The first moonrise by yletylyf

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Torment

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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.