Maps by grey_gazania

Chapter 11: Maedhros

I am alone in the dark, chained up once more in my cell after Moringotto's most recent attempt at 'persuasion'. He wants me to sign my name to a letter urging my brothers to remove to the south of Beleriand, or so he says. I will not — my brothers deserve better than his lies — but I think he truly cares little for the letter. He simply enjoys tormenting me, Fëanáro's eldest son, erstwhile King of the Noldor.

Makalaurë holds that title now. I pity him for it.

Every inch of my body aches, and my head is sore and spinning from blood loss. Moringotto doesn't want me dead; that much is plain. But he doesn't give a damn for my injuries unless they threaten my life. I cannot remember the last time I was free of pain. I cannot remember the last time I saw any light but the Silmarils gleaming in his iron crown. So close to me, and yet I cannot reclaim them!

I hear the iron door of the cell creak open. No light spills in, of course, but I don't need light to know who is there. She smells of death and dirt and stagnant water, this winged creature who feeds on my blood. ("Royal blood is so much richer than Avarin blood," she had taunted once. Myself, I can taste no difference between my own blood and the blood of the Orcs I have in desperation slain with my teeth.) The shadows seem to grow even darker whenever she is in the room, a darkness that is airless and oppressive. Without any greeting, she grasps my wrists and sinks her teeth into my neck.

I don't struggle. My past attempts at resistance have only ever succeeded in angering her, and I am too tired to waste what little energy I have on a futile fight. She drinks and drinks and drinks, until spots dance across my eyes and my mind begins to slide into oblivion.

I am almost grateful for the peace that unconsciousness brings.