Back to the Shadow by Luxa

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Chapter 1

I'm finally posting a story I started before I went to study abroad in England- so before January, and I'm back in the U.S. now, having finally finished it. It took so long because I wrote it in my journal and had to type it up, because of my traveling, and because some of my journal got wet and the ink ran out and destroyed about 1,500 words of the story that I had to redo. Basically, this is the story that the world tried to destroy, but here we are anyway!

I didn't have a beta but tried to proofread it as best I could- hopefully spelling errors are minimal. I also have no idea how many people know who Amlach is- I came up with the idea while reading The War of the Jewels, one of the histories of Middle-Earth, but his Tolkien Gateway page links to the Silmarillion as published by Christopher Tolkien, so apparently he's there too (it's been a while since I read it). Hopefully I'm not contradicting that canon- I just found his story interesting, and wanted to know what happened after he left to join Maedhros and his thought process and stuff. Prior knowledge of him shouldn't be necessary, though; I think it's all explained in the story.

Anyway, I hope you like the oneshot!

 

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Amlach has come a long way. Not purely in distance—the miles from Estolad to Belegost do not stretch so far—but the road is hard, and Belegost is his second stop in what has become a search. He’d been three-quarters of the way to Himring before running into Sindarin merchants returning from the March of Maedhros, who’d passed on news that Lord Maedhros was off visiting the Dwarves instead of maintaining his usual post of defending his fortress or spending time with cousins who ruled fairer lands. Amlach had turned course that very day.

Now he is standing at the carved doors of Belegost, one hand on his horse’s reins and his back to deceptively barren hills. He has learned in his traveling that, hiding in the valleys of those desolate tops lies fertile farmland, the place the Dwarves must get their all their produce and feeding crops from. Even the Dwarves can’t get everything they need by trading with the outside world. Amlach didn’t see any Dwarven farmers on his journey. A pity.

“Your reason for coming here?” says one of the Dwarves manning the Gate, which is, encouragingly, open, but is, not encouragingly, empty of people going either in or out. “It is late in the afternoon,” continues the guard. “And you do not look a trader.”

Amlach is painfully aware of the weather-worn state of his clothing, as well as his growing beard and the mud caked on his boots. He shifts in his travel garments, drawing himself up a little as his nervousness grows. “I have come to see the Lord Maedhros, Son of Fëanor, Ruler of Himring.”

The Gate-Dwarves exchange inscrutable glances from under their polished visors, communicating silently with hand gestures. Amlach only hopes that they are welcoming him with their fingers.

“Interesting,” says the first Dwarf. “For a Man to come in search of an Elf visiting Dwarven halls. We trust you come at an urgent enough bequest to warrant this peculiarity?”

“I would say no,” says Amlach. “It would not be so urgent but for the shadow at my back and the fire in my lungs. I must see him, for I fear no one else will understand.”

What is visible of the Dwarf’s expression still makes no change, but he sweeps his hand to the side, beckoning him towards the Gate.

“Welcome,” says the Dwarf. “To Belegost.”

Amlach steps forward, swallowing hard. Once inside, he hands the reins of his horse to the second Dwarf, who promises that his steed will be safely kept in the visitors’ stable. Amlach looks behind him and finds that the light of the day he is leaving behind does not feel nearly as inviting as he thought it would, nor the darkness as oppressive as he assumed it would be. Turning to face what’s ahead, he sees that there is a new, artificial light that is nearly as bright and no less illuminating.

He has never been inside a Dwarven city before—that isn’t to say that he hasn’t met Dwarves, of course, traveling here and there on the more populated roads, and occasionally coming to visit the villages in Amlach’s home with a few goods to trade for his people’s meager excess crop. Most of his fellow villagers have no idea where the stout people make their journeys from, except perhaps as a far-off place on a map, and until recently, Amlach was one of them. But things have changed.

Amlach had no idea the city would be so beautiful. The ceiling rises so far about him that he cannot see the top even when he cranes his neck, and the walls on either side of him rise in smooth, midnight black sets, curving slightly the higher up it goes. Amlach supposes that that means there must be a top, although he wouldn’t be able to tell it otherwise. He stands in the same stop for quite some time, gaping at the sheer magnitude of it all. He feels dwarfed by the scale and wonders how anyone could build something like this.

He takes a few steps forward, appreciating the sights closer to ground once he notices them. Every building towers over him, carved of stone so strong and seamless that Amlach wonders if the Dwarves work with negative space instead of positive, chiseling their homes from the rock like statues instead of building them from the ground up. Amlach has heard the legends, but the traveling Dwarves he’d met have never spoken about their homes, and so he and so many others had dismissed the stories as just that.

It’s several minutes of walking and gazing at the breadth of it all before he realizes that he doesn’t know where he is going. He hasn’t the slightest clue where Maedhros might be or how to get there. He pauses in the middle of a long stride, looking around with a new purpose. There is more green than he expected, too. Flowers and grasses line some of the buildings, the largest clusters at the buildings nearest to the Gate. He has even stopped in front of what appears to be a garden, although it is different than any one he has seen before.

“Hullo, stranger!”

It takes a moment for him to realize that he is being addressed. It takes him a moment longer to realize that, in most situations, the man being addressed would smile and greet whoever is addressing him. He attempts just that, but it is a touch too late.

“Greetings,” he says, looking around for a moment before remembering to look down.

He has to look down longer than he expects to, as the Dwarf who greeted him is smaller than he expected. There are jewels woven into his auburn beard and his eyes gleam with more brightness than most, but what’s most unusual about him is that his hands are in the soil, planting a flower from a bulb that Amlach doesn’t recognize.

“I see you’ve noticed my unusual occupation,” says the Dwarf, whose voice is a layer lighter than most Dwarves Amlach has met. “I am not as unusual as a strange human in Belegost, however. I am called Róskva by humans. Pleased to meet you.”

“Only by humans?” he asks.

“Ah, yes, I forget you wouldn’t know. I have never left the regions of Belegost. Why would I? We have so much here. But I forget that you do not know we have more than one name. Elves call me Róskva, when I see them.”

“I am Amlach, of the House of Marach,” he says. “Have you seen them? Elves, I mean, and recently.”

Róskva laughs. “Of course I have. We are traders by nature, us Dwarves, but that does not mean we don’t make Elves sweat a little too. We have a whole trading area of the city.”

“Ah, yes,” he says, feeling foolish. “I should have specified. I am looking for the Lord Maedhros.”

“An unusual answer for an unusual human,” he says in reply. Amlach watches his hands finish their job in the fresh soil, planting the bulb with a dexterity Amlach has never had for nature. Then he stands up, little taller than he was before. “Lucky for you, I delivered his party an arrangement this morning, to brighten their rooms, which they found too dreary. Elves!”

Amlach smiles a little at this. His face does not seem to want to go through the motions; his cheeks budge as slowly as granite. “Could you give me directions?”

“Better than that. I’ll lead you there myself. Just let me pop instead and tell the husband.”

With that, Róskva disappears inside the nearby building, leaving Amlach in the middle of a strange, wild moment internally—is it possible that the Dwarf is like him? That it is so accepted in Belegost that men can marry each other instead of shoving their feelings deep inside themselves? Then, it hits him; the jewels in the hair, the changed voice, the eyes swimming with light. Amlach has always thought that he’d never met a female Dwarf before; now he knows that it’s more likely that he simply hadn’t recognized her as one.

Cheeks red, he looks up from the garden and sees the means with which Róskva illuminates her plants. Sparkling lights, Dwarven-made or natural Amlach cannot tell, glitter in low-set false walls and a ceiling set above the greenery, so closely packed that they resemble the night sky when he is far from any village. It takes Amlach’s mind off his shame, and he watches them blink and glitter until Róskva returns.

She begins walking straightaway, for which he is grateful. The heat at his neck has him at a loss for words. This is much the way it went for him as a child, until he learned that stringing a few good words together could change people’s minds. And yet it turns out he was doing ill there, too. His whole life seems to him to be nothing but a series of shameful events.

The silence with Róskva is a personable one, though, and even more, when she does break it he finds that he doesn’t mind listening to her speak, especially since she waits long enough that he feels prepared to respond.

“You come all the way to Belegost to see the Lord of Himring?”

“Yes,” says Amlach.

“I hope you’re not here to impart a message of doom upon him—a memorandum that one of his brothers has died, a notice that the Dark One has broken the Siege, something like that.”

“I am not. I have never met the Lord of Himring.”

“Oh? And yet you came all the way to Belegost?”

“It felt…it is important.”

“If you say so,” she says, but her tone is not mocking. Her deep voice is quite sincere. Amlach likes her.

She leads him to the halls, farther underground than they were, where the cavernous emptiness had felt a great weight above his head. Amlach finds it strange to go from a large room—as though room were grand enough a term—to a series of small chambers and halls so quickly, but the air is fresh everywhere they step.

It is another twenty minutes or so before Róskva stops in front of a door that has tall Elven guards posted on either side.

“They like to stay near the surface,” says Róskva. “And yet get insulted if we offer to let them stay outside. I will never understand Elves.”

“Thank you for guiding me,” he says. “I have nothing to give you.”

“And why do you think I would take it?” says Róskva. She is smiling. “Your thanks is enough, Amlach of the House of Marach. I wish you speed and skill in your coming days.”

“And I you, in all your endeavors.” It feels stiff in his mouth, but judging by her reaction it was the right thing to say.

Róskva leaves without further farewell, and Amlach is left hoping the Elves receive him as well as the Dwarves have. He approaches the Elven guards, drawing himself to his full height.

“A star shall shine on the hour of our meeting,” he says, speaking in Sindarin. The words are clumsy in his mouth. “I seek an audience with the Lord Maedhros.”

He knows how he looks; he is as conscious of his mud and grime as he was at the Gate. He can only hope it will not bar him from seeing Lord Maedhros. The Elves do not sneer at him or convey any disapproval except for the quickest of glances from the one on the left.

Amlach clears his throat. “It is important,” he adds. “I have news of the Dark—” He remembers too late their name for him, and rectifies himself. “Of Morgoth. I have news of his servants. And I wish to pledge myself to his service.”

Emotions crosses both faces unfettered, surprise and concern mixed together. “I will return presently,” says the Elf on the right.

He whisks through the door he’s guarding, leaving Amlach to shift from foot to foot and try and figure out whether he should speak to the remaining guard or not, who stands a foot taller than him and seems to have her grey eyes fixed on the wall behind Amlach, her brief spell of emotion over. Amlach decides not to, which leads to several painful minutes of standing there, trying to avoid the Elf’s eyes.

Eventually, the first guard returns. Amlach thinks he detects a flicker of a smile as he catches sight of his companion’s dour expression.

“Lord Maedhros will see you. You seem to have caught him in a good mood.”

The guard gestures for Amlach to follow him into the hallway, which he does quickly, eager to shed the awkwardness of the guarded door. When it is shut behind them, the guard that is walking with him says, tone light, “Sorry about Engwedhil. She’s been gloomy for a thousand years and can’t string a sentence together around anyone she hasn’t known half as long.”

Amlach finds it strange to hear an Elf, with their bright eyes and imposing stature, speak so freely and full of humor; it doesn’t fit with what Amlach knows of them. But then again, he knows less than he thinks. That much has been proven of late.

“You seem uneasy,” remarks the Elf guard. “Is it your news, the Dwarves, or me?”

Amlach starts. “It is not you! Nor is it the Dwarves. Truth be told, I am not thought a particularly agreeable man.”

“Few men are,” says the guard.

Amlach’s mouth tightens. The Elf clears his throat several times. “It was only a jest. I apologize.”

“It is fine,” says Amlach tensely.

The Elf seems relieved to reach the door of Maedhros’ rooms. He knocks on it and a voice calls out in reply. “Come in.”

Amlach is not given time to worry about meeting Maedhros, meetings eyes with the guard, who nods encouragingly, and trying for a smile to show that he means no ill-will as he pushes the door open. He doesn’t find out if he’s successful, but he doesn’t care as the Dwarven door slides open with the lightest touch and he enters the room.

Said room appears to be a sitting area of some sort, furnished with chairs and a table of clear Elvish make, all polished wood instead of carved stone. Out of the corner of the eye its curved edges seem to ripple like the ocean. On the right of the door is a desk, not for the master of the rooms, but his squire, although it is currently vacant. On the right is a chest made of hard wood and above it is a cabinet full of bottles that Amlach guesses is liquor. His eyes make a quick, sweeping take of all this, but it is not what his gaze is drawn to; that, rather, is the Elf sitting in a high-backed armchair next to a blazing fire.

 There is an oil lamp on the end-table next to the Elf, so Amlach’s vision is not limited to the light cast from the flickering flames. Once he has seen Maedhros, it is difficult to look away. Even sitting down, Amlach knows Maedhros is the tallest person he has ever seen, Elf or Man. His legs stretch out far past his seat, clad in a black set of trousers and mostly obscured by the long, dark green coat buttoned over a vest and shirt. It’s emblazoned with the sigil that Amlach knows to be the sign of the House of Fëanor. His right arm famously ends in a stump, which is unabashedly placed on the arm of the chair, the same way his left hand is gripping the other side.

There is, however, something that Amlach did not expect. He isn’t close enough to see all the details, but he can tell that his left hand is mottled with scars, and his proud face is not clear of them either—a thin line twists his lips, and a gash healed badly mars his forehead, not to mention the nose that must have been broken several times. Still, Amlach finds himself thinking, Maedhros is a handsome Elf despite all of that, with thick russet hair coiled around his shoulders and strong grey eyes that shine with the light of Aman, as well as the strength lying in wait in those broad shoulders.

“I do not have the affinity my cousin does for reading the minds of Men,” sais Maedhros, his rasping voice drawing attention to a scar around his neck half-hidden by his collar, so thick and broad that Amlach wonders how his head is still upon his body. “I am afraid we will have to speak with words. If you do not know Sindarin, I speak your language passably well.”

Amlach bows far enough to be polite but not far enough to lose any pride. “I am Amlach, son of Imlach, of the House of Marach. Thank you for the honor of a meeting. I know Sindarin, my lord. I apologize for my slowness to speak; it is long since I saw a Lord of the Noldor, and never up close.”

“And that lord has never been me,” says Maedhros in return. The words tell Amlach that Maedhros knows the real reason for Amlach’s silence; there is a difference between looking and staring.

“I apologize if I have offended you,” says Amlach. “I have heard tale of you, and it is strange to see a storybook come to life.”

“I cannot imagine they tell my tale to children,” says Maedhros. “Although I know Men must grow up sooner, and not just because of your quick deaths. My lands are not so far from the ones where your people squat. A few days’ ride, is all. There is no need for my person to be fiction rather than fact.”

Amlach’s nostrils flare as he attempts to suppress the rage that bubbles up in his veins. “Squatters? Is it squatting now, to live on land that is uninhabited and always has been, regardless of the wishes of a far-off foreign race, one that has never even deigned to visit them?”

Maedhros raises his hand, palm up, in a gesture of peace. “Now it is my turn to apologize. I do not object to your claim to Estolad. My word choice was unfortunate.”

It is not so easy to calm a temper when aroused, but Amlach stifles his passion for the sake of what he must say. He nods stiffly. “It is already forgotten.”

“I trust you had a reason to seek me out here in Belegost, and I must admit, after my guard told me of your tidings, I am quite curious. What has brought you to me, Amlach, son of Imlach, of the House of Marach?”

“As I told your guards,” begins Amlach. “I come bearing news of Morgoth. I did not mention to them how this was connected to my own tale, but it is. I do not know how much you know of my people, but there are currently two groups among us—those who wish to join your war against Morgoth, and those who wish to stand aside and let you at it, so to speak.”

Amlach pauses, and Maedhros takes the opportunity to ask a question. “Which group do you belong to?”

“My views have changed of late. Not long ago, I was the leaders of those who thought we could escape the notice and ire of Morgoth by letting those that pledged themselves to a centuries-long fight do it by themselves, as our lives are too short for these grudges. We did not think this out or cowardice, or at least I did not, and neither do many I knew. This belief was borne of knowledge for the weariness of our people and the hurts they have suffered on the road. They wish to settle a land, not fight a war. And you must admit, my lord, that when one is confronted with creatures of strength and immortality who do not seem to wish for or need your help, it is tempting to let them go without it.”

“You are an honest one,” says Maedhros, his expression inscrutable. “To openly admit your aversion to my endeavors.”

“As I have said, you will see that my attitude has changed,” replied Amlach. “But even if it had not, I would not be ashamed to tell you so. It is the right of a people to direct their own affairs and join the battles they wish, as long as they do not serve the Shadow.”

“You will find in time that even those who do not serve the Shadow, may, through their inactivity, fall under it,” says Maedhros. “And yet it is not always so. That was a good answer.”

“I trust that you are satisfied, and that I may continue my tale.”

“You may.”

Amlach clears his throat, the setup for his story complete. He must tell the beginning with delicacy; no matter the whispers that reach even Estolad about the Lord of Himring’s private...preferences, the risk to Amlach’s being is too great. “I was out hunting, and ended up visiting a settlement near my own for longer than intended, although I was in no long hurry, for my parents no longer wait for me to return from hunting, as they have turned in their own time to the soil beneath our feet, and I have no wife and family to return to, and so my hours are my own.”

Amlach pauses, having spoken no lie. There is something like amusement dancing in Maedhros’ sharp gaze. “And what were you doing in this other settlement?”

Amlach swallows. “Visiting someone dear to me. A friend, whom I have known from childhood.”

“Your tone leads me to believe this person is the reason you have no wife and child, at your age. Unless you possess a defect in spirit I do not know of?”

Amlach replies swiftly, for his thoughts have been bent on the similarity of the rumors that circular about both him and Maedhros, albeit in different circles. “Do you? I do not know much about you, but I have never heard the mention of a wife. Besides, there is nothing wrong with remaining unmarried. There are those who would shame lifelong bachelors and old maids, but not I.”

Maedhros looks relaxed in his chair, and his expression never changes. “Both are fair points. Continue.”

“When I returned home to my village, I discovered that a council had been held in my absence, where our own leaders had debated the wisdom of fighting Morgoth, and—most surprisingly—I had spoken eloquently in opposition to this idea! I, who had been leagues away, engrossed in distractions I now believe were so placed to keep me from attending the council. Some foul servant of Morgoth took my bodily form to sway my people towards the Shadow, and it would have worked but for my appearance—for in the light of this violation I see that Morgoth is not content to let us live in uneasy peace, and will attempt to turn our minds to his thoughts, and our deeds to his purpose. For this violation of having such a vile creature taint my reputation, I am determined to enter your service and pay Morgoth back in kind for the respect he has shown me.”

The emotion in Amlach’s voice shows his sincerity, and his chest is heaving so visibly that he has to take a moment to compose himself after he speaks. Maedhros does not reply for a moment, watching Amlach as he calms down; many would not have noticed Amlach’s agitation, for he is accounted a stoic man at home, but Maedhros does. Eventually, he speaks, tone even. “Why my service?”

Amlach wasn’t sure what he would say, but that isn’t the reply he’s been anticipating. “Why…your service?”

“I will be frank with you. Your tale is deeply concerning with its implications for the enemy’s shape-shifting capabilities and his ability to infiltrate our ranks. I thank you for telling us about this event, and understand why you chose me to tell, considering Himring’s proximity to your people, but as for my service? Why me, and not some other lord?”

Amlach tries to gather the threads of his thoughts into something coherent, creating a pause between the question and his answer, one that gets more obvious as the moments tick by. “Because…I am drawn to you.”

Maedhros does not look impressed.

Amlach can tell he has misstepped and hurries to rectify it. “You are the Elvish lord closest to my people, and therefore understand most the worries we have. We have heard most of your protection of the front lines, and this is admirable. And my people account me…somewhat similar to the way you have often been described.”

“More’s the pity for you,” says Maedhros lightly. “You list these reasons as though you read them from a book; you do not seem to mean them. Your statement about being drawn to me felt more honest, even if it was unquantified. I will not deny you from my service, but I do require you to take a few days to think about it before accepting it. My company leaves Belegost in three days. Until then you should deliberate.”

“I will not go home,” says Amlach, emotions rising once again. “Not to hem and haw about whether we should fight when I know I should be out there doing it.”

“I did not say you should,” says Maedhros. “I have many brothers, and more cousins. The former will take you with my recommendation, and you will still be close to your people with them, as well as more comfortable. Himring is not a fortress for the light-hearted. And my cousin Fingon would be happy to take a man as determined as you, as well of a plethora of other relatives of mine.”

Amlach’s questions about Maedhros are brought back to the forefront of his mind at the mention of that famous—and infamous—cousin of the Lord of Himring’s, but he says nothing on the matter, and is gratified that Maedhros cannot read Men’s minds. Maedhros, for his part, is not looking at Amlach for the first time in their conversation. His hand is gripping the armchair so hard that his skin is white, but when Amlach’s gaze falls to this, his attention returns.

“I will consider what you said; it would be poor form to do otherwise,” says Amlach.

Maedhros nods. “Then that will be all for now, if you are satisfied. I have less duties in Belegost, but never none.”

Amlach bows again. “Thank you for your time, Lord Maedhros.”

When the door is shut behind him, he isn’t sure what to feel. Relief, in that he was finally able to divest his story to someone. In that he feels as though a weight has been lifted off his chest. However, it also feels like it has settled on his shoulders as he tries to decide if Maedhros is pushing him away from his service, trying to politely tell him he doesn’t want him. He doesn’t think Maedhros the type to lie, however, and eventually, as he says goodbye to the guards and begins walking back to his rooms, he must confront that Maedhros spoke some truth. He is not really sure why he desires to serve Maedhros specifically, rather than some other lord, other than the reason he cannot speak openly of.

As he leaves Maedhros’s chambers, he realizes that, once again, he doesn’t know where to go next, especially since he needs to stay in Belegost in order to think on what Maedhros has said. Thankfully, he has hardly gone down more than one hallway before a messenger, Dwarven and unusually lithe for their people, darts up to him to inform him that he has been assigned a room in the Elven guest quarters. Amlach does not think he is imagining the doubtful way the Dwarf looks at his ears and stature as he says it.

He follows the messenger’s directions to the room in question, finding it as strange and beautiful as he has found Belegost in general. There is markedly less stone in the room than he expected; he realizes once he has closed the door and taken in his surroundings that this must be because the room is designed for Elves; Maedhros is clearly not the only one who gets that special treatment, although the lack of windows does prevent it from being truly hospitable, at least to Amlach. He sits on the bed, more than satisfied by its comfort, and sees some of the flowers that Róskva must have arranged and sent over. Their colors brighten up the area—the whole room shows that Dwarves care about their guests’ comfort deeply, even if they grumble about the failings of Elves and Men alike.

He takes off his boots, and after that he stops appreciating the room and starts realizing how exhausted he is from days of searching for Maedhros on horseback, trying to find him before the details of the horror he was fleeing from faded from his memory, if ever they would. Now that he has the opportunity to rest, it’s only a handful of minutes before his body succumbs to his exhaustion and he’s passed out on his bed, fully clothed except for his bare feet.

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When Amlach wakes the next day, he can’t remember where he is or how he got there, and his sword is in his hand before it comes back. Once memory is returned to him, however, he realizes it doesn’t help him figure out what time of day it is, or how long he’s slept. Looking around, he sees that someone’s been in his rooms, as a set of clothing not unlike the hunting clothing he’s currently wearing have been left out for him. Aware of the dirt and stains his current outfit bears, he quickly changes and shaves and sets out from his rooms, curious as to where he should go to procure a meal. Perhaps he’s not supposed to leave the room and should just hole up to sit and think about his future while Dwarves wait on him hand and foot. Perhaps, but that’s not who Amlach is, nor who he wants to be.

He bumps into a servant before long, who acts with more impunity than stories with servants in them have lead him to believe they have, and shoos him back to his rooms, where a meal is served to him promptly, likely because the Dwarves are worried he might try to leave the room again before they can get the tray to his door. He eats quickly, hardly tasting the food, only knowing that it is better than any he has had for a long while. His people are not accustomed to a soft life, nor have they ever been.

His second try to leave the room goes better than the first, and he begins striding down long Dwarven halls, mind churning with thoughts. He left home with only one thought, to serve Maedhros. But why him, as the Lord himself had said? Was it only proximity that drew him close? Amlach is tempted by the idea of nicer lands, of kinder lords, but there is a draw to the eldest son of Fëanor he would be hard-pressed to explain, even with a sword to his throat. That, by definition, however, is not an explanation, and he needs to be able to justify to both himself and others why he’d choose to pledge his service, his life, to Maedhros.

He doesn’t pay attention to where he’s going, too lost in his dilemma to care much, and when he looks back up at the world with seeing eyes he realizes he’s lost in more ways than one. The halls have changed again, these underground tunnels (if one could justify calling them that) having more faces than a witch-tree. The light where he is now is soft, casting blue reflections on the walls, and there are more Dwarves here, none of them casting more than a bemused look in Amlach’s direction when they have to move around him in the flow of people. The buildings, carved out of the walls, are separate from each other, but in a line, like any aboveground street. Signs hang from each building, and although Amlach cannot read nor speak the Dwarven tongue, he knows he is looking at a row of shops.

A rush of pleasure hits his chest, startling him into realizing how lonely strange places by oneself can be. He shakes his head. He certainly has time to think about the choices before him. He begins walking by the shops with a more attentive gaze, taking the time to look at the individual shops. One has herbs hanging in clumps from the stone ceiling, its door partially obscured by growing plants. Amlach is taken aback by the next one, which has the same hanging policy with its products, only these are mock limbs, some made of wood, most of an incredibly fine metal he has never seen before, at least not in that form. He resists the urge to run his fingers along one of the prosthetics based on the glint in the eye of the shop’s proprietor.

The more he walks, the more the kind of area he’s in solidifies in his mind. He passes three Dwarven healers, arguing with each in their tongue over a little box, and a building twice as large as the others being given a wide berth by everyone except a few stone-eyed Dwarves near the entrance. One Dwarf is hiding his face in his hands, an uncharacteristic expression of emotion for a Dwarf. It must be an infirmary.

Amlach is a few streets, as he has come to think of them, away from the infirmary when he ducks into an alley to pause and try to remember the way he’s come. His back is against a building marked with a sign depicting two hands pressed to a back, which doesn’t mean anything to him until he realizes he’s standing next the side entrance to the building and can hear voices from inside. Despite his better nature, he finds himself leaning closer to the door, which is really just a bare entryway with a curtain pulled across it. One of the voices inside is instantly recognizable, the ruined rasp of the Lord Maedhros. They’re speaking in Dwarvish, however, and Amlach is starting to leave when he recognizes the words being spoken. Maedhros has just finished a sentence in Dwarvish, his already hoarse throat making the guttural language even more difficult to listen to, when there is a reply from another person in a room. Based on his encounter the day before, Amlach would say it was a female Dwarf.

“Oh, enough Khuzdul! I am impressed with your willingness to learn, Lord Maedhros, but you must find someone else to practice with.” The tone is light, speaking Sindarin with ease.

“That bad?” comes Maedhros’s voice, his tone equally amused.

Amlach is no longer walking away. The guilt is already beginning to eat at him, but his curiosity is winning out for now.

“Your pronunciation leaves much to be desired,” says the other voice. “But you at least sound confident in this new speech.”

“A consequence of my upbringing,” says Maedhros. “I sound confident speaking any tongue, no matter my expertise. In Sindarin this time, thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I know how busy you are.”

“Should I turn you down, after you come all the way from Himring? You are one of my favorite customers—not only your company, but out of curiosity’s sake, if you don’t mind me saying. What your body went through and recovered from is of great interest to me. Professionally, of course.”

“Ah, but I am here because of what it did not recover from,” says Maedhros, in such a wry tone that Amlach can almost see his lips twisting in a matching smile.

“Lingering pain is only to be expected.”

Amlach’s curiosity is so aroused by this exchange that he moves from passively listening to shifting closer to the doorway so he can glimpse the room past the curtain. It takes much of his self-control to stay silent when he does.

Maedhros is indeed in that room, speaking to a correctly-guessed female Dwarf with plaited hair and beard. He is laying on his stomach on a long table, or, when Amlach looks harder, two tables pushed very closely together. He is stripped to the waist with both arms dangling over the side, the stump of his right arm nearly brushing the floor. There is more, though, the open strength he had sensed the day before shown to him now in with the proof of what he had endured. Amlach swallows. As he had thought the day before, knowledge of a thing and seeing it based are two different beasts.

Maedhros’s back is scored with lashes so thick and close that Amlach cannot see a square inch of untouched flesh. His side is much the same, a canvas that shows where stray lashes bit into his ribs instead of his back. There are a larger variety of scars on his side and arms, burns and cuttings and—Amlach recognizes with a lurch to his stomach—a large portion of his flank and forearm appear to have been flayed. His eyes are drawn to one particular scar, where someone has carved the sigil of the House of Fëanor into the skin of his arm. Amlach shifts back so he won’t be seen, the image of Maedhros’s body seared into his memory.

When Maedhros speaks again, Amlach can see the whole of the scar causing it in his mind, the half formerly hidden by his collar showing that it had not been a one-time occurrence, that someone had slit his throat, not once, but many times. Even his voice bears scars.

“Yesterday the pain moved from lingering to something else entirely. I was receiving a foreign visitor and nearly lost control of myself halfway through.” The disdain in that voice tells Amlach would Maedhros would have thought of himself if that had happened.

“That’s what I’m here for.”

Amlach was the visitor, of that he’s sure. How many foreign visitors does Maedhros receive in a Dwarven city no one knew he was visiting? Had there been any signs of that pain? All he can think of is that brief moment near the end where Maedhros had gripped the armchair so hard his fingers had turned white. Amlach’s respect for him is only increasing, making him wonder if there is a limit on such things.

Maedhros doesn’t reply to the woman. Amlach edges back to the curtain to see what is happening. The Dwarf is massaging Maedhros’s back, pulling and pushing twisted flesh in a manner that looks nothing less than added torture. After a few minutes of this there is a pop so loud Amlach can hear it from where he is. Maedhros’s only reaction is to grunt softly.

“There we go,” she says. “I had a feeling you’d dislocated a vertebra again. We’re on our way to fixing you up.”

“Before we do,” begins Maedhros suddenly. He shifts his head towards the curtain—towards Amlach. “I am afraid I am going to have to pause our session, as we have an audience.”

The moment those words leave Maedhros’s mouth, Amlach knows he is found out. Quelling the spike of anxiety in his stomach, he steps out from behind the curtain and into the room.

“I’ve been telling Kat for ages that we need a real door, no matter how stuffy it gets in here,” says the Dwarf. “And here’s the proof!”

“I second you on that,” says Maedhros. He hasn’t altered his friendly tone or moved out of his position, but Amlach is sweating out all the fluids in his body nonetheless.

“First, I must know. Were you spying on me?” says Maedhros. Now there is no lightness in his tone, and Amlach knows what he is not saying, the underlying current of danger. He must speak quickly or lose everything.

“I did not come here to spy on you,” says Amlach. “I am not here on any but my own account and serve none but myself. I was lost in the city, so I took a moment to gather myself against the outside wall of this building. That is when I heard your voice. My error comes from not leaving when I knew it to be you. I stayed to listen, not out of malice or for information, but of curiosity. Make of that what you will.”

Amlach hopes the strength in his voice as he meets Maedhros’s eyes is enough to convince the Elf that he is no spy of Morgoth. Back home, those that knew him would tell him that it is impossible to tell if he feels joy or sorrow when he speaks. His thoughts are swirling more than ever now, and Maedhros’s next words are almost a relief, bringing him the release that speaking can have.

“I shall. What have you to say for yourself?”

“That if you will still have me, I know for certain that it is you I wish to pledge my service to.”

Maedhros’s eyebrows shoot up. He changes positions swiftly, sitting up as he pulls himself forward with a hand that is a scarred as the rest of him. Half his pinkie finger is missing, Amlach notices, and despite what a small loss that is in the larger scheme of things, it strikes him as deeply unfair that Maedhros does not even have all of his remaining hand. The impression is deepened when he realizes that, on the other four fingers, he has no fingernails.

“You are not nearly as apologetic as I thought you would be,” says Maedhros.

Amlach goes down on one knee, determined to prove, among other things, that he does indeed feel rolling waves of shame coursing through him. “Please know that I recognize and am ashamed of the wrong I have committed. I will accept the punishment you deem fit, regardless of whether you accept me as your vassal.”

“Do not make such statements,” says Maedhros. “Crueler lords than I would do you much harm through them.”

“I did not say it to them, but to you,” says Amlach. “I will not take my words back, not when it would be a further reason not to trust me.”

“They say Elves and Men are so different,” says Maedhros. “But I see much familiar in the way you show remorse with an iron will. I will give you no punishment unless I take you into my service, and I am not entirely sure I should do so. What about what you saw here has convinced you so utterly?”

“I know there are many great lords of the Noldor,” says Amlach. “And that I would be well served by any of them. But it is you who knows Morgoth’s power, and you who will not underestimate him the way I did. It was not my intention to see what I did here, but I have, and if you will pardon my frankness in lieu of the honesty I would give you, I will not soon forget the mark the Dark One has last upon you.”

“Nor will I,” says Maedhros wryly. “Not a one of the many.”

Amlach cannot tell Maedhros’s mood, so he keeps talking. “I believed that this war is not my fight, not my people’s fight. I was proven wrong. Your fortress is the northern defense, the front line in this time of relative peace. I do not wish to pledge my life to another only to lose it to boredom and inactivity.”

“And if you are captured by Morgoth?” says Maedhros. “You would risk your flesh becoming such a map of horror that it leads others to fight?”

His words are soft, and Amlach realizes belatedly that he has taken Maedhros at face value, that he assumed that he is comfortable with the body torment has left him.

“If it means I would return with a fraction of your skill,” says Amlach. “I would face it as best I could. That’s all a man can do.”

“Flattery is a useful tool for many,” says Maedhros. “But I would not have thought you to be one who wielded it.”

Amlach inclines his head slightly. “I see it as honesty, but I will not press it farther. Only know that I want nothing more than to add my strength to your forces, paltry as it may be.”

“Do not disparage yourself,” says Maedhros. “You vex me already. I am not sure what to do with a man who sees my scars and responds with fealty.”

Amlach’s knee is beginning to hurt from the floor. “I cannot choose for you. My desire is sincere. That will have to speak for itself.”

There is a pause. “Perhaps I should take my shirt off more often,” says Maedhros. “If it creates such loyal vassals.”

Amlach doesn’t know whether he is supposed to laugh or not. He errs on the safe side and does not. Maedhros shakes his head. “Do not become a lord, or lead troops in battle. People will be too afraid at laughing at you to laugh with you.”

Maedhros leans forward, the muscles under the scars rippling like an ocean trapped under cracked ice. He reaches his hand out to help Amlach up, and Amlach does not hesitate in taking it. His skin is textured, his grip firm. Amlach does not intend it, but he is not pulled up by his own strength. He feels as though he is being pulled under an Elven tide, one that harkens back to times he doesn’t know and overwhelms with a majesty he cannot begin to match. It is this feeling that made him want to stay away from the Elves in the first place; but now he is beginning to understand that this is just the way of them, that there is no malice in it, and the only thing to be done is to stand tall and bring his sword arm at the height of its strength.

“I accept you and your words,” says Maedhros. “I hope you will find my service fulfilling.”

Amlach does not expect the smile that spreads across his own face like a quick-moving plague. “I hope you will find my service acceptable.”

There is a beat, a comfortable moment where Maedhros smiles as well, a scar across his lips splitting it in half, a second where Amlach remembers the rumors about Maedhros, rumors that help him feel a connection to this Lord of the Noldor beyond hatred of the Dark Lord. Amlach remembers that Maedhros said that some Noldor can read minds—he wishes Maedhros was one of them, because the words he wants to say will never pass his lips.

Maedhros, still smiling, shakes his head. “I need to finish this appointment, unless you wish for me to spend the next several months in a foul mood.”

“More than that,” says the Dwarf, who has watched this in silence until now. “You will deal with mine as well, and you do not want that.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“I will send someone to your rooms to tell you our departure day and time and what is expected of you. Until there, enjoy your time in Belegost.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

It is undeniably a dismissal, and Amlach moves to leave.

“One last thing,” says Maedhros. “Do not lose your ability to be candid with me because of your position. There is nothing more useless in a vassal, especially one with your abilities.”

“Of course, my lord,” says Amlach. “I would not dream of it.”

Amlach finally leaves the scene of his intrusion, pulling the curtain to the alley shut behind him. He is back in the cool air of Belegost’s caverns and halls, left with the unenviable task of sorting through the events and emotions that occurred in the room that he just left.

He begins to stroll back to his rooms, or at least the general direction of where he thinks they might be. The future is filled with uncertainty, but he has what he wants; a chance to do something with the strength he has, to hamper an enemy who threatens those he cares about. Amlach’s usually dour expression is lifted, and his heavy step is lightened. The city of Belegost shimmers with stone-cut beauty, but Amlach sees past it to the days he will spend at Himring.

 

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Chapter End Notes

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