The first moonrise by yletylyf

The shadow and flame at his side did not require chains to keep him in place. Maitimo was weak at their touch, as he was hauled along with his feet dragging on the ground, and he thought he would faint. He had no sense of place or the passage of time; all his mind was focused on repelling their evil touch from his spirit.

He did not notice passing through the great gates of a fortress, and he did not register the journey through the dark passageways. Nothing could pose a greater harm than the fire demons that had taken hold of him.

Nothing, that is, until he was cast at the feet of the throne of Morgoth Bauglir.

The demons of shadow and flame withdrew, and Maitimo found himself on his knees in a great, dark hall of stone. A throne was before him—twice the size of any other—and upon it sat a great Dark Lord.

Maitimo knew who he was, of course, but did not quite recognize him. Morgoth had walked among the Noldor in Tirion, with a lordly but familiar-seeming face, only slightly taller than they. He had been very great and wonderous, yet not so high and remote. He had spoken as one of them; wined and dined and spread lies as one of them.

This shape was something else altogether. It may have been the shape he wore when he attacked Formenos, but Maitimo had fled from him, craven and cowardly, in the grip of a complete darkness of spirit, and so he did not know what shape he wore then.

This shape was vaguely humanoid, if much too tall: he was half again as tall as Maitimo, who was not short. The Dark Lord was pale, fey, and dark haired. He would have been handsome, if dread were not radiating from every pore. He wore chainmail of very fine mesh links, and metal gauntlets and boots.

And he had the Silmarils. The Silmarils! There they were, captured and tortured and held prisoner within an iron crown, ever so far out of reach, mocking and tormenting him in his powerlessness.

"Nelyafinwë! Eldest son of Fëanáro," the Dark Lord on the throne said. His voice was pitched very low and it echoed dreadfully throughout the hall. "Welcome to Angband."

Something of Maitimo's spirit rose in response to this awful speech.

"You have been faithless," Maitimo accused. "We agreed to a parlay with terms of peace."

Morgoth laughed, and his laughter was wretched, and Maitimo's spirit quailed again. "You also came with more than we agreed upon, son of Fëanáro."

"You came with the more," Maitimo muttered resentfully.

"So I did," Morgoth said, sounding extremely pleased. "Now, what do you suppose your brothers will say to the news that you are captured?"

"Hopefully they will say you are thrice accursed, and send their wishes for you to rot in the void where you came from!" Maitimo cried, jumping to his feet. He shook his fist at the throne and raised his voice in proud tones. The darkness of the Enemy and the light of the Silmarils combined to render the vision painful, and he swayed on feet that were unsteady and numb, but he did not fall or shut his eyes.

How he wished he could come up with comebacks that were as clever as his father's!

For answer to his defiant words, one of the demons stepped out of the shadows, raised his great whip of flame, and brought it down across Maitimo's back.

Someone screamed. After a few moments, Maitimo realized it was himself. He smelled seared flesh before he felt it; wreck and ruin of the skin on his back. It burned through his armor as though it wasn't even there. It was agony. He fell forward on his hands and knees, then collapsed onto his elbows. Tears sprang to his eyes and he gasped for breath, his stomach heaving and his vision dancing.

Morgoth was saying something, up on his throne. Maitimo could barely hear him through the consuming pain.

"I shall ask them and see. In the meantime, you and I are going to get better acquainted. Your father owes me much, and his death has not satisfied for all. I think I will take the debt from your flesh."

This really made no sense; the debt ran the other way! Morgoth had slain Fëanáro's father and stolen his jewels. Maitimo struggled with the words to say this, trying to force his tongue to move and his brain to fashion speech, but he lost his train of thought as another tall, humanoid figure strode forward.

This figure was not half again as tall as the height of an Elda. He was perhaps only a foot or two taller, and compared to Morgoth, he was muted. He, too, had pale skin, eyes of fire, and dark hair, and was very fair. It all seemed to be an imitation of the shape on the throne. The difference was that he was not wearing armor; his clothing was black and red, and shimmered as he walked. He wore a very small circlet of gold around his brow.

He was obviously not an elf, but that did not at all help answer the question of what he was instead.

"So it is true," the figure said, his eyes fixed greedily on Maitimo. His voice was a little lighter, and more musical than Morgoth's. "You found one of the elves who came from Valinor."

The figure mounted the steps leading up to the throne. He laid a hand, bare and ungloved, on Morgoth's shoulder. His fingers were long and slender.

"Melkor," said the new arrival. "Let me have him. Please! Before you destroy him. You will have plenty of time with him, I shall do nothing that diminishes your pleasure in him."

Morgoth turned and leaned into the touch on his shoulder, almost like... a cat. Maitimo could come up with no other way to describe it.

"Darling," Morgoth said. "I could never deny you anything. Do as you like with him. For now."

"Curse you," Maitimo managed weakly, coughing as he spoke. He could not do better in this weakened state, his back on fire. "Curse you forever!"

"Hmm," the figure said, taking his hand off Morgoth's shoulder and descending the stairs. "Well. First things first. Stop whipping him"—the figure directed this command to the demons in the shadows—"and bring him after me, please."

The demon surged forth to grasp Maitimo's arm. Once again, his spirit dwindled under the touch. He was shaking and his head was spinning; he was being dragged somewhere without any awareness of his surroundings.

He did not know where he was when the figure's voice again penetrated the darkness.

"Put him on the divan."

Maitimo was lowered onto something, on his back. He screamed at the contact on the raw burn of the flaming whip, the pain and friction nearly unbearable. He rolled over onto his side, dry heaving and his head spinning.

"Thank you, my lovelies," said the figure. "Will you please send for Parwë on your way out?"

Whoever he was talking to—the demons, Maitimo supposed—withdrew from the room. Their absence should have made Maitimo's spirit feel lighter, but he was so dizzy from pain, it was hard to tell the difference.

There was nothing in Maitimo's stomach. His brain finally caught up to this fact, and he forced himself to stop heaving. He coughed a little, and the figure was there at his side. He laid a hand on Maitimo's shoulder, steadying him, and with his other hand offered a cup of water.

Maitimo awkwardly accepted the cup with the arm he was not lying on, and sipped from it. It was water, clean water in defiance of the dread of this place, and nothing had ever tasted better to his parched throat and cracked lips. He had no idea how long the journey to Angband had lasted, but he was sure he had had no food or drink along the way.

The cup was emptied; Maitimo handed it back to the figure, and looked up. Maitimo was lying on something—a divan, he supposed—in a more homely space than that massive, echoing throne room.

He realized someone else was there, a third person in the room.

This new arrival was certainly an elf, and just as certainly not of the Calaquendi. He was dressed in furs and his skin was albino and leathery. His eyes were dark and strange.

"I know absolutely nothing of healing flesh," the taller figure was saying to the elf. "What do you suppose he needs?"

The dark elf stooped over Maitimo and examined his back. Maitimo held still and did not move. He did not understand why anyone in Angband should want to heal him, but it was not quite within him to protest this notion either.

"Remove his armor and clothing and bathe the wound, for one," the dark elf said. His Quenya was so heavily accented that Maitimo, at first, did not realize he was even speaking the tongue. It took intense concentration to follow what he was saying, and concentration was something Maitimo was low on at the moment. "Bits of his armor have seared into the skin. A clean bandage is probably all there is to be done after that."

"What do your people do for burn wounds, son of Fëanáro?" the taller figure asked Maitimo. He sounded curious and entirely sincere in the question. In contrast to the dark elf's speech, this figure—and Morgoth himself—spoke with no trace of an accent; his Quenya might have been spoken exactly as thus in the halls of the Mindon Eldaliéva.

Of course, Maitimo remembered bitterly, Morgoth had walked the halls of the Mindon freely, spreading his lies and poison in perfect Noldorin Quenya.

"Honey, and oil or fat," Maitimo answered. He felt distant and unmoored, as though someone were answering through him. "And willow bark, for the pain."

"Hmm," the figure said, his musical voice in a thoughtful register. "I believe we have honey?"

"We do, a little," the dark elf answered. "And—I suppose we have oils, from plant extracts. I am uncertain if we should use that, or orc or other animal fat."

Orc fat? That was hideous. "No orcs," Maitimo moaned.

"Plant extracts then," the figure agreed without argument. "What sort of plant do you suppose would be best?"

Maitimo had no idea. He was not a healer either. His knowledge came from household remedies, with six younger brothers who got themselves into constant trouble growing up. And still did even as adults. But he never extracted oils from plants himself—they were just on hand at home.

"I don't know," he admitted slowly.

"Hmm. Whatever we have available, then. And willow bark—willow does not exactly grow near here. Parwë, will you handle the rest of it? I will return soon."

"Yes, lord," the dark elf said.

The taller figure suited action to word and departed at once.

The dark elf—Parwë, his name seemed to be—started unlacing Maitimo's leather armor, and Maitimo had nothing in him either to resist or to help. He was limp as he was undressed, biting down very hard on his tongue when Parwë peeled away layers of clothing from the searing whip mark on his back. Despite the pain, he held very still as Parwë bathed the wound in a cold, clean cloth. It stung, and tears sprang to his eyes again.

"Who are you?" Maitimo asked, his brain heavy and his tongue slow to form the words.

"I am one of your eldest," Parwë answered with no trace of hesitation. "I awoke at Cuiviénen and was counted among the Tatyar."

That explained much. Parwë was speaking an ancient form of Quenya that had not evolved as Noldorin Quenya had—the same language, but many ages and a continent apart. That said, it was striking that he was more intelligible than the Grey-elves had been.

"You may think of me as the steward of this tower," Parwë continued. "My name you have heard already."

"You serve Morgoth?" Maitimo asked wonderingly. "How?"

"What is Morgoth?" Parwë asked. His tone was curious rather than offended and his ministrations were still gentle.

Oh. Maitimo had forgotten that was just a name his father gave to the Enemy. He should not have been surprised that this name was not known here. Yet.

"Melkor," he clarified.

"Ah. Then, yes. He is the mightiest, and most glorious of them all. It is my pleasure to have served him almost since the day I awoke."

Maitimo had no idea what to make of that. How was it a pleasure to serve the great foe?

"I thought... I thought Melkor captured and tortured the earliest elves, and twisted them into orcs," Maitimo said, heedless of whether this would be offensive.

"I have heard those stories," Parwë said. His voice remained light and he did not appear to take offense. "They are untrue. Lord Melkor has never tortured any of those elves who followed him willingly since he appeared to us."

Maitimo filed that away to think about later.

"Who was the other being that was here? He is not of the Quendi."

Parwë laughed. His laugh was loud and startling, and Maitimo flinched, but the hands tending to his back remained gentle.

"No! No, he is certainly not. He is of the Ainur, second in mightiness only to Lord Melkor. He is Lord Melkor's lieutenant, second-in-command, and husband. His name is Mairon. Know that to cross him is to cross Lord Melkor himself."

Mairon. Maitimo tasted the name in his mind, not certain he was hearing it correctly through that accent.

What to process first in this information, Maitimo hardly knew. Two of the Ainur in this fortress he was sworn to make war upon! As if one were not bad enough. Given that it was thoroughly impossible for this Mairon to be among the Valar, the other one must have been of the Maiar. And he was...

"Husband?" Maitimo asked with a cough. "Morg—Melkor is married?"

"Yes. And I suspect Lord Mairon has flown off to personally fetch you willow bark. So you might wish to show him some gratitude when he returns."

"Gratitude?" Maitimo repeated, incredulous. He choked on the word and his coughing grew harsher. "As a captive in Angband?"

"Shh," Parwë urged. "Do not distress yourself. Have some more water."

Another cup of water was offered to Maitimo. He took it and drained it. It did help, some.

"Ah," Parwë said as someone else entered the room. He spoke a few low, guttural words in a language Maitimo did not recognize, then started smearing something on Maitimo's back. Maitimo wondered if it really was honey and oil; it was cool and soothing, and did not hurt as much as when Parwë had cleaned the wound with water.

How did they have honey in these bare, forbidding mountains, this cold northern waste? Surely no honeybees lived up here. Maitimo had not seen any evidence that honeybees could live in this land, even further south—he had seen no flowers of any kind. All plant and animal life seemed to be in a kind of stasis, save for dark things that lurked in caves or underwater. And save for the forests of Doriath, in the mystical grip of a sorceress—if the tales of that place were true.

Maitimo wished to ask about all these things, and more, but he felt himself fading. It had been a long struggle to stay conscious since his capture, and as Parwë's soothing hands worked on his back, Maitimo gave up the fight. He closed his eyes and passed out.

When Maitimo opened his eyes again, his head felt considerably clearer. Details that had been dim were sharp now. He was lying on his side on a divan, which turned out to be an arrangement of three cushions stuffed with feathers sitting on long wooden slats with legs, raised three or so feet off the floor. The room was, as he had noted earlier, homely and cozy. The light came from a roaring fire in an oversized fireplace at the end of the room, dancing with flames in strange colors—everything from orange to white to red to yellow to blue.

There was a bed in the corner, and scattered about the room were several pieces of beautifully carved furniture—a table, chairs, a long cabinet, and some stools and shelves and other vague shapes. One wall was all wooden shutters; the wall opposite, above the bed, was an enormous map of what seemed to be Beleriand. Maitimo squinted at this map, hungry for such detail.

"Ah, you're awake," came Parwë's voice. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Maitimo answered, turning his head to look. The movement pulled at the skin on his back, which cried out in protest at such treatment.

Parwë was standing beside a door, holding a bag in his hands. "Lord Mairon did find willow bark," he said. "I don't want to imagine the lengths he went to in order to get it for you. How is it prepared?"

"Steep it in hot water for tea," Maitimo explained.

"Ah!" Parwë said. "That's clever. We have never devoted ourselves to exploring healing remedies, and our practices are a little crude. I suspect you have caused Lord Mairon to feel the lack of it, and now he shall be eager for all the knowledge you have on the subject."

Maitimo blinked at this flood of information, and shelved it to think about later.

"I need... I need to relieve myself," he said, hoping this need was understood by the other elf. He did not know, but he rather suspected, that the Ainur had no such needs.

"You may use the pot on the floor right by you," Parwë explained. "That is what I brought it up for. Can you manage, or do you need assistance?"

"I can manage," Maitimo said instantly, without knowing yet whether this was true.

Parwë nodded. "I will return with your tea shortly."

He withdrew and shut the door behind him.

Maitimo sat up, slowly and gingerly. His back screamed at him, but he gritted his teeth and sweated through it. He had been divested of all his clothing, which was embarrassing, but the room was warm and it was not uncomfortable. He felt gingerly at his hair, the movement pulling painfully, and found that his braids had been undone and the jewels removed from them.

That was hardly surprising, but it made Maitimo want to cry just the same.

He managed to use the chamber pot, and returned to lie on his side by the time Parwë reentered the room with a steaming cup of tea.

Parwë handed it to Maitimo carefully. Maitimo propped himself up on an elbow, wincing at the pain, and sipped at the tea. It helped instantly, if only because the steam was relaxing and the smell comforting. The tea had been sweetened with what he suspected was more honey. It was downright luxurious.

"Thank you," he forced himself to say. Gratitude for being a captive remained an absurd notion, but it was not Parwë who had arranged his captivity.

"Are you hungry?" Parwë asked.

Maitimo was very, very hungry. He had not eaten since before the false parlay. He felt cautious, however. "What do you eat around here?"

If it was orc flesh, he would just starve. Morgoth could send his withered body back to his brothers.

"Mostly we eat a variety of plants that grow underground," Parwë explained. "You might call it cave algae," he continued, although Maitimo was again not sure he understood through the thick accent. "We also eat bats, and cave fish and... lizards and insects, are those the same words you use? On feast days, we indulge in far nicer things. Our supply of those is very limited, but Lord Mairon has told me you are to be offered whatever we have. I can prepare you fresh bread and venison stew with vegetables."

"Why?" Maitimo asked bluntly. "Why is he being... kind to me?"

"You must ask him that yourself," Parwë said, his tone calm and unoffended, but unmovable. "Would you like the stew?"

"Very much," Maitimo admitted.

"I will return shortly."

Maitimo was left to finish his tea and sleep again.

Parwë roused him again with a large bowl of stew and freshly baked bread. It was served on a tray, in neatly carved wooden bowls. Also on the tray was a cup made of wood. It was beautiful and admirable work.

"I brought you some of our strong drink," Parwë said, "which may help with the pain, short term."

Maitimo struggled to sit up, drawing deep breaths to move through the pain. Parwë did not offer to help him, which was appreciated. He picked up the cup from the tray and sniffed at it. It smelled very strongly of alcohol. He sipped from it very gingerly, and discovered that that was basically all it was: very strong alcohol.

"It is barley wine, but taken outside and frozen and the ice removed, and this process repeated several times. This makes the alcohol concentration much stronger. I cannot say that it tastes nice, but—well," Parwë finished with a wry smile. "It helps with some things."

Maitimo thanked Parwë, although he still found the words difficult on his lips. He dug into the stew and bread, which turned out to be better than anything Maitimo would have eaten in the camp back in Mithrim.

So far, the host of Fëanáro had mostly supplied itself with what they had brought from Valinor by boat. The Grey-elves of Mithrim seemed to subsist on fish and the few birds that could be found in the skies; otherwise there was nearly nothing to hunt or forage. The people of Menegroth and Eglarest clearly existed above a subsistence level, but the host of Fëanáro had not yet learned the specifics from their sundered brethren.

Tyelkormo had suggested it first—that they eat orc flesh—but their father had scorned the idea as beneath them, and no one had brought it up again. Maitimo had fervently and firmly sided with their father on the topic. The Eldar did not eat the flesh of sentient creatures, even only-barely-sentient creatures like orcs.

Maitimo wondered idly, as he sipped at the very strong drink and ate his bowl of stew in Angband, what his brothers would do now that neither Fëanáro nor Maitimo were around. Maglor had remained silent and expressed no opinion of his own during the debate.

Parwë removed the dishes when Maitimo was finished. He passed out in short order from the alcohol, which did indeed dull the pain for a time.

When he woke, he was alone.

In fact, Maitimo was largely left alone for what seemed to be a very long time. He slept on and off, and time had no meaning. The fire never dimmed or went out, and there was no change in the conditions save Parwë's sporadic visits.

Sometimes he would wake to find a pitcher refilled with clean water; the chamber pot would be emptied; and sometimes he caught Parwë delivering more food or willow bark tea. Parwë cleaned his wound and rebandaged it a few times. Parwë provided him a pair of leather trousers that fit around his hips, but were a bit short in the leg. Maitimo judged they belonged to Parwë.

The hearty stew gradually gave way to fish and the dried vegetable strips that must have been the algae described earlier; they were tough and salty and tasted very like the fish in flavor.

After a while, Maitimo felt well enough to move around the room. He tried the door, but it was locked, and he decided not to try to break through it just yet. He went to the wall of windows and discovered that the wooden shutters were not locked. They swung open readily when he pressed on them.

An intensely cold, biting, punishing air rushed inside. He discovered that he was very high in the towers of Angband, the ground hundreds of feet below him. The view was east and southward: the ice-wastes on his right, the sweeping plains of Ard-galen were before him, and the Ered Wethrin to the left as far distant snow-capped peaks.

Maitimo looked at the view for a long time. All was peaceful and changeless, laying silent underneath the stars.

If one were to jump from here, it would be a quick and easy death.

Maitimo eventually turned away from the windows and accepted food from Parwë. His spirit had not yet turned to the idea of death as the only escape from this place.

Over time, he investigated everything inside the room in detail.

He looked at the map of Beleriand for the longest time. It was a very fine work of art, painted with delicate brushes on a whitewashed surface of the wall. Everything Maitimo knew from the travels of his father's host was there in perfect detail: Losgar, the Firth of Drengist, Hithlim and Dor-lómin and Mithrim, the Ered Wethrin and the Sirion and Angband itself in the Iron Mountains amid the Northern Wastes. No place names were labeled, though Maitimo was roughly certain he had all the names correctly from the Gray Elves. He studied the rest of the rivers, mountains, forests, and valleys, and memorized every detail carefully.

The room contained a tub carved from stone, which made Maitimo think longingly of a warm bath, though he never asked Parwë for one. There was a wardrobe of silken garments that looked like they would fit the size of the shape Mairon was wearing (certainly not Morgoth's), leading Maitimo to wonder if this was Mairon's personal bedchamber. There were jewelry and gems in a case on another shelf, which Maitimo looked at for a long time but did not touch. He did not see among them any of the missing jewels of Formenos.

One table contained a pile of loose parchment, on which some sketches and schematics had been drawn. Maitimo suspected they were troop coordinates or movements, and he spent a great deal of time trying to decipher the symbols, without success.

The greatest discovery other than the map was a harp, standing in the corner covered protectively with a sturdy but soft, velvety cloth. It was a graceful and slender thing, the wood a warm, true color and the lines shaped with great care. Maitimo thrummed one or two strings; the notes were clear and rich and perfectly in tune. Maitimo had no idea who or what in this fortress would have built this beautiful instrument, but it made his heart hurt like nothing else here had, and he closed his eyes and wept for a long time.

"How are you feeling?" came a cheerful voice that was not Parwë's. Maitimo had been looking out the windows southeast and had not heard the door open; he jumped in fright and startlement and whirled around.

It was—Mairon, if that was really his name. Now that Maitimo was at leisure to study him, Maitimo could not question Parwë's assertion that this was one of the Ainur. He radiated power, more noticeably so outside Morgoth's presence. He was too tall, too lordly, and too shining and otherworldly to be anything else. Maitimo had to revise his earlier opinion that he was an imitation of Morgoth; he did not radiate dread but seemed just as fair and fine as any of the Ainur who walked in Valinor.

"I feel much recovered," Maitimo said, his throat going dry and uncomfortable with the effort of being polite to one of his captors. It was true enough. The long days of being starved and dragged into Angband; the shadow on his spirit from the demons' evil; and the fiery whip mark on his back had all faded into a dull, background pain. "Thank you," he forced himself to add, the words strangled and scratchy.

Mairon waved his hand through the air, a graceful gesture of magnanimity. "Think nothing of it. I would not have seen you suffer in the first place, and I am sorry for it."

Maitimo stared. "Why? What am I doing here? Is this your bedchamber?"

Mairon crossed the room and took a seat on the bed, which Maitimo had never dared touch. Mairon lounged comfortably back on his elbows, and looked up at Maitimo—who was still on his feet—with no appearance of discomfort in their relative positions.

Maitimo supposed if one person in the room innately possessed all the power, and everyone knew it, the trappings and details mattered a lot less.

"You came from Aman," Mairon said. The same greed was in his eyes again as when he'd first seen Maitimo.

"Yes," Maitimo said slowly, wishing to deny it, though the wish was ridiculous. Everyone knew where Fëanáro's host had come from.

"I want you to tell me everything about it," Mairon said, his eyes lighting even more fiercely. "Everything about everyone who is there, the elves and the Ainur, all your deeds and the fruits of your learning. I want to learn your writing script and the secrets of your jewel making and I want to know every detail of your interactions with Melkor and everyone else, about the cities you've built and the things you've seen and the whole story of everything."

Maitimo was silent for a while, processing this. "That's it? You asked Mor—Melkor to delay his torture so you could talk to me, about Aman?"

"Yes," Mairon said simply, looking up at him eagerly.

"Why?" Maitimo asked, bewildered.

"Why should it be so strange that I desire news of my family and their home?" Mairon asked softly. "I lived there for a time, many ages ago, and I miss it."

Bile rose in Maitimo's stomach at the thought of this evil Maia in Valinor, stirring up poison as Morgoth had.

His thoughts must have been written plainly on his face, for Mairon laughed and smiled softly. "I lived there before the first elves awoke," he said. "I never did anything to meddle with or harm Aman."

"Who are you?" Maitimo asked.

"I thought Parwë told you," Mairon said, evincing a little surprise. "I am Mairon of the Ainur, the most powerful of the Maiar." So Parwë's pronunciation of the name had not been off at all. "I shaped the world in service to Aulë, in harmony with the rest of my kind for uncountable ages. I have since left them for Melkor, the greatest of all the Ainur, and now I serve only him."

Then Mairon made a face. "I confess myself disappointed that no one speaks of me in Valinor."

"No," Maitimo said slowly. "I have never heard of you."

Mairon gave a deep, theatrical sigh, and threw himself flat on the bed. "How petty of them."

"You could... learn these things you want from any elf who just crossed the sea," Maitimo said slowly. "The tales and knowledge you seek are well known. You do not need Fëanáro's eldest son for this."

"Perhaps," Mairon said mildly, "but it is Fëanáro's eldest son that I have here. Is your name really Nelyafinwë? What a mouthful."

Maitimo hesitated, then nodded. "It is my father-name. But I prefer my mother-name, Maitimo."

"Well met, Maitimo," Mairon said with a smile that dimpled his cheeks and looked charming.

Too charming. Maitimo did not return the smile. He fell silent for a while. Then he crossed his arms over his chest. "Did Melkor send my brothers a message? What did they say in response?"

"Yes, he offered to release you if the Noldor agreed to forsake their war and leave Beleriand."

"And?"

"The messenger returned with no response. The Noldor did not withdraw."

Maitimo blew out his breath in a huff. "They did not send an insulting response? I am incredibly disappointed in them."

Mairon propped himself up his elbows to look at Maitimo again. He was smiling. "You should be glad they did not! Silence was the best message they could have managed to return. Melkor did not expect them to accept the offer, and his temper was not quickened. So you have been left to heal in peace."

Maitimo raised an eyebrow. "I take it that torment at his hands is inevitable, whether I cooperate with you or no, and whether my brothers insult him or no."

"Perhaps," Mairon said, very mildly. "His moods are highly changeable. I would say that it is likely, but not strictly inevitable. Do nothing to provoke him, and you might lie beneath his notice until he decides on a use for you in the war."

Maitimo did not want to be useful in Melkor's side of the war. But nor did he particularly wish to languish in deep, dark dungeons, burning with fiery whip marks up and down his body, subsisting on cave insects.

"Would you like a shirt?" Mairon offered, changing the subject.

Maitimo gingerly moved his shoulders, and felt the faint pull of pain in the slash on his back. It still hurt, a little, and felt somewhat raw. "Not yet, I think," he said gingerly. "It is warm enough in here."

"Yes, you're welcome," Mairon said dryly. "This is the only place in the fortress that is warm."

"What is it that fuels the flames?" Maitimo asked curiously, for there was nothing in the fireplace besides flames.

"It is ignited and sustained by my powers," Mairon said dismissively, clearly uninterested in the subject. "It will burn you if you touch it, like any other flame."

Maitimo gave Mairon a look. He was not a child. He had not been planning on touching it; the warning was unnecessary.

"How is it that you have honey here? Where is the venison from? Or the wheat that made the bread, the barley that made the wine? Where did you find willow trees growing in this land? How—"

Mairon interrupted by laughing loudly at him. Maitimo broke off his string of questions, feeling mildly annoyed.

"Perhaps we have information to exchange with one another," Mairon suggested, smiling rather broadly.

Maitimo scowled, thoroughly annoyed now. "What will you do to me if I do not agree to tell you stories of Valinor?"

"Hmm," Mairon said. He laid back flat on the bed and stared at the roof as he thought about it. "I suppose... if you refuse, and convince me you really mean to refuse, not just that you haven't had enough time to think about it or grow comfortable with the idea, then I will tell Melkor I am no longer interested in you. What he will do then, I could not say."

"This is... not quite what I expected when dragged through the gates of Angband," Maitimo said, rubbing his face with a hand. He felt very tired all of a sudden. "May I rest, and think about it?"

"Of course," Mairon said, very courteously, and he climbed to his feet. "Let Parwë know if you need anything."

Without another word, he withdrew from the room and closed the door behind him.

Maitimo thought about it for a long time. It was, on its face, not unreasonable. A Maia who wanted stories about his family and his home that he had left, and could never return to? If true, it was a fair trade, exchanging one type of comfort for another. Maitimo could not conceive of a way such stories could harm his brethren; as he had told Mairon, the stories were hardly a secret.

Rather the opposite. The doings of Fëanáro were infamous.

Maitimo might draw the line at describing any specific plans for war, or sharing the wording of the dreadful oath they had all sworn, or the characters and strengths and weaknesses of his brothers or the Eldar as a whole—or his own—but that did not seem to be what was asked.

And in return, Maitimo itched to have answers to his questions, intelligence that he could bring back to his brothers when he escaped. The map of Beleriand and the answers about what the inhabitants of the fortress ate—that was already important, useful information. If he learned anything more about the logistics and structure of the Enemy, he would be very pleased with every morsel.

He acknowledged to himself that he wanted to do it. The tactic of being kind to him shouldn't have worked, he shouldn't have let it work, but it was better to face the truth than deny it: it had worked. Mairon was all charm and smiles and little kindnesses and he phrased what he wanted in terms that hit close to home.

Maitimo, too, would love stories of Aman right now. What was his mother doing and thinking? His brothers' wives, his cousins, the rest of the family he'd left behind—he would kill to hear news of them in this moment, to hear that they were well and safe.

It was such a small request, in terms of what it would cost Maitimo to grant it, and the motivation behind the request was so very relatable.

Mairon, as it turned out, gave him a lot of time to think about it. So much time. Maitimo began to suspect that Mairon hoped for boredom and loneliness to do a little of the work of softening Maitimo. Parwë was ready enough to supply what was asked, but he was not sociable, and he never stayed to talk after he brought or cleared food.

Maitimo's back slowly continued to heal, and he finally asked Parwë for a shirt. He was provided with one that soft and silky, and felt as comfortable on his back as he suspected anything could. The fit was not quite right, but it was not too far off. It fit his girth just fine but not the entire length of his torso. Maitimo supposed that was what he got for being considerably taller than average.

Maitimo slept less, and spent more time restlessly pacing the room. He stretched and did exercises and slowly worked the skin of his back into flexibility. He stared out of the windows as long as he could tolerate the cold—which was a long time; he was determined not to go soft in his captivity—though the view never changed. The plains remained empty of friend or foe. Any activity going on in Beleriand was far to the south. He stared at the map and the drawings and schemes many times. He sat by the harp for many hours, brushing his fingers along it wistfully, but he did not know whether Elven song in Angband counted as 'provoking' Morgoth or not.

It was in this position that Mairon entered the room again, after his lengthy absence: he found Maitimo with a hand on top of the harp, his eyes closed, and his mind far away.

"You can play it, if you like."

Maitimo jumped at the sound of voice; once again he had not heard Mairon enter the room. He snatched his hand off the harp and looked around at Mairon, before processing his words.

"I—I did not know whether that would provoke him," Maitimo explained, awkwardly. This was not how he'd planned on starting his next conversation with Mairon.

"I don't think so," Mairon said. "Not if I've requested song." Then he tilted his head to the side, and added: "Oh, do refrain from singing about Varda or the stars."

Maitimo laughed. "Most of the songs of my people are about the stars!"

"Well, it is your risk to take," Mairon said, his tone very polite.

Maitimo laughed again, but he sat down on a stool by the harp and drew his fingers across the strings, and his heart was so glad that he did not care about the stars just now. He bent forward, and picked out a light, cheerful tune, and started singing.

He sang of the beauty of Valinor, the happiness of those who dwelt there, under the light of the trees, and the birds and the beasts and the bounty of the fields and the beauty of the mountains. He sang his love for his family and his home, and mourned those he had lost—either to death or to the separation of the ocean. He lost himself in song, and did not stop until the pads of his fingers started bleeding and his voice was raw.

He sucked on his fingers to ease the stinging, and looked up. Mairon was stretched out on the bed, looking relaxed and pleased. There was no sign he had provoked the wrath of Morgoth.

"You have slightly more talent than the other elves I've known," Mairon told him. "The Avari. Not, of course, comparable to some of the Ainur."

"Of course," Maitimo murmured, not remotely offended. He was no great bard, and he knew it; he had always been built for war, even in the very Noontide of Valinor. "Do you play?"

"Yes, of course, though I am no more talented than you," Mairon said with a laugh. "I am a builder, a smith, a master of craft. I left the singing to those with more leisure to devote to it."

"It is strange to think of any servant of Mor—Melkor as enjoying music," Maitimo mused.

"Don't be absurd," Mairon said, a bit sharply. "Did you not know the Ainur originally sang the world into being? All of us, together."

"I—yes, that is part of our tales," Maitimo agreed cautiously. "I suppose I had not taken it to be so... literal."

"It was very literally music," Mairon said crossly, and Maitimo understood that he had given offense.

He judged it unsafe to attempt to apologize.

"How long have I been here?" Maitimo asked, changing the subject. "Is there any news of the war?"

Mairon propped his head up on his hands and looked at Maitimo. He did not answer directly. "How do the elves measure time?" he asked instead.

"By the flowering of the Two Trees... at least while we were in Valinor, and while they existed."

Mairon sat up very suddenly on hearing this. "While they existed?" he repeated, his voice sharp.

"Yes," Maitimo said slowly, staring at Mairon. "Yes, they... did he tell you nothing of what he did in Valinor?"

"Melkor? No. I have not asked. That would be very provoking. 'Yes, my lord, do tell me all about your three ages of captivity at the hands of your brother'," Mairon said, in a slightly higher, singsong voice.

Maitimo laughed, despite himself.

"He destroyed the Two Trees?" Mairon continued in a normal voice, comprehending instantly. "They are gone?"

Maitimo nodded.

"Wow," Mairon said. He did not seem to have anything else to say. He and Maitimo stared at each other for a while. Then Mairon blinked, and drew a deep breath. "All right, hmm, measuring time. Do the elves not know how to tell time by the movement of the stars?"

"Of course we know," Maitimo retorted, stung. "But I am no astronomer. And the stars up here are strange."

"You are no healer, you are no astronomer, and you are no great bard—what is your claim to fame, eldest son of Fëanáro?"

"I have turned out to be rather good at killing," Maitimo said mildly.

"What a claim to fame," Mairon murmured. He pushed himself up off the bed, and gestured to the door. "Walk with me," he instructed. "Wait, put some boots on first. The stone floors are extremely cold."

"I do not have my boots," Maitimo pointed out, amused.

Mairon grumbled something. He disappeared, and came back with what were indeed Maitimo's own boots that he had been wearing when captured. Maitimo slid them on his feet and laced them up gratefully, then stood. Mairon handed him a heavy cloak, which he accepted and swung around his shoulders.

He followed as Mairon went through the door, which opened instantly at his touch. Maitimo interpreted this as some sort of sorcery, as it had never done that when he touched it.

The stone corridors outside the room were indeed very, very cold. The shock of leaving the warm room was great. His breath misted in the air. He pulled his cloak more tightly around him, and walked faster.

They traveled down the hall, found a spiraling staircase, and mounted it. It was not a long journey; Mairon opened another door, entered a large circular room, and stopped.

The walls were mostly windows, and had no shutters. A sharp and bitter wind tore through the tower. There was a round, bronze display in the center of the room. Maitimo approached and peered at it. It was a celestial map.

"I built this when Angband was new," Mairon explained. "It is no longer accurate, thanks to Varda's meddling with the stars when the elves awoke, but I have not had time to fix it. Some points are still correct."

Maitimo stared at it for a long time before he recognized familiar stars—ones that had been low on the horizon in Valinor, where they lived at the Girdle of Arda. Up here, so far north, they were more central.

Even though he was not an astronomer, Maitimo knew well enough how to use a celestial map. He scanned it for stars he recognized, and chose Alenwë. He picked up the astrolabe that was lying on top of the display, and stepped to the windows. He sighted Alenwë to the south, measured its position, and went back to check it with the display.

"This tells me what, exactly?" Maitimo asked, a finger on one of the dials that rotated around the display. The celestial maps he had seen were for learning and singing about the stars rather than tracking time.

"The number of degrees the star has traveled across the sky in the course of one rotation," Mairon answered. "You can then convert the degrees into Valian days, if you know the mathematics of it."

"Not useful for answering my question, unless I know the position of this star when I entered the fortress," Maitimo pointed out.

"I have marked it here," Mairon said, pointing at a notch on the same dial with a very small black marking on it.

"Why?" Maitimo asked, still bewildered by Mairon's interest in him.

"One day I will find a scribe to write about this war," Mairon said with a smile. "I like stories, in case you hadn't realized."

Maitimo bent over the display and counted the number of notches between the black mark and his current calculation. Every fifth notch was slightly longer, and every twentieth notch even more so, making the count easy. "There are two hundred and twelve degrees in between these. What does that mean?"

"That the star is... mmm... a bit over halfway through a single rotation. One rotation is 360 degrees."

"And how does this convert into Valian days?"

"One rotation of a star equals roughly a hundred and four Valian days, or a little more; the difference is not important at this scale. So... you have been here sixty-one Valian days, measured by the flowering of the Two Trees."

For some reason, this information was comforting. He had not been here that long. There was still plenty of time for him to get information and escape without worrying his brothers overmuch.

"You came up with all these calculations?" he asked, marveling at the work and craft involved.

"The Ainur came up with them working together," Mairon corrected. "After we decided, for some unfathomable reason, to care about measuring the passage of time. Perhaps it was in expectation of the coming of your kind."

"May I keep this?" Maitimo asked, tightening his fingers around the astrolabe. Now that this information was in his head, this was all he needed to track Alenwë. As long as he did not lose count of the total number of rotations.

Mairon looked at it for a long while.

"All right," he finally said. "Let it be noted that I have been very generous with you in exchange for nothing as of yet."

"Yes, yes," Maitimo said in a clipped manner, but his mood was still light. "It is bitterly cold up here, shall we return to the warmth for the stories?"

"The cold is nothing to me," Mairon said, "but if you would prefer it, then certainly."

"I would strongly prefer it," Maitimo said, for he was shivering in the thin clothing underneath the cloak.

Mairon led them back downstairs, and again needed only to lay his hand on the door for it to spring open. There was a tray of food and strong drink on the table, and Maitimo fell to it eagerly, as it had been a while since the last one.

Mairon sat on the bed again. He drew his legs up on the bed and crossed them, and rested his hands on his knees. He gave Maitimo a bright, expectant look.

"Well," Maitimo mumbled over the food, "I was born in Aman, in Tirion upon Túna, to Fëanáro and Nerdanel of the Noldor."

"What is Tirion upon Túna?"

And so his stories started with an explanation of the various Elven dwelling places, all of which apparently post-dated Mairon's departure from Valinor by quite some time. Maitimo described them at length, and the various tribes of the Eldar, as well as each tribe's particular relationship with certain of the Ainur. He talked most about the Noldor: about his grandfather, and his father, and his half-uncles and cousins and their children. He went into detail about his grandfather's two marriages and all the problems that caused.

This conversation took a long time, and Maitimo was nodding off to sleep while Mairon prodded him with questions and clarifications. Eventually, he slumped over onto the table and passed out without warning.

When he woke, he discovered that Mairon had removed his boots and arranged him to lie comfortably on his side on the divan. Mairon had a small lyre and was humming softly on the bed.

"Sorry," Mairon said, stopping instantly. "Did I wake you? You were sleeping through it soundly before."

"I suppose so," Maitimo said, yawning, "but it is quite all right. Where were we?"

"I want to hear about Melkor," Mairon directed, instead of answering.

And so Maitimo told it all: the long peace while Melkor was chained in the Halls of Mandos, the pardon of Manwë, the direction to stay in Valmar, the subsequent disregard of it. How Melkor walked the streets of Tirion pretending friendship, how the Noldor were eager for knowledge, and how susceptible it made them to Melkor's tactics. Maitimo attempted to be diplomatic in his use of language, without taking sides or casting judgment, but he was very detailed in the precise things that Melkor said and did, and their effect.

He described how Melkor started them in the smithying of weapons, bright swords and axes and spears. Mairon was intensely interested in this, and asked for many details concerning this art, but it was not Maitimo's expertise, and he suspected his answers were unsatisfying.

They moved onto the disagreements surrounding the Silmarils, and words of rebellion against the Valar, and Fëanáro drawing his sword on his brother in the very house of their father, the High King. Then came the judgment of the Valar, the unsuccessful hunt for Melkor, and the banishment of Fëanáro from Tirion.

"I have only heard stories of what happened in Tirion after that," Maitimo said apologetically. "For Fëanáro's sons all went with him."

"Why? You were not held at fault for your father's sins, were you?"

"No. It was because we loved him," Maitimo said simply. "Grandfather came with us as well."

"Hmm," Mairon said neutrally. "Well, what happened next?"

Maitimo told of how Melkor came to Formenos and tried to convince Fëanáro to work together, and Fëanáro rejected him, insulting him and shutting the door on the single most powerful being in Arda.

Mairon seemed to find that story very funny. For that matter, Maitimo too thought it was hilarious. His father, whatever else anyone could say about him, had style. Maitimo wished he were half the son his father had deserved.

Maitimo then moved onto the festival, the feast that emptied the streets of Valmar and Tirion. Maitimo had not attended, but he knew very well what had happened there: Melkor attacked with Ungoliant, who consumed the Two Trees; the Valar appealed to Fëanáro for the Silmarils, which he refused, not knowing it was by that point beyond his power to grant. For Melkor had come, in his mightiness and his darkness, with the most wretched of creatures to ever walk the earth, to assault Fëanáro's fortress of Formenos.

"Grandfather was the only one to stand against him," Maitimo said, sorrow and regret and bitterness bringing tears to his eyes as no other part of this story had done. "The rest of us fled. When our sight returned and our hearts beat again, we found him slain before the doors, and all our jewels gone, the Silmarils among them."

Maitimo finished the story: Melkor's flight to Middle-earth, Fëanáro's decision to follow him and go to war, the divisions among the Noldor which ensued. He bluntly told the story of the kinslaying at Alqualondë and sailing north and burning the ships after their arrival at Losgar.

Mairon appeared to view these events as much ado about nothing. He displayed and expressed no empathy for the slain, whether it be Maitimo's proud, brave grandfather or the innocent Teleri of Alqualondë.

Nor did he touch upon any subject Maitimo had silently vowed to keep from him. He did not press for details about the war and troop numbers and movements of the Noldor after burning the ships and marching into Mithrim. He had no interest at all in which of Maitimo's brothers or cousins were dearest to his heart, a line of questioning Maitimo had feared above all.

Dear Findekáno! Maitimo's greatest comfort here was thinking of him secure from Melkor's wrath in Valinor. But Maitimo nonetheless did not put it past Melkor to work his evil on that fair continent even after leaving it, and he desperately needed his captors to remain unaware of this particular weakness in Maitimo's emotional armor.

But Mairon simply changed the subject, inquiring about the lore and knowledge of the Eldar on everything from weaponry to herbs to stonework.

Maitimo drew and explained the symbols of Tingwar, which Mairon grasped right away and admired greatly, and Maitimo did not hide his pride in his father's work. Maitimo drew the numbers and symbols they used for calculation and mathematics, and shared everything they knew about the Ainur and the celestial skies and the beasts and plants of Arda. He discussed his travels up and down the continent of Valinor and all that he had seen and done, and the years spent in the halls of Aulë. He spoke a little of the knowledge that Aulë had imparted to the Noldor that Fëanáro had developed and refined and improved in his own forges, although he could not be as helpful as Mairon wished: the secret of the making of the Silmarils was known to Fëanáro alone, and had died with him.

Everything Mairon lacked in empathy was made up by in his intelligence. He was an extremely quick learner, and had a bright, quick mind, full of probing, fascinating questions and thoughts and points of debate. He loved to hear the songs of Maitimo's people, which Maitimo loved to sing. They laughed together over some of Maitimo's more awful compositions. It became a game, where they would vie to compose worse and worse songs about the deeds of Fëanáro and the Silmarils on the harp and the lyre.

It required a vast number of Maitimo's sleep cycles (Mairon appeared to need no sleep whatsoever) to satisfy his curiosity. Maitimo lost count of them. Mairon left only occasionally when his duties called him elsewhere. Parwë's attentions to Maitimo's comfort increased: the quality of the food abruptly improved again, and Parwë caused a line of orcs to haul up warm water to allow him to bathe. Parwë somehow fashioned or obtained warm clothing that fit Maitimo snugly and flexibly; it was good work. The jewels Maitimo had been wearing at the time of his capture were returned, and Parwë helped braid them into his hair again after every bath. Maitimo tried very hard not to let on how desperately he cared about them.

His days were full and satisfying, and when he thought to measure the stars again, he found to his shock that Alenwë had sailed more than a full rotation since he last measured, meaning he had to add a hundred and twenty Valian days to his count of time here, for a total of one hundred and eighty-one.

As he stood at the windows and digested this realization, he was struck by a feeling that his brothers had decided to give up on him. The plains of Ard-galen remained lifeless and empty. They were not marching on Angband with banners flying and swords gleaming and demanding his release.

Maitimo supposed they had decided they were not strong enough to do such a thing yet, and it would only end for them as it had ended for Fëanáro and Maitimo. Which was probably true and quite sensible, Maitimo told himself very firmly, and put down the astrolabe.

But after that, he went on the offensive with Mairon.

"How is it that your name is a Quenya word?" Maitimo asked abruptly. The admirable, but it did not make sense that one of the Ainur who had never interacted with elves in Valinor bore such a name.

"It is a translation of the original name in Valarin," Mairon answered readily, with no sign that he was annoyed Maitimo had started asking the questions. "The Avari did not care for the sounds of Valarin, and so I translated the name for them to use."

The Avari and the Noldor apparently had this in common!

"And Melkor's name, too?"

"Yes, also a translation of the Valarin."

"I see," Maitimo said. The same must have been true for all of the Valar, who had names in their original tongue but adopted Quenya names for the sake of the elves.

Then he launched back into the topic of how this fortress in barren mountains and the cold wastes of the north worked.

Mairon, it turned out, was pleased to show him. Maitimo put on his new clothes and his boots and the warm cloak again and received a tour of Angband, or at least parts of it.

Angband was enormous. It was hall after hall and courtyard after courtyard, not even counting everything that must have lain under the surface. Mairon led him to a courtyard somewhere in the north of the fortress that was a startling contrast to the rest of the bleakness of this place: it was shimming with a warm light.

Mairon opened an oversized door and they stepped into a different world. The air was warm and moist. Maitimo beheld oak trees, and flowering plants and vines, and his boots trod on green grass. Bees and butterflies swarmed about, and he heard the chattering of squirrels and the music of crickets. His heart in his throat from the sort of beauty he had never thought to see again on this continent held in stasis, Maitimo followed Mairon down the paths that wandered through this place.

"There is your wheat and your barley," Mairon said, his voice laced with amusement, pointing them out. "And you've noticed the honeybees. Actually, I have planted a willow since your arrival. Come look."

Mairon led him to a young willow sapling, which was bright green and slender and gorgeous. Maitimo wanted to fall to his knees and cry before it.

He resisted. "It's very beautiful," he said instead, and meant it.

"Willows grow in a vale called Nan-tathren, in southern Beleriand, at the confluence of the rivers Narog and Sirion. They are under the Sleep of Yavanna, so it is unwise to take too many, but I deemed this small sapling to be transplantable."

"The Sleep of Yavanna!" Maitimo murmured in wonder. "So that is why everything here is so... dormant. Another story I did not realize was quite literal."

"Yes, that is why. Everything began growing when Illuin and Ormal lit Arda, but Yavanna put it all to sleep when the lamps were destroyed, so that everything might not wither and die."

"And you are actually trying... not to plunder things that will never regrow under the Sleep?" Maitimo asked, somewhat skeptically.

"Mmm," Mairon said. His eyes were distant for a while. Then he refocused and shrugged. "Well, to an extent. I care a little bit. Melkor does not at all."

"What powers all this light here?"

"Me, obviously," Mairon said, amused again. "With a little help from Melkor. The deer, I confess, we hunt around the outskirts of Doriath, which is the only place in Middle-earth they can be found awake in sustainable numbers. A great many other supplies we, ah, liberated from trade routes between Doriath and the Falas, such as canvas or any other woven textile you will find here. I believe that answers all your questions?"

"Where do you get the water from?"

"We have plenty of fresh water flowing through Angband from rainwater and ice-melt on nearby peaks," Mairon said. "It is no trouble to reroute it where we want. It is much more trouble to heat it, unless Melkor or I do it. We have no readily available wood, and collecting dried cave plants or peat or dung is labor intensive."

"Hmm," Maitimo said thoughtfully.

"I know what you're thinking," Mairon said, his smile wide and knowing. "You are thinking this place is a central weakness of our fortress and ought to be a main target in an attack. I will have you know that this is luxury, designed and constructed and grown entirely by me because the Avari and I enjoy such things. Do not confuse it with survival. Melkor would be very content to ignore all of this and feed his troops algae and cave fish and crickets, which they evolved to consume. All of this thrives underneath the mountains and cannot be touched without going through this entire stronghold. They could march and fight on any of it forever. They are also not opposed to cannibalism, though it is a last resort.

"This," he emphasized, gesturing around them, "is all mere indulgence on his part for me."

"Why show me at all, though?"

"It is not like you will get the opportunity to tell anyone about it," Mairon said callously, reminding Maitimo all over again that they were enemies, they were not friends, and Maitimo did not like him.

"And," Mairon added, his tone morphing instantly with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes charmingly, "it gratifies me to show someone who appreciates it as I do."

Well, it surprised Maitimo not at all that Melkor would have no appreciation for greenery and growing things and small creatures like honeybees.

As though his thoughts had summoned this very being, the door to this courtyard suddenly flew open with a bang. Maitimo flinched as a presence of very great dread entered the area and sapped all the beauty out of it.

Melkor was still striding around in what looked like exactly the same chainmail Maitimo had seen him wearing last. And he still wore that cursed iron crown with the Silmarils on his brow, their presence a weak attempt to shine through the darkness of his being.

As he approached, Maitimo was able to discern the expression on the Dark Lord's face. He looked sullen and petulant. Maitimo quailed a little, trying to shrink into himself and become smaller.

"I have not seen you in ages," the fearsome Dark Lord said to Mairon, with something that could have been described as an actual pout. "And then I go looking for you to find you here, in this horrible place, with him."

Melkor didn't look at Maitimo as he spoke, as though Maitimo were simply too far beneath him to merit any notice.

"This place is not horrible," Mairon said, his tone lightly chiding. He reached out and took Melkor's hand in his, sliding it out of a gauntlet and entwining their fingers together. "I built it, and I like it, so you mustn't call it names."

Melkor sighed, and took a step towards Mairon. He wrapped his free arm around him and pulled them together, burying his head in his hair.

"I'm a little tired of this elf taking all your time," Melkor said, his voice low and gentle.

Maitimo was frozen still, and did not want to move even a finger, lest that draw Melkor's attention. Instead, he tried very hard to disappear by sheer force of will. Unfortunately, it did not work.

"He won't any longer," Mairon promised, his voice a little muffled, crushed as he was against Melkor's chainmail. "Come upstairs with me?"

"All right," Melkor said, his voice still shockingly gentle. He released Mairon from what must have been a terribly forceful grip, and hand-in-hand, the two of them crossed the garden and exited the door back into the fortress without a glance backwards.

Standing there suddenly alone, Maitimo was overcome with a very bad feeling about what that bed in Mairon's chamber was for, given that Mairon did not ever seem to sleep.

He rather wanted to bend over and be violently sick, but he stood still and took deep breaths, taking in the good wholesome smell of real, healthy dirt, and the fragrance of the willow, and the ill feeling passed.

Maitimo had not the slightest wish to find out what was happening upstairs, so he stayed in the gardens until someone came for him. It was a very pleasant place to pass the time; he wondered the rows of plants and tended to them if they seemed to need anything. He marveled at length over the beauty of growing things in this dreadful place. He found the little diverted stream of water that Mairon referenced, and it was clean and refreshing. He slept when he needed it, and did not mark the passage of time.

Eventually, Parwë came for him. "Do you need help finding your way?" he asked in a delicate tone. "Or are you waiting for permission to leave?"

"It is not clear to me what freedom I have to roam," Maitimo answered honestly enough, although it was only the partial truth. He was hiding until he knew that it was safe to return upstairs.

"Very little," Parwë said dryly. "But no one would protest if you went back to Lord Mairon's chambers on your own."

"I did not think I had access to that door," Maitimo said, which was also true enough.

"Oh," Parwë said, as though he hadn't realized. "Yes. I forgot it is locked now. Shall I escort you there?"

"Thank you," Maitimo said, scrupulously polite.

The room upstairs was empty. Maitimo was tired, and he laid down on the divan to sleep. The final thought running through his head was gratitude that he had never touched that bed.

Mairon's visits dramatically dropped in frequency after that. Maitimo complained to Parwë that he was bored, deeming Parwë unlikely to invent some torment to 'entertain' him. He turned out to be right. Rather kindly, Parwë offered the opportunity to help with some of his own duties around the fortress. Although there should have been some discomfort in the idea of helping the enemy, Maitimo leapt at the opportunity to learn more about the fortress.

Parwë took him through the maze of Angband into the ground floor of a low building somewhere in the western part of the fortress.

"This is where we live," Parwë said, entering a long, low room that looked like a combination of a common room and a kitchen. A few other elves were sitting around a table, and those rose when Maitimo entered.

"This is my wife, Salya, and my son, Pagûl," Parwë said, gesturing at two of the elves. "And these are Makwë, and Rúmmë, and Mínwë. The others must be out busy with their duties."

Maitimo greeted them with a polite nod, doing his absolute best to conceal the shock he felt in discovering that Angband elves had families.

"I've been so curious about you," Pagûl said, and Maitimo wondered how young he was. He seemed very fresh-faced and eager. His ancient Quenya was a little harder to understand than his father's. "Is it true you're from Valinor? I didn't even realize that was a real place."

Parwë laughed, and left Maitimo to get to know the other elves. Pagûl was very friendly, but the others were merely polite, clearly disinclined to be friends. Not that he was inclined to be friends with them either.

Maitimo learned that not all of them were among the eldest elves, or those who had been lost to their kin at Cuiviénen. Many of them had encountered Mairon somewhere in Middle-earth during the chaining of Melkor, and only recently come to Angband and met Melkor for the first time. Pagûl had been born somewhere far to the southeast. He attempted to explain all the geography to Maitimo, but it was difficult to follow with absolutely no frame of reference.

Their living quarters were not as luxurious as Mairon's chamber; they slept on cots of reeds and ate fish and algae. Maitimo's standard of living in this fortress as a captive had been much higher than theirs. Nonetheless, when given the option, Maitimo elected to join the Avari in their quarters, finding more to keep his mind busy here.

Parwë turned out to be in need of someone who could write and do sums. Maitimo helped Parwë count, track, and supervise inventory of nearly everything stockpiled in the fortress and all goods that entered it—weapons and raw iron; furs and leather; feathers and wool felt and papyri; food from caves and food stolen from the Sindar; jewels and beads and precious metals and other items either traded or stolen from the eastern mountains where dwarves lived (Maitimo never got a satisfying description of a dwarf); massive building blocks of stone; wood and other flammable materials of the sort Mairon had described.

It was not clear what was leaving the fortress in exchange for all these goods, and Maitimo rather suspected that Angband's trading partners might not be voluntary partners at all. Not all the goods seemed replaceable, either—if most of the horses on the continent were asleep, for example, leather must have been extraordinarily valuable.

He slowly learned his way around the above-ground maze, and penetrated very shallowly into the depths of the place. The only area he had to avoid was near the front gates; when he approached them, the orcs became hostile and threatened him with their spears. One of the Avari had to come intercede to prevent Maitimo from coming to harm.

It was another thing he filed away carefully for future reference. He wondered whether a group of orcs was really enough to stop him if he wanted to escape. It also slowly became clear to him that there was some way out to the north—a few spies who thought they were being very secretive and clever sometimes came and left that direction. Not that he had any particular plan to escape for the time being. He relished everything he was learning here.

He worked with Mairon a little in forging swords and other weapons, but Mairon's smithying skills far exceeded his own, and Mairon soon lost patience with him and sent him away from the forges.

He abandoned the making of swords and instead drew Mairon into learning to fight with them, which was apparently not a skill the Maia had ever cultivated—Maitimo rather suspected he had never heard of or seen a sword before the arrival of Fëanáro's host out of the west. Maitimo's swordplay was vastly superior, although he tried to focus on teaching and not just beating up on his opponent because it was fun.

It was a lot of fun, though.

He only got himself into trouble once.

He palmed a very small knife, smaller than the size of his hand, and slipped it into his trousers when he thought Mairon was not looking. He almost got away with it, he thought. He finished their sparring session just as he always did, with a recap of all the moves and parries of the session. He chatted lightly with Mairon about the related moves of the most talented sword wielders he'd seen in Valinor (though anyone would have counted Maitimo himself among this group), and then turned to leave the room.

Mairon moved faster than he'd ever seen anyone move in his life. Mairon was suddenly between him and the door, looming over him and snarling in his face.

"What do you plan to do with it?" he sneered. "Will you attack Parwë or the other Avari who have been kind to you? Slay an orc or two that absolutely no one will miss? Do you imagine you can hurt me with it?"

Maitimo froze. Mairon took a step back and spread his arms wide, displaying his bare chest. He'd removed his shirt to spar, and had not put it back on. "Go on," he said. "Try it. I will show you exactly how futile it is to attack an Ainu."

Maitimo stared at him steadily for one second, then made up his mind. Faster than the blink of an eye, Maitimo drew the knife from its hiding place and drove its blade into Mairon's breast, right over the heart, sinking it as deeply as it would go.

Mairon laughed. Maitimo let go of the handle and stepped back, leaving it buried in the flesh. Mairon grabbed the knife and drew it out of his chest, his laughter tinged with an edge of madness. Blood gushed out of his chest, but as Maitimo watched, the flow of blood ceased and the skin knit itself back up until it appeared smooth and untouched. There was no evidence that anything had happened... save the blood splattered everywhere.

"We are immortal, ageless spirits," Mairon snarled, his laughter disappearing abruptly. "We wear bodies only to interact with mortals. They are raiment, do you understand? You cannot hurt us."

Maitimo stood very still and breathed very shallowly, in and out of his nose. He watched Mairon warily, every muscle tense, whether to fight or flee he did not know.

Mairon threw the knife on the ground, gave him a look of utter contempt, and stalked out of the room. Maitimo was left alone in the armory, with an array of weapons and no one to supervise him. But he shuddered, and did not quite dare to take any of them again after that display.

"But why does Melkor wear all that chainmail, then?" Maitimo asked bewilderedly to the empty room.

Mairon and Maitimo both politely pretended like that episode never happened.

Maitimo begged the use of some parchment for writing out a tale of years in Valinor, in conjunction with Mairon and the notes he had made on his celestial map. It was an intense task, occupying much of Maitimo's time and engendering many debates. In the end, they had a rough chronology that could never have been mistaken for the work of a true Elven scribe.

All the time he was busy with the doings and logistics of the fortress, Maitimo had no news of the war whatsoever. The Ard-galen lay silent and unchanged each time he looked. Melkor plundered the goods of Beleriand seemingly without resistance. Maitimo could not understand why his brothers were not moving.

Then again, Maitimo lived in a fortress with the Silmarils and had yet made no move to take them. The oath burned in his veins every time he encountered Melkor in person—which, to be sure, was not very often. He simply did not know what to do. He could wait, and plot, and keep the oath asleep for the time being, but he knew that sooner or later it would drive him to do something suicidal in an assault on Melkor's person.

His only hope was in stealing back the jewels, rather than slaying Melkor, but he had never seen Melkor without the iron crown on his head. He wondered idly, before he could help himself, whether Melkor wore it even while lying in pleasure with Mairon, then shuddered and tried very hard to make himself think about something else. Anything else.

Mairon continued to invite him up to his comfortable chambers to sing and play the harp on occasion, where he mostly did not encounter Melkor. There was, yet again, only one time it happened.

Maitimo and Mairon were playing together, composing another song about the making of the Silmarils, for no reason other than that Maitimo wished to, and Mairon was in the habit of indulging him when it came to song.

Maitimo's fingers were fumbling for the right note to select next when the door opened, and as always, Maitimo felt the dreadful presence before he turned and saw it with his eyes.

"I am tired of your singing about Fëanáro's great deeds," Melkor declared. He threw himself on the bed where Mairon was sitting. His body was very long, and barely fit on the bed even sprawled diagonally. He was still wearing the exact same chainmail and the iron crown.

The Silmarils made Maitimo's skin itch, but he did not move, his fingers frozen on the harp strings.

"Sing about his defeat instead," Melkor ordered.

Whether this was addressed to Maitimo or Mairon or both, Maitimo could not tell.

"Hmm," Mairon said thoughtfully, while Maitimo continued to sit frozen. Mairon settled back to curl into Melkor's side, still holding the lyre in his lap. He strummed a hand down the thin ends of the strings with a soft smile, his eyes very far away.

Then Mairon started a new song, the notes low and slow and sonorous. He sang a few lines about the kinslaying, Fëanáro's betrayal of his own kind, and then rhymed them with a line about the desertion of his own brother and the burning of the ships. He stuttered a little when he got to the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, which had been a clear loss for Melkor, but eventually picked out a theme of terror and dread, weaving a tale of a great dark enemy who descended on shores that were not his, seeking to burn them or conquer them for his own.

Mairon stumbled again after this, searching for a rhyming couplet to end the story of Fëanáro's victory, and Maitimo could not really help it: he supplied one and picked out the right notes on the harp.

He had been there, after all, and Mairon had not.

Mairon seized on the couplet and moved on. He spoke of the cloud of dread and terror, approaching the gates of his home, and Fëanáro was rendered an awful spirit of fey madness. Then the chord of the song changed; it lifted and lightened and the spirits of shadow and fire arrived as heroes, rallying in defense of their home and their beloved lord.

Maitimo was accompanying him now, picking out a series of notes to give more range and depth to Mairon's lyre.

The spirits of shadow and fire fought long and fiercely against the dreadful foe, and they were wearied and would have faltered, but the spirit of their beloved lord arrived and uplifted them, rallying them, and in the final hour the greatest of the fire spirits smote the enemy to the ground, from which he never rose again.

The song continued, singing of the greatness and praise of the lord who gave life and joy to his people and the lands, and as it finished, Maitimo abruptly realized it was a love song from Mairon to Melkor as much as it was a war song about the defeat of Fëanáro.

His fingers fell away from the harp, and he fled from the room rather than stay and learn the answer to his question about whether Melkor really wore that iron crown in every single moment.

Chapter End Notes

sixty-one Valian days = seven months, for the modern readers. A star rotation is roughly one year, although Sauron is not measuring degrees by reference to the sun (which would be a division by 365.26, the average number of solar days in a year). These calculations were made before the sun existed and thus an even division of 360 degrees was chosen instead. But thinking of one degree as one day is awfully close. Per Tolkien, 3.5 solar days (or here, degrees) equals 1 Valian day.

Also, look, I know the earth was supposed to be flat at this point. Stars moved for the same reasons the sun and moon later do around a flat earth, I guess.

Maitimo counted twenty-five rotations of the star, or two and a half Valian years, that he had lived in the fortress before anything changed. But when it changed, it changed with a swiftness and vengeance that he had not foreseen.

He was at the windows of the bedchamber, watching the empty plains, when he realized one of the stars was growing.

It grew and it shone, large and pale and silver, like a disc of light hanging in the sky, as beautiful as any star but brighter and greater than the whole of them. Maitimo was moved beyond measure by its grace and perfection, and fell to his knees and gave praise to the Valar, but especially Varda, whose work this surely was.

For a long time, Maitimo knelt and marvel at the new light in the sky, which illuminated the grass on the plains with silver and caused the snow on the distant mountains to glow with beauty. Mairon's small lyre was in his hands, and he plucked the strings by touch alone with his eyes still on the light, and sang of the beauty and wonder that was in his heart.

A gift from Varda! Queen of the stars, the Kindler, most beautiful and most loving! The exiles in Middle-earth remained in her thoughts! Forsaken and doomed they may have been by Mandos, but the Queen of the Valar loved them still!

Tears of happiness were stinging his eyes and his heart was very full, when the door flung open and the darkness of Melkor blew into the room in a fury.

Melkor lashed out and struck Maitimo very hard across the chest with his gauntleted hand. Maitimo fell to the ground with a cry, the lyre lost and sliding across the floor. Melkor stomped on the lyre and crushed it beneath his booted feet, and then turned and slammed the wooden shutters closed, shutting out the light of this new sky-lamp.

He snarled some very long, very harsh, and very complicated-sounding words at Maitimo, which Maitimo guessed to be Valarin.

Maitimo had long abandoned his attempt to carry weapons in this fortress, and had nothing at hand to protect himself. He scrabbled around on the floor and only found a wooden plate that had been dropped long ago and kicked into a dark corner. He flung it at Melkor's head, aiming to knock that awful crown off his awful brow, but Melkor ducked. Melkor sprang on Maitimo, hauling him upright by the front of his shirt. Maitimo lashed out with his fists at any part of Melkor he could reach, seeking anything not protected by his armor, but he only hurt himself against chainmail and metal.

Melkor shifted his grip so that he was holding Maitimo in the air with both hands, pinning Maitimo's arms very tightly to his sides. Melkor had the strength of a Vala and fighting his grip was like fighting a rock wall. Maitimo kicked out with his feet, but even his long legs did not reach the bulk of Melkor, and he struggled and kicked uselessly into the air. Melkor hauled him down the long winding staircase, out of the front gates of the fortress, and up into the mountains. Maitimo's kicks connected a few times when Melkor had to shift his weight around to maneuver along this route, but all he managed to do was sting his own feet at the contact against hard metal.

They were traveling up the slopes of Thangorodrim, more swiftly than any elf could run and faster even than a horse, if a horse could have navigated this terrain. Maitimo was losing feeling in his arms, but he did not cease his struggles for even a second—not that they were doing him a bit of good. Well above Angband, high in the rocks of Thangorodrim, Melkor's feet left the ground and suddenly they were flying.

They flew a hundred feet above the ground, traveling up against a sheer, nearly completely smooth wall of rock. Without warning, Melkor dropped his grip on one of Maitimo's arms, causing Maitimo to fall sharply until his weight was caught by his right arm, which Melkor held by the wrist.

He kicked out at Melkor with all his might, and he had more range now, but it was all with the same effect: none. Melkor took up a hammer, and hammed something on the cliff, and then he flew away.

Maitimo's heart was beating very fast and his brain was in survival mode rather than thinking logically, so at first he did not understand. How was Melkor leaving, and Maitimo not falling to the ground?

It took him several moments before he realized the iron around his wrist was not Melkor's metal gauntlet.

It was a cold band of iron, the ends of which Melkor had hammered into the wall.

Maitimo was left alone in the middle of the sheer precipice of Thangorodrim, dangling from one hand like a piece of carrion.

Gradually his breathing slowed, and the fight response drained out of him. He was very cold; he had not been wearing his cloak when seized by Melkor—oh, no, he would not use that name anymore, not now and not inside his own mind. His father had been right to name him Morgoth.

Maitimo had his boots and his good, sturdy clothing, but nothing else—not a morsel of food, nor water, not even the smallest of blades or any kind of tool.

He was all alone, and very far from home. For a while, he hung there in shock. Then he tucked his chin into his chest and wept.

In the cold and the ache of his wrist and shoulder, Maitimo could not sleep. He watched as the new sky-lamp slowly crossed the sky. He was disoriented, and did not know what direction he faced. Seven times he watched the lamp trace its way across the sky, from a little behind him and to the right, sinking below the horizon ahead of him and to the left. He prayed long and fervently to Varda by the light of this lamp, but there came no answering voice on the wind.

On the seventh journey, however, as the lamp hovered low behind him, Maitimo beheld an even more amazing sight: the sky began to lighten, turning from velvety blackness to many different colors of fire, and finally blue. Behind him, the light grew and grew, until the brightest light Maitimo had ever seen crept over the cliffs of Thangorodrim—too bright to lay eyes upon, ever more vast and brighter than the light of the Two Trees!

Maitimo had to squint his eyes almost shut to look on it, and his faith was rekindled, and he knew again in his heart that the Valar had not forgotten Middle-earth. For if Morgoth had hated the pale silver light of the first sky-lamp, how much more would he and his servants loathe and fear this one!

The fire-lamp moved slowly and somewhat erratically across the sky. When it was directly overhead, this seemed to be the cue for a great host: trumpets sounded across the pains, and Maitimo's heart beat faster.

He knew those trumpets. He renewed his struggles against the iron band around his wrist, trying to wrench his fingers through them. It was hopeless, holding fast and tight, and what he would do about the hundred-foot fall below his feet if he did succeed, he did not know. But he knew those trumpets.

It was not his brothers. It was not Varda come to answer his prayers. It was Arakáno.

Arakáno's host eventually came around the cliffside and into his field of view. Maitimo screamed at them, yelling himself hoarse and exerting every effort of body and spirit to make himself heard.

But the host was very noisy themselves. They blew their trumpets and knocked their spears against the gates of Angband, and the mountain beneath Maitimo shook with the force of their fury. His screams were lost, and the host did not linger to attack the fortress. They regrouped, and began to retreat to the south.

"Arakáno! Uncle!!" Maitimo screamed over and over as they withdrew. Then: "Findekáno," he sobbed, his chest heavy and his throat raw and aching. "Finno," he sobbed, over and over again, and did not stop until all signs of the host were gone, and he was again alone on his precipice, utterly without hope.

The wild hope that arose in him at the sight of the host left him feeling even worse when it was gone. Maitimo grew weaker and weaker. At first, he attempted to save his shoulder by lifting himself up by the wrist, grabbing hold of the iron shackle with his left hand, and easing the weight off his right arm. He was strong, and persistent, and determined, but even he could not sustain this for long.

He spent a great deal of his energy pondering Arakáno's arrival. How? What was he doing here? Where had they gotten more ships? For he had come with a very great host, much greater than Fëanáro's. And why? They had sworn no oaths, and had every excuse and every reason to stay behind in the security and comfort of their home and families.

Maitimo wept at the thought of what Findekáno must think of him, and all Fëanáro's sons, who had been so faithless to their own kin.

Yet it was absurd that he was still so concerned over what Findekáno thought of him. He knew what Findekáno thought of him, for Findekáno had told him so, after Fëanáro drew his sword on Arakáno in the house of Finwë. And again, in the harshest possible terms, after Findekáno discovered that the Teleri had not provoked or began the slaughter at Alqualondë in order to stop the Noldor from leaving Valinor.

Yes. Maitimo knew what all his kin thought of him.

Meanwhile, the new lights traveled overhead, their paths erratic and occasionally switching directions. The fire-lamp was helpful for fighting the cold, but it did not stay in the sky all the time, and when it was gone, and when the wind whipped up the cliffside and tore threw him, conditions were nearly unbearable.

He grew weaker, and less inclined to fight. Death by starvation, dangling here, was a truly awful fate, and would take quite a while, for he was young and strong with the light of Aman and not ready to die. Nonetheless, he understood that it would happen. He had finally provoked Morgoth, who never had found anything useful for Maitimo to do in the war. He would die here in payment of the illusory debt Morgoth thought Fëanáro owed.

His arm became completely numb, from fingertips to shoulder. He thought his shoulder was probably dislocated. He was hungry, and thirsty, and exhausted, for it was very hard to sleep like this. He was feeling extremely sorry for himself when the sound of wings came on the wind, and of all things, a crow with handsome black feathers appeared out of the cliffs below him, and came to perch on his right shoulder.

"Ow," Maitimo grunted, and stirred himself to lift his left hand and try and beat off the bird.

"Stop that," the bird chided him in clear, ringing Quenya. Maitimo froze.

"What sorcery is this?" he breathed.

"All—or most—of the Ainur are shapeshifters," the bird said in a gently chiding voice, like Maitimo was foolish to have asked this question. "It is impressive to master such a different form as a bird with the power of flight, though," the bird added with a smug amusement, the tone and pitch of the voice becoming extremely familiar.

"Mairon?" Maitimo ventured.

"Yes, that is still my name," the bird replied, sounding ruffled. "Hmph. I told you not to sing of Varda."

"Yes," Maitimo said slowly. His head hurt, and he could barely remember his days outside of this precipice and iron band. But yes, he supposed Mairon spoke truly. "You did. He smashed your lyre."

"He did smash my lyre," the bird agreed. "I was extremely upset with him. He hid from me for a bit after that. He has not yet figured out how to make it up to me."

Maitimo did not know what to say to this. His brain, fogged at it was, understood that Mairon was more upset about the lyre than the living elf chained to this wall. It was another uncomfortable reminder that, for all his charm, this was a servant of the Enemy.

"Will you release me?" he asked, without much hope.

The crow trilled laughter. "You are very funny! I could not even if I wished to. Melkor is the strongest of any power on earth, and he drove this iron into this wall with his own strength and his sorcery. No one but him can undo it."

Maitimo groaned.

"If I really wanted to get you down, I suppose I could probably heat the metal until it was soft enough to pry apart. But that would burn your flesh as well, since it is fast against the band."

"And you don't even want to," Maitimo added.

"Of course not," Mairon said scornfully. "Melkor will let you down precisely when he likes."

"So never," Maitimo said dully.

Mairon did not answer. The silence fell heavy between them.

"I can bring you food and water if you like," the bird offered, a little more kindly.

"Yes," Maitimo begged with dry, cracked, bleeding lips. "Yes. Water. Please!"

The crow flew off, again jostling Maitimo's shoulder painfully. When he returned, his claws were clutching a canteen. He dropped it in Maitimo's outstretched hand. Maitimo slung the strap over his right shoulder and freed up his left hand to pull off the cap, then lifted it to his lips with a shaking hand and poured the water into his mouth.

He spilled a lot of it, and coughed some of it back up. Mairon turned out to have extraordinary reserves of patience hitherto unknown to Maitimo; he flew back and forth with a refilled canteen about five times before Maitimo stopped begging for more. On his sixth trip, he brought an apple. Maitimo ate all of it, seeds and stem and all, and finally remembered to say thank-you.

"Oh, I'm not sure you should thank me," the crow said, back on his perch on Maitimo's shoulder. Maitimo suspected he did not have the power to hover in place in the air like Morgoth had. "He wants to keep you alive, which is likely crueler than letting you die."

Maitimo thought about it. He did not yet want to die, not even amid the worst torment he'd suffered in his life. But over time, as he hung here without respite, he could see—like a darkness creeping over the horizon—how the prospect of an end might become mightily tempting, and eventually overpowering.

"You didn't have to bring me good food," Maitimo slowly ground out. It was difficult to speak after so much time alone, and through the pounding in his head and the ceaseless ache in his shoulder.

"No," the crow agreed, amusement strong in the word. "You would certainly stay alive on seaweed and cave algae. But I am not going to force feed you, so I thought it was better to bring you something nice. I baked a meat pie. Do want some?"

Maitimo knew Mairon well enough by this point that he was sure he would not be fed orc-meat pie. Mairon did not need to eat, but sometimes he liked to at feasts, and his cooking was very good. And he would never touch orc meat, unlike the orcs themselves.

"Yes," Maitimo said, refusing to think about the 'force-feeding' thing too hard.

Mairon flew away and came back with a very small meat pie, which Maitimo could hold in one hand and finish in a few bites. The crust was delicious and flaky and the filing was hearty and satisfying. But his stomach started churning a little at all the unexpected food after shrinking and going hungry for so long, and after he finished the meat pie, it hurt so much that he was half afraid he would chuck it all back up.

"If you vomit on me, I shall not come back," Mairon said delicately. He had an uncanny ability to read Maitimo's thoughts, the contours of which Maitimo had never fully understood.

"I won't," he rasped out, clutching his stomach protectively with his free hand. He coughed, then sought around for a distraction. "Do you know what the new lights in the sky are?"

"They are not creations of Varda," Mairon said. "Though you might be right that they were of her conception. But they are Maiar. The pale one is Tilion, a hunter of Oromë. The fiery one is Arien, who tended the flowers of Vána."

Mairon paused, and his voice was sulkier when he continued. "Some say Arien is the most powerful among the Maiar. She is ever so dull though, her interests confined and narrow, her conversation very insipid."

Maitimo laughed, despite everything. "Oh, no. Did she turn you down or something?"

"No," Mairon said. "No, Melker wanted her to join the Valaraukar, but that was way before I joined him myself. I just don't like it when she's referred to as the most powerful Maia."

"There are many different kinds of power," Maitimo said in a low voice.

"True," Mairon said, sounding cheered by this. "Her fires are stronger than mine, but I would beat her in any all-out contest without rules."

Yes, Maitimo thought, this was probably true of any contest between good and evil, when evil had no constraints upon it. He said nothing out loud, and Mairon remained silent as well.

"The orcs hate them," Mairon said at length. He sounded gloomy. "They are all hiding deep in Angband and will not come out, not even for fear of Melkor."

"Good," Maitimo said, taking no care to hide his satisfaction at this news. "Hopefully the Noldor come and sweep you all away while they are hiding."

Mairon laughed, a loud sound Maitimo had not quite expected, causing him to flinch. "Your uncle and cousins and brothers are too busy fighting each other," he informed Maitimo smugly. "Oh, they are all so angry! They are camped on opposite sides of Lake Mithrim and as far as I can tell, not speaking to each other."

Maitimo groaned and closed his eyes. He asked the question that had been burning in him since he saw Arakáno's host.

"How did they get here?"

"They crossed the Helcaraxë on foot," Mairon answered. "Is that not a marvelous feat? I love it."

But Maitimo's spirit quailed at this news. He could scarcely imagine it. Such a crossing must have been very dreadful, and hard on body and spirit, and their losses heavy for little gain. No wonder Arakáno had arrived angry with Fëanáro's sons. His uncle likely would lose no sleep at all when he heard of Maitimo's captivity. If indeed anyone in the hosts still thought it captivity and not death.

He squeezed his eyes tighter to stave off the tears that threatened, and by sheer force of will quashed any thoughts of Findekáno.

"Well, you are not as entertaining as I'd hoped," Mairon said, and dug his claws in a little as he took off.

Maitimo winced, and watched the crow disappear, and wondered if he would see him again.

The crow did come back, occasionally, to bring food and water. Maitimo was less and less aware of each visit, falling further within the grip of the fog over his mind and the despair. He fumbled with water canteens and spilled most of it and found it very difficult to pay attention to anything Mairon said.

The travels of Tilion and Arien seemed to fall into a steadier rhythm, appearing to the left and setting to the right and disappearing for a while before appearing again to the left. It seemed they could now be counted on to reliably track the passage of time, but Maitimo did not have the mental energy to perform calculations or even keep track of the number of journeys. He watched their travels dully, the earlier joy they had awoken in him slowly burying itself deep, until he wasn't even sure he remembered it.

He was so out of it that he did not see Morgoth arrive. He distantly felt someone shaking him and telling him to wake up. It was an enormous effort to open his eyes and focus, but he managed it as the shaking became painful.

"What?" he croaked into the Dark Lord's face. Morgoth appeared as he ever did, tall and terrible and clad in mail.

"Are you dying?" Morgoth asked bluntly.

"I don't know," Maitimo mumbled. He probably was. But it took a long time for one of the Eldar to die of exposure and exhaustion.

"I will let you down, for a little, if you sing me the song of Fëanáro's defeat," Morgoth offered.

Maitimo stared at him for a while. His brain was slow to comprehend. "Down? A little?" he echoed numbly.

"For ten days," Morgoth clarified.

Maitimo's brain caught up and finally understood what was being offered. "You're faithless," he said, slurring the words. "Can't trust anything you say."

Morgoth said nothing, but somewhere near him, Maitimo heard a very familiar peal of laughter. He peered around and found the crow, perched on Morgoth's shoulder this time. Maitimo had no idea what was funny.

"If he makes the offer, I will take it," Maitimo mumbled. It was too much effort to hold his head up, and his chin sunk back into his chest.

The crow made a surprised sound, and Morgoth said nothing.

"I don't know if he is playing with you or if he means to keep his word," Mairon said. He sounded surprised at his own daring in saying so.

Maitimo watched out of the corner of his eye as Morgoth's hand came up and he started caressing the crow's feathers. "You may tell him that I mean it," Morgoth said, his voice low and gentle again, the specific timbre he seemed to reserve for Mairon.

"Very well," Mairon said. "That is good enough for me to give you my word, Maitimo."

Maitimo tried to remember what they were talking about.

"All right," he finally mumbled. "But I don't remember how the song goes."

He could barely remember how any song went, at this point. He closed his eyes and his chin sunk further, and he started to drift off mentally.

"Mairon will remind you, and then you can sing it," Morgoth said.

"All right," Maitimo managed again.

He could not fight the darkness that continued to pull at him. He started to drift away, but Morgoth was moving. Suddenly Maitimo's body weight wasn't all hanging from his right arm, which dropped to his side in searing agony. Maitimo screamed as the shoulder that had been dislocated and numb and frozen in one position shifted, and the bones crunched against each other with a sickening lurch. He continued to scream as Morgoth gathered him in his arms and they were flying through the air.

He screamed without drawing breath, until the blackness of unconsciousness took him.

When he woke, he was on the small cot in the Avari's living quarters. Parwë was wiping him down with a warm, wet cloth. His arm was slowly regaining its feeling as the numbness wore off, but the return of feeling was not welcome: it was a searing, fiery pain from his shoulder to his fingertips.

He gasped for breath and sputtered and attempted to move his fingers. They responded sluggishly, as though they belonged to someone else who was reluctant to cooperate with him.

"It's dislocated," he managed to say. "The shoulder."

Parwë had stopped whatever he was doing. His face came into focus only very slowly. He looked as calm and unperturbed as he ever did.

"Do you want me to try to help you, ah, relocate it?"

"You have no idea what you're doing," Maitimo accused.

Parwë remained unperturbed. He dipped his chin a little in agreement.

"I don't need your help, just—if you have that strong drink on hand, that would be nice."

"Yes, of course," Parwë said. He rose, and when he returned, he was carrying a cup of the drink.

Maitimo reached out with his left hand, but that arm was trembling and weak. It was not destroyed like the other arm, but it was withered and nearly useless. Without being asked, Parwë covered Maitimo's hand in his. Together, they held the cup to Maitimo's lips. He drank deeply, heedless of the burn, and swallowed the entire cup at once.

He managed not to cough it all back up. He laid back down and waited a few minutes until he felt the alcohol sweeping through him.

He took deep breaths, chanting to himself to relax, and then tried to move his right arm.

It did not move. Maitimo wanted to scream, but he clenched his teeth, and went through the motions of forcing himself to relax again.

"Will you—" Maitimo started to ask, then stopped. He did not know how to say it.

"Just tell me what to do," Parwë said, still very calm and composed.

Maitimo got a hold of himself, and walked Parwë through the steps of lifting his right arm over his head, behind his back, and towards the left shoulder. He felt it pop back into place with a bright cascade of pain, and he screamed again.

Parwë remained unmoved, guiding the arm back down and resting it on Maitimo's stomach.

Now feeling flooded back in. It was strange, but not altogether unpleasant. It prickled and tingled and made him dizzy, but the pain was much less than he had feared.

"Could I—more of the—" he said, squeezing his eyes shut.

Parwë refilled the cup with strong drink and helped Maitimo hold it to his lips again.

"That was a very interesting procedure," Parwë said thoughtfully while Maitimo drank. "Your people must have very talented healers."

Maitimo finished drinking and laid his head back down with a sigh. He felt much better, between the drink and the shoulder being put back in place, but he did not want to talk. He wanted to lie here and think about absolutely nothing.

Parwë took the hint, and left him alone. But he was back the next time Maitimo woke. He cleaned his right wrist, which was raw and torn and bleeding from the iron band. He smeared honey and oil on it, and bandaged it. He prepared willow bark tea for the aches and the after-effects of the drink, and had found a feather pillow from somewhere that he tucked under Maitimo's head, and he did not make Maitimo talk.

Maitimo had no idea how long he stayed on that cot, trying to feel and think about nothing. There were no windows in this room to track the new lights in the sky, even if he'd wanted to. He let himself drift in and out of sleep, ate and drank what Parwë brought him, and vaguely wished Arakáno would come and tear apart this fortress while all the orcs were hiding.

He could not understand what was stopping him. Fighting with Maitimo's brothers? Over what?

If he ever got out of here, he was going to kill them.

At some point, Parwë arrived with an unwelcome message.

"Lord Melkor summons you," he said, very gravely.

"Great," Maitimo muttered. He struggled to sit up, managing it without any help, and swung his legs over the side of the cot. He took a deep breath, and tried to stand.

His legs collapsed underneath him and he cursed loudly. Parwë caught him before he hit the floor.

He was extremely annoyed at himself. He should have been using this time to make his legs work again, shake them out and recondition them, instead of lying around feeling sorry for himself.

Parwë took Maitimo's left arm and slung it around his shoulders, until Parwë was supporting most of his weight. Together, they slowly limped through way down the long corridors and stairs of Angband to the throne room in the depths of the fortress.

"My lord," Parwë said to the Dark Lord sitting on the throne. He carefully lowered himself to his knees, and Maitimo had little choice but to follow. When Parwë unloosened Maitimo's arm from around his shoulders, Maitimo lost his balance and fell sideways onto the ground.

"You owe me a song, son of Fëanáro," said Morgoth. He gestured at the harp that had somehow been carted all the way down here.

Maitimo was not actually unwilling to sing a song about his father's death. It had been a glorious death, full of spice and style. Anyone should be glad for a death like that! To be sure, he was less enthused about singing a love song to Morgoth, but he wasn't going to think about it too hard, and it would be over soon.

The real problem was that his fingers didn't work like they used to. He crawled to the harp, and struggled to lift himself onto the stool, and slumped over with his head resting on top of the harp.

He took deep breaths, and closed his eyes, and tried to remember the song.

Someone hummed a few bars, and Maitimo opened his eyes and sat up. Mairon was there, standing behind Morgoth in the shadows. The notes triggered Maitimo's memory, and he felt less braindead than he had on the precipice, and he found he was able to take another deep breath and sing.

He could only manage to find every tenth note or so on the harp; his left fingers worked decently enough for the strings they were accustomed to finding, but his right fingers were slow and clumsy and deadened. Morgoth did not seem to care, as long as Maitimo followed the lyrics faithfully, occasionally faltering and needing a cue from Mairon.

His voice was hoarse and wavering by the time he finished, singing the last verse of praise for the lord of these lands, but then it was over. He shook out his fingers, and crawled off the stool, and sprawled out on the stone floor, feeling like he would never be able to move from this spot.

"Sing something else," Morgoth ordered. "Another war song."

"I can't," Maitimo gasped, hugging his arms to his chest and shivering.

"Forget the harp," Morgoth said. "Just sing."

Someone gave a dramatic, theatrical sigh, and Mairon emerged from the shadows and came to sit at the harp. Maitimo struggled into a sitting position, and leaned against Mairon's legs, and sang as Mairon began playing a few of the songs Maitimo had taught him, up in that bedchamber long ago.

Mairon eventually began playing music Maitimo did not know, but Morgoth did not object as Maitimo trailed off and Mairon's playing became more ethereal and the notes climbed higher. Maitimo found himself drifting off to sleep, and did not fight it.

When Maitimo woke, he was back on his cot in the small rooms of the Avari. He had food and drink next to him. He fed himself with stiff, clumsy fingers, and sank back into a deep sleep.

He did not have the slightest chance of accurately tracking ten days. He could not see the stars or the new lights, and Parwë simply shrugged when Maitimo asked him. Eventually, he resigned himself to trusting Mairon.

The time both seemed to drag on and fly by. When he looked back at it, the days of lying on the cot and struggling to rehabilitate his legs and right arm felt endless. But when Parwë arrived with another summons from Morgoth, the time suddenly became impossibly short.

On this trip to the throne room, he only needed a little help from Parwë to steady himself. He stayed on his feet as Parwë knelt before the throne, and swallowed and looked up at Morgoth in defiance.

"You are accursed," Maitimo said calmly. "You may never die, but you will live forever accursed."

"And you are not as clever as you think you are," Morgoth replied. "How do you imagine you will ever get these jewels from my crown?"

Maitimo swallowed. That was the sticking point, and it was strange and unfair that Morgoth seemed to know it.

"One day my people will unite under one banner," Maitimo said, still eerily calm. "We are stronger than you, and you are a coward, and we will stomp all over your forces and take them from you."

Morgoth laughed. He stood, and was in front of Maitimo before he could react, backhanding him hard across the face with his metal gauntlet. Maitimo staggered blindly, doubling over and clutching his face in his hands.

Morgoth picked him up again, and they were off on the same paths: through the great gates and up the slopes of the impossibly tall mountain. Blood was streaming from Maitimo's nose, and his cheek was stinging like it too had been cut open. He could not see where they were going, but he knew it all the same. Up, up, and up, until they were flying, and Maitimo was being crushed against the chilly rock wall, and he screamed again as his arm was dragged upward and bound in the band of iron.

He was still screaming long after Morgoth departed.

"Was that really ten days?" he asked Mairon in a very petulant, childish tone the next time the crow visited him with water and food. Blood had dried and crusted on his face, and glued his eyelashes shut until he finally rubbed it off with his left hand.

"It was closer to twenty," Mairon said. "Twenty Valian days. However, we are apparently counting days according to Arien now. Interestingly, one cycle of her travels across the sky aligns—strikingly closely, though not quite perfectly—with one degree of a star rotation. So this new day is much shorter than a Valian day."

Maitimo found it difficult to follow this explanation. He had sunk back into numbness and depression within no time at all upon finding himself hanging from this rock again. He felt barely functional, and accepted the water and food and conversation with no enthusiasm.

"Any news from my brothers?" he asked dully, the only sort of thing he cared about anymore.

"They are somehow at odds with Doriath," Mairon said, his amusement thick again. "I don't know the exact content of the messages back and forth, but the soldiers in your camp mutter in anger at Thingol. Do you Noldor do anything but fight with everyone?"

Maitimo had no response to this. He knew there were days of bliss in Valinor, but they were so distant, he could not have summoned a single detail to relate about them now.

"You're really a shadow of your former self," Mairon said in a disappointed voice in response to Maitimo's extended silence, like this was somehow Maitimo's own fault. "Terrible conversationalist."

And on this ridiculous, selfish note, he flew off.

Days blended together and Maitimo drifted. He could not have stayed present even if he'd wished to, and he did not really wish to. Eventually, he started refusing food from Mairon—not active resistance. He just could not be bothered to reach for the food and put it in his mouth. He could no longer really smell or taste anything, and he wished to drift away in his mind and let his body wither and perish, and finally be free of it all.

He was distantly aware of Mairon prodding him, and then digging into him with sharp claws, but it meant nothing. He was so far away. He was so close to a place where nothing mattered.

The response to his hunger strike was apparently to let him down again. Morgoth appeared himself, but even his horrifying, dreadful presence failed to move Maitimo back to full awareness. He could not feel anything as Morgoth carried him back to Angband and gave him back into Parwë's care. He was quiet and still and unmoving as Parwë maneuvered his shoulder into place once again. Parwë spooned broth into him and he did not resist. Pain was present, but he was locked in a place in his mind pain could not touch.

Mairon came and said something that did not register. Maitimo distinctly heard Morgoth's cruel laughter, and shrank further into the depths of his mind, away from reality.

"This is all a waste of time and resources," he heard Mairon saying. "I abhor waste. Just kill him."

"Do not kill him," came Morgoth's sharp voice. "Keep him alive and make him get better."

"Yes, lord," Parwë said, and Maitimo fell back into unconsciousness.

But his mind was called back eventually. The sound of music penetrated and wormed its way into his heart; his favorite songs from childhood, his favorite songs about bright jewels and glowing trees and the peace and beauty of Valinor. He opened his eyes and discovered he was in Mairon's chambers, on the fluffy divan with feather pillows, and Mairon was singing and playing a gleaming new lyre.

"I wish to die," he said, his voice very low and very hoarse.

Mairon stopped playing, and blinked, and looked up at Maitimo with a mild expression on his face.

"That was my recommendation," he said blandly. "Melkor did not concur."

"I can't do it again," Maitimo said. "I can't go back up there. I will go mad."

"Perhaps you will," Mairon agreed, but he did not say it like he cared.

It turned out that Maitimo's pride did not allow him to lie there as someone spoon fed him, not when he was aware it was happening; next time Parwë tried it, Maitimo grabbed his wrist with his good hand and firmly stopped him. He struggled up to a sitting position, and took the bowl of broth, and fed himself clumsily with his left hand.

Maitimo eventually made himself get to his feet, and walk around the room again, and massage his right shoulder and do a few exercises to make it move again. Someone had again bandaged his bleeding right wrist, and the pain of it was not unbearable. Heedless of whether Morgoth liked it or not, he would cross the room and fling open the wooden shutters and drink in the sight of the plains, greener than ever, the sight beautiful and bright under the power of Arien.

"The Sleep of Yavanna is lifted," Mairon told him as he stood there one day. "Everything is growing quickly in the light of the sun and all the animals are awake. The orcs continue to be... unable to withstand the light. Melkor is working on something to fight it."

"The sun," Maitimo repeated, tasting the word.

"Yes, that is what your Noldor are calling it."

His Noldor? As he stood there, looking at the plain was that completely empty of his allies, he hated them in this moment.

"How long has it been since the sun appeared?" Maitimo wondered.

"Mmm, about four star rotations, or somewhat more," Mairon replied. "I haven't checked recently."

Maitimo stared at the ground below and wondered if Mairon would be quick enough to catch him if he jumped.

"I would," Mairon said firmly behind him.

Maitimo whirled around and pointed an accusing finger at Mairon. "You can read my mind!" he cried. "I have thought so forever, but now I am certain."

"Any of the Ainur can," Mairon said disdainfully. "It used to be our primary means of communication. And it is how we pick up all of your spoken languages so quickly."

Maitimo's finger was shaking. "That's horrifying," he said. "It's a terrible violation of privacy!"

"You have interesting priorities for things to worry about here," Mairon remarked, and he was not wrong but it was not a helpful observation. "Just... close your mind."

"Close my mind?" Maitimo asked, bewildered, but he lowered his finger.

"Yes, close it! It's been wide open and leaking thoughts and ideas like a flood. I could hardly fail to hear it all even if I didn't want to."

"I don't understand," he said plaintively. "How do I close it?"

"It should not be this hard," Mairon griped. He rose from the bed, and took Maitimo's chin firmly in one hand, and locked eyes together. He projected his thoughts into Maitimo's mind—his sense of self. It was swirling and powerful and overwhelming. It was drowning him, he was going to suffocate in it.

Stop, Maitimo thought, lashing out in a metal panic, and the presence withdrew.

"Just hold on to that sense of stop, to close it," Mairon advised, and let go of Maitimo's chin.

Maitimo was gasping for breath. He bent over, crouching on the floor and shivering and huddling into himself.

He forced himself to take deep breaths and chanted to himself over and over in his mind until he calmed down.

"That was unpleasant," he said finally, peering up at Mairon through bleary eyes.

Mairon raised an eyebrow.

"All right, it's not worse than dangling from a cliff by your hand," Maitimo said impatiently. "But you shouldn't do that to someone."

"I generally do exactly as I like," Mairon retorted, retreating to the bed and picking up his lyre again.

And there was really nothing Maitimo could say to that; it was clearly true. Morgoth was the only one who could tell Mairon what to do, and Mairon loved him enough that he generally wished for whatever Morgoth wished.

Maitimo spent his time brooding, pacing restlessly and feeling sorry for himself. Mairon ignored him most of the time, writing and singing and drawing. He seemed to feel Maitimo would throw himself out the window if Mairon left him alone, and he would not have been wrong.

But when Morgoth came for him again, Maitimo was on his feet and ready.

He put a boot onto the window ledge and used it to launch himself at Morgoth's head. Morgoth swatted at him, but missed, and Maitimo sailed through the air and snatched the iron crown off of his terrible head. Morgoth roared as Maitimo leapt to his feet, the warmth of the Silmarils coursing through him in spite of the heavy iron imprisoning them, and threw himself at the window. He would fall to his death clutching his father's jewels in fulfillment of his oath, and somehow that made perfect sense in his mind.

Morgoth, however, was too fast. Anticipating his flight, Morgoth crashed into him and tackled him to the ground before he reached the windows. Snarling at him in harsh Valarin, Morgoth knelt on his chest, crushing it painfully, and wrenched the crown out of his hands.

Maitimo gave a great cry as the Silmarils were taken from him, the pain of it stabbing through his heart. Morgoth slammed the crown back on his hand, his eyes fierce and terrible, and hauled Maitimo to his feet. Maitimo was helpless as Morgoth handled him roughly, marching him to the windows and then pushing him out the opening.

He felt nothing but relief as he tripped and fell through the window and plummeted to his death underneath his beloved stars.

But then Morgoth was flying beside him, having somehow crammed his huge shape through the windows, and he snatched Maitimo out of midair, and turned to Thangorodrim.

"No," Maitimo screamed. He pounded his fists against Morgoth's chest, heedless of the stinging pain against the metal. "No, please, no more. I can't! Please! No more, I will do anything!"

Morgoth sailed through the air undeterred. "It pleases me to hear you beg, son of Fëanáro," Morgoth's voice echoed on the wind. "Do continue."

Maitimo found he could not stop. He sobbed and beat his fests against Morgoth in a renewed fit of strength born of terror. "Please," he screamed. "Please, I'll do anything!"

He was still sobbing out the word 'please' over and over when they reached the precipice and his arm was wrenched over his head and clasped in the iron band. Maitimo sobbed, his breathing too fast and too shallow, and Morgoth's horrible laughter lingered on the wind long after he left.

Maitimo was suddenly, violently sick. Whatever he had eaten last came back up with a mouthful of bile, and he threw up all over himself. When he finished, he was shaking and freezing and feeling weaker than ever.

He did not see the sun rise again.

For it was not long until a great shudder passed through the rock, and the peaks around him opened up and issued dreadful black smoke, reeking of terrible fumes, spewing into the sky and covering the world in darkness for many miles. Maitimo watched it, knowing what it meant. Morgoth's orcs were ready to be unleashed against his people. His heart sunk, and he wished for death.

Mairon continued to fly up and feed him every now and then, and Maitimo did not refuse the food anymore, but he begged for death every time.

"No," Mairon said, irritated and annoyed. "You are being very tedious. You know I would never do anything to displease Melkor like that."

"I don't care," Maitimo sobbed. "Please, please just kill me."

The experience of being relieved from his torment and being set back to it, for the third time now, felt like more than he could bear. His shoulder seemed to be exponentially more painful each time, and the raw scrape of the iron against the red sores where he dangled by his wrist seemed to be less bearable after being somewhat healed. But it was his mind that came very close to being unable to handle it: the idea that this was the rest of his life, he would never be free again, prisoner to these endless cycles of healing and torture—he wanted to die.

And he had had the Silmarils in his hand, and lost them. The oath crept inside his chest and froze his heart and did not let go.

Mairon's visits became fewer in frequency, and the stink of the black clouds overhead grew worse. Maitimo's mind grew dark, and he had no hope at all for anything to change. He was Morgoth's plaything in payment for his father's debt, and he couldn't even remember anymore whether that was unfair or not.

Maitimo was thirsty and hungry and yet not desiring food or drink. He felt utterly broken and bereft.

And then he heard it.

Someone was singing.

Of Valinor.

It wasn't Mairon.

Maitimo did not stop sobbing, but he heard the song and wondered if he had finally gone mad. There was no possibility, absolutely no chance, that Findekáno was here climbing Thangorodrim above Angband, and moreover, if he was, it the worst idea Findekáno had ever had.

Maitimo swallowed, painful in his dry throat, and lifted his head and sang back.

His voice was thin and reedy and nothing beautiful. But as he sang, there below him appeared the most beautiful sight Maitimo had ever seen: Findekáno with his shining face and his perfect dark hair, strong and proud and fierce and defiant, heedless of the danger and horrors of this place.

He stood at the bottom of the cliff, and could clearly go no further.

"Nelyo?" he shouted, peering up. "Oh, my angel and light of my life. What have they done to you?"

Maitimo could not answer. He heaved wordless sobs. To be so close and yet so far! To think of Findekáno being found and captured himself! It was far, far worse than anything Maitimo had suffered yet.

"Kill me," he pleaded. "Please, kill me, please just kill me, and get out of here, before he comes back. Please!"

Findekáno did not reply. Maitimo could not tell what he was thinking or see the expression on his face. He was so far down there—an impossible distance.

"Just kill me," Maitimo sobbed. "If you ever loved me, do it quickly."

Findekáno slowly took the bow off his back, and strung it, and notched an arrow to the string.

Findekáno was crying too, Maitimo could see, as he faced upward and sighted along the arrow towards Maitimo.

"Please," Maitimo said again, squeezing his eyes shut. He had forgotten the rest of his words.

Findekáno drew his arrow back, and said a prayer to Manwë, carried away on the wind.

"He can't hear us here," Maitimo whispered, his chest heaving and hurting. "No one can hear us here."

But Maitimo was wrong.

The wind answered, carrying with it an eagle, brave and bold and fearless of the shadows of Morgoth over Angband, and he swooped to Findekáno and carried him up the cliffside.

The eagle folded his wings and swooped close to the rock, and Findekáno jumped off the back of the eagle, stretching out his hands and grabbing the same iron band holding Maitimo fast to the cliffside.

"Oof," Maitimo said, as Findekáno could not quite avoid slamming his knees into him.

"Sorry, oh love I am so sorry. Sorry, how does this thing come off?"

Findekáno had both his hands on the iron band, digging painfully into the sores on Maitimo's wrist, and now he planted both of his boots against the rock on either side of Maitimo and strained with all his might against the metal.

"It doesn't," Maitimo said dully. "Morgoth sank the metal into the rock himself. Even Mairon could not undo it. He thought maybe he could burn through it, but not without burning my skin."

"Ok," Findekáno said. "All right. How dreadful. We'll talk about who or what Mairon is, later."

But Findekáno didn't give up. He let go of the iron with one hand, steadied by his feet still planted on the wall, and drew a small knife from his waist, and said a prayer over it that set the knife to glowing.

"Whatever of Aulë's power that is in that blade is not going to work here," Maitimo warned.

Findekáno ignored this, and attacked the iron band with the knife.

He did not seem to have any success.

"Maybe if I tried destroying the rock around it, instead of the iron itself," Findekáno mused.

"You brought a pickaxe with you, did you?" Maitimo said bitingly.

"No," Findekáno said. "Do you think anyone marches to war with a pickaxe? I wonder, if I asked around...."

There were pickaxes inside Angband, but Maitimo was not about to tell Findekáno to go look for one there.

"Finno," Maitimo said. "You are not leaving me to go find a pickaxe. Please. Just kill me and get out of here before they find you too. The only thing that could make this place worse is if you were captive too. The orcs may be hiding, but Mairon is overdue for a visit."

He could tell because he was far more hungry and thirsty than usual.

"I am not leaving without you!" Findekáno cried.

"No," Maitimo said. "You must kill me. Please."

"No," Findekáno said, his tone defiant. "Thorondor, will you be ready to catch us as we fall, on my call?"

"Yes," the eagle replied. "But do hurry!"

"Nelyo, angel, I am going to cut your hand off. Sorry, it's all I can think of. Ok?"

Maitimo was very taken aback by the idea. For so long, he had wished only for death, and had never thought of another escape. For he was so beaten in spirit that the idea of escape was almost as terrifying as the idea of staying here.

But Findekáno was waiting on his response. Maitimo had to answer.

Maitimo licked his lips, and nodded. "All right."

"Wrap your other arm around my waist?" Findekáno suggested.

Maitimo's left arm had dangled uselessly for so long, it was nearly as unresponsive as his right. He tried to move it, and could not manage it. Findekáno seemed to understand the problem right away, and he put his knife away, reached down with his free hand, picked up Maitimo's left arm, and lifted it to wrap around his waist.

Maitimo managed to tighten his grip just enough for it to stay there.

Findekáno took up the knife again, said another prayer over it, and then searing pain cut through the numbness of his right arm. Maitimo smelled burning flesh, and then he was dropping, his feeble grip on Findekáno's waist not enough to hold him up.

Findekáno dropped with him, letting go of his own hold on the iron, and cried: "Thorondor!"

The eagle, who had been circling the sky, suddenly folded his wings and dove. He swiftly came alongside their fall. Findekáno reached out and grabbed his feathers with one hand, hauling on Maitimo with the other, and they both tumbled onto the great eagle's back. Thorondor steered clear of the cliff walls, and unfolded his great wings again, beating strong and swift, bearing them up and away from the great precipice.

Findekáno wrapped both of his arms around Maitimo very tightly. He squeezed him as hard as he could—and his strength was considerable—and then let go and picked up Maitimo's hand.

Well, the stump of his hand.

The end of his wrist was awful and shiny and very angry. The knife had been hot enough to cauterize it, though, and it wasn't bleeding. Tears were staining Findekáno's cheeks as he looked at it.

"I have nothing to treat this with," he said. "And I am all out of food and water. I am so sorry, Nelyo. I am the worst rescuer in history."

"You are not," Maitimo said through his own tears. "I can't even feel it."

That was not true. His shoulder was certainly dislocated again and his nerves numb, but the pain of having his hand severed from his arm had managed to penetrate. It hurt horribly.

Findekáno ripped off part of his sleeve, and wrapped it around the end of Maitimo's wrist. That only made it sting and throb worse, but he didn't say anything.

"Thorondor," Findekáno called out, "how far can you take us?"

"I will take you back to Mithrim," said the eagle.

"Praise Manwë!" Findekáno sang out, tears falling freely.

Maitimo was so startled to hear someone say something like that out loud after his long time in Angband, that he actually shuddered and shivered at the name. He could not shake the sense that Morgoth would appear out of midair and seize him and take him away again in retaliation.

"Are you cold? Have my cloak."

Before Maitimo could protest, Findekáno unwrapped his cloak and threw it around Maitimo's shoulders, and drew their bodies close together.

"I can't believe you came for me," Maitimo muttered, burying his head in Findekáno's neck and closing his eyes.

"I had to," Findekáno replied, and held Maitimo closer.

Sobs rose again in Maitimo that he could not suppress. He wept against Findekáno's shoulder.

Findekáno soothed him, humming a little song, and ran his fingers over Maitimo's braids. "Oh, darling, you're still wearing them?"

He referred to the small jewels braided in Maitimo's hair that were originally a gift from Findekáno, when they were very young, before the unchaining of Morgoth. By some miraculous chance, Morgoth had not taken them again after Parwë had braided them back into Maitimo's hair.

"Are you not wearing yours that I gave you?" Maitimo said, and did not think he could bear it if Findekáno said no.

"I am, I am, always," Findekáno said hurriedly. "You don't have to look now, but of course I am. But I thought—after my harsh words to you—I thought you might have taken yours out."

"Every word was justified," Maitimo said, and started weeping again.

"Shhh," Findekáno said. "It was not. You are not your father. I cannot fault you for faithfully loving your father. I have regretted my words bitterly ever since I spoke them. I love you so much."

Maitimo clung to Findekáno and cried.

He remembered little of that long journey. It was bitterly cold, high in the northern skies, and Maitimo had nothing left in him to fight against the cold in mind or body. He was wasted, starving and pathetic, and there was nothing in him that could even feel a sense of relief at his escape.

Or perhaps the problem was that he could not really believe in the escape. Not even when they left the dreadful slopes of Thangorodrim. Nor when the snowy peaks of the Ered Wethrin passed quickly beneath them, and Thorondor started dipping his head downward, and the camps around Lake Mithrim came into view.

Nor even as Thorondor landed amid shouts of surprise and joy in the camp, as Findekáno pulled Maitimo off the back of the eagle, supporting all his weight as they went. Not as Findekáno half-carried him into a tent, and set him down gently a bed of furs, and helped him drink an elven healing cordial that was the most warming thing he had tasted in years.

The darkness of his captivity had not lifted from his spirit even as he sank into sleep.

When Maitimo returned to awareness, he was miraculously still in the healing tent, on the bed of furs, with soft glowing light in the corner. Morgoth had not appeared and swept him back to his torment, and he still struggled to believe it.

Someone was holding his hand—his left hand—and Maitimo turned to look. Findekáno was asleep on the ground next to him, but had fallen asleep holding hands.

Maitimo did not like to disturb him. He took stock of his situation instead. Someone had re-located his shoulder—for the third time! This was getting old. They had bandaged it, and put his arm in a sling, which was a very sensible measure Maitimo should have thought of in the fortress. There was also a clean white bandage around the stump of his wrist. The smell of healing herbs was very strong. He felt less parched than he had earlier, which meant someone had managed to get water into him while he was passed out. He was still very hungry.

"Oh, you're awake!" someone cried. A shape that had been huddled in the corner unfolded itself and sprang to his side. It was Makalaurë. "How do you feel?" Makalaurë asked, coming to sit by Findekáno, who was also now awake and sitting up.

"I don't—I don't know," Maitimo whispered. "Is this real?"

"It's real," Makalaurë said firmly. "Brother, I am so, so sorry. We thought—we thought there was no possibility you were still alive."

"I might as well not be," Maitimo said, which caused Findekáno to start weeping again.

"Stop that weeping," Makalaurë hissed at Findekáno. "You're upsetting him."

Findekáno quickly tried to wipe his face off with his sleeve.

Maitimo stared at the two of them, feeling hollow.

"Is it true," he asked, his voice cracking, "that you lot have been fighting with each other since Arakáno arrived?"

"No!" Makalaurë protested, but Findekáno did not say anything.

"That you've been living in separate encampments?"

Neither of them said anything.

"Is right now the first time you have spoken to each other since Araman?"

Makalaurë and Findekáno finally looked at each other, but still said nothing.

"You've done nothing," Maitimo whispered, his heart stinging. "I've been Morgoth's plaything and you've sat around fighting over nothing."

Maitimo let go of Findekáno's hand, or tried to. Findekáno clung to it very tightly.

Maitimo's heart rate sped up, and it was hard to remember that this was Findekáno, who would never hurt him, it was not Morgoth pinning him down and dragging him off to torment.

Something in his face must have terrified Findekáno, because he winced and let go very quickly.

Maitimo sat up, and struggled to get his legs under him and stand up.

"What are you—" asked Makalaurë.

"No, Nelyo!" Findekáno cried at the same time.

His legs felt weaker than they ever had before. Was it the cumulative times of hanging from the rock strung together, or had this last episode lasted longer? Maitimo couldn't decide. He leaned his left arm heavily on Findekáno's shoulders and pushed himself up despite the trembling.

"Love, my dearest love, my only love, what are you doing," Findekáno cried in distress.

Maitimo took a few steps towards the door of the tent, and would have fallen, but his brother wrapped strong arms around him and steadied him.

"Help me walk," Maitimo ordered.

"You are ill," Makalaurë protested, his voice and his face pained.

"Help me walk!"

Findekáno came up on Maitimo's other side, and the three of them together made it out of the tent. The healing tent was in the middle of the camp of blue and silver, and it seemed that everyone dropped what they were doing and stared at Maitimo.

"Your father," Maitimo said to Findekáno. "Take me to your father!"

"No," Findekáno cried, very distressed. "No, you must go back and lie down."

Maitimo ignored this. He stumbled forward. The crowd of elves around them started murmuring in concern.

"Arakáno!" Maitimo cried. "Arakáno!"

"He's gone mad," Makalaurë muttered at his side, but very low; for Findekáno's ears only.

"Can you blame him if he has!" Findekáno cried bitterly, rather than defending his sanity.

The crowd of muttering elves parted, and Arakáno strode forward.

"Maitimo," he said. "Maitimo! Son of my brother, you should be resting."

"You have been fighting," Maitimo said bitterly, his voice ringing out across the crowd. "You have been fighting, wasting your chance while the enemy was weak and hiding from the sun and cowering in the depths of his fortress."

"Maitimo," Arakáno said again, looking and sounding very alarmed.

"You have no idea how funny they thought this was," Maitimo cried, shutting his eyes against the memory of the ringing tones of amusement lacing Mairon's voice as he described the conflict between the two camps. "But it ends now."

Maitimo shook off Makalaurë and Findekáno, and collapsed onto his knees.

"Forgive us, my lord," he said. "Forgive us for the desertion in Araman and the burning at Losgar, for the terrible long passage you took instead and those you lost on the way. We are greatly and completely humbled and we beg for forgiveness, and we take you, eldest living son of Finwë, to be our High King."

"Oh, no," Makalaurë said under his breath. Maitimo ignored him.

Findekáno was utterly silent.

"Eldest son of my brother," Arakáno said, shocked and dismayed, "please return to the healing tents and rest yourself. You are not well! We can discuss this when you are well."

"I will not move," he insisted, "until you say we are forgiven and we are blood and we are one to march against the enemy with no dissension."

"For goodness sake," Arakáno said, coming forward and hauling on Maitimo's left arm to force him to his feet.

Maitimo shuddered under the harsh touch and Findekáno cried out. "Don't, you cannot handle him like that!"

Arakáno let go of his arm, and moved his touch to a light support around his waist. "You're forgiven," Arakáno said, "all of you." This last bit was presumably directed at Makalaurë. "Will you please go back and lie down!"

"As you are my king," Maitimo said, with the ghost of a smile on his lips, "I shall if you command it."

"You are impossible!" Arakáno said. "Yes, for pity's sake, I command it."

Maitimo leaned heavily on Arakáno as they walked back to the tent. Around them, voices cried out in many different exclamations, and Maitimo felt more exhausted than he could remember being at any time in Angband.

He limped back to the tent and collapsed on the furs.

"What is wrong with you," Makalaurë hissed, the moment the flap closed behind them. "You are our king. You are the eldest son of the eldest son of Finwë. Father would never have permitted it. Ceding the claim to his half-brother. Our brothers are going to kill you!"

"They can do their worst," Maitimo said with a yawn, "but somehow I don't think their worst is worse than Morgoth's worst."

Makalaurë looked like he was torn between amusement, pity, and fury.

"Please give him another drought," Arakáno said to the healer who came into the tent behind them. He assiduously, and stiffly, ignored everything Makalaurë had said.

Maitimo did not protest, and drank deeply from the cup that was offered to him.

Arakáno left them in privacy at that point, and Maitimo gave Makalaurë his sternest glare.

"I have not left you with any choice," Maitimo told him. "Unless you mean to declare yourself High King next and fight Arakáno for it."

"Of course not," Makalaurë said. Every line of him softened, and he stepped forward and fell onto the ground beside Maitimo. He laid a hand on Maitimo's left shoulder. "I would not do that to you, nor do I think Father would have wished me to do such an outrageous thing. But I expect some of the others to think of it next."

"I don't really care what they think," Maitimo said, his glare dissolving into another yawn. "As long as the Noldor stop fighting with each other and unite under one banner."

"We will unite," Findekáno said softly. He took a seat next to Makalaurë, and took Maitimo's hand in his. "I promise."

Maitimo was being drawn underneath the pull of the draught, but before he sank, he turned and looked into Findekáno's eyes. They were the warmest brown Maitimo had ever seen in a person, and his soft brown skin felt like such a safe, familiar sight after the colorlessness of Angband. At long last, Maitimo felt something fill him that might have been comfort.

"Beloved," he managed, and fell asleep.

In the agonizing process of healing the same injuries for the third time, Maitimo managed to talk himself around to believing that he had truly escaped. He was determined not to slight his strength and his body this time around, and was on his feet as soon as the healer let him. When the healer let him take the sling off, he worked out his right shoulder gently and gradually, and practiced writing and drawing with his left hand.

Findekáno did not leave his side for a single moment in all of this, not even when his brother arrived and begged him to.

"You're the eldest son of the High King now," Turukáno said bitterly, unable to bring himself to look at Maitimo. "You're needed in the war counsels. Fëanáro's sons are louder than us, and very reckless."

"Send them in here," Maitimo said, laughing, "and I will deal with them." Maitimo was simply pleased they were all attending the same war counsels now.

"No," Findekáno said firmly. "Seeing all of your brothers at once in this tent is the least healing measure you could possibly take."

Maitimo smiled. "Finno, I have to face them eventually. And maybe they will be marginally quieter, if I see them in the healing tents."

"Well, someone should do something," Turukáno said acidly, and stalked off in the same foul mood he'd arrived in.

"I'm sorry about him," Findekáno said. "I am sorry for his behavior, I mean. He—we—you should know—but maybe now is not the best time—"

"Finno, what?" Maitimo asked, taking Findekáno's face in one hand and tilting it towards him.

Findekáno licked his lips. "We lost Elenwë on the ice."

"Oh," Maitimo said, closing his eyes and leaning forward until he bumped foreheads with Findekáno. "Oh, Finno, I am so so sorry."

"You shouldn't be apologizing to anyone," Findekáno said harshly. "Makalaurë told us that you would have sent the ships back if you could."

"It wasn't good enough," Maitimo said, tears stinging his eyes again.

"This is why I didn't want to tell you," Findekáno said, agonized, as he pulled away from Maitimo's hand and fiddled with the furs of his bed. "Everything is horrible but it's not your fault."

"No," Maitimo agreed grimly. "It's Morgoth's. From start to finish, all of it is his fault."

Findekáno went silent, and looked deeply at him for a long time.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he offered, very tentatively.

"I will have to, and soon," Maitimo said, trying to keep his tone light. "For I learned a great deal about the Enemy, and not all of it is cause for useless despair."

"I mean... do you want to talk about what happened to you," Findekáno said, the words seeming wrenched from him with great effort.

Maitimo's chest heaved, and burned with shame. He found he did not want to speak of the hanging or the repeated sessions of healing that were more like torture when followed by hanging again. But there was something else that he desperately needed Findekáno—and no other—to know about him.

"I told him everything he wanted to know," Maitimo said, licking his lips. "It was all very curious stuff that he cared about—nothing about our troop strength or our plans or our allegiances and internal disputes and who is most dear to whom. But I didn't even try to resist, Finno. I told him everything he wanted. For as long as he had questions, I answered them."

"No one will ever blame you for that," Findekáno said, low and fierce. "I defy anyone to prove it with a demonstration, if he says he would have done otherwise!"

"It's not what you think," Maitimo said, wretchedly. "It was well before the torment began. I told him everything he wanted to know in exchange for some meat stew and feather cushions."

"I... I will never judge you for doing what you had to in that place," Findekáno said, but he was more hesitant now.

"You still do not understand," Maitimo said desperately. "I told him everything because I liked him. He was charming, and relatable, and clever and entertaining and made me feel like I had a friend there."

Findekáno was looking alarmed by this point.

"You, ah, became friends with Morgoth?" His tone was very delicate, as though he feared Maitimo was truly mad this time.

"Oh, no no no. Not Morgoth," Maitimo clarified. "Mairon."

"Ah," Findekáno said, relaxing a little. "This name surfaces again. I see. Who is Mairon?"

So Maitimo spilled out the whole story of the attractive, charming, brilliant Maia who was capable of emulating great kindness and friendship.

"But... he is the Enemy's greatest servant? He has deserted the rest of the Ainur to serve Morgoth?" Findekáno summarized when Maitimo had finished.

"Yes," Maitimo said. "And he is actually very horrible beneath the charming veneer. He has no empathy for anyone else; his heart is black and it is entirely given to Morgoth. Their subjects in the fortress call them husbands."

Findekáno looked predictably shocked at this.

"But I cannot rid my heart of his kindnesses in that place," Maitimo said, briefly squeezing his eyes shut. "I taught him to sword fight, and made him good at it, which I fear our people will long rue. And even as you came for me, I was still attached to the idea of his next visit and named him my friend."

Findekáno sighed, and took Maitimo's hand in his. "Dearest. This is all very understandable. It's... it's the same routine we would use against your little brothers when they got into trouble as children, remember?"

Maitimo was utterly bewildered by this turn of the conversation. He shook his head.

"I would be cold, and pretend to treat with them harshly, and you would come along with soft kindnesses, pretending it was behind my back, and they would spill everything to you."

"Oh," Maitimo said, a strange feeling flooding through him. He felt simultaneously disgusted and elated. "Oh, oh, Valar save me, oh. It was the exact same thing... just like that."

"Yes, and we used it because it works, it's just our nature," Findekáno said, pressing on Maitimo's hand. "It's no failing of yours, and not remotely a sign that you are compromised in your heart by the teachings of the Enemy. It's just a tactic that happens to work."

"Oh," Maitimo said again, and he wanted to laugh. "Finno! It's so obvious when you put it like that."

"I am sorry it was weighing on you so," Findekáno said quietly.

"No. I—I was not likely to ever see it that way. But it's all right. Now I do not fear facing my uncle to tell him everything I know. And everything they know."

"You should never have feared my father," Findekáno said, slightly reproachfully.

Maitimo raised Findekáno's hand to his lips, and kissed it. "Never mind," he said. "It doesn’t matter. We will all take counsel together and plot war. I think we should lay siege to that fortress. It will inconvenience and infuriate them, though probably not cripple them. We have a chance of maintaining it, I think, if we all work together. Oh—but is it true that King Thingol sent us angry messages?"

"Well, not angry, but... he isn't our ally," Findekáno said. "How did you know that?"

"They have spies in our camp—or well, actually, now that I say it, I think Mairon is the spy. We should spread the word to chase off any crows we see."

"Crows?" Findekáno cried.

"Oh, yes, he is a shapeshifter," Maitimo said casually. "And he thought it was incredibly funny to tell me all the things that were going wrong in this camp."

Findekáno scowled. "Mairon is the wrong name for him," he said darkly. "How about... Sauron? That's much more accurate, it sounds like."

Maitimo burst out laughing. "The abhorred, rather than the admirable! My clever Finno. Have I never told you how much I love you?"

Findekáno stilled, and tucked his chin and looked at the floor. "Ah, no. Actually. I do not believe we have had this conversation."

Maitimo reached out with his stump and placed it on top of where Findekáno held his other hand. "I suppose we haven't," he agreed quietly. "I love you, Findekáno, son of Arakáno. I give my heart to you—I gave it to you long ago—and I will never love another."

"And I love you, Maitimo, son of Fëanáro," Findekáno answered, placing his other hand on top of Maitimo's stump, which no longer bore a bandage. "If it were permitted—if we were not both Finwë's grandsons—I would gladly marry you."

"It is enough that we speak these words," Maitimo said. "Is it not enough, for union of our spirits?"

"It will have to be enough," Findekáno said, his voice low and fierce. "For I too will never love another."

Maitimo and Findekáno leaned toward each other at the same time, and their lips met. Although Maitimo had known for a long time he was in love with Findekáno, they had not kissed before. Apparently, it took a crisis for them to admit it to each other. Kissing Findekáno was everything he ever dreamed it would be—electrifying and enlightening and beautiful.

"Your brother is going to kill me," Maitimo laughed when they pulled away for breath.

"My brother?" Findekáno cried. "Who cares about my brother? You have six of them!"

"They will just have to deal with it, like they just have to deal with my giving up the kingship," Maitimo said smoothly.

Findekáno groaned. "Even with you back, this alliance is going to be difficult and finicky."

"Yes," Maitimo agreed. "But I think we can manage it. Your father will be a good king. And now I know what we are up against."

Maitimo wrapped his good arm around Findekáno's waist, and pulled him closer. "But right now," he said in a low voice, "I want to enjoy being free, and with you."

"I will never let you go again," Findekáno vowed.

"And I will never let anyone make me leave you behind again," Maitimo replied.

"Forever," Findekáno agreed.

"Forever," Maitimo said, and kissed him again.