A Song Amidst His Torment by Elrond's Library  

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7

Maitimo takes a bath, and meets an old friend.

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The bath was divine.

Mairon had Sang away the worst of his hröa’s hurts. Bones snapped back into place, skin knit together with only the thinnest of scars, even the worst bruises faded from black and purple to a nasty yellow. Oh, it hurt, the Singing, to put several months of healing through his body in several minutes instead, but the bath soothed the tension and chased away the lingering tremors.

Hot water and lemon scented soap and oil for his hair – recently cropped about his shoulders again – and blissful relief from the golden gaze of the Maia lord. If he closed his eyes, he could delude himself into thinking he was in Tirion again, before Silmarilli were made, when all his woes were related to court and courting. Thoughts of that time, of safety and the petty concerns of municipal water management and gold ribbons flashed under his eyes. He blinked, seeing the uneven dark stone of Mairon’s apartments, and sighed. Memory could be worse than reality. Tirion was far away, the court broken, his love left behind.

He stayed in the bath until the water cooled.

Mairon had left a box of supplies by the door, courteously enough. Quickly, efficiently, feeling more and more vulnerable the longer he stayed unclad, he combed through the box, finding everything he might need. Pants and a loose shirt of a soft linen went under a thick, blue, fur-lined robe with bell-like sleeves that belted around the waist. Maitimo combed through his hair, the wood pale and polished. Everything in this box was in accordance with his tastes in slightly chillier Formenos: the oil smelled of sandalwood and lavender, the sleeves were large enough to hide his hands in, the robe was long enough to brush against his ankles. At the bottom of the box were two white ribbons and a pair of slippers, very similar to the shoes he had worn on feast days where he had been expected to dance with the ladies of Haru Finwë’s court.

The strangest thing was, of course, that everything fit him, and fit him well. His height had been the bane of many a tailor and cobbler in Tirion.

How was it possible, then, that Mairon could have clothes made to fit him? For how long had he been planning his removal from the pits, from the forges? And for what purpose? Why was he here, being treated with care and respect, fed identifiable meats and fresh bread?

How long would such treatment last?

Maitimo struggled, dual emotions dueling back and forth. Thrust, parry, thrust again. Greed, and wariness. Desire, and fear. He wanted to keep this, this new and comfortable and luxurious situation. But he knew it could not last. It would not last, unless he had something to pay for it with. Nothing in Angband came for free, and gaining the attention of the powerful in this place did not bode well.

He had nothing. The rags he had come here wearing, and anything else he had needed in his time here, had been paid for with favors to the Eldar overseers. An extra shift here, a cock in his mouth there.

And waiting for the hammer to fall, to shatter him again, after giving him this tantalizing piece of dignity …

Maitimo shuddered. He’d rather not dwell on that, so he focused on his hands, braiding his hair. Two three-stranded braids, close to the scalp, white ribbons from the box securing them under his ears. This simple act, of running clean hands through clean hair, felt almost as good as the bath itself.

The last thing in the box, the dark wood almost concealing it completely, was a hand mirror. A copper plate, polished so smooth as to be reflective, in a wooden frame and a handle carved in the likeness of two veiled figures, back to back. Maitimo’s fingers gently traced the back of it, the mirrored side face down. He hadn’t seen himself clearly in nearly a decade.

He did not have to look.

He did not want to look.

He did not know what, or who he would see if he did.

He needed to know.

So he looked.

The face staring back at him was gaunt, cheeks sunken, all angles and hollows. His eyes were too wide. His nose was crooked from healing poorly. He flicked his ears, frowning at the notches where he had once had piercings. Silvery scars, thin and healed, criss-crossed over his skin. His braids were neat, the white of the ribbons a stark contrast against the water-darkened red of his hair.

He knew this face by touch alone, but to see the evidence of Angband, to know for certain just how much the pits had changed him from the prince he had been in Tirion …

He slammed the hand mirror down, breathing hard.

He felt sick.

The dissonant notes between his internal image of himself, what he somehow still expected to see, and what he had actually seen tugged at his fëa. He sank into a crouch, hugging his knees, burying his face in the dark blue robe.

This face was not his, this body strange and alien. Maitimo he had been named, well-formed, his beauty renowned, his place in the House of Finwë, first of the House of Fëanáro, assured. The Noldor revered beauty, held it the pinnacle of worldly virtue. To be beautiful was to be trustworthy, pure, close to the Powers and the Flame Imperishable – close to Eru Ilúvatar. Vain, the internal voice that sounded like Makalaurë accused often, no less famed for his own beauty. Yes, Maitimo was vain, he knew it, and had embraced it. Cultivated it, formed a public image of himself around it. Used it to his advantage when he could afford to hide his clever mind behind a pretty face. Never had he had a reason to believe that that vanity was in vain, undeserved, unwarranted.

Now, now though … the familiar eyes that looked at him in that mirror had been surrounded by a stranger's repulsive face. He was unlovely, unmanned, impure.

He wallowed in the feeling, skin crawling with the dissonance – tiny fingers, poking, prodding, tugging, cutting on the sharp edges of himself – for an immeasurable amount of time.

A knock on the door, tentative and shaky, startled him out of his misery.

Right.

Mairon, and whatever he had planned for him.

An unexpected, yet familiar face met his eyes as he opened the door. Línemírë, one of the ten who had come into Angband with him. He had seen her in passing a time or two, never long enough to talk. She stood back, away from the door, hands clasped behind her back. She wore a blue gown, whose tone matched that of his own robes, likely from the same dye vat, or even the same bolt of fabric. Her hair was braided down one side, white ribbon blending into the silver of her hair where it fell over one shoulder. Her blue eyes – eye, one was missing under a mess of scar tissue that marred half her face – stared back at him, the Light of the Trees strong and undiminished.

“Línemírë,” Maitimo said dumbly, blinking in shock.

“Ñoldóran,” she nodded, dipping into a shallow curtsy. “Lord Mairon had some business to attend to. He said he would be back before the next work-cycle starts.”

Maitimo nodded. He drank in her visage, reveling in the sweet taste of his mother-tongue in his ears. So long had he spent speaking, thinking, dreaming, in the strange and broken mix of Angband Sindarin the other Eldar spoke, and Black Speech of the Orcs, that Quenya felt strange and yet comforting.

“It’s good to see you, Línemírë.” Maitimo had not known her well, would not have counted her among his circle of close friends, but they had known each other in Tirion. He had danced with her often at his grandfather’s grand dinner parties; attended the same lectures at the university on occasion. Circling just outside each other’s orbit.

And then the Darkening, and Alqualondë. He had noticed her fierceness in the fighting on the quays, elevated her quickly to be among his host after the Second Battle, which Tyelkormo had, in his usual unimaginative way, named the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, the Battle Under Stars. What they would call future battles under the stars, he had no idea, but that really wasn’t his problem right now. No battles would be started until he was free, at least not started by the Noldor hosts. He thought, he hoped, that Makalaurë would not be so foolish as to break the treaty he had wrought, leaving Maitimo and what was left of his ten behind as collateral.

All that talent, all that fire and fierceness and drive, all that had done was lead her here.

Yet another thing to add to his list of regrets.

“And you, Ñoldóran,” she said with a faint smile. “Come. We have some time yet.”

He kept his face impassive as she led him back to the first room. The table had been cleared of the dishes Mairon and Maitimo had eaten from, replaced with a bowl of fruit and another carafe of water. Línemírë took an apple from the bowl and sat gracelessly in one of the ugly yellow couches.

“Take some. You’ll not be in trouble,” she said, loudly biting into the apple. “He wants you healthy again. Fattened up. Eat.”

He frowned, sitting more carefully, arranging the skirts of his new overrobe neatly over his knees. He resisted the impulse to tuck his feet up, to make himself small. He wasn’t particularly hungry – and what a strange realization that was! – but he took his own apple anyway. The skin was smooth, pale pink and yellow. Firm, not a single bruise. He gently scraped a nail over its skin, the waxy coating crinkling into a thin ribbon. It smelled like the apples in Yavanna’s gardens, summer-bright and warm.

“Why?” he finally asked.

She shrugged, swallowing another bite. “Some project of his. Lord Mairon was not specific with the details, said he’d explain once you were here. Just that we, you and I, are to be healthy and strong again.”

Maitimo grimaced, thin fingers going white over the apple in his hand. Rumors swarmed often through the elven population, each theory somehow designed to unleash new dreads among them. Theories of what happened to those who displeased the Maia Lieutenant were often even more gruesome than those victims of Melkor. Mairon had ruled over Angband’s denizens far longer than Melkor had, and had the reputation to match.

“How long have you been up here?”

“In Lord Mairon’s apartments? A dozen cycles or so, not long. He brought me from the spinners and weavers. Where were you?”

“Forges. Mines before that.”

Línemírë squinted at him, her bright eye considering. “But you’re a terrible smith, by your own admission.”

He rolled his eyes, huffing a laugh through his nose. He remembered that conversation, mid-dance, her trying to puzzle out his craft, trying to find something in common to talk about. She had asked, baffled, and he had laughed, the bright mind of his husband laughing too where he was listening in. “In comparison to my grandfather, father, and brother, absolutely. I know enough to be passable here.”

Línemírë nodded. “Passable must be enough.” She paused, taking another bite of her apple. “I would have thought they’d keep you, out of all of us, out of the pits.”

“Why? Because of my title?”

She shrugged. “Because exposing you to the possibility of death seems like a poor logistical choice. Ransoming you back to our people would give them a lot of leverage.”

Maitimo smiled, a sad and tired thing. “They already tried.”

Línemírë raised her singular eyebrow. “And?”

“And I’m still here, am I not? Collateral that protects Angband from the Noldor and the Noldor from Angband until tensions get high enough that somebody snaps and another skirmish is fought, at which point I truly am fair game, just as everyone else.” He ran his thumb across the surface of the apple in his hand again, another curl of wax appearing, then falling onto his lap. “I am powerless in the face of the decisions of others.”

Línemírë glanced at the door and lowered her voice. “Nobody has any power here, not even you, Ñoldóran. You never had any. Titles mean nothing. Even our dear Lieutenant is bound, for all that he plays at power. Remember that, Nelyafinwë. He has power over us, fëa and hröa, but it is all borrowed. Moringotto is the true Master of Angband. Even the Lieutenant bends over for him.”

He took a bite of the apple, almost entirely to delay the need to respond. He knew it, had internalized it a long time ago. It was the first thing he had to truly let go in this place. Power, which once he had wielded effortlessly with the blessings of his grandfather and his father both, was a commodity in Angband. Tart juice and brightness burst over his tongue, the memory of Song and a nightingale’s twittering and a Maia’s graceful dance flitting across his mind like a half-remembered dream.

“So we wait, and see what Fate has in store for us,” Maitimo smiled. “At least we will have each other.”