses a change of fortune.

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Maitimo’s days in the forges had a routine that was efficient as it was boring.

A elf-runner would wake him and the seven others that shared the same sleeping space. They would proceed in a line to the mess-hall, and receive a measure of bread and a bowl of something gray and gooey. Whether it had meat in it was entirely random. Once, early on, Maitimo had gotten a bowl with an eyeball of indeterminate species floating in it, and was shocked by how quickly the others volunteered to take it from him.

He would probably eat it now, if such an opportunity presented itself. How far the King of the Noldor had fallen.

Maitimo would then report to the forgemaster, a gruff and taciturn Avari with tattoos like waves down his arms. He would give them each materials, and work orders. The most common tasks were smelting and purifying ore into ingots, but it was fairly common for Maitimo to be set to work creating weapons, armor, and mail. But occasionally small items, like door-hinges or buckles or merit tokens, would be necessary. He would stay until he met his quota, receive his evening meal, and retire to his shared quarters.

He was fluent in Angband Sindarin by the time he had joined the forge-workers, though he knew he had to be learning a bastardized dialect of the language, cut off as it was from the culture of its origin. Maitimo was conversational in the language the orcs spoke by this point as well, for it was an even stranger mix of Sindarin, various Avari dialects, and a less intense and simplified form of Valarin. A strange language, to be sure, but he knew his father would have enjoyed teasing its logic out. If he had any energy, or paper, he himself might have relished the challenge.

The evenings were spent with the other seven of his crew, and they had grown quite close. They taught him their language and their songs and their stories. They took care of him in the aftermath of lash and burn and knife and boot. And he taught and cared for them in turn.

But the brutality of this place kept him isolated. They would not hesitate to turn on him should it be advantageous for them to do so. He would not hesitate to do the same.

They had, once, and it had cost him much. It was a lucky thing, maybe, that Maitimo had decided long ago that fatherhood would not be his path. An attentive brother, a doting uncle, but not a father. Lucky maybe, but he mourned the loss of this aspect of his manhood nevertheless. Lucky, maybe, that he had not lost more.

His crew had cared for him in the aftermath, but it had still taken days for the ragged gash between his legs to stop bleeding, to begin to heal.

The days passed. Boring, repetitive, and just a little bit safer here in the forges than in the mines, or in what his companions called the caves, the little solitary cells he had spent much of his first two years in.

The higher you go, the harder you fall, and so it was that though punishment was not given out as regularly, it was all the more brutal when it came. Failure to meet standards and quotas were met with the lash, brands, boots, and starvation. Catastrophic failure of craft, or showing resistance, would often result in a few days or weeks in the caves, depending on the mood of the overseers. When they returned, well. It certainly was no garden party.

Maitimo was back in the caves. A dagger had shattered in the quenching oil. He had cursed too loudly. He had tried to argue with the overseer. He had punched the orc who tried to walk him away from his workbench. He had, as should have been expected, received all the hospitality Angband had to offer.

And so, in short, Maitimo was having a no-good, very bad day. Just to round out the no good, very bad week in this Vala-forsaken year of this damned and doomed yen.

It’s not like it could get much worse, right?

He had been so good. Biding his time, giving them what they asked for when they asked, no questions or indignation. Completely compliant. Yes sir, no sir, please may I have another sir? Anything, anything to survive. Just another cycle, another week, another half year so he could write to his brothers.

Silent tears fell over his hands, trying to assess just how much damage they had done to his littlest finger when the Lieutenant of Angband entered his cell. Maitimo scrambled back, jarring his finger yet again in his haste. He tried, oh how he tried to make himself small before the Maia’s eyes, crouching there in the dark, shoulders protesting where the corners scraped against fresh wounds.

Tall and straight and clean and perfect, Mairon’s jet black surcoat’s hem swept over his leather boots, the little black beads glittering in the torchlight. He had left the door open behind him.

“Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran,” Mairon greeted him with a smirk as the silence and the staring grew too long.

“Lord Mairon.” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. Too many screams, so much pain; the years had made his voice unlovely even on the best of days. And this was not the best of days.

It had been years since Maitimo had seen Angband’s lieutenant this close, for Mairon kept his own forge space close but separate from where Maitimo worked, and was rarely down in the depths to begin with. But the Maia had changed, subtle shifts in musculature and fat. Lips pinker, cheeks fuller. The surcoat was still tightly tailored, revealing curves in the waist and hips and chest that Maitimo was sure had not been there, years before.

Mairon turned and stalked out to the doorway, breaking Maitimo’s gaze.

“Are you coming?” he asked, face half-turned back. The torchlight caught his yellow hair, a halo of gold and fire.

Maitimo blinked. This had to be a trick, a trap. He did not move. The only safe course of action was inaction.

Mairon sighed. “Come, Nelyafinwë.”

He frowned, trying to control his breathing. He slowly hauled himself up to standing, every muscle in his back aching, the skin stretching and tearing and rubbing painfully against the rough tunic he wore. Stay small, stay quiet, be unnoticeable.

Maitimo lingered by the door, unsure. He kept his eyes lowered, not interested in entertaining any thought of resistance today. Everything hurt too much. If he was being led to his death, that might be a relief, damn the consequences.

Mairon beckoned, the rings on his fingers gleaming, and so Maitimo followed. Surprisingly, Mairon did not bother to cuff his wrists or his ankles, or do anything at all to keep Maitimo close. He did not touch him. He instead walked confidently through the twisting and undulating halls, as if he expected Maitimo to follow like a trained and broken hound.

He was; he did. Two steps behind. The entire way.

It seemed like they were ascending. The air became cooler, less filled with smoke, less oppressive. They passed less orcs as they walked, more proud úmaiar and broken, cowed elves. None of them gave Maitimo more than a passing glance, but the úmaiar bowed and scuttled out of Mairon’s way.

Mairon led him to an unassuming door at the end of a long hallway. They were alone. Maitimo shivered. They must be much closer to the surface, maybe even near the peak of one of the three mountains above Angband’s black gate, and it was cold.

His rough spun tunic and patched pants and bare feet were not, in fact, suited to this clime. The forges, the heat of the earth, the work, the work, the work … it had been so long since he had felt a chill. He understood now why Mairon bundled himself so, long sleeves and long surcoat and even an overcoat. Could a Maia feel cold? Manwë’s winds did not seem to, but perhaps it was a difference of this place, Melkor’s presence acting on the natural world–

That line of thinking would have to wait. Mairon opened the door and stood aside, his arm out held in a gesture of welcome. Maitimo stepped through the door, passing Mairon with a wary look. He did not want to let the Maia out of his sight, but the grandeur of the space caught his attention, pulling his eyes up and away.

The Lieutenant of Angband kept an apartment that was brimming with wealth and comfort, easily rivaling the personal wing of the royal family in Tirion and nearly as large. The space was curved and open doors on either end of the room revealed halls that went back the way they had come, forming an apartment remarkably similar in shape to a horseshoe.

The ceilings arched overhead at varying heights following the natural contours of the mountain. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, providing a soft golden light. A grand window of small panes of glass sat embedded in the wall, overlooking the southern plains. Instinct drew Maitimo’s eye west, where his brothers should be, but the mountains and the darkness obscured any hope of seeing evidence they were still there.

Plush couches in red and yellow velvet sat in a semicircle around a low table, which was set with a dinner service for two. There was steaming soup in small bowls, a quarter of a small fowl roasted with herbs and lemon slices, fresh bread, and a salad on large plates. A glittering crystal carafe held a dark red, almost black wine. Maitimo’s mouth watered.

Mairon shut the door quietly behind him, but Maitimo heard the snick of a lock being engaged, and a jolt of panic thrummed in his veins. They were alone. He turned back, meeting Mairon’s golden eyes for the first time. Maitimo saw hunger there, happiness and satisfaction, like a cat right before he pounces on an unsuspecting field mouse.

The Maia did not give him a chance to question what such a look might mean. He swept past Maitimo without a backwards glance and knelt at the low table.

“Come, Nelyafinwë,” Mairon sang as he poured wine into a pair of goblets. “Come dine with me.”

Maitimo stepped forward, onto the rug which sank under his bare feet. He forced himself to hold back a moan of pleasure, the softness of the pile a soothing balm to his fëa in a way he hadn’t known he was missing.

He knelt, stiffly, the bruises and cuts from Angband’s hospitality making themselves known again as he sat on his heels. He waited until Mairon had finished pouring the wine before bowing at the waist, centuries of court dinners and good manners the only thing holding him back from shoving an entire slice of bread into his mouth. Whatever this was, he was not going to let a slip of deference rob him of this meal.

Mairon bowed back, just deep enough to show his elevated social position over Maitimo. He wondered absently about cultural influences over time, whether they were poorly reenacting rituals that dated back to the mythic days of Almaren that had been introduced by the Valar to the Eldar as they came to Valinor. Change came so slow to the Powers, it very well might be the case.

“Eat,” Mairon said, the fullness of his lips stained red with the first sip of wine. “Drink.”

Maitimo forced himself to eat slowly, though every instinct learned over the last eight years yelled at him to put as much into his stomach as he could bear. Starvation makes for a greedy table guest, and he could ill afford it.

All the while, Mairon was silent, eating just as slowly, content to watch Maitimo under long lashes and bright, mischievous eyes.

“Why?” Maitimo asked, breaking the tense silence, his meal mostly complete. He tore his bread into bite-sized chunks.

“Why what?” Mairon sighed, swirling his wine.

“Why have you brought me out of the forges, my Lord?”

Mairon hummed, smiling slightly. “I think I have a better use for you in mind, Ñoldóran. But first, the meal, and a bath, and some tending to your hurts. Then, and only then, will I entertain questions about your future.”

Maitimo nodded even as his anxiety spiked. It wasn’t time for a letter to his brothers, he had one hundred and eighteen cycles until the next opportunity came. The bread was hearty, toasted seeds cracking under his teeth. “Will you send me back to the forges, my Lord?”

Mairon finished his wine. His golden-yellow eyes had not left Maitimo’s body throughout the entire meal, his attention unwavering despite how quiet and withdrawn he had been. Maitimo shivered. Now they flicked away, over Maitimo’s shoulder, then back.

“Later, Ñoldóran.”