The Tempered Steel by Lyra

Part I, Chapter I*

In which Maedhros meets Morgoth, and learns various things about the alternatives to dying. *Warnings for torture and violence. (Oh really!)

He had not been too afraid in the beginning, on the march to Angamando. He expected to die, and soon, but grim and proud and determined - and not just a little ignorant of these matters of war - he told himself that there was nothing to be afraid of, and believed it. They would kill him as they had killed his father, and that would be it. Why should they keep him alive? Although they had not murdered him on the spot as they had slain all his host – his step faltered briefly at the thought of them, many of them friends, and the Orcs behind him shoved him roughly along – although they had not murdered him on the spot but had bound him and forced him along on their victorious return, certainly that was only so Moringotto himself should see him die.
He only wondered why they had left him his armour.

A few miles farther along the way he figured that it was because the armour was heavy, and it was easier to have their prisoner carry it on his shoulders than to carry it themselves. Doubtlessly these creatures wanted to keep it, for it was (naturally, as it had been made by his father) a work of beauty, hard steel engraved and covered with a layer of finest gold, and perfectly suited for its purpose, leaving its bearer room for free movement while nonetheless protecting him faithfully. Indeed, even after the battle, even after all the blows and stabs aimed at him and in part blocked only by the armour, it was still undamaged, the gilt layer unscratched. Only the blood of his enemies (and also his own, from a head wound he had received when he had lost his helmet) and some scorch marks from the Balrog's flails marred its perfection, but that was superficial, nothing that could not be polished away.
Still the armour was heavy, and the thought of being used as a mule made his cheeks colour with resentment, and for the first time he stumbled, only to be kicked and spat at by his jeering captors.

By the time they reached their destination, Maitimo was exhausted, although he refused to let it show. But being led in through the black gates of Angamando he couldn't help but shudder, and a premonition of dread began to weigh down his thoughts. Dragged on through dark corridors of ragged stone and rusty iron, it took more effort to keep his face even and his breath steady, to betray nothing to his enemies. They were setting an even brisker pace now that their triumph had sunk in for good, now that they'd brought their prize home (he suppressed another shudder at the idea that anybody might think of this harsh fortress as 'home'). The air was warmer and drier than he would have expected under the earth, but it smelled evilly, of soot and bitter smoke and something sour and nauseating. Maitimo tried to breathe through his mouth rather than his nose, but it was no better, for the arid air stung in his throat. Aside from the odd torch the tunnel was dark; the dancing shadows cast by the serrated rock walls in the fluttering light made him nervous and jumpy. As he got used to the semi-darkness, Maitimo noticed stains on the floors and walls; many were of a reddish brown. With a flash of panic Maitimo felt certain that they were dried blood, and his own would soon add to it. He told himself that it might as well be rust, tried to fight down the panic that made his breath hitch and his legs buckle. For a moment he felt as though he was suffocating. He could hardly think, let alone act, until finally his pride overcame his fear, and he managed to straighten his back again and breathe evenly. But the Orcs had seen his weakness, and they were jeering and mocking him loudly now, tearing on his hair and the ropes that bound his hands. The walk through the fortress seemed to last as long as the forced march to its gates, but in the end they reached its sanctum where he was cast flat upon his face before a throne of black stone. He struggled to his feet immediately.

In response, he heard a deep laugh. It was a terrible sound, although the voice was fair, rather like Manwë's. But the laughter was not a sound of mirth, and no mirth was imaginable anywhere near it. It was filled with a malice so dark and deep that the very air seemed to be charged with evil intentions.
The owner of that voice, clad all in black iron, stepped up before Maitimo and gazed at him with bright, terrible eyes. "Nelyafinwë," he said. The elf did not reply; he was busy pondering the three bright jewels in his enemy's iron crown.
His father's jewels.
"Maitimo," the enemy said, sneering, touching his face. Maitimo expected the touch to burn, and burn it did, but it wasn't the heat of fire but rather the sharp sting of frozen metal. He felt his flesh bruise where the enemy's fingers had lain. He did his utmost not to flinch. Instead, he spat at the other. "Moringotto."

Fast as lightning the enemy struck his face, so hard that Maitimo found himself on his knees, lip and nose bleeding. Feeling dizzy, he clambered back to his feet, his eyes fixed on the Silmarils. The Orcs laughed, and Maitimo clenched his fists.
"I am not here to play your games, Moringotto," he snapped. "Surrender the jewels, or kill me and be done with it."

The dreadful laughter arose again, and all the Orcs joined in. "Surrender the jewels?" the fallen Vala repeated. "Oh, you have your father's spirit, little elf. And did I not warn him that his treasure was not safe in Valinor?"
Maitimo shook his head. "And whose fault is that? Stop this. I told you I would not be part of your games." He pursed his lips, the taste of his blood on his tongue, and jutted his chin resolutely. "Kill me or give me the Silmarils."

He was struck hard again, and when he tried to rise this time, he was prevented from doing so by two Orcs grappling him by the shoulders.
"Oh, you err," came Moringotto's voice, almost tenderly. "You will play many a game with me, or at any rate provide ample game. You have no idea what I can do to you. I could make you, too, an Orc –" he gestured at his deformed creatures – "and you would willingly serve me…"
"Never," spat Maitimo, trembling with anger and the futile attempts at shaking the Orcs off his back.
"Perhaps you would. But no; that would be a waste. You are too valuable for that.” Moringotto bared his teeth in a smile. “Perhaps, instead, you will have to serve them. They delight in blood, you see, and yours doubtlessly will be especially sweet." His eyes, colourless and loveless and filled with mad delight, bored deep into Maitimo's.
Then he waved at the Orcs. "Take him down."

- - -

Maitimo couldn't have said what he had expected, but it certainly hadn't been a forge. Yet, among all sorts of machines, the purpose of which he couldn't and didn't want to fathom, there were unmistakeably an anvil and furnace. He was confused. Did Moringotto expect him to work here, crafting weapons for the armies of Angband? Memories came to Maitimo of lessons with his father, of disappointment when he could not live up to his father's standards and expectations, and he smiled grimly. If Moringotto wanted a smith, he had taken the wrong son of Fëanáro.

"Bring me the armour," his enemy commanded, and the Orcs that had pulled and shoved him there scrambled to comply, opening the fastenings and cutting the links of the metal plating. When they untied his hands in order to remove the shoulder pieces, he was prepared; he had gathered all his strength and struck.
Three Orcs went down with pained, surprised shrieks, but there were more, and they soon had thrown him onto the ground and ripped away the rest of his armour and his clothing. Dozens of hard hands held him down, naked; one of them pulled his head back by his hair and forced him to watch as Moringotto took his beautiful armour and heated and hammered it into broad bands of steel. At a nod, the Orcs brought Maitimo forward while he cursed and struggled. Growing up with six younger brothers had taught him to wrestle several opponents at once, although even the fiercest brotherly dispute was hardly comparable to this desperate struggle. He fought dirtier than even Tyelkormo had, ramming his elbows in crotches and ribcages, scratching, kicking, biting, spitting. Every foe that fell back fuelled his strength; for a second he actually entertained the hope that he might manage to escape, though he had no idea how he should find his way out through the corridors afterwards, unarmed and naked.

Then he caught a nasty blow to the head that sent him stumbling forward, and in the brief while it took to recover his balance, they brought him to the anvil and forced him to kneel. He ground his teeth and leaned back, trying to remain upright, pushing away from the anvil, but they were warned now and took no chances, and they succeeded in forcing his arms onto the remains of his armour. He yelped when the still-hot metal seared his skin, then groaned in pain and humiliation while Moringotto beat them into shape around his wrists. The strokes were hard and shook his bones; he could have sworn that he felt something break in his left arm. By the time the Enemy had finished his work, Maitimo was trembling badly. The Orcs laughed and cheered.
The same treatment was given to his ankles. Every ringing stroke of the hammer made the fact of his captivity clearer, and it was hard now not to show his terror. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists to keep from screaming – even at that small swelling of muscle, the sharp edges of the gyves cut into his wrists – but he couldn't prevent the tears from rising.

Finally he was dropped to the ground again, his head reeling with pain and apprehension. The Orcs still held him down in place, made wary by his earlier struggles. "You are mine now," he heard Moringotto say as if from afar. "What once protected you now protects my property. You cannot escape, nor will you ever be released unless your quest is foresworn, and your people accept me as lord sovereign of the world."
With all the strength he could muster, Maitimo replied, "It's a little late for that now, isn't it?" He had intended for it to sound defiant, but his voice was thick with tears.
"Oh, it's no longer your decision, little Maitimo," Moringotto said. "But perhaps your brothers will be cooperative now that I have you."
The elf shuddered. "They will not play your games either," he said, but even as he said it he knew that the alternative would be leaving him in Moringotto's power. Whatever the outcome, he would lose.
And Moringotto knew that.
"We will see, pretty Maitimo, we will see." He stroked the elf's head. "Such beautiful hair," he added as an afterthought. "I am sure my Orcs would love to have such hair, wouldn't you, boys?"
There were shrieks of agreement and eager nods, some of the Orcs slavering with excitement. Maitimo shook his head vigorously.
"Have at it, then," said Moringotto with a malignant smile, and the orcs fell over Maitimo like a colony of ants over a dead wasp, tearing and cutting at his long red tresses. He clenched his eyes tightly shut while hot tears rose in them.
They tore and slashed, grabbing his hair by the handful, not caring whether their crude blades nicked the skin on his head. Nor did they permit him any rest when his hair was shorn at last. The only warning he got was a crack of leather somewhere behind him; then the lashes bit into his back, again and again and again. He could not help screaming now, helpless beneath their cruel hands and whips. It went on and on until he was certain there could be no skin left on his back, until he could barely breathe and his throat was raw from screaming.

The following days, or weeks, or years – he had no way of telling how long it was, for it was always dark and his torment never ceased – went by in a haze of pain and blood and helplessness. He was beaten and burned and almost drowned – he soon tried to hold his breath just that second more, hoping for salvation in death, but his treacherous body always gave in at the latest possible moment, drawing air into belaboured lungs in deep, hungry gasps – his limbs were stretched and twisted, his bones broken. The only respite he got was when they forced him to watch as they tormented other prisoners: hapless Avari, he assumed, and some of them very young. Witnessing their pain was almost worse than his own.
He screamed until he coughed blood and wept until he had no more tears left. At first, he hoped that his tormentors would tire eventually – surely even these dark creatures must sleep at some point? – but there were always others to take their place, and even when they left him alone for brief intervals, they left him in cruel discomfort, his strained limbs and untended wounds continuing to torture him even in the Orcs' absence.

He did not see Moringotto for a long time. When he did, he had just been dropped to the ragged stone floor after an extended period of hanging by his ankles, arms pulled away from him until he thought his spine would snap. Now he curled up groaning, trying to prepare himself for whatever the Orcs might do next; and then without warning or reason his pain faded into a mere throb of overexcited nerves, barely noticeable after the agonies of the past months.
He managed to lift his aching head, and there, towering over him, stood the Enemy, iron-clad as ever, looking down at his sorry state.
For a moment, Maitimo told himself that he should get to his feet, but he discarded the thought almost immediately. He simply could not muster the strength of will to move. Nor did he see the point. Even coming up with a scornful greeting was too much of an effort: A half-hearted grunt would have to do.
He watched in astonishment as Moringotto stooped and reached out to him. Instinct made him flinch away, and one of the cowering Orcs made to strike him; but the Enemy shook his head. Impossibly, the lash stopped in mid-swing. Maitimo gaped in surprise, and when Moringotto's hand moved towards his face again, he clenched his eyes shut but held still.
This time, the touch did not hurt. On the contrary: the last twinges of pain disappeared. For the first time in he knew not how long, he was entirely free of pain. Absurdly, his first reaction was panic. Only slowly could he remind himself that this was how his body was normally supposed to feel.
“My poor, foolish Maitimo,” the Enemy's voice said, gently. “Why are you forcing me to do this to you?”
Why indeed, said a voice in Maitimo's head, and for a second he did not know the answer, until he opened his eyes and stared into the painful brightness of the jewels in Moringotto's crown. He did not know what to say, so he merely hissed and bared his teeth. Moringotto shook his head. “Has this not gone on for long enough? Don't make me continue. How I long to release you from all this pain...”
Maitimo sneered. “Why don't you, then?” he managed to say as he finally remembered how to speak.
The Enemy gave him an infinitely sorrowful look, the kind that a tutor might wear before telling a student that he had not, alas, passed his examination. “Because I cannot do that before you have learned your lesson and cease your stubborn resistance. It is your decision.”
With a snort, Maitimo said, “How so?”
“Why, my dear, because I must be certain of your loyalty before you can be freed. As soon as you swear it, your torment will be at an end.” He gestured invitingly. “This very moment, if you choose. After that, all that you desire can be yours. Food, healing, riches, revenge – name it, and you will receive. Refuse, and we will have to... wait.”
Part of Maitimo's mind told him to grasp this chance. A memory of his pain coursed through his veins as if to support this line of thought. Better to serve Moringotto than to suffer like that again, it went, and Maitimo couldn't help but see the wisdom in that. He took a deep breath, but before he could speak, another thought sprang up like a flame in his mind: No. Do not forget who you are. Do not forget who he is. Better to suffer than to serve Moringotto.
It won. “I'll die before I swear loyalty to you,” Maitimo hissed, angry with himself for almost succumbing to the Enemy's words.
Moringotto's look spoke of regret as he rose. “I'm afraid not,” he said. “I'm afraid not.” He turned and walked away without another word. As suddenly as it had stopped, the pain washed over Maitimo again, all the more agonising for having been temporarily suspended. He writhed, biting his knuckles to stifle a scream. The Orcs laughed.
“You refused Master,” one of them said, in his rough mockery of Quenya. “You will regret.”
And he did.

In the following months his life before Angamando grew more and more abstract. He could remember events from an older time if he put his mind to it, and he was aware that he had not always been in pain - but nothing of that felt real or even possible anymore. Reality reduced him to his tormented body, and often enough it took up all his mind. It seemed to him that the Orcs redoubled their efforts after Moringotto's visit, and he was certain that he would fall apart any second; but they ever took care to keep him – just barely – alive.
When finally Moringotto came to see him again, Maitimo did not have the strength to do anything but curl into a small ball and weep as the pain that had one moment filled every corner of his mind disappeared, leaving his head empty and fuzzy. He felt something soft and wet on his face, a sweet smell in his nose; and then his mouth was filled with something viscid and warm. Soap and soup, his mind supplied after some moments of confusion. Soap for cleaning. Soup for eating. Good. He swallowed gratefully, leaned into the towel, sobbed without inhibition. He did not open his eyes; there was a strange light in the room, very bright, frightening after such a long time in the dark.
“You do not have to do this to yourself,” a voice said, gentle and sorrowful and old. Manwë, he thought, and then corrected himself, no, Melkor. Names. Neither seemed to mean anything to him.
He suspected that he should say something, and croaked, “No?”
The word felt alien on his tongue, though he did not at first know why. He had picked up enough of the speech of his tormentors to understand most of their conversations, which were at any rate very simple and mostly circled around what he was going to suffer next, but he only realised that he had used their language when the gentle voice said, in his native Quenya, “No. You know that.”
He racked his brain, but found no answer.
“No,” he said, feeling helplessly lost. Why was this happening to him? Surely he was not being punished without reason. He distantly remembered that it was important somehow, but why and what it was he couldn't grasp. He opened his eyes half-way, peering into the blinding light; then he clenched them shut again.
“Poor Maitimo,” said the voice, “have you forgotten that you can end your suffering at any time? A little promise of fealty, dearest, mere words...” A hand stroked his re-grown, filth-matted hair. “Will you not do that? It is high time.”
Something in him protested that he could not - must not - give in, that surely there was a reason why he had refused it so far. He tried to follow that thought. His nerves chose that moment to send new jolts of pain through his body. There cannot possibly be a reason for such an ordeal, his mind told him, and if you can stop it with a few words, just do it. You cannot, the first thought insisted. You mustn't.
“Surely you want relief, sweet Maitimo?” the friendly voice continued. “Are you not hungry? Do you not hurt? None of that is necessary. Give up your resistance, swear to serve me henceforth, and you need no longer suffer.”
Suppose there is a reason, a third thought arose. Suppose you really mustn't serve him – can you not pretend to do it, for the time being? He is right, you do need relief; why not give him the promise he wants, and use the chance to stop this pain?
He blinked against the bright light again, and this time it brought him the answer: The Silmarils, you want the Silmarils. That is why you are fighting him. You swore an oath.
Suppose, his mind insisted, that you gave your promise. You could pretend to serve him, regain your strength, then steal the Silmarils and run away.
He opened his eyes, staring at the bright jewels in the other's crown, at the gauntleted hand that stroked his hair. The face underneath the crown was grey as stone and beautiful as a knife-blade and, Maitimo thought, just as sharp and dangerous; but it smiled. “What say you, Nelyafinwë?”
And why not, he thought to himself. You need not keep a promise to him. You must think of yourself. You can't achieve anything while they torture you. Promise, recover, then break the promise and escape.
“Yes,” he said, coming to a decision. It was not hard to make his voice sound meek; broken and exhausted as he was, he hardly had the strength to speak anyway. After a moment's hesitation he added, though every sinew of his being protested against it, “Lord.”
The smile intensified, and the Orcs surrounding them slowly drew back. “A wise choice, Maitimo,” Moringotto said. “You will serve me then?”
The soup threatened to rise again in his throat, but he swallowed it down. “Yes, lord.”
“Faithfully, and without question, and against any former loyalties you may recall?”
“Yes, lord.”
The gauntleted hand stroked his face again, ever so kindly, and he almost relaxed into the touch.

Then it struck him with such force that his face was slammed into the rock floor. He felt his nose break. Blood gushed forth, filling his mouth within seconds. He cried out in shock, followed by coughs against the blood that threatened to find its way to his lungs. The peaceful lull was gone; the pain came back, almost overpowering him.
The Enemy rose. “You are trying to lie to me,” he said, and there was a note of disbelief in his voice. “You are trying to betray me! I know everything about lies. Little fool, did you think you would get away with this?”
So I did, Maitimo thought, remembering more clearly now why he was resisting, tilting his head back ever so slightly, feeling the warm, salty, iron blood run down his throat. He said nothing.
“Did you think I would not notice? Have you still not learned? You will pay dearly for this...”
I won't; I will suffocate on my own blood, Maitimo thought, and found that the thought did not scare him in the least. An unpleasant death, no doubt, but then there was no pleasure in life either. He closed his eyes and waited for the end.
But his body betrayed him again. He broke into violent, quite involuntary coughs that drove the blood from his lungs and alerted the Orcs to his intentions. When he recovered from the coughing fit, he was held forward firmly, and the blood dripped, harmlessly, to the ground.

Until that day, he later realised, he had struggled against his fate. Now he realised the futility of such an endeavour, and he resigned himself to the pain. His life would never be anything else; until death released him he would know nothing but agony, and then, nothing. The realisation was dreadful, but he welcomed it nonetheless: The certainty of death, he felt, was better than the vain hope for improvement. His prayers, which had so far begged Tulkas for strength and Estë for healing, now turned to Námo. He was no longer afraid of judgement. Whatever Mandos might have in store for him, it would free him from this. Seen like that, every bite of the lash, every turn of the rack, every broken bone brought him closer to freedom. After all, there was only so much that a body could bear, wasn't there? Surely his was nearly at the end of its endurance.
Perhaps the Orcs noticed his new attitude, or perhaps they merely became used to him; at any rate he thought that they grew more listless. There was less malice and more routine to his torment now. More and more often the Orcs turned to more promising victims, leaving him alone for so long that his thoughts had time to clear. At such times he forced himself to recall his name, his brothers, his old life, his quest; but they had nothing to do with him anymore. His part in the story was over.

But Námo, if he received his prayers in the first place, made him wait. Instead Moringotto came to test him again. This time Maitimo did not even bother to acknowledge the other's presence. The pain was lifted from him once more, and he hardly cared. It was merely a brief break from normal business, that was all.
“Oh Maitimo,” the Enemy said, his voice as gentle as before, “will you not relent? Will you not allow me to show mercy?”
Against all reason, Maitimo felt the urge to laugh. “So you know the word,” he whispered. “I was wondering.”
There was a pause, and Maitimo wondered whether he had surprised the other. Apparently so.
“Is that it, then?” the Enemy finally asked. “You will still not serve me?”
“You know that by now,” Maitimo said, staring at the roughly hewn wall ahead. Speaking and staying conscious at the same time was enormously hard; he did not have the strength to move on top of it.
Moringotto paced, armour clinking. “Yes, I suppose I do. I admit that I hoped that you would be more reasonable, however. Your father would have been, you know. Look at this land: wastes and mires and rank forests, inhabited by wild beasts and wilder people. It needs ordering, it needs guidance, it needs teaching. All that I would give them, and I daresay that your father would have done nothing else. You at my side could continue his work. Yes, I think your father understood me better than you know.”
“If you say my father understood you,” said Maitimo, half-surprised how much mention of his father hurt, even now, “and I know he named you Moringotto, that should tell me enough. I don't think I should follow you.” He was childishly proud of this feat of logic. He knew that he would pay for this, but he was beyond caring. He was always paying for something anyway.
Moringotto stopped his pacing. “I truly had hoped that you would be more reasonable. I seem to have been mistaken. That is most unfortunate. But if you do not have the sense to save yourself, perhaps your brothers do?” He shook his head in mock-concern. “I suppose it is time to send a messenger...”

- - -
Maitimo had expected that the Orcs would renew their resolve to break him after that interview. Instead they tired of him for good. After a few more half-hearted weeks he was chained into a small bundle and left alone in a dark, bare chamber. The hours of respite turned into days, weeks, months. He lay, his muscles cramping, his tendons aching, his forehead pressed to the cold ground, alternating between consciousness and merciful oblivion for he knew not how long.