Captive by tinni

Captive

Prologue

******

The touch was unbearably tender. A calloused hand gently stroked his face, lingering on his lips. When was the last time someone touched him like this? Not since Nerdanel left had he felt a touch like this. Even as the thought occurred to him, the memory of the abandonment by yet another woman elicited a strangled whimper from him. Had Nerdanel returned to him?

An amused, malicious chuckle drifted into his ears. "Ahhh… my poor, poor Fëanaro, still pining after the woman who could no longer take the heat of your fire. But she is gone." The deceptively tender voice continued, “Nerdanel will not return; she cowered and fled before the glory of your spirit just as you fell captive to the might of my Balrogs.”

Fëanaro’s eyes shot open and he came face to face with a being whose features looked disturbingly like his own. Yet he knew the creature staring back at him was no Elf but the mightiest of all the Ainur. The mightiest as well as the most fell.

"Morgoth!" Fëanaro spat out. He moved to rise and found he could not move his body. "What have you done to me you jewel crow of Mandos?" he demanded.

Without warning, Morgoth struck Fëanaro hard across his face and said chidingly, "None of that now, my pretty fire. You shall address me as Master and nothing else,” he instructed his captive.

Fëanaro hissed in anger and indignation. "I will do so only in your dreams, you degenerate…" his retort was cut short by another slap. This one drew blood as it lay open his cheek.

"I do not dream," Morgoth informed Fëanaro as he watched him wince in pain with satisfaction. "I do not sleep, but from time to time I remember," the fallen Ainur whispered. "I remember the fires that covered the depth and breadth of Arda before my brother…" scorn laced the term and cut through Fëanaro’s heart, for it was alike to how he referred to his brother Nolofinwë, "…had Aulë cover it with dirt and Ulmo with water. I loved Arda best when it was a fiery inferno; I wanted to posses it. I will posses it… just as I will posses you, my spirit of fire."

With that he claimed the lips of Fëanaro and swallowed the scream of disgust that tore from the elf's throat.

******

Translation:

Fëanaro – Fëanor

Nolofinwë - Fingolfin

Author’s note: Thanks to Andreth for beta reading. This is a special barter fic for Kasura. I am bartering this Fëanor/Morgoth fic for a Fingon/Maedhros picture from her. Personally, I think I am going to get the better end of the deal. Just to be clear, in this fic the Balrogs sent by Morgoth captured Fëanor instead of killing him. Also technically, Nerdanel is the Sindarin name of Fëanor’s wife. I don’t know what her Quendi name is, which is one of the reasons she is the only called by her Sindarin name in this fic.

Next Chapter

Captive

Chapter 1

******

The moment Morgoth released him, Fëanaro spit out the disgusting taste of Morgoth’s saliva, but this served to provoke Morgoth even more. Fëanaro’s efforts were rewarded with another slap.

“You will not spit out what I condescend to give you,” Morgoth informed him in a clipped tone. “Do you understand?”

“You do not own me,” Fëanaro answered in a sneer. “I care not about the base desire you harbour towards me. Should you attempt to force your corrupted lust on my hroä I shall see my fëa rest in Mandos,” Fëanaro assured him.

“Is that so?” exclaimed Morgoth, “What? Before that delightful oath of yours is fulfilled? Honestly, my fire spirit, you disappoint me.”

It occurred to Morgoth that perhaps he had chosen his barb poorly when an arrogant and smug smile appeared on Fëanaro’s lips.

“To disappoint you, Morgoth, I will gladly embrace the everlasting darkness. Do your worst! I fear you not,” Fëanoro sneered.

As he spoke, his eyes were lit with a fire more fierce than any Morgoth had seen before. It literally shattered the fair semblance Morgoth wore. His disguise gone, Morgoth stood above Fëanaro in all his menacing glory. His dark form towered like mountain with its head above the clouds, and his eyes held a flame that withered with heat and pierced with a deadly cold. Yet the sight of his beloved Silmarils, which had been hidden from his sight by Morgoth’s power until that moment, captured Fëanaro’s attention. In the piercing light of the Silmarils, Fëanaro saw clearly the burnt right hand of Morgoth; he laughed in scorn.

“Did you really think you could touch my creations?” he demanded of Morgoth. “Did you really think you can posses my Silmarils? Do you really think you can posses me?” he demanded.

The feeling returned to Fëanaro’s chest, yet the next instant he wished it had not. Morgoth plunged his hand into Fëanaro’s chest and grasped tight the rapidly beating heart of Fëanaro.

“Do you truly believe you can touch them still, Kinslayer?” Morgoth demanded, as he squeezed the beating organ, Fëanaro screamed in unbearable agony. “You, Fëanaro,” Morgoth sneered, “only created the casing, the light within is not your creation. You can control it not.”

“At least I can create,” Fëanaro bit out through the pain. “What have you ever wrought but mockeries and uncouth fortresses?” he demanded of the Dark Lord.

Morgoth yelled out his rage, for the words of Fëanaro stung him with their truth. He squeezed Fëanaro’s heart so hard that his screams shook the very vaults of Angband, yet the light of defiance did not leave Fëanaro’s eyes. When his voice had gone hoarse from screaming, Morgoth withdrew the hand from inside his chest.

“You have a feisty tongue, my pet,” Morgoth said. Fëanaro hissed at the degrading term but this only made Morgoth smile a malicious smile. “Perhaps we should lessen its bite.”

With quick hands he turned Fëanaro on his side, ensuring his air passage would remain clear. Then he took a Silmaril from his crown, stuffed it into Fëanaro’s mouth and gagged his mouth closed.

It burned… his Silmaril burned his mouth, his tongue. His Silmaril loved him no more and it burned. Fëanaro screamed; he screamed in his head, he screamed so loud it reverberated through out the room despite the gag. It burned… and Morgoth laughed.

“What did I tell you kinslayer? The Silmarils are yours no longer; they are mine and will do my bidding. They will destroy my enemies with the lust they will awaken in their hearts,” Morgoth said, and was taken aback by the words that came from his mouth. Yet he knew them to be the truth and his heart was glad.

“You shall be mine as well,” he whispered as he ran a possessive hand over Fëanaro’s body. “And when you give yourself to me, you will have need of your tongue,” he added in voice heavy with lust. Morgoth removed the gag and took the Silmaril out of Fëanaro’s burning mouth.

“Sleep now,” he commanded, “dream of me and all the things I will do to that delightful body of yours.”

So Fëanaro fell into a deep slumber. He dreamt the burnt hand of Morgoth was on his body and his burnt mouth was filled with the thick, pulsating column of Morgoth’s foul flesh. He dreamt the Silmarils watching his degradation at the hands of the Dark Lord like three unblinking eyes. For the briefest of moments it appeared to Fëanaro the Silmarils delighted in seeing him thus humiliated; as though what was being done to him was just punishment for spilling the innocent blood of the Teleri Mariners upon the Blessed Land of Aman. But this was just a dream… was it not?

***

Morgoth returned to his throne room in mixed spirits. He had made some progress, but he did not appreciate Fëanaro’s defiance. He longed to claim the fiery Noldo, he longed to plunder his body and exploit his soul, but patience was one virtue he did possess. Yet perhaps he would not have to wait, for as soon as he entered the throne room he spied Maitimo, the eldest son of Fëanaro, struggling to free himself from the grasp of two Balrogs.

****** 

Translation:

Fëanaro – Fëanor

Maitimo – Maedhros

Hroä – body

Fëa - soul

Author's notes: Thanks to Andreth for beta reading.

Next Chapter

Captive

Chapter 2

******

How did one measure time in the land of eternal stars? He did not know, more than likely by watching the passage of constellations across the sky. He wished he had paid attention to such things during his journey on the ship, but it was too late to think of such things now. Not that Fëanaro particularly cared about time anymore; all he really wanted to know was how long Morgoth had left him to dream the recurring dream of being taken, brutally and mercilessly by the foul mistake. How was it that Eru, the All Father, could make the mistake of creating Morgoth? Was he not supposed to know all that was to befall? Should he not have known what evil Morgoth would work? So why did he let him be born?

All themes have their uttermost origin in Eru spoke a voice in his head, a memory of the dim past, when the Trees still shone. Who was that?

“Atarinya” Fëanaro cried out, recognizing the voice.

A horrible thought occurred to him in that instant. What if? What if Finwë had seen all he had done to extract vengeance for his death? What if he had seen the kinslaying on the shores of Aman in the tapestries of Vairë? What would he think? Would he understand Fëanaro’s thoughts as he sat outside the walls of Olwë’s city? Or would he agree with Mandos and condemn him as well? He did not know, but he certainly cared what his father might be thinking of him. The whole of Eä could think ill of him, he did not care, but Fëanaro could not bear it if his father thought ill of him.

The voice of Finwë continued. Even the theme of evil has its uttermost origin in Eru, but while evil is part of the whole, it does not control the whole. It can never control the whole, for it is the will of Eru that evil should be rejected and for the most part the creations of Eru do just that. But those who do not reject evil…

The words cut off as Fëanaro was again treated to a vision of himself being taken by Morgoth. His stomach lurched, his fëa recoiled in horror, his hroä reacted once again to the supposed violation, so vivid were the visions that plagued him. Dishonoured and debased, Fëanaro wondered why his fëa had not fled his hroä and sought refuge in the halls of Mandos, or even… even the everlasting darkness.

“Because,” the deep ominous voice of Morgoth cut into his thoughts, “I won’t let you.” Fëanor screamed in despairing agony.

***

It is said that Elves do not feel the cold, but apparently there was a limit to their tolerance. The cold of the Helcaraxë was too much for the hardiest of the Noldor race, even Findekáno the valiant.

He could not remember what is was like to have a body that did not shiver, hands that did not shake, or a mind that did not despair. In this he was not much different from any other of his people. No, that was a lie. Findekáno had a cause for despair the others did not. No, it was not because he and his followers were also guilty of spilling the blood of their kin. It was that after all that had happened, his heart still beat foremost for the eldest son of Fëanaro. Findekáno bit his lip hard to stop himself from uttering his name. He was too close to too many people. They would not understand, not now, not when hate for Fëanaro and his sons was all that sustained more than half his people through the bitter cold of this frozen wasteland.

Hate however did not sustain him. Love did. Albeit it was love for a traitor and a kinslayer, but it was the only thing that would keep him warm in this desolate place. The memory of Maitimo’s love also gave urgency to his steps. He felt as if his cousin, his friend, his lover needed him… wanted him and never in his whole life had he not been able to give Maitimo what he wanted… what he needed. He would not start now.

***

“I always knew your fire was great and grand,” whispered Morgoth into Fëanaro’s ears as he licked and kissed them with the soft supple lips of his fair form. “But never did I imagine it could be this strong,” he admitted. “You resist the spell that keeps your hroä and fëa bound together and it weakens everyday. You really are trying to disappoint me by embracing death.”

Fëanaro continued to struggle against Morgoth’s relentless grasp. “Did you truly believe you could get me to submit to you?” he demanded. “You are more foolish than I thought,” he sneered. To his great alarm, Morgoth only laughed.

“Oh, you will submit to me. In fact, you will beg to submit to me,” he assured him. “Do you know why?” Morgoth wondered detachedly.

It was Fëanaro turn to laugh. “If you think I will succumb to physical torture than you are sadly mistaken. The perverted images you tormented me with will remain just that, perverted images. They will never become memories.”

Once again Morgoth laughed. “Oh, I know that no instrument of torture will work on you, but I am not so sure about your son,” he said, and Fëanaro’s blood ran cold.

The room began to shift and change, or was that only a trick of his mind? He did not know, he did not care; all he cared about was the sight that greeted him when the room stopped shifting, the room stopped changing. On the other side of the room his eldest son, Nelyafinwë, was strung up by his hands and feet; eyes closed but acutely conscious, stretched to the utter most edge of endurance of his body. By the light of the Silmarils Fëanaro saw the unnumbered scars that marred Nelyafinwë’s once smooth and flawless skin. His well-formed body had been disfigured, with chunks of flesh missing, not that he had much flesh left. He was mostly skin and bones, his thick flaming red hair, so like and unlike his mother’s, in tatters. Fëanaro could hardly recognise him, yet recognise him he did and all he could do was stare.

“Sauron,” Morgoth called in a singsong voice, “I think young Maitimo…” the mockery in his voice was all to clear when he used Nelyafinwë’s mother-name, afterall he was not exactly well-formed right now, “…has already grown into the extra four inches you added to his height. Perhaps it is time we stretched him a bit more.”

A tall, shadowy, vaguely elvish figure moved towards the iron wheel near the feet of Maitimo. Slowly, taking as much care as Fëanaro did with his gems, Sauron took hold of the wheel and turned. Maitimo screamed; he screamed so loud it echoed through the depth and breadth of Angband, he howled so high that the very vaults of the Iron Hell rang, and he cried out the name of the one he loved more than life itself… he cried out for Findekáno.

Fëanaro could feel Morgoth’s lips curl up in a cruel smile.

“Did you know your son and your nephew were lovers?” he wondered as the name of Findekáno was ripped from the throat of Nelyafinwë once more. “I did,” he whispered in Fëanaro’s ears.

Fëanaro kept his eyes fixed on the naked form of his son slowly being stretched on the rack by the boot licker... suddenly Fëanaro felt his heart constrict.

“I would appreciate it if you did not refer to my faithful servant as a boot licker. Good help is hard to find these days and I really don’t want to have do anything rash,” Morgoth whispered into his ears. “But you have not answered my question, did you know they were lover?” he demanded.

Fëanaro felt sharp jabs in his head, as if someone was trying to probe the deep recesses of his mind. For a while he resisted, but at last the pain became unbearable as Morgoth's prodding became more demanding. 

“Yes!” Fëanaro cried out. “I knew, his brothers knew… even my dim-witted half-brother knew. It was so obvious, it was written in their eyes and in their faces. We just...” 
 
“Ignored it. Hoped they would grow out of it. Tell me, Fëanaro, did you not bring Findekáno to Middle Earth because you hoped to end this... taint?” wondered Morgoth.

Fëanaro nodded, Morgoth laughed. “How does it feel, my Fëanaro, to know that you failed? That he is still in love with his *male* cousin, that in moments of respite he dreams of his hands all over his body, your nephew’s mouth on his...” his words were drowned by a loud cry from Maitimo. 
 
“STOP!” cried Fëanaro. “I’ll do anything, just stop hurting him.” 
 
Morgoth’s smile broadened. “Anything?”

******

Translation:

Fëa –soul

Hroä – body

Atarinya – father in Quendi

Maitimo – Maedhros’ mother-name, it means well-formed

Fëanaro- Fëanor

Findekáno – Fingon

Nelyafinwë – Maedhros’ father-name

Author's notes: Thanks to Andreth for beta reading.

Next Chapter

Captive

Chapter 3

******

“STOP!” cried Fëanaro, “I’ll do anything, just stop hurting him.” 

Morgoth’s smile broadened, “Anything?.”

Another anguish-filled cry erupted from Maitimo. “Yes… YES! Anything. Just please stop hurting him,” Fëanaro begged, “please.”

Morgoth laughed. “I like the sound of you begging.” Though Fëanaro could not see his eyes he knew a malicious glint was in them. “Beg me,” he commanded, “beg me to take you. Beg to me to give you the opportunity to pleasure me with your mouth. Beg me and call me Melkor, call me your master and I shall stop Sauron. I shall order Nelyafinwë down from that barbarous invention,” he promised.

The proud spirit of Fëanaro recoiled in loathing from such degradation and words of defiance threatened to rush forth.

“Findekáno! My love, help me!” Nelyafinwë cried out as the wheel was turned once more. A pause, a moment of respite, but not a moment of silence. In a voice laced with despair, Nelyafinwë the tall added, “I am sorry, I am sorry, Atarinya… I have failed you.” The wheel was turned again and the room rang with the scream of his eldest and not the least dear of his sons once more.

Fëanaro had but one choice. He hung his head in supplication and in a quiet voice whispered, “Please, Master Melkor, let me please you.”

“I cannot hear you, High King of the Noldor.” Morgoth emphasised his title, reminding him who exactly he was and challenging him to defy him, even as he turned Fëanaro to face him.

It was then Fëanaro realised that he didn’t care. He didn’t care that he was the High King of Noldor, the most skilled and gifted of all the elves. At that moment all he cared about was his son, and he would willingly relinquish all the works of his hands, not just the Silmarils, to see him safe and sound, away from this Hell of irons. So he swallowed his pride and in tone of complete submission that was loud enough to be heard all over the large room he begged.

“Please my lord, take me. Let me feel your glorious body, let me taste your unmatched strength. Please Master Melkor, give me the opportunity to kneel in front of you and pleasure you with my mouth. I swear to you that you shall not soon forget my ministration of you.”

A strange, disturbing glint appeared in Morgoth’s eyes as he said, “I said you would beg me to take you.”

Fëanaro did not react to his words, only turned his head as much as he could to look once more at his son with eyes filled with pain and agony.

Morgoth smiled in anticipation as he called out, “Sauron, that is enough playing for today. Take Maitimo down.”

A disappointed sigh issued from Sauron’s lips. He didn’t understand the lust Morgoth harboured for Fëanaro, being free himself from such desires, but it was not his place to question his master. He unclasped the restraints, letting Nelyafinwë fall to the floor with a painful thud and a grunt of agonising pain mixed with relief. His task done, Sauron stood in expectation of further commands.

“Let me go to him,” Fëanaro begged, his voice reflecting his broken spirit. “Let me tend to him. Release him and I shall let you do to me what you will.”

Morgoth only laughed. “Kiss me like you would your wife and I shall let you go to him. Please me with your performance in my bed and I shall let you tend to him. As for releasing him, you are not above treachery, my spirit of fire, and he shall remain as security.”

Fëanaro’s eyes flashed fire and the defiance returned to his voice. “You are not above treachery either…” with great effort he stopped himself from saying Morgoth. “How do I know that you shall not take your perverse lust out on my son? How do I know you shall let me go to him? Tend to him? How do I know you do not lie?”

“You don’t,” Morgoth replied, his eyes reflecting malicious joy at Fëanaro’s predicament.

Fëanaro, however, was having none of it. “I trust you not at all. If you will not release my son, then let me tend to him now. I will not go back on my word and if I do you…” he trailed off. He knew Morgoth needed no hints from him to devise methods of torturing Maitimo should he renege on his agreement.

Morgoth considered his options. Fëanaro was obstinate enough to refuse him despite the suffering of Maitimo. There was no telling how long it would be before Fëanaro’s paternal affections overcame his pride, indeed if ever, and Morgoth simply could not wait to taste Fëanaro’s fire.

Fëanaro felt all feeling return to his body. “I care not for red heads or over-long limbs. The only son of yours I wish to bed is the sweet voiced Kanafinwë,” he admitted and Fëanaro shivered, “You may tend to him but be quick, for I long to see what it was that Nerdanel enjoyed all those years.” With that he released him and called to Sauron, “Take them to the room. You know which one I mean, and give them what they need.” With that he was gone.

Fëanaro wasted no time in reaching Maitimo and rearranging him in a more comfortable position, cradling his head on his lap. At the tender, caring touches Nelyafinwë opened his eyes. As soon as he saw Fëanaro his eyes lit up with joy.

“Atarinya!” he cried. “So I am finally in Mandos.” Then he noticed his surroundings; his face fell and he recoiled in shame and horror. “NO…” he cried, “no, go away. I don’t want you to see me in my shame and misery,” he cried as he tried to pull away.

“Hush, Russandol,” whispered Fëanaro, “worry not about such things here, it is pointless.”

Sauron handed him a dirty black leather flask with water that was as clean as any that could be found in the iron hell. Fëanaro took it gratefully and helped Maitimo drink the foul smelling liquid, who drank it as if it was the blessed water from the pure springs of Valinor.

“But what are you doing here, Atarinya?” Maitimo asked in grief-filled confusion when the drink had revived him somewhat. “We thought you were dead,” he admitted.

Fëanaro looked at the direction Morgoth had gone. In loathing and despair he said, “I wish I was, my son… I wish I was.”

******

Translation:

Fëa – soul

Atarinya – father

Fëanaro – Fëanor

Kanafinwë – Maglor

Nelyafinwë, Maitimo, Russandol – Maedhros

Author's notes: Thanks to Andreth for beta reading.

Next Chapter

Captive

Chapter 4

******

The room, as Morgoth called it, was strange indeed. Some not entirely wholesome magic had enabled something resembling grass to grow on the floor and vines to cover the walls. But while the grass and vines provided a vision of green within the hell of iron, they were not free from taint of Morgoth. The blades of grass were razor sharp and they cut the bare feet of Fëanaro and closer inspection of the vines covering the walls revealed dagger-like thorns. It was clear to Fëanaro this room was designed to hold Elves for long periods of time. It was a matter of nature; Elves needed living things other than themselves to survive. If such were denied to them, then only the fear of a fate more horrible would prevent them from fading out of existence.

“Like the prospect of spending eternity in ever lasting darkness,” came the unbidden thought to Fëanaro as he looked down on the prone body of his son, light and limp in his arms. “Is that why you still live, Russandol?” he wondered, “have I done this to you as much as Morgoth?” But Nelyafinwë had lost consciousness some time ago and could not hear him.

“Do what you will quickly.” Sauron whispered in a soft tone not entirely free from malice. “My lord will not wait long for his… payment.”

“If your lord will not wait then you had better provide me with all that I ask and quickly,” snapped Fëanaro. “Like some wholesome food, more clean drinking water and a nice soft bed. I can hardly put Maitimo down on this grass; I might as well be putting him down on a bed of jagged blades.”

“I am not your servant!” Sauron replied curtly as he turned to leave.

“No but you are Mor… Melkor’s servant. He wants me as quickly as possible. I am telling you that for me to go to him as quickly as possible would require you to bring me all the things I asked for, and some clean bandages,” Fëanaro reasoned in a tone that marked his irritation.

Sauron would have returned another cutting reply but he heard the voice of Morgoth in his head. “Do as he says, Sauron. Do not pout, my Maia. If he does not please me then you can have both of them for your torture instruments.”

The prospect of having them both for his devious devices and cruel implements almost made Sauron break out in a grin. He dearly hoped Morgoth would find the Spirit of Fire lacking as he swiftly executed the tasks assigned to him. The glee in his eyes did not go unnoticed by Fëanaro, nor did his sudden desire to complete the tasks that he obviously thought below him. What could this change possibly mean? It was clear Morgoth and Sauron had held a conversation just before the change came upon the Maia, but what had he been told? Whatever it was, Fëanaro knew that it brooded ill for him and Nelyafinwë. Yet, he could see no way out of this hellhole.

***

They were finally here. The never-ending Helcaraxë did indeed have an end. The host of Nolofinwë had finally reached Middle Earth, and it seemed to them that thou the curse of Mandos was upon them also, the Valar, as a whole, welcomed their arrival; for just as they set foot on the long sought lands of Middle Earth a new light arose from the West and bathed them in its silver glow. Findekáno greeted the new moon and knew it to be the last remnant of Telperion. His heart constricted, for it was by the light of Telperion when Laurelin waned that he and Maitimo had first shared a lover’s kiss. He turned his face away from the now brightly lit West and looked out towards the vast, dark, almost ominous landscape stretched before him without end. He had to find him, he had to find Maitimo and soon.

***

The room he was taken to, after he finished tending to Maitimo, contained nothing but a large bed. Morgoth was already on the bed, stark naked save for his Silmaril studded crown. Fëanaro could not help but take an involuntary step back. Morgoth looked so much like him. It was as if the Dark Lord had taken his hroä as model for his fanna. “Indeed I did my Fëanaro,” whispered Morgoth, “for what other Elf has enough fire to excite me, to hold my interest but you?” Then he grinned. “Now come and show me how grateful you are to me for allowing you to tend to your dear boy.”

Bile rose in Fëanaro’s throat at the prospect of coupling with Morgoth. He wanted to spit it out; he wanted to scream that if Morgoth laid a finger on him he would leave his violated hroä as all Elves do when they are forced into acts of such carnality.

“But if you do any of those things then your eldest will hang from the tallest cliff of my realm by his wrist, his right wrist,” whispered Morgoth seductively. “Defy me if you dare, my Spirit of Fire.”

Fëanaro did not dare and so he joined Morgoth on the bed. By the light of holy jewels he himself wrought, he allowed Morgoth to ravage him.

***

“Kanafinwë,” called Findekáno, interrupting the mighty singer as he sang a song about the new light. “Where is he?” he demanded, “Where is the high king?” He dared not name Maitimo, not yet, and hoped that in asking about Fëanaro he would get some news about Maitimo.

“You mean where is your lover?” sneered Macalaurë. Findekáno flinched, equally at the tone of Macalaurë’s voice as what he said. “You would not interrupt my song for my father or grandfather. You would only do it for Maitimo. If you have learned Maitimo is now the High King of the Noldor then in time you would learn where he is from the same source,” he snapped as he returned to his harp.

Findekáno blinked. “Maitimo is now the High King?” he repeated.

Macalaurë looked up in surprise. “You didn’t know?” he asked.

“Of course not,” Findekáno snapped. “Who from your camp has come to ours in the seven days we have been here?” he wondered. “No one, no one has even ventured close enough for us to overhear any news and rest assured we have sent no spies.”

Suddenly Macalaurë began to laugh a fey laugh. “Your spies would have had quite a tale to tell, Findekáno. My father has been slain by Balrogs and my brother is a prisoner of Morgoth. I am supposed to lead my people in my brother’s stead but all I want to do is sing.”

It was then that Findekáno realized a steady stream of tears had been making their way down Macalaurë’s cheeks even as he had been singing a song of joy. “So leave me, Findekáno, and tell my uncle that he need not seek revenge. The curse of the Noldor and fate has already extracted it for him.” With that, Macalaurë the Mighty turned away and acknowledged his presence no more. After a time Findekáno left, his mind making a desperate resolution.

******

Translations:

Fëa – soul

Hroä – body

Kanafinwë, Macalaurë – Maglor

Findekáno – Fingon

Maitimo, Russandol, Nelyafinwë – Maedhros

Nolofinwë - Fingolfin

Author’s notes: Thanks to Andreth for beta reading. I know time is a bit muddled up in this story, but its mostly deliberate since I wanted to show that inside Angband the perception of time was different. A year felt like a day or a day like a year, depending on how much torment you were suffering. Of course the other reason is that according to calculation done by people much smarter and more knowledgeable than me, Maedhros spent fifteen years in Angband, ten of them hanging from the infamous cliff. To me this seems an unworkable situation without assuming that Maedhros was taken down from the cliff once every week for food, drink and general rest.

I mean come on, Elves need to eat and drink and a long discussion in HASA concluded that Elves do sleep but can go without sleep for long periods of time due to the waking meditation thing they do. Even if Maedhros tried to stay alive because he thought that if he allowed himself to die he would be breaking the oath and thus would fall into everlasting darkness, his body would simply die from starvation and general wear and tear. Of course to me, the fact that Maedhros asks Fingon to kill him is proof that he wasn’t trying to stay alive.

The other alternative is that Morgoth put some sort of spell on him that kept him alive like that, but if that is the case than Maedhros might never have had to eat, drink again. Unless of course one says that Morgoth removed the spell when he was rescued. Which is entirely possible, but to me it seems that if Morgoth did do that then Maedhros would die instantly, since the spell was the only thing holding his body together till he was taken back to the camp for treatment. Of course, if Morgoth left the spell intact then one can make the arguement that Maedhros did not die when he jumped into the lava filled pit. The spell of Morgoth kept him alive and he is floating in a river of lava somewhere, paying for his crimes by being tormented in the flames at the heart of Arda.

Thanks to Kasura for the lovely Fingon/Maedhros pictures.

Next Chapter

Captive

Chapter 5

******

He could not stand it. He could not stand being so unclean. His hroä felt so defiled that he doubted whether all the tears of Nienna could cleanse it. He wished to leave it; he wished to discard this soiled flesh as he would soiled garb. Yet, he could not. Morgoth may well take his base lust out on Nelyafinwë if he was no longer available, and he would not wish this defilement on another, especially his own flesh and blood.

“You are mistaken, my Fëanaro,” whispered Morgoth into his ears as he pressed his body close, “you are mistaken, for you do not understand why I do this. Why I longed to touch you, feel you, possess you.”

“Enlighten me,” whispered Fëanaro in a tone all but broken.

Morgoth chuckled. “I desired light, to possess it for myself and myself alone, for none did I deem worthy to share in its slender. Yet, till you wrought your Silmarils, none could hold light in the palm of their hands, touch it, caress it; not even Varda the lady of light. Oh, she could hold the sources of light, she is a source of light, but to trap light itself… that is beyond her skills. But it was not beyond your skills, my Spirit of Fire. I had to have them, for it seemed to me they were made for me, to fulfill my desire of possessing light.”

He turned Fëanaro to face him and gently began to stroke his cheeks. “I wished to possess the Imperishable Flame, to bring life to things of my own, as do you. Yet Eru denied me this. He wanted me to sing as he bade, and would only allow me to bring into being things he wished to create through me. I refused to play his game and so I was cast out. Then I met you and it seemed to me that Eru had, rather foolishly, put a bit of the Flame Imperishable in you, allowing you to bring into beings things of your own. I had to have you, for only through you could I fulfill my desire of possessing the Flame Imperishable,” declared the powerful Ainur.

Fëanaro began to laugh. “Thus I see my own fault and folly,” he said to himself. Morgoth narrowed his eyes, beckoning him to explain, “All things I have brought into being, I have brought into being with the blessing of Eru. Whether they lead to good or evil they exist for Eru allows them to exist. He is almighty and if he chose he could unmake all that I have made. Aye, he could unmake me. I may indeed have a bit of the Flame Imperishable, but it is only in that I am gifted with vision of thing wondrous and have been given the skills to bring them into being. The vision maybe mine, and the skills exercised by my hands, but they were given to me by Eru. Eru gave you many gifts as well. He did not mind your desire to bring things into existence that were of your own thought, different from those of your brethren. Is it not said in Ainulindalë that when Ilúvatar rose for the first time after you brought discord to the music he smiled? Why would he smile if you displeased him? You did not displease him by wishing to sing your own song but you displeased him when you sought to bend the will of others to your will. You displeased him when you wished to sing alone, with your brethren following you like subjugated thralls. You displeased him with your pride, envy and greed.”

Here the voice of Fëanaro changed from one of haughty disdain to quiet contemplation. “As have I,” he whispered to himself, “for I forgot that happy are those who enjoy what they make and unhappy are those who hoard. If we hoard, it means our hearts have become bound to these things and we invite upon ourselves cares that lead to suffering. Eru Ilúvatar!” cried out Fëanaro, son of Finwë, as the thoughts swirling through his head crystallised into wise insight. “What have I done? What have I done?”

Tears began to trickle freely down his cheeks as Morgoth reeled from the insight of Fëanaro, but then he began to laugh.

“You are a clever one, little Quendi, yet, yet you are wrong in thinking that Eru did not scorn my desire to sing my own song. For my own song was one of domination, of possession,” he declared. “Why should it not be?” he demanded. “After all, am I not the mightiest of all of Eru’s creations? Was I not given the most power, the most strength, the most wisdom?”

“Nay!” cried Fëanaro. “The most power and the most strength you were given indeed, but not wisdom. For if you were wise you would realise that only grief and suffering come from desires of domination and possession,” he sobbed. “Suffering will be the lot of my sons because of my desire, my lust for the creations of my own hand. What have I done! What have I done!” he exclaimed. Suddenly he began to laugh, a fey laugh. “I wonder if bedding you always leads to such wisdom,” he taunted. “Perhaps you should bed yourself once in a while,” suggested Fëanaro. “It could lead to some interesting insights.”

Morgoth sneered and struck Fëanaro so hard across the face that his cheek ripped open, gushing out blood. “You were right about one thing, son of Finwë; suffering will be the fate of your sons. Starting with Nelyafinwë Maitimo. He will hang from the face of a precipice upon Thangorodrim, caught to the rock by a band of steel on the wrist of his right hand,” decreed Morgoth, “and there he shall hang until you have come to understand that in the end I shall triumph!”

Fëanaro shook his head. “No, you shall not,” he whispered, “and my son will not remain long in your bounds. Love… love greater than your comprehension will win him from bondage and bear him upon the wings of wind,” predicted Fëanaro. “Beware Morgoth, beware of the singer that sings the song of Valinor.”

Morgoth, however, laughed. “Dream if you must, my Spirit of Fire, but it will not be. He will suffer forever upon the cliff. I shall lay a spell upon him that will keep his fëa and hroä bound together, feeding each other till the end of time.” With that he was gone, the Silmarils were gone and Fëanaro was left in the darkness to ponder the suffering that arose from desire.

******

Translations:

Fëa – soul

Hroä – body

Fëanaro – Fëanor

Nelyafinwë Maitimo - Maedhros

Author's notes: Thanks to Andreth for beta reading.

Next chapter

Captive

Chapter 6

******

Arid, barren, desolate… so many words to describe the sight that lay before him and all of them so inadequate. How could words capture the sheer terror, the sheer loathing, that filled his heart at the sight of the realm of Morgoth the damned, of Melkor the fallen? This was a realm in which no sane creature would go of its own accord, not that Findekáno believed himself to be sane any longer. The memories, the memories of Valinor and Maitimo, and the two of them together in the blessed realm had driven him to the edge of sanity, if not indeed beyond it. He was probably stark raving mad to even contemplate doing what he was doing; yet the line between lunacy and bravery was oh so thin.

Slowly he climbed high upon the shoulders of Thrangorodrim. Aided by the very darkness, he came unseen and looked upon the desolation of the land from the high point. It was then that despair nearly unmade him. How? How was he to discover Maitimo in this vast and unfriendly place? The darkness aided in keeping him from unfriendly eyes, but the darkness also kept much from his gaze. How was his quest to be achieved? Then it seemed from deep within him came a voice, like and unlike his own. Here you stand on the edge of despair, yet surrounded by darkness. Why do you not seek the light?

The light… it brought to his minds the images of Valinor, the memory of elves dancing and singing in joy by the light of the Trees. It was then that he took up his harp, wondering what foresight had made him bring it, and upon it began a song of Valinor, a song that was wrought by the elves long before the release of Morgoth from his chain. He sang heeding not the orcs that lurked in the shadows. Indeed the orcs to used to hearing only the cries of woe, were taken back by the joyful notes of the song of Findekáno and dared not stir lest something horrible befell them. Then the song, the song of Valinor, was answered by a weak, pained voice. The orcs fled in great haste, leaving Findekáno to complete his search.

A cry of anguish erupted from Findekáno when he saw the cruel device of Morgoth. The cry aroused Nelyafinwë from the pain-hazed daze he was under. At the sight of Findekáno hope and joy blossomed in his heart, “Findekáno, my love, you have come. You have to come to set me free and send me to the Halls of Waiting.”

Findekáno cringed at the very thought of harming his beloved cousin. “I am here to free you,” he said as tears welled up in his eyes, “but not to slay you. Wait my love, I shall come to you.”

With that Findekáno climbed to the foot of the precipice and then realised to his utter despair that he could go no further.

“Findekáno, I did not forget you,” said Maitimo when the hopelessness of the situation became clear to him. “I asked my father to send the ships back, to bear you to me, at least. He did not listen, but he has paid for his…” Maitimo paused, not knowing which to choose…guilt, lack of foresight, mistake. “He has paid. I just wanted you to know that. I could not bear to have you think I had forgotten you. I did not, I could not. Now please, please Findekáno, kill me,” he begged.

“Maitimo… I…” Tears blurred his vision but he knew there was no other way. He strung an arrow, an arrow which he could not aim through his tears, so he prayed, “O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!”

Just then a great shadow passed over him. Looking up he beheld the glorious form of Thorondor, King of Eagles, mightiest of all birds that have ever been. “Stay your hand, son of Nolofinwë, and slay not your kin for a second time. It is not yet time for Námo Mandos to welcome Maitimo to his halls. Come, I shall bear you to him who you love.”

***

“Sauron?” called Morgoth as he surveyed the frantic orcs seeking refuge within the entrance level of Angband.

“Yes, my lord,” replied Sauron, evenly.

“Why are so many orcs here? Huddling together and sucking their thumb, what terrible thing could possible have scared them so witless?” wondered the Dark Lord of Angband.

“Well, my lord, it seems they heard a happy Elvish song that chilled their blood with its sweet, enchanting melodies and horrified them with the images of fearless joy it conjured up and… my lord are you alright?” But Morgoth did not remain to answer him.

He tore down the length of Angband and burst open the door to his inner most chamber. There on the bed he found Fëanaro, laughing in defiance and joy.

“I told you to beware of the singer,” he taunted. “Farewell, Morgoth. I shall see you in Dagor Dagorath.”

Free from the care of the immediate fate of Nelyafinwë, Fëanaro shed his hroä as he had wanted to since the first and last time Morgoth touched him. He could hear Morgoth cry out in anger but he cared not. He was free, and the fire of his spirit scorched to ash his despoiled hroä. His spirit soared high and watched in glee as Thorondor bore his son and nephew back to his people. Then he heard the call, the deep ominous voice of Námo Mandos, the judge, yet Fëanaro was not afraid.

***

“Findekáno had to cut off Maitimo’s right hand,” Námo informed him.

“My son will learn to use his left one,” replied Fëanaro.

“He will,” agreed Námo, “but the shadow of your oath and the guilt of kinslaying will not be erased from his or any of your other sons’ hearts, thou Nelyafinwë now sees more clearly how wrong both were. Only one of your sons will live long enough to render absolution and void my prophecy. Yet his will be a hard path, as will be the path for rest of your sons, and long will they dwell in my halls.”

“But not forever?” asked Fëanaro with mounting hope.

“No, not forever, just as long as it takes them to learn the folly of their deeds and render absolution for their crimes. Yet that will be long still, and maybe some will be re-embodied only a short time before they must fight in the Dagor Dagorath,” answered the Judge.

“How is it that you are not sure?” wondered Fëanaro.

“Free will,” he replied, “the greatest gift, after life, of Eru to his children. I could not have predicted the epiphany you had in the bed of Morgoth, for I could not see how you would interpret the events and the words of Morgoth. Neither could Morgoth, for certainly he would have acted differently had he known. Now you are well on your way on the path of redemption whereas formerly you would have spent more than two ages stubbornly refusing to acknowledge that you had done something wrong.”

Fëanaro laughed. “It seems Morgoth has his uses after all.”

“But of course,” replied Mandos, “in the grand scheme of Eru every one has their part to play.”

******

Translations:

Fëa – soul

Hroä – body

Fëanaro – Fëanor

Nelyafinwë Maitimo – Maedhros

Findekáno – Fingon

Author’s note: Thanks to Andreth for beta reading.

END