The first moonrise by yletylyf

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Capture

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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.