A Song Amidst His Torment by Elrond's Library  

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8

Maitimo makes a drastic decision.

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Then Fëanor swore a terrible oath. His seven sons leapt straightway to his side and took the selfsame vow together, and red as blood shone their drawn swords in the glare of the torches. They swore an oath which none shall break, and none should take, by the name even of Iluvatar, calling the Everlasting Dark upon them if they kept it not; and Manwe they named in witness, and Varda …

Thus spoke Maedhros and Maglor and Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir, Amrod and Amras, princes of the Noldor; and many quailed to hear the dread words. For so sworn, good or evil, an oath may not be broken, and it shall pursue oathkeeper and oathbreaker to the world’s end. (Of the Flight of the Noldor, 83)

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Three. And then none.

Three Silmarilli. And then they had been stolen.

Third Finwë. And then none given the distinction of fourth.

Three times two brothers. And then none, for he was alone.

Three times his golden love had had to ask. And now he, too, was lost to him.

Maitimo’s life was a comedy of triplicates.

Because, of course, the fucking trap that had led him here, that had been sprung nearly a decade past had tendrils. Reaching, seeking, catching, clawing, cutting oh so deep until Maitimo was maneuvered exactly where the Lieutenant of Angband wanted him. He had played right into his waiting grasp, the leading partner in a dance Maitimo hadn't even known he was following in.

Which was why, Maitimo reflected, he was sitting in Mairon’s luxurious apartments, sipping sweet wine, playing arantyalmë with the Maia in question, as Línemírë looked on. Her hands were busy with a bit of mending, darning a sock before the hole got too big.

Maitimo considered himself quite skilled in the game of arantyalmë. It suited his temperament, and growing up playing Fëanáro, and later Finwë and Nolofinwë, gave him ample opportunity to practice in ever-bright Tirion.

That, of course, did not stop him from getting his ass handed to him, again and again.

Mairon played with an intensity that rivaled his father, but Maitimo’s heart, and head, wasn’t in it. He was distracted.

Time was running out. The grace period Mairon had given them, time generously given to consider the offer they had been extended, was swiftly ending. And Maitimo still had no answer to give.

Well, no. Maitimo knew the answer he would give. He would do what he had to, in order to survive. He could see no other way.

He just didn’t like it, and, like a petulant child faced with the prospect of doing the unpleasant chores parents gave all children, he had been avoiding thinking about it.

A return to the pits was not an option, where Mairon had not, could not enforce the terms of the treaty his brother had negotiated. Mairon’s job was to keep Maitimo alive. All it would take is a lone orc, or an indignant thrall, or regaining the dread Vala’s attention, and then … well, Maitimo would be another houseless spirit, held here forever. Dead, and bodiless. Just a pittance of potential energy that Mairon or his lackeys would use, use up, experiment with until he was well and truly nothing.

He would abandon his brothers to fulfill the Oath their father had sworn them to twice over. He could not. He had to survive. He had to get out of this place, to help them, to protect them.

Mairon advanced a foot soldier, pushing the attack.

But Makalaurë was not stupid. Maitimo knew that behind the airy, care-free, overly-emotional poet’s guise lay just as much steel as any son of Fëanáro had. Just as much conviction, just as much drive, and just as much intelligence. Makalaurë would come to the same conclusion Maitimo had.

That while yes, they had negotiated for fifty years of peace, the odds of both groups upholding the terms would be … nigh impossible. There were too many variables on either side. Some orc patrol would get too close, some Elda would break ranks, and everything, everything would be forfeit. And even if, somehow, they managed to get to the end of those fifty years, to get to the point where they had agreed to renegotiate, the compulsion, the drive of the Oath would never allow them all to just walk away.

He moved a knight into a new position, barely considering the implications as nerves roiled in his guts.

Maitimo would be trapped here, forever. Caught as collateral in a war they had started, almost won with the Dagor-nuin-Giliath that had sent what little remained of Mairon’s army – for it was Mairon, not Melkor, who was truly in control of the military here – fleeing back to Angband like a handful leaves in the wind.

Despair, wretched hopelessness clouded his mind. He would never be safe here. He would never see his family, his beloved – no, can’t think about that – his people again.

The knight was dispatched dispassionately. Maitimo pushed another foot soldier forward, capturing one of Mairon’s Seers, which was quickly taken by Mairon’s Queen. Maitimo sighed, casting about for a move that wouldn’t immediately end the game.

Maitimo could be honest with himself and say that the trade, the reward for his consent to this plan might not be worth the suffering, the death, the agonizing violation and degradation it would bring him. But on the other hand, he knew the pain going back to the pits would bring. He knew, and no amount of bravado could keep him from quailing under the threat of continued torment. This incarnate flesh was just flesh, after all, and flesh will do anything, say anything, to not be in pain.

Mairon’s proposal, while risky, and life-altering, would give him the opportunity to survive this ordeal. It would keep him safe. Fed. It would give him time. Time he needed. Wanted. Desperately, so desperately desired.

Could he survive this? Not intact, but he might be willing to gamble. His chances looked better here than in the pits.

Maitimo shook his head ruefully. This game would be over in five moves or less, no matter how he played it. “I yield,” he murmured, tilting his King with the tip of one finger until it fell.

Mairon smiled from the other side of the low table. He swirled his glass of wine with all the air of a satisfied cat.

“Well played, Nelyafinwë.” Mairon paused, looking thoughtful, but not angry. “But, you are distracted. You had multiple opportunities to take pieces that you did not exploit. I expect better from you.”

Maitimo closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Nodded. Bowed in ritualized reverence over the board. “You’re right, I was. Forgive me, my Lord. I was …”

All he has to do is say yes. The hot bath, the private room, the comfortable bed, the sweet wines, the fresh fruits and creamy cheeses and identifiable meats, the warm fire, the safety, the time. All that could continue to be his. He just had to say yes.

He had to condemn them both, swear them both to a path they would both suffer from.

He opened his eyes, looked up at Línemírë to find her watching him back from the couch, her countenance soft with compassion and understanding. So much of the last few weeks had been spent talking. Talking about Mairon’s proposal, what it would mean, what it would do to them both. Whether they could both bear the burden of what was being asked of them. Whether it was a cost they were willing to pay.

She had agreed, but he would live with the consequences far longer than she would.

He just had to say yes.

Mairon glanced between the pair, head tilted in bird-like attention. “You were…?” he prompted, as the silence grew unbearably thick.

Just say yes.

Línemírë nodded, the faintest of smiles hovering in the corners of her mouth, and Maitimo felt the dread settle in his stomach, his limbs heavy. He raised his wine to his lips, moving slow, as if through a sea of honey. The wine was sweet, cloyingly thick on his tongue. He swallowed, and, absurdly, wanted to weep.

Say yes.

Voice thick, quiet, he sealed his future, their fate. “We … we accept your proposal.”

Mairon leaned back, blinked twice, like he hadn’t expected Maitimo to acquiesce after all. Maitimo watched Mairon’s gleaming white teeth slowly emerge under an unsettling, predatory smile, and a distant part of himself quailed. Oh, what had he done?

“I see,” Mairon purred. He relaxed, seeming to go boneless in the embrace of the couch seat at his back. “All of it? Both of you?”

“Yes,” Línemírë nodded. “But we ask, respectfully, for greater assurance.”

“In what form?”

“An Oath in return for ours, witnessed by Eru and a Vala of your choosing.” Línemírë glanced down at Maitimo, and Mairon followed her eyes.

There was so much they did not know about the kind of binding oath Maitimo had sworn with his father and brothers. Rumors only, speculative gossip, idle mentions about the binding of Maiar to the service of their Vala.

But there was an undeniable aspect of his fëa that had been altered after that day in Tirion’s great square, under the great boughs of silver Galathilion. Maitimo unconsciously rubbed at his throat, remembering the striving need to reach for the Silmarilli on Melkor’s brow, and the animalistic panic that suffused him as Melkor crushed his windpipe under blessing-burnt hands.

Mairon hummed. Nodded once. “To Eru Ilúvatar, but no Vala.”

Maitimo frowned. “Does the Lord of Angband not know about this?”

Frustration, or perhaps anger, flashed through Mairon’s molten eyes, and was gone by the next heartbeat. A pause, as Mairon sipped at his wine. “I would not concern my Lord with this,” he said into his cup.

Maitimo would laugh, had it been a courtier using that line in an effort to skirt around Haru Finwë’s authority. But it was Melkor they spoke of, and so Maitimo did not laugh. He merely considered the Lieutenant. Memory flashed, of that first day, kneeling in that black hall, as Mairon bargained for Maitimo’s life.

“I want him alive, beloved. Give him to me. I’ll make good use of him, and you’d never have to see him again if you wish it.”

“How long have you been planning this, my Lord?” Maitimo asked, voice light even as his heart tightened in his chest. He paused, then threw caution to the wind. “Behind his back?”

Mairon froze, eyes tight. “Long enough, little Ñoldóran.” He glanced up at Línemírë. “I’ll swear to Eru, and so will you both, and only then will we begin.”

And so the comedy of threes continued.

Three Oaths sworn, securing his future and his fate.