There was no dawn to break the fathomless night, no gentle morning light to chase the stars from the sky and wake the sleeper from his repose. No, it was the ugly blare of a bugle and the cries of orcish voices that jerked Maedhros from a sore, uneasy sleep.

Slowly he blinked his eyes open; he peeled apart the grainy silt of tears that near sutured them shut, and a low moan echoed out of his throat as that tender sensation only seemed to sharpen all others. Pain thudded through his head; the gag clasped achingly tight about his jaw, and what thick saliva that he managed to swallow tasted rancid upon his tongue. The stake to which he was bound crushed into his shoulder-blades; his arms had long since numbed behind him and his fingers deadened, and as the he tried to flex some life back into his wrists rubbed raw by the abrasive cord little reward did he gain for his efforts. Time drifted into a slow stupor then; discomfort ebbed as an unrelenting tide through his body left cramped by such unyielding restraint, and the stars above were unmoved by his suffering. Coldly they stared down, distant and impassive, and where in them once Maedhros had found delight now their emptiness sickened him, and he turned his face from them in dismay.

With astonishing efficiency the orcs disassembled their camp before him: tents were folded in great swathes of rawhide and cloth and packed tidily away, under the Valaraukar's watchful eyes troops crunched across the gravel and assembled into their companies. The raucous bursts of their merriment as they shared bread and strips of dried meat shattered the solemn mountain air, it seemed a blasphemy against the silent majesty of the hills.

Grimly Maedhros watched their activities, and as the orcs' movements grew more fervent he steeled himself for what might come ahead. The horrors of imagination were yet unfounded, he told himself sternly; he scraped together whatever fraying knots of nobility he possessed and he bound them fast within him. Turko might yet come, he would come; surely by now the ill news of the parley had reached his brothers' ears. It was no secret where the armistice was to be held, and sorrow tinged Maedhros' heart to think of the horrors that they would find there; his people, his friends strewn about like flotsam broken upon the shore, mangled amid the carnage of battle. They would realise soon enough; they would not find his body among the slain, and Pityo would know, Pityo always knew, that he was still alive, and taken captive, and with every hour lost their hopes of regaining him became slimmer.

Turko would know what to do, Maedhros crooned to himself; he clutched tightly to that conviction as a hefty uruk broke from its pack and stalked towards where he sat bound. Turko would find him, there was still time; the thought kindled a fresh surge of defiance in his heart as the uruk halted beside him, and Maedhros tilted his chin to meet its boorish gaze. His blood he had daubed across that rock; his grazed knee had drizzled crimson spatters to the gravel below him through the night, and the trail of so large an orc company could not be easily erased, not even through the labyrinthine gorges of the Ered Wethrin. Huan would smell him, and Turko would find him, and Káno and Moryo would ride up with vengeance in their eyes and they would bring him home. This was only a temporary endurance; it had to be, it had to be, it would be, and that fortifying thought sparked into brash anger as the uruk knelt before him.

He grunted in protest as thick fingers fumbled through the tangle of his hair and wrenched the gag from his lips. The force of it was horrific, tender flesh throbbed out its despair at such abuse, but Maedhros scarcely had time to moan in relief before the uruk grabbed hold of his chin. Its fingernails jabbed painfully into his cheek as it forced him to raise his head, as it pried his lips open once more and the nozzle of a waterskin was forced past his teeth. Desperately Maedhros gulped as water flooded into his mouth, it dripped uncontrollably over his chin as the uruk squeezed down hard about the skin, but as best as he could Maedhros swallowed, and gratefully he felt the worst of the grit in his mouth sluiced away. He slurped the lingering droplets from his lips as the uruk yanked the skin away; the gag it took hold of once more and Maedhros blanched as he saw it raised towards his face.

"No," he croaked. "No, please… Please, d– " But with what swift cruelty were such plaintive protests quashed; the uruk bared its stumpy fangs in a remorseless grimace, and it wrestled the gag back behind Maedhros' teeth.

Swiftly then the uruk unknotted the bonds about his wrists; it barked something at him in clipped, ugly syllables, and through the prickling hurt of cramped limbs suddenly cut loose from their bonds Maedhros stared at it in confusion. Again the uruk spoke, and pointedly it kicked into the side of Maedhros' thigh, and though pain made the motion awkward, Maedhros clambered to his feet. His legs trembled beneath him as the uruk hauled him about, his boots scuffed through the gravel as it seized him by the arms, and horror stole through his heart as it bound his wrists anew at the small of his back. Frantically he writhed as the knots tightened, he grunted and squalled behind the gag as they chafed into skin already fragile and raw, but a menacing cuff to his shoulder stilled such feeble dissent, and hard Maedhros fought to quieten the whimpers of dismay that murmured in his throat.

Into the snarling company of orcs Maedhros was pushed then, and firm hands closed about his shoulders as he was made to stand. The Valaraukar conferred amongst themselves in a tight knot of blackened skin and greasy rills of flame, and as the last of the campsite's packs were swung across orcish shoulders and the soldiery made ready they arose within the gloom. Glowing cinders flurried skywards, great rivulets of fire squirmed along their arms as they rolled out their massive shoulders, and with a guttural roar they bade the company move out.

A sharp push upon Maedhros' shoulder jolted him into a stumbling walk, and wearisomely then he followed the broad back of the uruk who strode before him. At least he was not blinded this time, he thought to himself; whether it was some small mercy of Gothmog's or whether the orcs simply tired of having to shepherd him so closely he did not know, but that suffocating hood was not put to him again, and for that alone he was thankful.

For punishing hours their march continued. Time and distance blurred amid the undulating spires of the Ered Wethrin's easternmost foothills; a cavernous ravine fell away upon Maedhros' left as the orcs pressed him close along a ledge cut precariously into the mountainside, and the near-constant jostle of their pauldrons or hands against him became an evil almost beyond endurance. Wiry arms held him fast as they traversed the steep cliff-faces; the orcs quarrelled and grumbled amongst themselves as they scrambled across the remains of a rock-fall that had obliterated the trail, and as Maedhros' bound hands proved only a hindrance amid such treacherous terrain they all but tossed him between them. At last they tramped down a crumbling gorge and wound their way through a series of splintered, disorienting gullies, and how fervently Maedhros loathed the rough push and tug of orcish hands upon him as they turned him this way and that amid the shadowy rocks.

His legs ached after that exhausting descent, but where Maedhros had prayed for some small respite as finally they reached the rolling flatlands of Ard-galen, he found no succour. For a hideous clamour took up amid the company as they spilled out upon the verdant plain, voices cried and three quick blasts upon a hunting horn were sounded, and with a roar the vanguard of orcs surged forward under the command of a Valarauka. Amid the rest Maedhros was hounded into a shuffling run; more than once a whip sizzled across his back as he stumbled upon a rabbit-hole or some hidden unevenness within the soil, and he bit back a scream of torment as the orcs struck him, jeered at him, and pushed him on again.

Every step he took was hateful; every pace was another distance from his home, from those who loved him, from those who might be looking for him, and a grey pall of despair clouded Maedhros' heart as the spires of the Ered Wethrin grew distant in his eyes. North-east the orcs bolted; like demons spilled out of some horrific nightmare they loped across the plains, tongues lolling and eyes set aflame, and miserably Maedhros yelped as the whip played again across his shoulders. It licked about his arms trapped painfully behind his back; bile burned up in his throat as he retched with the stress of such relentless exertion, it frothed behind the gag that seemed to clench tighter into him with each passing hour. The breath howled in his lungs, and as the orcs' ruthless pace continued at last he began to stumble with true exhaustion; the toe of his boot caught upon a stubborn grass-root and helplessly bound he toppled. His shoulder and chest slammed hard into the dirt, a desperate snort of air punched out of his lungs with the impact, and despite himself he moaned with the hurt of it as the orcs hauled him up again, as a short crop snapped across the back of his thighs and bade him run once more.

Humiliating strands of white, bubbling saliva drooled uncontrollably from his lips; blank dismay yawned open in his heart, and it was far, far too much of a relief when at last the orcs called a halt to their march.

Amid the open prairie the orcs assembled a lightly furnished camp; ghostly fires sprung up amid the grass where the Balrogs set light to them, and Maedhros was pushed to the dirt at the side of one. He scarcely felt Gothmog's fiery hands binding a length of cord about his ankles, he barely tasted the thick soup that the Valarauka spooned past his lips; exhaustion seemed to bleach him of all feeling, of all sensation and thought save for the numbing ache in both fëa and body. Finally the Balrog watered him, and laid him by the fire to rest like some hobbled beast, and with the low murmur of orcish voices in his ears fatigue claimed him truly, and he tipped down into a dark, dreamless sleep.

For two gruelling days they continued: the company pounded across the trackless fields of Ard-galen, and Maedhros stumbled within their abhorrent embrace. Some thin, slimy concoction Gothmog had forced him to drink upon beginning their march afresh; he spat and retched and struggled as much as his bonds would allow as the caustic potion seemed to scour through his innards, and he whined with the sheer awfulness of it as the Valarauka fastened the gag back behind his teeth.

"Endure, elf lord," the Balrog said, and though his words were softly spoken, there was no remorse in his eyes.

But though he swayed as Gothmog cut loose his ankles and pulled him upright, he could feel the potion's energies kindled in his stomach. Like some pulsing ember set aglow within him it burned, and from it he drew the strength to carry on, though it was not without hardship. The orcs' whips sliced his back as the gentle grasses grew sparse and brittle and the lands became treacherous underfoot, strewn with rocks and groping twists of blackened lava. Upon the northern horizon dark smudges loomed up, the dread Thangorodrim bared their fangs to the sky like black pillars of malice reared up from the badlands below, and blearily Maedhros squinted up at them. Their crowns were hidden in a noxious smoke, thick and whirling and grey, and the reek of sulphur and ash plucked at Maedhros' throat as the company's pace finally slackened to a brisk walk.

The ground trembled underfoot, now and again it rumbled grievously with the geological turmoil that besieged it; magma squirmed many miles underground through veins of charred rock, it broiled and seethed as the fires of the mountains were channelled into immense foundries laid deep beneath the soil. The sudden smack of a crop upon Maedhros' right shoulder sent him skidding aside a fissure that broke through the dusty ground below his feet; a thin skein of rock crumbled away to reveal a knife-like chasm below, and shock blared through Maedhros' veins even as he was pushed onwards. Craters and calderas pocked the earth, fissures rent the ground, and from them a wispy vapour coiled, yellowish and opalescent, and the foul smell of sulphur clawed down Maedhros' throat. Towards the true roots of the mountains they pushed, and slowly that reek became tinged with the scent of metal; harsh and cloying, and it stripped whatever moisture was left from Maedhros' lips.

Dismal was his mood when at last he was steered onto a cobbled road that wound amid the fractured landscape; the orcs' eagerness was plain before his eyes as they scented for home, but it was only dismay that tipped through his heart. His brothers hadn't come, the panicky thoughts trilled through his mind: they couldn't find him, they couldn't find him, or if they could then it would be too late, and they wouldn't come, they wouldn't save him...

Such despairing thoughts clove through him, and he gulped in horror as they rounded a sharp jut of the mountainside, and beyond it the Moringotto's fortress was laid bare.

Angband he had heard it named, Angamando in his own tongue, the Hell of Iron, and just he thought it. For it was loathsome to the eye: a brute, ugly thing forged of dull black stone and sunk into the belly of the mountain that reared up behind it. It loured within a shallow cleft of the Thangorodrim's mighty walls; balefully it glared across the barren lands that approached its ramparts, and with each reluctant step Maedhros felt its malevolence press upon him as a tangible force. It cowed the spirit by its sheer immensity, for in the colossal fortifications that swung about from the main keep there came nothing but a glowering sense of might, of cruelty; that there was evil behind those slitted windows and toothed barricades that did not sleep, and would devour all in its malice. Strong and impregnable the fortress sat; minarets and towers twisted with some macabre splendour above its keep set bristling with defences: all sharpened stakes, and flaming braziers, and vast machines of war.

The orcish company grew keen as they tramped up the widened causeway, as flares were set alight amid watchtowers sunken into the hills, but within their press Maedhros lagged. For closer here there seemed a terrible pressure within the air, unnatural and choking; empty cages hung high from the gateway, carrion birds croaked their mournful tongue from their bars, and everywhere death hemmed him close. Stray bones were crushed by the orcs' iron boots, gargoyles leered down upon him, their snarling faces grotesque and contorted into torturous visages of agony, and past them Maedhros was shoved, jostled, pushed; his heartbeat came all fast and sick and wrong in his ears, and as Angband's mighty gates swung open before him fear cramped in his guts, and truly then his bold nerve failed him.

For beyond those colossal facades of riven iron and blackened steel, beyond the raised grille that lurked above like some waiting guillotine there spilled a light; a wet light, crimson and visceral and almost obscene it poured from within, and Maedhros kicked and squalled and grunted in his bonds as the orcs forcibly pulled him into it. No, he wanted to scream, no, no, no, no; the malevolence in the air felt like it might split his head in two, it throbbed like a glede of pain twisted into his skull and with what strength he found the will to fight he did not know. He knew only that he bucked within the orcs' grip, with every ounce of strength in him he tried to push himself away from that light, away from this place, he tried so hard to wake up, for it must be a dream, a dream, a nightmare; he would wake up and Káno would be there, Káno would make it stop hurting…

Desperately he fought, but roughly the orcs pushed him forwards, and as Gothmog strode through their ranks and seized him firmly by the shoulder, under the Balrog's strong hand terror stole through him, and he fought no more. Through those awful gates he was marched; his breath came hot and panicky through his nostrils as he whimpered about the gag, but as the company poured forth into a vast entrance hall somehow that blinding pressure seemed to recede a little from his mind. The abject terror of the gates was undone, and slightly more easily he stood. He gripped down hard upon the fear that stormed through his veins, and he refused to let it command him.

For a few minutes they lingered within the hall; the Valaraukar bellowed out their orders to the milling orcs, and met swiftly with two tall uruks who emerged from the fortress' inner corridors to greet them. Their discourse Maedhros could not glean, but quickly uruks nodded and the company was disbanded, and at the end of their proceedings Gothmog's hand clamped about Maedhros' upper arm like a vice and drew him down a corridor.

Flares ebbed their reddened light from brackets shaped as snarling wolves, almost carnal they seemed, hot and oily, and as Maedhros was led away he heard a commotion behind him. Quickly he twisted in Gothmog's grip, and over his shoulder he saw Angband's mighty gates rumbling to their close: colossal wheels turned and iron scraped over stone, and overwhelming then was the sensation of being swallowed; those terrible jaws closed fast behind them and their barring was as a cry of doom in Maedhros' ears. Swiftly though Gothmog strode on, and wide-eyed with both fright and curiosity Maedhros stared about him as he laboured to keep astride the Balrog's pace.

The corridor was massive, great arches of blackened stone reared up overhead and obsidian pillars anchored them, at once akin in architecture to Aulë's noble halls that Maedhros had glimpsed in his youth, yet how perverse now in mockery. For though grand in design there was only horror in those walls: statues of some unholy muse were contorted and twisted beyond all recognition, profane carvings were scrawled into the stone, and shadows roiled in fitful, lapping bursts between them. The smell of charnel clung upon the air, sweet and rotted; heavy sable banners hung from the arched rafters, and beneath them Angband's citizens thronged. Orcs and uruks of myriad stature and form marched crisply to their posts, they saluted briefly before Gothmog before hurrying onwards, and Maedhros felt many a questioning eye linger upon him as they walked. A regiment of black-clad orcs swept past them, their armour darkened and their boots muffled with strips of cloth, and to what nefarious purpose they would be set Maedhros feared to guess.

Yet amid the bustle of military activity lurked creatures far stranger: a spirit languished within a shadowed alcove, its iridescent eyes blown wide and its peculiar body twisted, all angles and disjointed bones, and fingers thin and brittle as twigs tapped an unnerving rhythm upon the wall as it watched Maedhros pass. A lowing beast akin to some monstrous, shaggy boar towed a cart of goods past; its piggish eyes rolled as an orc tugged lightly upon the ring affixed through its nose and drew it down a side passage, and onwards out of sight. Into a large thoroughfare Gothmog turned him; a strange reptile squawked at him from the shoulder of its orc master, purple plumes burst down the creature's spine and it flared its clipped feathers wide as it hissed at him, revealing rows of black, serrated teeth amid its glistening jaws. From it Maedhros recoiled, and Gothmog drew him on without pause, but as the corridor gradually quietened and the soft clink of chains ebbed then through the air, anger rose in Maedhros' stomach.

Pale bodies scuttled amid the gloom and through their cowering ranks he was dragged, and horror seized him as he glimpsed his Eldarin kin in their misery, shackled hand and foot and forced to labour within Angband's halls. Dirty faces gazed up at him, a raw wheal dribbled blood down an exposed back, and as an uruk stepped about a pillar with a vicious whip in its hand, fury tore through Maedhros' heart. Long had it been rumoured that the Moringotto delighted in his slaves, and Maedhros was not fool enough to dismiss such rumours entirely, but such things laid bare in their atrocity shocked him. Onwards still he was marched, and his revolted gaze slid to the cloaked back of yet another of Morgoth's servants. Black hair fell in sleek waves to the creature's waist, its strong body pressed into a slave crushed backwards against a pillar, and all too clearly Maedhros could see the shiver in the elf's body as the creature parted his lips into a deep, open-mouthed kiss. Disgust turned in Maedhros' stomach, and though Gothmog pulled him quickly away it was not fast enough to mask the awful, defeated noise of distress that clotted in the slave's throat.

About another corner they turned, until a set of ironclad doors loomed up before them, greater than all the rest and somehow more evil. As Gothmog approached the door-guards bowed swiftly, and one blew upon an ivory horn, and the doors swung wide before them, and Angband's dark heart was revealed. Into the throne room Maedhros was marched, and at the sheer scale of it his mind reeled. The hall was immense; easily ten score metres across and thrice that in length, and it was arrayed in such imposing majesty that it was as some profane wonder to behold. About its pillars serpents and beasts circled and chased in carven battle, its marble underfoot was as obsidian stone shot through with white streams of fire, and flames leapt from great braziers set opulently about the space.

At once decadent and sparse it seemed, though it dotted with Angband's courtiers; and upon a tall dais at its very head there rested the Moringotto's throne. A thing of riven iron it was, brash and monstrous and yet abstractly beautiful. Its craftsmanship was haunting, entrancing even; its tall back fanned out into a grotesque mêlée of spikes that stabbed up towards the shadowed ceiling, yet the throne itself did not hold Maedhros' attention for long.

For upon it Morgoth languished: the Black Foe of Arda raven-haired and clad in rich robes of onyx cloth, and dread rose through Maedhros' stomach as with every step he was dragged closer to the one whom he so hated, the one whom had wreaked such misery upon he and his family. Yet where dread lurked anger unfurled also, for set upon Morgoth's brow was an iron crown, ugly and toothed, and set within it shone that for which Maedhros yearned. The Silmarils blazed their radiance out across the dais, magnificent in their splendour and untouchable in beauty, and fury blazed in Maedhros' heart to behold them crowned upon the head of one so loathsome.

Orcs and Maiar stepped aside as Gothmog walked him through the hall, and an expectant silence fell as he was hauled up the stairs of the dais and pressed to his knees before Morgoth's throne. The graze upon his knee stung as it knocked into the cold marble, the filthy gag sent pain throbbing through his jaw, and though the terror of the Moringotto's presence drenched him in its chill, anger burned the brighter within him, and with as much lordliness as he could muster he raised his face, and he looked grimly upon his captors.

The Vala's golden eyes shone with cruel mirth as they gazed upon him, and standing beside the throne a Maia glared at him, all haughty pride and a vindictive smile twisted across his lips. Mairon it must be, so Maedhros thought, if the whispers were true: Morgoth's traitor now crowned lieutenant, and in all of his master's evils the Maia dabbled his hand. Cold he seemed, handsome and fey and indomitable in pride, yet with a slight shift of his stance the Maia's blond hair parted, and caught high across his cheekbone Maedhros glimpsed the purpled bruise that crackled across his face. Broken capillaries curdled even to the base of his eye socket, but whatever dark thoughts flashed through Maedhros' mind at the sight of such an injury were banished as beside him Gothmog bowed before the throne.

"My lord," the Balrog rumbled respectfully, "your will I have fulfilled, and thus moreover. The Noldor's bargain we betrayed, and their corpses fester in dirt where we left them. Losses we accrued but our efforts were not without merit, and to you now I have brought the one whom you have sought. His sword and banner we captured also from the field, and at your leisure you might claim them, but to you now I gift you the Noldor's king."

A horrific light ignited within Morgoth's eyes, greedy and lustful, and such was the power, the raw, seething, victorious puissance that thrummed from him then that inwardly Maedhros quailed.

"I thank you for such a mighty boon, Gothmog," the lord spoke; his tone rich and elegant, and the lilting syllables of Quenya flowed like honey over his tongue. "And well you shall find your efforts rewarded. For those who should serve me with loyalty shall find themselves exalted in mine eyes, and the tales of their deeds shall ring in grandeur about these halls for millennia to come."

Deeply the Balrog bowed once more, and smoothly he stepped to the edge of the dais as Morgoth's eyes flicked aside, and to his lieutenant the lord nodded. Archly Mairon moved forward then, a steely look about his silvery eyes, and Maedhros flinched as the Maia's hands closed upon him. Sharp fingernails trailed across the sore flesh of his cheek, but deftly then the Maia unpicked the knot of the gag, and drawing it neatly from the sweaty, tangled mess of his hair tugged it free of Maedhros' lips. Pain spasmed through Maedhros' jaw, and hard he stifled the moan of mingled relief and humiliation as he saw the thin line of saliva that dripped from the gag's heavy cloth to splatter upon the marble below.

The Maia discarded the gag with a grimace, and Morgoth shifted upon his throne. It seemed as though a devouring wave of terror washed from him as he laid his glittering eyes upon Maedhros' face, and he commanded: "Name yourself."

Hard Maedhros swallowed, but though his throat stung with grit, sagely he raised his head. Before his grandsire's murderer and the orchestrator of all the evils of this unkind earth he would not quiver, he would not show the fear, the weakness that Morgoth would only delight in, he would not do it, and to himself then he mustered every shred of courage that he could. He thrust them out before him like a shield, and though his heart trembled beneath it he looked the Moringotto in the eye, and his voice was clear and steady as he said, "I am Nelyafinwë Fëanorion, King of the Noldor come unto these lands. I am Fëanáro's heir, I –"

A dark, merciless chuckle rolled from the Moringotto's throat; it sent the hairs prickling across the back of Maedhros' neck and his speech faltering into silence. For in that moment Morgoth's malice engulfed him, Angband's infernal majesty swelled, tremors rippled through the marble below him and all who stood in that hall were united in their scorn. Terror clove through his heart, their mockery scorched through his veins and for one hideous moment it was unbearable; like a frightened child so desperately he wanted to run away, to disappear, to hide himself somewhere that such evil could never find him again. It was only Mairon's hand that swiftly clenched through his hair that stopped him from buckling, it kept his head painfully raised as Morgoth leaned forward, as down into his face the lord sneered, "You come before myself and mine on bended knee, elfling. You are heir to nothing."

Some tiny noise of protest must have squeaked from his throat; the menace of the Vala's eyes seemed to scramble every coherent thought in his head, for the Maia's grip upon him tightened, and a dreadful note crept into Morgoth's voice.

"If you are to claim some birthright within mine halls then let it be thus: usurper and craven, the base spawn of a corrupt bloodline, and so we might crown you in the ashes of your father's memory. Simper there, Noldo, simper and plead, for your legacy is built upon the bones of your kinsmen, and what a ruinous tower to climb so high."

Hate spilled through Maedhros' heart at such injurious words, for one brutal moment it smashed aside fear with the heat of its clamour, and though the Maia's fingers twined painfully into his hair, at the base of Morgoth's throne he spat, "Liar! I will not suffer your scorn, Black-Hand! Your tongue is steeped in treachery, and it is a hollow crown that you wear!"

At that the Vala recoiled; displeasure moiled across his features, and righteous, seething anger churned in Maedhros' stomach. But in the split second before he could draw breath to continue, a stinging slap across his face sent the words spinning from his lips. For before him now Morgoth's lieutenant stood, and fury was graven across his face.

"You will not insult my lord in his own hall, wretch," the Maia hissed, and hard Mairon wrenched Maedhros' head around as he sought to look away. "Else I will carve out your tongue and force it down your mewling throat."

"Gently now, Mairon," Morgoth purred from his throne, and as the Maia subsided, through teeth washed a watery red Maedhros grimaced. "The Noldor are grown feral in their ways that they might resort to vulgar insults within mine lordly hall, but what shall be expected of such an ignoble people? Oft it is found that they cannot smoothen their tongues."

Through the welt that was rising across his already-sore cheek Maedhros glowered, but as the lieutenant stepped about to hold him once more, he remained silent.

"His people spread like a vermin upon mine earth; they copulate like rats amid the dirt, but amongst themselves might they not be traded for petty favour? Even those who proclaim themselves invincible in their grand delusions; unconquerable in wealth and oh so justified in their wrath, their weaknesses might be so easily exposed, and then how swiftly exploited."

At that Maedhros bridled, but tightly the Maia held him, and he could not turn away as Morgoth sneered, "Fëanáro's eldest son you hold in your hands, Mairon. The crown jewel of his people upon these lands, or so you fancy yourself, do you not, Maitimo?"

A cry of outrage burned in Maedhros' throat, but viciously Mairon wrenched his head back, and his protest died upon his lips.

"Indeed," the Moringotto gloated, his eyes alight with baleful glee, "I have heard your cradle-names, Noldo, for I was there when they were birthed. But this is not Fëanáro's only whelp, as well you know, Mairon; and how ardently his brothers lust for the treasures of my keep. Opportune then is Maitimo's coming to us, and upon opportunity we must capitalise. What say six brothers for the fate of the one, I wonder. What would they bargain for their treasures stolen?"

Morgoth's voice thickened then, and gluttonously he looked down upon Maedhros. "What might they bargain for your miserable life?"

Worry knotted through Maedhros' innards: the thought that he might be held to ransom was no new revelation, but still it stung as it was dangled so cruelly before him. For what might they do; in truth, what could his brothers do? The consequences of such a thing were unthinkable to whichever end they tipped; and likely there was guile in the Moringotto's words, there was deceit and treachery still. Yet as that concern bubbled within him, beside him Mairon frowned, and a cunning light filled his silvery eyes.

"Six brothers say you, my lord?" he asked, and hard he knotted his fingers through Maedhros' hair, arching his back until he all but dangled from the Maia's hand. And what a horrific smile played about Mairon's lips as acridly he said, "Upon last count, I made it five."

A whimper bolted from Maedhros' throat; those memories were yet too fresh, too tender, as a glistening wound they shone still bloody within him, and all too swiftly his enemies had aimed for the mark. A dark flush of anger and sorrow mottled down his neck, and how sickly triumphant was the Maia's voice then as he dropped him back to the floor.

"Abstinence does not absolve you of sin, kinslayer," Mairon sneered. "Do not think that the eyes of Angband are blind to your crimes upon our shores. Our towers see more than you know, they pierce through all of your sordid little perversions…"

"You reap what you sow, elfling," the Moringotto purred, and how Maedhros trembled to hear his words. "And your hands reek with gore."

Guilt spilled through Maedhros' heart, unbidden it wrenched up within him and behind it flowed only rage; the taste of ashes lay thick upon his tongue and something puissant kindled in the base of his stomach, something hot, something hating, the flames of that awful night still burned within him and he cradled them there like an injury.

"Where is Telvo now, Maitimo?" Mairon crooned, and his words cut down to the bone. "Does he scream, still, under the weight of all that water? Does he plead for mercy, even as he did whilst your flames licked open his skin?"

And with that utterance that burning thing in his stomach seemed to explode; Maedhros wrenched his head aside of the Maia's grip, and perhaps in that moment some ancient memory of his father gripped him truly, and there bathed in the light of the Silmarils he was the scion of Fëanor's wrath come again to Arda's shores, for fervour stoked in his veins, and bold and dauntless was his voice as he cried, "No!"

Fey mood gripped him then, and hatefully he glared up at Morgoth on his dark throne. "Your words are poison, Vala! Injury I have suffered enough at your hands, but no more, for your venom has lost its power to bite! Maggots squirm from your lips, and like flies crawling to dead meat they breed nothing but infection. Deceiver I would name you: ashen-tongued and base, had not my sire decreed the truth of you! Jail-crow he named you, and he named you justly!"

The silence that fell was livid, and in it all Angband stood aghast. The courtiers stood stricken in their shock, and as Maedhros panted upon his knees it seemed as though the very shadows thickened about the hall. Darkness writhed like drooling ink about the pillars, it bled down the walls, it blanketed the firelight in its deathly gloom and evil glowed within the Moringotto's eyes. For despite the vastness of the hall suddenly the air stuck close within Maedhros' lungs, it felt as though someone was stamping down on his throat as sorcery hummed through the air, and second by unnerving second the pressure seemed to tighten, and all who felt it shuddered to feel their lord's wrath. Like a clockwork spring wound beyond its capacity that tautness shivered in the air, the marble groaned and the pillars creaked, the shadows grew hungry and for a moment the ceaseless light of the Silmarils flickered, and something cramped in Maedhros' innards.

Pain throbbed low in his guts, and like a vice clamped through visceral tissue it began to twist, to unfurl; discomfort bled to stabbing hurt as with each passing heartbeat that horrific sensation pulsed, it grew, it stole through his stomach, his chest, his legs and with every moment only intensified. Sweat broke upon his forehead as agony pounded through him, maleficent then was the Moringotto's smile as a low murmur of pain echoed in Maedhros' throat, and all too soon he was writhing as that awful, crushing sensation overwhelmed him. Truly then he cried out, it felt as though his entrails might split through his skin, his bones would atrophy and his tissues rupture; agony howled in his veins and as a pathetic, gasping series of whimpers ripped over his lips, darkly then Morgoth spoke. His voice was as the scrape of boulders among the hills, drenched with black puissance and filled with malice, and at the terror of his eyes then even Mairon was dismayed.

"You are worthless in the eyes of those who behold you." A gout of pain erupted through Maedhros' lungs; the marble below him trembled with its lord's pronouncement. "Your throne is false, broken; it rests upon the crimes of your forefathers, murderers and liars all. The seas bleed with the ashes of your heresies, and the bones of your kin lie amid the slurry of the mud. They scream in their agony, they dissolve into the dirt, and craven they call you, coward; you could not even look them in the eye as you condemned them to their death. Do not grovel before me with your pretences of righteousness; a doom beyond the breaking of the world lies upon you, and for it you are accursed. You are faithless, forsaken; kinslayer, you are lower than the filth that spawned you, and I will suffer your impudence no longer."

Those portentous words echoed through the hall, their fell echoes were devoured by the shadows that clung there, and under such a terrible onslaught Maedhros simply keened for it to stop. Pain crawled like turgid blood beneath his skin; crushing, rending, polluting; the vile truth in the Moringotto's words drowned him in his sin and left him bleeding out across the floor.

With a near tangible force the pressure within the hall suddenly receded, and Maedhros gasped in a shuddering, tear-stained breath as all of that agony came undone. Muscles slackened in relief, and upon his knees he slumped forwards, his head bowed as tremors of fright and exhaustion rippled through him. For one dreadful moment the Moringotto regarded him, his lip curled disdainfully, but though his tone then was still dark it had only a ghost of its former puissance.

"Remove this snivelling wretch from my sight."

Swiftly then Mairon nodded to Gothmog, who had remained stoically upon the border of the dais, and the Balrog now hauled Maedhros to his trembling feet.

"Take him below," Morgoth commanded, and an almost disappointed tone sounded in his voice as he continued, "but see that he is unharmed. In him some may yet find value, perhaps, though he proves it cheap."


Hot, despairing tears blurred Maedhros' vision; he scarcely saw the corridors and stairwells laid out like some abhorrent labyrinth across the fortress' subterranean levels. He knew only that it ached to walk through them. His legs near buckled with the effort of placing one foot in front of the other, every step in this place was hurting, and more than once he found himself stupidly, sickly grateful of Gothmog's burly hand clasped about his upper arm to steer him, though to where the Balrog led him he did not dare contemplate.

After long, miserable minutes half-blind with fatigue Gothmog at last guided him to a small cell, and dully he stared into it as the door swung open before him. It was a sparse thing; the flagstones were bare save for a thin mattress atop a cot set into the far corner, and a length of coiled chain that was bolted to the floor at its very centre. A tiny culvert was cut into the furthest wall, a strange rune was carved high up into a corner and from it a dim, colourless light bled into the air, and numbly Maedhros stared at it as Gothmog stood him in the centre of the cell. With surprising care the Balrog unknotted the cord about his wrists, and Maedhros bit back a snuffled moan as nerves long since deadened prickled back into life. That pain aided him though, it sliced through the drear mists of despair and brought some measure of clarity, yet miserably still he stood as a servile orc scuttled in behind the Valarauka. A shallow stone basin filled with water it laid opposite the cot, and alongside it a flagon of water and a bowl of gently steaming porridge also, before nodding respectfully to the Balrog and taking its leave.

The sight of food sharpened Maedhros a fraction more, and worriedly he hesitated as Gothmog bade him remove his boots. Reluctance shook him, but as his stomach grumbled even at the bland scent of the porridge soon enough he obeyed, and though his swollen fingers fumbled with the laces of his boots at last he removed them. Barefoot then he stood, for a moment he swayed as fatigue ebbed through him, but the mournful clink of unfurling chains dragged him back to clarity. For slowly Gothmog unravelled the looped chain upon the floor, and looking then to Maedhros he held the shackle solemnly within his hand.

"This may go about your ankle," he rumbled. "Or your throat. Decide."

Miserably Maedhros stared at him, dismay curled in his stomach; just for one day he yearned to go free of bonds, but the Balrog's stare was unrelenting, and finally Maedhros sighed. Shakily he sat upon the cot, and slowly extended his right ankle, and desperately he blinked away the tears that prickled behind his eyes as Gothmog worked the shackle closed about his leg. The metal kissed warmly against his skin, and somehow it was worse than if it were frigid. It felt all too intimate, all too familiar, and Maedhros looked away as nausea turned in his stomach.

Once done the Valarauka stood, and his fiery eyes surveyed the room once before he collected up Maedhros' boots and turned upon his cloven heel. Towards the door he strode, yet as his hand fell upon it suddenly Maedhros cried, "Wait!"

The word was hoarse upon his lips, more an instinctive reaction than a true plea for clemency, and slowly the Balrog turned to him, a neutral expression fixed across his craggy features. But in the silence that followed Maedhros foundered: what, truly, could he ever hope to ask that would not fall upon deaf ears, whether uncaring or impotent. What could he ever hope to say to Morgoth's captain, to the thing that had brought him here, to the beast that had condemned him to imprisonment?

A wan smile flickered across Gothmog's lips as Maedhros slumped upon the cot, and quietly then he slipped out of the door and bolted its lock securely behind him.

Torpor dragged at Maedhros' limbs, but he forced himself to give what strength was left to him. Hard he jerked upon the chain that fettered him; he sought to wrench it free of its moorings or to unclasp the shackle about his ankle, but his efforts yielded no fruition, and as his fingers began to truly shake with tiredness then he let them alone. A few mouthfuls of the porridge then he took, he scooped the bland meal into his mouth with his hands, and though it was grainy he was grateful that at least it filled him. The flagon of water he drained, and over the basin then he hovered, and the dim light revealed only the misery of his reflection.

His hair hung tangled and lank past his shoulders; his left cheek was swollen into a reddened, throbbing bruise from where the Maia had struck him, and grime mingled with scabbed abrasions from the injuries of the road. They stung as he splashed a handful of water across them, as he wiped away the worst of the dirt that clung to him, and with that fresh hurt exhaustion and worry engulfed him truly. Clumsily he pushed himself away, and upon the cot then he lay, and though the fetter about his ankle chattered out its menace, he did not heed it. For the first time in what seemed a small eternity he curled himself up as he wished, and as his sore eyes finally drifted shut he allowed the oblivion of sleep to claim him.


For how long they left him there he did not know; the span of days blurred into a countless infinity, punctuated only by the occasional entrance of the servile orc who refreshed the basin and flagon of water and slopped a new bowl of gruel, or bread, or bland stew at its side. Throughout its brief visits the orc was stonily silent; its lips pinched sourly together and all attempts Maedhros made to engage it in rudimentary Quenya it either did not understand, or ignored completely. It would merely regard him with its eerie white eyes, and upon occasion chitter some unnatural note within its mangled throat as a pigeon might coo to itself, and then depart in silence once more.

The quiet of the cell was oppressive, no sound seeped through the thickly reinforced walls or door; there was only the tinkle of the chain about Maedhros' ankle, or the faint sigh of his breath, or the clatter of steel inside his head. The screams of battle haunted him, like wounds left to fester they spewed out their infection; Celairon screeched as a flaming axe hewed open his thigh, over and over again he saw it, Rirlossë was hewn before him as his lungs burned, and he couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, there was nothing but the erratic, clicking gasps of her torn throat before blood blotted out the stars. To the snares of his own thoughts Maedhros was but prey, in the grim light of the cell they tore at him with sharpened claws and they peeled him apart.

For what should come to pass if his brothers agreed to Morgoth's terms? They could not do it, they could not; his people would be enslaved, exterminated. The Moringotto's promises would be just another feint, bait for them to snatch at and all too late they would come to see the hook behind it, even as he had. It would be Káno, he realised with a jolt; as the heir in-waiting he would ascend to leadership over the Noldor in Beleriand; Káno would have to help them all, to guide them. He would have to be so strong, and he would have to refuse. He would not prostitute their entire people upon the chance that Morgoth's word held true. He would do what was right, Maedhros knew in his heart, he would do it, he had to do it, but what then would that mean?

His brothers would abandon him to the Moringotto's clutches, and the terror of what that decision might portend sent nausea spiralling through his innards. For though he was brave and strong in body and in will, Maedhros held no naïve pretences: he had hearkened to the rumours of the evils done in Angband's dungeons, and to claim that they did not frighten him would be a lie indeed. His brothers couldn't just abandon him, could they? He was their elder, he was their king; they could not just sell him like some common whore bartered for their pleasures. No, they had feints of their own, and they would save him, somehow. There must be another way: Curvo would find it, some weakness, some oversight that might be pried apart, and what vengeance then would the Fëanorions wreak upon those who would fetter them.

Desperately Maedhros clung to such assertions, though ever they tossed within his mind, and with each passing visit of that strange, silent orc worry scratched a little bit deeper. Yet sorely he missed such mild emotions when upon a sudden the door was wrenched open, and instead of the orc's hunched form, Morgoth's lieutenant stood tall within the doorframe. Hot, squirming fear broke through Maedhros then; upon his cot he scrambled backwards as the Maia strode into the cell, and at the length of cord twisted about his palm Maedhros' eyes flared wide.

"Stay… stay away from me!" Maedhros said, and the shake in his voice disgusted even him. The admonishing sneer that flitted across the Maia's lips only made him feel all the more pathetic.

"You will come with me," Mairon said crisply. "Now. Stand, elf lord, and place your hands at your sides."

"No!" Boldness surged through Maedhros' heart, and stubbornly he drew himself up. "I will not treat with you, snake! Tell your foul master to come himself, for I will not go with you."

The Maia's eyes narrowed, vanished was the bruise once marked upon him, and perilously smooth was his tone as he replied, "I would have this done civilly. Spare yourself a humiliation and come quietly, lest I haul you before my lord already spoiled."

Caught upon the rocky shores of indecision Maedhros wavered: he was stronger now, and bolder, yet caution pressed upon his mind. Something about the Maia unnerved him, something vicious lurked beneath that handsome façade, something capricious and roiling and dangerous, something that was all too eager to see him bleed, and though spurned pride stung in his veins at last he stood. Hatefully he endured the Maia's touch upon him, he allowed the Maia to bind his hands tightly at the small of his back, and as puissance crackled through the room he felt the shackle upon his ankle fall away.

Through the dim, subterranean corridors the Maia drew him then; uruks leered and flares burned dazzlingly bright in his eyes, but Maedhros did not shrink from them. Angband would not daunt him, he told himself firmly, though he was made prisoner he was not beholden to it, and as the silent minutes flowed by at last he gave voice to the question that itched upon his lips.

"You have sent your terms to my kin, then?" he asked of the Maia, the words sounded clumsy upon his tongue but still he pushed past them. "There has been a reply?"

Sharply the lieutenant turned him about a corner, and something sinister rolled in his voice as he replied, "You shall see."

Worry stabbed through Maedhros' innards. What had Káno promised them, if anything at all? So much hinged upon this one decision; countless possibilities and potentials and half-truths flurried through Maedhros' mind with such a frenzied assault that it made him sick to think on them.

What had his brothers sold? He was not sure that he wanted to know the answer.

Through a sturdy wooden door left ajar the Maia at last pushed him, hard, and Maedhros scarcely had the time to regain his balance before the bonds at his wrists were sliced away. His bare feet slipped upon a metal grille set into the floor, giddily he glanced about; the ruddy glow of a furnace burned in his eyes, the shock of it threw phosphorescent afterimages wobbling across his vision, and beside its glowering mouth there were benches set with tools; myriad instruments of iron and steel and leather all tangled there that sent a sharp spike of adrenaline scudding through his veins.

Before he could fully regain himself a monstrous uruk loomed up out of the darkness, its sheer bulk dwarfed even his strong build, and roughly it seized him. His struggling wrists it forced into heavy manacles strung to an apparatus of chains, and as it hauled upon them the chains drew taut, drawing his arms into a painful crucifix and splaying his chest and torso wide.

"Stop!" Maedhros spluttered; the breath lurched uneasily into his lungs from the strain of the position, and as best as he could he tore against his bonds. "Stop! What… what are you doing?"

His protests fell upon uncaring ears, and Mairon nodded over to the uruk, before settling into a cat-like lounge against the opposing wall. "Prepare him."

The knife wielded within the uruk's meaty fingers sent terror cramping through Maedhros' stomach; he near shredded the skin from his wrists as he twisted and thrashed in his bonds. "Stop!" he shrieked, he bucked and kicked as the uruk neared him, as the blade gleamed red in the forge-light. "No! No, don't touch me! Don't – "

The tear of fabric stopped the breath in his lungs; a half-hysterical little noise bubbled up in his throat as the uruk sliced through the filthy cloth of his shirt and ripped it from him. More carefully then it parted his breeches, and in turn they were stripped from him, leaving him naked and so awfully exposed before the Maia leaning by the door.

Disinterestedly Mairon regarded him, yet the Maia's eyes upon him were awful, and so greatly Maedhros wished that he could shield himself, could hide himself, could reclaim what dignity had been so abruptly stripped from him and simply shove it down the Maia's arrogant throat.

The deluge of icy water from a concealed alcove above shocked the breath from Maedhros' lungs; he gasped and jerked as it cascaded down upon him, and filtered away brown and murky through the grille below his toes. He spluttered as the chill of it numbed him, and as he coughed and gasped with the cold, dispassionately then the uruk approached him. A stiff-bristled brush it drew over his chest, his back, his stomach; a fresh tumble of water left Maedhros' teeth chattering as it rinsed the filth from him. Desperately he squirmed as the uruk resumed, as it scraped the brush over his groin and thighs, and the slight smirk that curled over the Maia's face sent a humiliating flush mottling over his cheeks as sensitive flesh was so callously handled.

Finally the uruk grunted out its satisfaction, and it left him there to shiver as it lumbered over to the furnace and began to stoke it. A few blocks of charcoal it prodded into its fiery heart, but though Maedhros strained to glance about, he could not quite glimpse the instruments that the uruk turned within the glowing embers. Dread kindled in him then, but lazily the lieutenant stepped forward, and Maedhros whipped his head back around to face him.

"What is the meaning of this?" he said; his voice sounded shrill in his ears as barely suppressed panic tumbled in his veins, and though it was stupid, though the answer breaking before his eyes terrified him, still he asked: "Wh-what did Macalaurë reply?"

"Do you not know?"

The Maia's words seemed to rip him apart; of course he knew, of course he did, but that horrific confirmation did nothing to ease the chasm of despair that reeled open in his stomach. Loss stormed through his veins, betrayal scored through his heart and beneath it turned only dismay, only fear, only hot, hurting terror, and as he saw the uruk's knife passed into Mairon's hand he froze rigid.

"Your brothers sold you to us," the Maia grinned, all pointed teeth and hungry eyes. "Your lordship they renounced, in exchange for their worthless lives, and for their supposed freedom they have surrendered you. They have left you here, elfling, all alone. All alone with us."

"No," Maedhros whispered; horror squeezed about his throat until the air seemed to hiss into his lungs, and tears stood bold in his eyes as the lieutenant raised the knife to his face. A dampened lock of his hair the Maia seized, and sliced clean it away below his chin, and the words jerked uncontrollably from Maedhros' lips. "Stop, stop, please… please, they… they wouldn't… They wouldn't do that…"

His voice sounded strangled even in his own ears, and fey malevolence glittered in Mairon's eyes as he regarded him then.

"Why would they not?" the Maia purred, and all too joyously he sliced through another lock of hair. "Who would bargain for a wretch like you?"

To that Maedhros had no answer; hopelessness seemed to numb him, it stole the strength from his limbs, and he just hung there shivering as the lieutenant seized another chunk of his hair and hacked it apart. Copper strands drifted sadly down over his shoulders, they clung to his hips, his buttocks, and desperately Maedhros bit down the sob of utter desolation that welled up in his throat. The snick of the knife was abhorrent in his ears as the Maia stepped behind him; it was too loud, too loud, all warped and wrong and horrible, unthinkable; his fallen hair itched as it clung to his damp back yet he dared not wriggle to shift it.

"My lord says that you were once named Russandol," the Maia said suddenly; and viciously he sawed through a matted clump of hair caught at the nape of Maedhros' neck. "Tell me, how came a miserable thing like you by such a pretty name, hmm?"

A snarl of hatred spasmed across Maedhros' face; such a private name upon those foul lips was an insult almost beyond bearing, but defiantly then he clamped his jaw shut.

"Did ammë give it to you, I wonder?" The Maia's voice was sick, and fitfully Maedhros jerked as another lock of hair was roughly cut away. "Come now, there is no need to be coy."

Angrily he snorted as the Maia slunk before him once more, and gritting his teeth he tossed his head in wilful, silent rebellion as Mairon glared at him. Yet such brittle courage came so swiftly undone as grievously he flinched; faster than his eyes could follow the Maia whipped the knife blade to his lips, and an involuntary whimper of fright seeped from Maedhros' throat.

"Keep your secrets, then," the Maia purred; argent light glittered in his eyes and how Maedhros reviled it. "Better they should be pried out; wet, and drooling across the floor. Better they should haunt you, and when we wrench them forth they might drench you in the shame of their admittance…"

"Careful now, Mairon," an indulgent voice murmured, and both captor and captive started violently at the intrusion. For like some malevolent sprite the Moringotto seemed to have slid from the very shadows, unseen and unheard, but tall and imposing now he stalked about the cell to stand before the furnace. The embers danced before his eyes, it set the gold in them ablaze, and the dark, seething power that rolled from him then was as a tangible pressure upon all who stood before him. "You will ruin the surprise…"

A feral smile turned over the Maia's face then, and with a victorious sneer he grasped the final locks of Maedhros' once proud hair and slashed the knife through them. A messy crop of hair the Maia left hanging about his captive's neck, and Maedhros quivered as Mairon ruffled his hand through its tattered remains; roughly the Maia petted him as if he were no more than a dog to be abused for his pleasure, and the utter degradation shook him down to the bone. Swiftly then the Maia swept the stray strands of hair from his chest, and as Mairon's fingers glanced over his nipples Maedhros jerked away from him.

"How touching, Maitimo," the lieutenant said slowly; disgust blazed in Maedhros' heart, but the Maia's eyes glanced then to his lord who stood still turned to the furnace. For the Moringotto pivoted then, and something unseen shimmered in the air about him, something hot, something cruel, it left ghostly afterimages throbbing in Maedhros' eyes and fright cramped through his stomach as Morgoth stalked towards him.

"Mairon has seen you properly outfitted, and that is good, elfling," the Moringotto purred, "for a lord you are no longer. Your brothers have stripped you of that right, and how sweetly might such generosities be repaid."

The brand wheeled before his eyes; cherry-red and forged of some hideous design of knotted iron it sizzled through the air, and Maedhros' eyes grew wide with horror as the Moringotto brought it to bear. Hard he thrashed within his bonds, he kicked, he screamed for all that he was worth as that horrible, searing stamp of metal burned before his eyes, but viciously the manacles clamped down upon him. Frantically he tore at them; panic lent strength to his desperate contortions, but as both Mairon and the uruk moved behind him to hold him still he could but shake and twitch in their grip.

"No!" he shrieked, he twisted as that horrific thing drifted nearer to his chest; seething, boiling panic erupted through his veins as even at a distance he felt the heat of it prickle over his flesh left so awfully exposed. "No! No, please, please don't… Don't…"

Desperately Maedhros writhed as the Moringotto positioned the brand over his left pectoral muscle, he jerked and grunted and screamed out his protests as his captors' grips tightened. Hysterical tears of fright rolled down his cheeks as still he shook, he bruised his wrists down to the bone as he hauled against the manacles that held him, but how cruelly his efforts proved for naught.

For Morgoth's eyes gleamed before him, gold and devouring and evil, and Maedhros could only sob as the lord pronounced, "Welcome home, slave."

The shriek that tore through the chamber as the brand pressed to him could have curdled milk within the teat: red, throbbing light scored across his vision and agony exploded through his chest, and far, far beyond voluntary control every muscle in him clenched as excruciating waves of pain crashed through him. They punched the breath from his lungs, and desperately he retched, he gagged and sobbed as the Moringotto's seal was blistered into his flesh; stamped there in hissing blood and scorched, ruined skin, and strips of blackened tissue flaked from him as Morgoth at last moved the brand away. They had melted to its surface; shock and such unutterable agony slammed through Maedhros' body, the brand burned and throbbed and screamed upon him, and in that terrible moment it all became far too much.

The last thing he felt was the nip of steel upon his wrists as his body fell utterly limp within his bonds; the stench of charred flesh clung in his throat as his head lolled forward, and agony was blunted away as the blank veils of shock took hold. For into the black void of oblivion that yawned open before him helplessly, gratefully he tumbled; his eyes flickered shut amid that awful dungeon and for a few merciful hours he knew no more in the waking world.


And thus begins truly the spiral of nastiness which this fic will traverse, and I hope the wait was worth it, dearest reader! A huge thank you to everyone who has left really encouraging comments - really, these things don't get written without you lovely people behind me so thank you so so much. And as always, until next time, theeventualwinner! x