The morning was pale and cold despite the season. Crows huddled on outcroppings of the stony ridge to one side, crying mournfully to the heavens. A thin veil of cloud shrouded the warmth of the sun's rays, but not its brilliance; and so it was that light glinted faintly off the black raiment - torn and dirtied, but still recognizable - of the figure sprawled across the ground.

When Maeglin finally drifted to wakefulness on the stony path beyond the leaguer of the encircling hills, it was to the shrill cawing of crows and a bright, wintry sky above that blinded him and glared harshly off the sharp grey slate. He lay motionless for a while, strangely peaceful inside despite the nagging sensation that something was gravely wrong (and the sword digging into his back) before attempting to move. He felt mostly numb.

Lifting one arm slightly, Maeglin flexed his fingers and a shooting pain went up into his shoulder. Hissing in surprise, he fought down sudden nausea and forced his head up so he could look down the length of his body. The muscles of his neck screamed in protest, and the skin stretched tautly over his collar bone felt as if it split open; a warm trickle of wetness pooled on his chest, soaking the heavy fabric of his tunic and dripping down his neck.

"...What-?"

The blood. Memory returned with vicious intensity, and Maeglin convulsed, body twisting frantically in the dust; he cried out - voice loud and rough - and clutched his head to drown the images surging violently through his mind.

The fire - the burning. The wicked lashes, each stroke biting deeply into the flesh of his back, and the hot metallic stench of iron chains and blood. A pale knife of glittering steel, drawn lazily across his chest and stomach in elegant curls that were a dreadful parody of artistry. Howling screams that tore at his throat - though they seemed so animal that it was impossible it was really his voice. And the poison on his tongue, more bitter and intense somehow than any torture.

Maeglin had raised his head, sagging in the chains that held him up by his wrists, and gazed at Gorthaur though bruised and bloodshot eyes hazed by exhaustion. He had been oddly aware of the strained rise and fall of his chest, the feeble defiance of his beating heart and whispering blood. He had looked up, and a drop of crimson had slipped from his mouth down his chin and mixed with the sweat and grime already there before falling to the floor.

'I will tell you how to find the hidden city.'

The words were lead on his tongue, smooth and heavy and languidly slow. Gorthaur had smiled, then.

The echoes of his maddened yell died away. Maeglin took in a shuddering breath and forced his spasming muscles to still. Leaning heavily on a rock jutting out beside him, he heaved himself to his feet with a whimper of pain despite the ache in every muscle and the excruciating sensation of each carefully administered cut in his flesh breaking open again and seeping blood. Standing was agony; pain throbbed in every bone, every frayed tendon. His head pounded in the dazzling light, and darkness crept in behind his eyes. But he gritted his teeth in a grimace of defiance and stepped forwards.

He staggered and nearly fell from the agony, but with a sob of frustration he straightened his back and adjusted Anguirel on his belt and took another step.

He made it to the place where he had left the encircling hills in an hour, the clear light of the sun burning his winter-white skin mercilessly though it still gave no warmth. The narrow cleft in the stony ridge looked forbidding and for a moment Maeglin considered turning back. But he straightened his shoulders and walked forwards into the shadow.

Tumladen was narrowest at the point where the path exited the Echoriath. As the sun set over the hidden plain and stained the pristine surface of Gondolin's walls with bloody light, Maeglin reached the doors to the city and passed the guards without a word. His ragged appearance must have confused them - and more so the fact that he had been presumed dead a moon ago - but they said nothing despite the worried glances they exchanged.

The whispers of those turning to observe his progress followed him up the streets of Gondolin as he made his way to Turgon's tower, limping on damaged feet across the broad, paved ways with a cold determination that made others draw back rather than offer aid. His dark eyes did not stray from his destination, and at last, breathing hard and almost spent from his weary march, Maeglin arrived in the King's square as the last of the sun's feeble rays spilled across the courtyard and evening set in.

Then he fell.

When Maeglin awoke, the first thing he noticed was that he was in bed. Smooth linens under his body, a pillow beneath his head - undreamed-of luxuries that he would have killed for during his imprisonment.

He did kill for them, was the next thing he realized. The lives he had offered just hadn't been taken yet.

He took in the soft red light coming through the open window, the glow of sunset from beyond the Echoriath and evidence that he had not only slept through the whole night, but the next day as well. He blinked, trying to dispel the slight fog from his mind. His chest and arms were bandaged; a few thin cuts were still exposed, covered in healing ointment. He had been treated, then.

Turning his head to one side hurt, but revealed a row of clean beds, mostly empty, and gave away his location: the infirmary.

He heard hushed voices at the door, but found himself unwilling to put any effort into trying to discern their meaning. Instead he was content to lie still and let the sound wash over him, to accept the small comfort of words not thick and rough with violence. He let his eyes close, the rose-colored light filtering through his eyelids deceptively lovely.

Suddenly he heard footsteps approaching. He forced his eyes open again.

Ecthelion stood at the foot of the bed, leaning over him slightly with eyes narrowed in concern. He gave a stiff, formal nod of greeting when he saw Maeglin was awake.

"My Lord. It is good to see you with us. We thought you dead."

Maeglin made no response.

"I would speak with you, if you are well enough..."

The healer - who Maeglin now noticed had been hovering at Ecthelion's shoulder all the while - moved as if to protest, but he shook his head.

"I am able, Ecthelion," he said quietly.

Trying to sit up made him gasp in pain. He allowed the healer to help him.

Ecthelion frowned. "I have seen wounds like these before," he said, voice low. "They are methodical, not random. Across the collar bone, slicing the pectoral muscle..." He traced the lines of blood almost tenderly with a finger in the air.

Maeglin flinched, feeling Ecthelion's gaze glide across his wrapped chest and the long, thin cuts beneath.

"The healer said the welts on your back were from a whip. Orcs do not use whips unless they are... not fighting actively."

A tremor ran down Maeglin's spine at the deliberate pause. Ecthelion examined the other elf's hands for a heartbeat before looking up.

He met Maeglin's eyes with an intense gaze, sad and resignedly understanding. "These wounds were not sustained in battle, were they?" Ecthelion said gently.

Maeglin looked away, down at the hands folded in his lap. He shook his head mutely in admission.

"They wanted information from you?"

Maeglin's voice was weak, throat still raw from screams and thirst. He wet his lips before speaking. "They... They desired to know our whereabouts."

Ecthelion's eyes widened briefly in fear before he composed himself, face fallen back to its usual unreadable placidity. He did not move, but his shoulders tensed imperceptibly and he pressed his lips shut, jaw tight. The unspoken question hung heavily in the air between them, dark and ugly as a storm cloud.

What was he supposed to do?

Maeglin subsided into his pillows. "I told them nothing," he said dully.

Ecthelion let out a quiet breath of relief, eyes closing. He forced a smile and clapped Maeglin on the shoulder. "Good man," he said, too heartily. "Never doubted you for a second."

He stepped back, face serious again. "I will not tell anyone, if you truly do not desire it," he said. "King Turgon would want to know, I think, and would commend your bravery - but it is your choice. Of course." He paused. "May I inquire as to the manner of your escape?"

Maeglin wet his lips. A wave of pain rose in his chest, ravenous guilt blossoming in his stomach. He looked away. "Not now, Ecthelion," he whispered.

Ecthelion almost spoke, but stopped himself at the haunted look in the other's eyes. He half-bowed, dark hair falling in front of his face, and backed from the room. "Try and get some rest, my lord, and we may reconvene later." His footsteps faded out down the hall.

The healer approached his bedside with a glass of miruvor and offered it. Maeglin tried to take it from her but she refused gently and guided it to his lips, and his hands were left to cling weakly to hers in a pathetic semblance of autonomy. He went to drink.

But the sweet and familiar smell made him feel suddenly, inexplicably ill. He turned his face away, nose wrinkled.

"Drink, my lord. You are weak, and it will help. Please."

And somehow this poor healer's earnest regard for his well-being was too much, on top of everything; his betrayal, the exhausting walk through the city, Ecthelion's badly hidden uneasiness - and he burst into desperate laughter. The healer recoiled, spilling miruvor down her arm, and he doubled over, shoulders shaking - and he laughed until he sobbed and it hurt to breathe and his lips were flecked with blood, and the other healers came and forced him down on the bed and gave him something that made his head heavy with exhaustion.

Before the gathering darkness bore him away, his healer's face looked down at him with such compassion that he felt sick.

"Do not worry, my lord, you shall make a full recovery in time. And you must not fear your memories; you have suffered, but you were brave; and there is glory in that."