Extra little topic warning of non-consensual drug use in this chapter, amid the general torture fare. So mind out if you're sensitive to such topics.
Motes of light undulated before Maedhros' eyes; they pulsed in gentle, lapping waves in time with the agony that throbbed upon his chest. Dimly he watched as those lights moiled before him, true consciousness seemed all too great of an effort, and for a while he floated within an aetherous, senseless gloom. Pressures, touches, vision; they all blurred into one confusing crush of stimuli, they bled into the pain that thrummed in his chest, and for a time he just let himself drift.
The void hanging before him was colossal, infinite and yet somehow claustrophobic, vast and strangling, those motes of light crawled with a macabre sentience within it: they laughed, they smiled, they mocked. They whispered in their dream-mangled tongues, all distorted and indistinct, and they dragged up things better left alone.
For amid that blackness radiance suddenly spilled forth; pain lurched in Maedhros' chest, the motes shivered and contorted and died before him, and in their wake there sprung a world.
Upon the grand alabaster steps of his father's house Maedhros sat, his hands were so small in his lap, and a child's scowl crossed his brows as he glared out over the gardens. The trees before him were barren, they stood like bones nibbled clean of flesh and their shadows writhed under skies streaked in crimson and sickly mauve, all gaudy and pallid and wrong. Uneasily Maedhros looked upon them, but then footsteps sounded behind him, and hurt flared low in his stomach.
"Go away!" he cried, and for a moment the dream faltered, everything tilted like a ship keeling to its ruin, but as it refocused suddenly his mother was sitting there beside him. Garbed in robes of cream cloth she gazed down upon him; gentle and ancient and powerful, but from her Maedhros turned his face.
"Now," she began, "that was not a very noble thing to say, Nelyo. I have sent Riri and Darro home, but Káno is still very upset…"
"I don't care."
Under the visceral skies Maedhros glowered; hurt gnawed at his chest and with it the garden withered, and something sadistic in him yearned to see it suffer for his pain.
"That is not very kind," his mother murmured, and hatred erupted through Maedhros' heart.
"I don't want to be kind!" he shouted; a haze of violence brimmed in his blood, the skies above thickened like turgid veins, and bathed in the arterial light Maedhros spat, "Káno's so stupid, and all he does is cry! He wants to play with us but he can't, they're my friends, and we don't want him!"
"I know, Nelyo…" His mother's voice was but a ghostly lilt in his ears; rage tumbled in his heart but his mother's serenity helped soothe him, and wrath slowly dimmed to dull resentment in his heart. "But he only wants to join you. He adores you so, and it would be nice if you would let him play, even for a little while."
It hurt so much to talk through the ache in his chest, the skies grew drear and festering above, all mauve and maroon like dried blood upon a stone, and it felt as if something in him was being wrenched apart as he croaked, "I don't want to be nice."
Everything was so still, so deathly calm; his mother seemed not even to breathe beside him and from where came the sorrow that welled up in him he did not know. He knew only that his voice cracked with emotion as he said, "Being nice is stupid…"
"That is an untruth," his mother sighed, she took him by the hand and though pain spasmed through him tightly he clutched to her. "You must be kind to your brother," she breathed, "for he loves you so very much, and to be spurned so cruelly is an injury…"
Distant then grew his mother's words; faint and faded as if with a great distance, and the reassuring warmth of her fingers closed upon his began to slip.
"You must be kind in this life, my little prince," she whispered, and how desperately he tried to cling to her as she fell away; the skies reeled overhead all bile-yellow and blank and washed out and horrible, agony burned upon his chest as frantically he twisted, such awful, gutting panic bolted through him as still she left him, she abandoned him and he wanted to scream. She was gone, she was gone, she had left him there, and the stones crumbled and the trees were lopped upon the lawns and he was there all alone, no more than a frightened child surrounded by her memory and the dim horror of the world.
"You must be kind, Nelyo, and people will treat you with kindness in return."
From the mire of a dream Maedhros staggered back into wakefulness, a cry of anguish clotting upon his lips. A bleary light struggled overhead as his eyes blinked open, shadows hung heavily from a low, slate ceiling and below them he whimpered. For with the coming of consciousness agony unfurled upon his chest; so greatly he wished to just curl himself up, to clutch that pain into himself and smooth it all away, but as instinct spurred him to shift, the bite of manacles snapping taut about his wrists brought him up painfully short.
For at the sides of his waist his wrists were tethered; short, sturdy lengths of chain bound them fast to the sides of the cot where he lay, and with that awful realisation a moan of distress bubbled up in his throat. As hard as he could he wrenched against his bonds, pain blazed across his left pectoral muscle as his chest strained, but though he rocked and twisted and fought he could not tear himself free from those grasping manacles. The cropped strands of his hair itched against his cheeks as for a moment he lay still; a terrified bleat of panic, of denial, sounded low and urgent in his throat as he registered the unfamiliar, rough-spun breeches that garbed him, the dour confines of the cell that hemmed him close, the carven archway set into in the wall a few paces from his feet that yawned open to a lit corridor outside.
He was a captive, he was made prisoner in the lair of his enemy; in that moment it was all so horribly real, but something in him would not believe it, it could not be real; he gritted his teeth as his back arched against the mattress, he ground the bruised flesh of his wrists against the manacles until he felt that he might rip bones from their sockets. The agony that seared across his chest soon became unbearable, the cuffs upon him would not give an inch, and with a muffled sob at last he slumped back to stillness.
A lumpy pillow cradled his head, and as anxious minutes rolled by at last Maedhros rallied, delicately he manoeuvred himself a little more upright and he dared to look down at himself, at the thing that throbbed over his chest.
The sight of it halted the breath in his lungs.
A foul, knotted insignia was burned deep into his flesh, skin shone raw and pink and traumatised at its gnarled epicentre and blackened away to swollen, blistered edges, and nausea rolled in Maedhros' stomach to behold it. Livestock, drummed the hateful thought, it bolted through him before he could stop it: he was branded, marked, just a thing, property, a beast, a slave, a slave, a slave, a thing made warped in its own body; unclean, unloved. Desperately he turned his face away: it could not be real, his mind screeched, his head slammed back against the pillow as so desperately he tried to wake up, it was just another nightmare, it wasn't real, it wasn't real, he would wake up, he had to wake up -
The scuff of boots upon the flagstones sent panic sparking through his veins; it set the chains chattering as once more he twisted his wrists within them. Bravery and terror waged their paralysing war within him as so desperately he wanted to hide himself as a pair of orcs strode through the archway, to just curl himself up as a beaten dog cowers from its abuser, yet beneath that frailty something sterner bound him fast. For beneath the dawning horror of it all anger unfurled in his stomach, and he nursed it there, and he let its power suffuse him. For how dare the Moringotto think to treat him thusly, how dare Morgoth and his thralls lay vile hands upon him, and he clasped that fury to him like a shield as the orcs approached.
"Snaga's awake," one said thickly; a broad-shouldered uruk whose skin was the colour of soured milk. Black veins writhed up the expanse of its bared arms, its skin possessed an eerie, translucent hue that was strangely mesmerising, and at its comment the other orc nodded. A tray was grasped within the smaller orc's hands, for a moment the pair spoke together in their own garbled tongue, and as the orc laid the tray down upon the stones hatred flared in Maedhros' innards.
He wriggled himself as far back in his restraints as his bruised wrists would allow, and venomously he hissed, "Don't touch me."
The uruk glowered down at him, but blandly the orc regarded him; its murky, reddened irises skated his bared torso and the brand standing livid upon his skin, and balefully Maedhros glared back at it. A stained bandoleer was buckled across its robed chest; vials and bottles and myriad little jars peeped out from within those intricate folds of leather, and as it plucked out a small vessel of brown liquid Maedhros recoiled.
The uruk snarled something then, and in an indifferent tone the orc replied, and wide-eyed with confusion and mounting dismay Maedhros watched as the uruk gathered up several squares of gauze from the tray and wadded them together in its hands. The orc probed gently at his chest, and as it brushed over the inflamed skin of the brand a convulsive grunt of discomfort punched past Maedhros' teeth.
Swiftly then the uruk passed over the bundled gauze, the orc drenched it in the brown contents of its vial, and without warning it grasped Maedhros' shoulder. With a force far stronger than its slight build implied it pinned him back into the mattress, and swiftly pressed the soaked gauze down atop the brand. A shrill cry of pain clawed up Maedhros' throat, it transmuted to a series of grim, hurting whimpers as the blazing sting of the liquid dissolved into his flesh, for it felt as though scalding oil had been tipped over him. Fitfully he jerked as the orc squeezed into the cloth and sent dark fluid sluicing across his chest, but the growl that echoed about the cell severed such pitiful motions.
"Lie still."
Rank sweat plastered the hair to Maedhros' cheeks when at last the orc removed the gauze, it peeled the cloth free amid strands of flaking, dying flesh, and Maedhros gasped as even the tepid air of the cell seemed to needle through such sensitive skin. The wound upon him was ghastly, it drew the eye no matter how much he loathed to look upon it, all brown and red and slurried in gore, and as the orc turned to him again with something new clasped in its hand, desperately he shook his head.
"No," he bleated, raw flesh spurted blood and colourless plasma as violently he started, as he tried to haul himself away. "No! No, don't… Don't touch me! Don't touch me!"
"Thralkûn, snaga," the uruk rumbled; the orc's eyes were merciless as once more it gripped him, but beneath it Maedhros thrashed.
"Calm," the orc murmured, but Maedhros scarcely heard it.
"No!" he cried; a grainy, pungent paste slicked the orc's fingers, he could not let it touch him, he couldn't, and a wordless noise of anguish bled from him as despite his struggles the orc smeared the salve across the brand. For a swift, brutal moment it burned, but though he shuddered beneath it slowly he felt that pain recede, agony blunted away into soothing numbness as the analgesic salve took strong effect, and despite himself he slumped in relief.
Deeply, freely then he breathed; reddened marks showed across his shoulder as the orc unhanded him, but Maedhros could not feel them for the bliss that rolled through him, for the glorious sensation of for one moment simply not being in pain. And how weak it was, some bitter part of him thought, how stupid, how craven, for as relief flowed through him so too did gratitude, and in this place there was no emotion more dangerous. Yet still a simpering moan flitted over his lips, and down upon him then the orc smiled.
Laminate folds of shark-like, serrated teeth glistened in the light, and in some grotesque parody of sympathy it leaned forward to tap him gently upon the nose.
"Better now," it murmured; and such was the bliss that rolled through Maedhros then that he could only manage some mewling, wordless noise in reply. But that small effort seemed enough, for contentedly the orc wiped free the excess liquid from his chest, and swiftly it and the uruk made to depart.
But as Maedhros watched the orcs pack up the tray and move toward the archway something urgent rose in him, and suddenly he called, "Wait!"
His voice sounded distorted in his ears, numb pressure throbbed in his chest and it was so hard to focus, to push the words from his throat. "Wait, I… I want to speak to someone, please…"
The orcs merely blinked at him; the ruddy light from the corridor outside silhouetted them in a shimmering, evanescent halo.
"Please," Maedhros gulped, "please, I can't… I… this is a mistake, this is a mistake, please… I need to speak to… to Gothmog, or…" The name shivered in all its unpleasantness upon his lips, but desperation wrenched it forth. "Or to Mairon, please…"
For a long moment the orcs were silent; they glanced disparagingly at each other and then the smaller one spoke.
"You make no demands here," it said, and strode out of the cell with the uruk in tow, and dismay slammed through Maedhros' heart.
"No!" he screamed, as best as he could he tore at his restraints. "No! No, please, please…" But as the orcs' footsteps receded so too did the conviction of his protest, and limply he fell back against the mattress. It could not be real, his mind trilled, Káno could not have done it, he could not have just left him here, yet with each passing hour the inescapable truth bore down upon him, and behind it came only despair. And suddenly the slate ceiling above him was all too much to behold, nausea and hurt and helplessness and sweet, sickening numbness rolled together in his stomach, and he simply closed his eyes against the awfulness of them all.
He must have drifted away into some uneasy dream, for the clunk of something heavy upon stone jerked him back to alertness, and warily he blinked up as the smaller orc from before knelt beside him. Cocooned in his fatigue and hate and sorrow he laid there as it assessed the salve upon him, which had crusted into a coarse, protective skein atop the brand. Dismally Maedhros watched as that skein was slowly wiped away, it cracked and flaked to reveal the raw flesh below, but to his surprise the wound was far cleaner in hue, swollen and painful still but far less angry, and at it the orc clucked approvingly. It moved aside then, and beckoned the ashen-skinned uruk forward, who sat heavily upon the side of the cot and peered intently down at him. Its eyes were so strange, Maedhros thought, green and bright amid the milky skin of its face, but it was the bowl cradled in its lap that drew Maedhros' attention far more keenly.
"Hungry?" the uruk growled; a richly scented stew it swirled through with a wooden spoon, and as sudden hunger cramped through Maedhros' guts, reluctantly he nodded. The positioning was awkward, no release from his bonds was he afforded nor aid in rising, and it was a conscious effort not to choke on each mouthful that the uruk spooned past his lips. But eagerly Maedhros ate, and the uruk was patient, and gradually the heat of the stew seemed to invigorate weary muscles and greatly staunched Maedhros' mood.
"Skur, snaga. Skurva," the uruk crooned; it wiped away a dribble of broth from Maedhros' cheek as a mouthful went awry, but at its touch Maedhros flinched. Its tenderness galled him, it was wrong, all wrong, but the uruk did not seem to notice his dissidence, a fresh spoonful of stew lingered before him and shakily Maedhros opened his lips to receive it. Eventually he finished the bowl, and though his chest and wrists ached with the strain of it he wriggled himself as upright as he could as the uruk pressed a cup of water to his lips. Gratefully he drank, his eyes fluttered shut with the rapture of clean water flowing over his tongue, and softly the uruk murmured, "Skurva, snaga."
A shard of resentment turned in Maedhros' stomach, though he did not know precisely what the uruk said its tone dredged up nothing but disgust in him, and as he drained the last of the water bitterly he subsided.
"Don't call me that," he muttered; he glared sullenly up at the uruk who set the cup aside and stared at him quizzically, its startling green eyes narrowed. And affixed by that gaze rebellion rose in Maedhros' blood; refreshed by nourishment both the strength and will to resist flooded back to him, a scowl turned over his face and at the uruk he spat, "I am not a slave."
Coldly the uruk regarded him, menace bristled in the slow clench of its shoulders, and as the other orc at last moved back over to him with a small pewter pot in its hand, fury sparked in Maedhros' heart.
"Do you hear me?" he hissed, he jerked against the chains that held him, arrogantly he tilted his chin and haughty was his tone as he said, "I am not a slave!"
A growl emanated from the uruk's throat, and good, Maedhros thought, let it react to him, let it be provoked, let one small thing that he did in this place have some kind of impact not preordained, but swiftly the smaller orc intervened. Admonishingly it clicked at the both of them, it chided them as one would a stubborn horse, and as the uruk quietened then it looked sharply to Maedhros and intoned, "Settle."
"No!" The cry tore itself from Maedhros' lips before truly he intended it to, and as the orc snarled at him then the effort of his passivity became all too much; renewed fervour coursed in his veins, something exploded in his chest, something ugly and hot and clamouring and glazed over in red, and viciously he kicked out. "Get away from me!"
Mania lent strength to his motions, he scratched and tore at the manacles about his wrists, he thrashed like some rabid animal unwillingly caged, he all but bit at the orcs' fingers as they reached soothingly for him.
"Get away!" he screamed, he jerked and shook in his bonds, and desperately he cried, "Don't touch me! Don't…"
A wordless noise of frustration scoured his throat as the manacles still would not give, but roughly then the uruk seized him about the shoulders and pinned him down into the mattress.
"No!" he moaned, "no, let me go! Let me go!"
Blood smeared across his chest as he writhed within its grip, fragile skin tore open but he didn't care, they would not have him, he was not theirs, he was not just some thing to hurt, to heal and abuse and injure all over again, he was not a slave, and furiously he struggled as the uruk shifted to sit astride his waist and hold him down.
"Thralkûn," the uruk murmured, its tone was placating but Maedhros would not hear it. He sobbed and gagged with thwarted rage as the uruk slammed his shoulders into the bed, as its hands locked about his upper arms.
"No!" he choked; horror scourged through his veins as the orc extracted a slender vial of liquid from its bandoleer, and as it unstopped the vessel cold panic flooded through Maedhros' stomach.
"No, no, stop!" he cried, he begged, he clenched his jaw shut as the uruk relinquished its grip upon his left arm, and instead lifted its thick fingers to his face. Hard they dug into his cheeks, hard enough to bruise; he grunted and whined as they sought to worm about his jaw, and to his utter dismay at last those iron fingers pried his mouth open. Some hideous slick of liquid the orc poured down his throat, he retched and spat as its foul taste lingered upon his tongue, he would have spat it right back into their faces, but a hand clamped resolutely down over his mouth and nose and forced him to swallow. A miserable squeak bubbled up in his throat as his airways closed, a few tormented seconds passed but as he truly began to asphyxiate at last he surrendered, and all too swiftly he felt the effects of whatever potion they had administered.
For though his mind railed and screamed against it slowly his extremities numbed, clenched limbs fell limp and torpid against the mattress as waves of exhaustion rolled through him. They could not do this, he thought, they couldn't… he was not a thing, he was… he wasn't… His thoughts came sluggish as upon the pillow his head lolled; the uruk's hands and seat upon him were suddenly ephemeral, it seemed as though he might float right through them, he might dissolve away into the very fabric of Arda and there might find peace, but then everything dimmed out into blackness, and for a while he was lost.
Minutes, hours, days: they all blurred into one insensate tessellation of time, of voices, of motion-slurs and the giddy whorls of touch. Fragments of conversation drawled about him, sharp syllables came all viscous and distorted through his head. "Nar", an orc growled, its shadowed silhouette pounded in the archway before Maedhros' glazed eyes. "Skin was peelin' off 'im, big chunks all rotted, putrefied like… Ach, Caurûn said 's poison in the earth, something the captains want for the war…" Light spilled through the cell, glaring red and angry, it felt like the air might split apart and fall into its brightness, and into it Maedhros tumbled.
Deliriously he dreamed, or glimpsed, or remembered: hands pressed a salve upon his chest and it felt like insects scuttling across his skin, it felt like Finno's gentle hands upon him one tremulous, flurried time, all embarrassed breaths and trembling fingers, those hideous, wondrous sensations melded within him and so greatly he wished that he could just gouge them out. "Wish they'd fuckin' hurry up," a wheedling voice pouted. "The lords have other things in mind," another growled, all nasal and breathy, "other occupations, see? The lieutenant is pressed hard enough, Nasrir, you seen the bruises on him?" And the earth seemed to tilt, to keel to its side, "you must be kind, Nelyo," and in its horrific revolution he was trapped; the words pounded like a mantra in his head all murky and secret but then suddenly hands were touching him.
They prickled upon his skin, his head turned with the gargantuan effort of protesting: it was so much easier to sleep, to dream, to just let it happen. "Who's this little maggot, then?" a voice said, and fitfully Maedhros stirred as fingers traced his bared ankle, they drew sickening little spirals about the knob of bone there. "He's a nice one, hmm?" And though he tried to pull away it only felt like he was drowning, that touch seemed to spread through him, pollute him, the waters closed over his head and he couldn't breathe but, "Leave off, scum!" a deeper voice bellowed then, and how terribly grateful Maedhros was for it. "He is not for you! Away with you, away!"
And he was so far away; callous hands smeared a bitter-smelling paste upon his chest but gentle was Finno's voice in his ears. "It's so dark, Nelyo," he whispered, "it's like the stars have died," and Maedhros didn't want to hear his voice but so desperately he craved it, guilt and desire and need and disgust all smashed together and came undone, golden ribbon wrapped all soft and seductive around his throat, and then it began to squeeze. "Nelyo," Finno whispered, over and over he whispered his name, "Nelyo, Nelyo, Nelyo," and that ribbon pulled tighter, fingers scrabbled and muscles clenched, "you were not so kind to me," and fitfully Maedhros twitched, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, terror clove through his heart and backwards then he fell, into the black strands of oblivion that swaddled him at their chest and tore him apart.
It was the jabber of voices and the scrape of metal that wrested Maedhros from haunted dreams, and sent him skidding back into a reality that brought him no reprieve. Clammy sweat dampened his hair to his forehead and cheeks, blearily he blinked his eyes open and as the opiate haze receded the dreary cell swam back into clarity. His tongue felt thick and swollen in his mouth, his head spun as the last effects of that awful sedative seeped from him, but after a few fortifying moments at last he looked to the uruks who stood at his side.
Without warning one stooped to hold him; groggily, clumsily he tried to push himself away, but the manacles affixed still around his wrists jerked him to a painful halt. Roughly the uruk seized him by the hair, its fingers knotted hard into his scalp and panic broke through him then, he all but dangled from the uruk's fingers as it yanked him upwards into a sitting position, and a miserable little yelp edged over his lips as the room reeled before his eyes with the force of that motion. Yet amid that delirium one thing pierced with clarity, his eyes flared wide as the thick metal band of a collar was brandished before his face.
"No," he moaned, he squirmed and shook in the uruk's grip but with grievous indifference his captor ignored him, it flicked open the collar upon some concealed hinge, and blank despair careened through Maedhros' heart as he felt that cold metal encircle his neck. And though every muscle in him ached he writhed as they tugged the collar closed; he hissed and spat like a feral cat but viciously then the uruk grappled his head backwards. It left his throat so terribly exposed, the tendons in his neck corded as still he struggled, but such pitiful insurrections were ignored as the uruk snapped the collar shut, and a word of power shimmered upon the air.
"Krimpaz," the uruk spat, the word blistered into the metal and bound it fast, and Maedhros only whimpered as he was discarded. The collar weighed so awfully upon him, unnatural and grasping, and misery lulled him to stillness as the uruk tilted his chin, as it affixed a sturdy leather leash through the iron ring bolted to the collar's front. It could not be real, he thought numbly, this was wrong, this was debased, but such thoughts soon drowned out in the despair that engulfed him; the uruks unfastened the manacles about his wrists and he could not find the will to fight them.
Something else then they said, and blankly Maedhros looked at them, before his arms were seized anew and his traumatised wrists fastened into thick cuffs that pinioned them tightly together before his stomach.
"Come," an uruk barked suddenly, a yank upon the leash sent Maedhros tipping forwards, and quickly his captors jostled him to his feet. In their grip he swayed for a moment, his legs barely had the strength to hold him as days of fear and pain and drugged stupors took their toll, but as another tug upon the leash sent him stumbling forwards he staggered to right himself.
Breathe; he told himself, he clung to the words like a prayer as he was drawn out into the corridor beyond, they crooned through his mind to stifle the panic that squalled beneath them. Just breathe, he thought, establish a rhythm and follow it, and it would be all right, everything would be all right, count your breaths like a heartbeat and endure. Endure. But his heartbeat came all wrong and skittery in his ears; the gloom of the corridor was oppressive, all imposing architecture carved of glossy black stone, and his bare feet shivered upon the cold obsidian tiles.
For many minutes he trailed his captor through Angband's upper hallways, and though dread knotted in his stomach, with wide-eyed curiosity he gazed upon the world that surrounded him, and somehow that inquisitiveness seemed to calm him slightly. For here he strode through things out of legends, Angamando's corridors laid bare in their malevolence and their grandeur, at once austere and opulent. Rich, red drapes hung like swathes of blood from the walls, and between them countless doors were studded into the stone, and what lay behind them Maedhros scarcely dared to think. For though he had scoffed at the wilder rumours in his youth, of secret caverns of torment, twisted workshops and grim furnaces, cells where bodies lay strewn like shrapnel, dissected and left for the flies, all too real now they seemed, and the threat of them gnawed at him.
Upon aching legs he followed the uruk down a tightly spiralling staircase, he near gripped onto the leash for balance as those descending steps became dizzying, but as at last they spilled out into a wide corridor, courage flowed once more in Maedhros' blood. The brand upon his chest was a relentless discomfort yet he scarcely heeded it, he stared out in awe at the colossal hallway that reared up about him, its immense pillars arching gracefully overhead like the ribcage of a leviathan sung into stone. A swift tug upon the leash set him walking, and soon enough he found himself pressing into the uruk's heels as the corridor grew busy and the eyes of Angband's denizens fell upon him. Hungrily they beheld him, the greed in their eyes was all too keen, and Maedhros kept his eyes fixed resolutely to the uruk's back before him as he was led so reluctantly through their midst.
Yet as the corridor cleared towards its wayward end he found himself lagging; he glanced to a small, unassuming stairwell that yawned open within the wall to his left, and an inexplicable sense of yearning clawed through his heart. Narrow and dark the entranceway was, yet how ardently he wished to go there, to wander those stairs and embrace whatever should come after. It was hypnotic almost, a predatory languor hung upon the air and it cozened sense to madness, it beckoned, it begged for him to come; come, elf lord, it crooned, feast and lie, rot and revel, and craving wrenched in Maedhros' innards. A single cobweb hung from the stone frame of the archway, a fat spider glutted itself upon a struggling fly enmeshed within it, but beyond it the darkness was entrancing, alluring, devastating, and as one stricken dumb Maedhros stumbled towards it. Wit fled him as that temptation beckoned, with the blind half-focus of a drunkard he lurched towards that opening and its promise of bliss, but suddenly the leash snapped taut. The collar jammed hard into his throat and snatched him backwards, he spluttered as its impact collided with sensitive flesh, and into his captor's waiting arms he all but fell.
"Must not go that way," the uruk snarled, its eyes squinted in mistrust at the shadowed stairwell. Dumbly Maedhros blinked at it, yearning tolled in his heart, but the uruk shook him then, hard, and with that violence some sense of awareness filtered back to him.
"Evil thing there," the uruk said, it pushed its face all close and hot and panting into Maedhros' own. "Sew up your pretty lips, it would. No noise there. Burzum, lornska. No light. No light but shadows, and silence."
The craving in Maedhros' heart dimmed then, it was replaced only with a lurking unease, and the uruk barked with laughter. Quickly it unhanded him and tugged him away, onwards down a wide stairway set opposite that ghastly passage.
As they traversed through Angband's lower corridors the populace thickened; soldiery, courtiers and citizens of manifold forms swirled about them in one frightening, disorienting tangle. Lips curled back to bare fangs filed sharp, mutters and smirks and laughter dogged Maedhros' footsteps but grimly he endured their scorn, he set his jaw and he looked through all who would degrade him as if they were made of glass. Orcs, goblins, beasts, he would not allow them to daunt him, but he could not truly stifle the disquiet that cramped in his stomach as a strange spirit loped up to stroll beside him. Like a monstrosity spilled from a child's nightmare it was, its body that of a strong ner save for its hoary, fawn-like legs cleft in neat hooves, and its head mounted upon a muscled neck like some grisly hunting trophy. No flesh it bore across its face, instead ivory gleamed in the visage of a boar's skull left skinned and raw; dim, reddened eyes glowed from within hollowed fenestrae, and a barbed tongue lolled from its jaws left agape and drooling.
With a languid, disturbing gait it trailed Maedhros along the corridor, for one terrible moment it pressed its bony nostrils to the nape of his neck and with a gust of hot breath simply inhaled him, and at that horrific sensation Maedhros shivered. A deep, unnatural note sounded from deep within the creature's chest, fresh saliva glistened upon its tusks, long strands of it dripped down to the marble below, and blowing hard through its nostrils then the creature slapped him upon the arse. Desperately Maedhros stifled the squeak of dismay that bubbled up in his throat, the spirit's touch upon him was vile, and sick, clamouring relief poured through him as the uruk tugged him swiftly around a corner, and the beast slunk away.
Down a vast hallway that Maedhros thought familiar the uruk pulled him, but as the sight of the abhorrent doors to the Moringotto's throne room reared into view dismay curdled in his blood. The immense doors stood slitted open and freely the guards let them pass, but it was not without inconsiderable force that Maedhros was pulled through that shadowed aperture. For with each passing step malevolence seemed to redouble in the air, it throbbed in the brand across his chest; here in the dark heart of Angband evil was sunken into the very stones, it sapped strength and cowed bravery, and Maedhros gritted his teeth to keep from crying out as the pressure of it clenched within his temples like a screw drilled through bone.
Through a crowd of idling courtiers he was drawn, he kept his eyes fixed firmly to the marble below his feet as the malice of their gazes fell upon him as a tangible weight, and all too keenly it was reinforced just how alone he was in that vast, brooding hall. He felt all too much like a lamb led amongst prowling wolves, dragged before the greatest of them and hobbled for the slaughter. For far too quickly the dais swept up before him; the Moringotto glowered down from his throne and his lieutenant stood stiffly at his right hand, and before them Maedhros faltered. The brand upon him seared into his flesh as if it was done anew, fear squalled in his blood no matter how hard he tried to calm it, but uncaringly the uruk hauled him up the stairs and roughly forced him to his knees before the throne.
For a moment then everything was still, the leash dangled humiliatingly down Maedhros' front as the uruk bowed and withdrew; the court awaited their lord's reaction upon baited breath and with an indolent sneer at last the Moringotto obliged them.
"Ah," he drawled; it seemed as if a wave of pestilence rolled forth in his tone, and from it Maedhros recoiled. "It seems our lordly guest deigns to visit us from his convalescence."
He blanched as Morgoth's voice echoed in his ears, it hovered in the air just longer than its natural wont, and hard he knitted his fingers together in his bonds to stop them from visibly shaking. For though terror bucked in him so too did rage, betrayal and fear waged their war within him but one wrested him to its mastery, and though the eyes of his enemy were near unbearable upon him at last Maedhros forced himself to raise his head and meet them.
But how cruelly then Morgoth smiled, and smoothly he arose, and it was all that Maedhros could do not to shy away as he neared, as the blinding annulus of the Silmarils washed over him and illumined only that which was unclean. Gluttonously the lord appraised him, fingers charred black suddenly reached for his chin, and a sadistic sneer rolled across the Moringotto's lips as slowly he arched Maedhros' head back.
"Though," the lord mused; the brand upon Maedhros' chest seemed to bubble and blister afresh, "not so lordly anymore. You bear my mark so beautifully, Maitimo. In time you should be proud that I have favoured you thusly."
Anger pulsed in Maedhros' stomach, defiance gripped him then and as forcefully as he could he ripped himself free from Morgoth's grip.
"I seek no favour from you, Black-hand," he spat. "The marks of your sin stain you, and greatly I hope that my heirlooms see you aggrieved. For they in their beauty are ill-befitting of a beast like you."
An awful silence descended then; darkest ire clotted in the air as for a moment the Moringotto stood rigid, his lieutenant bridled and started but one step forwards, and with his motion everything slammed back into life. And it took every ounce of Maedhros' willpower not to cry out as Morgoth twisted, as with the full force of his body the lord clouted him across the face.
Upon his knees Maedhros staggered, he near collapsed to his side with the horrific force of that blow, but before he could even begin to recover himself swiftly the Moringotto grasped him. He wrenched him upwards by the hair; blood streamed from Maedhros' nose most likely broken by that blow and he gasped as it dripped down over his lips, as the lord growled, "How swiftly our graces are stripped away, when one is put into their rightful place."
His knees jarred into the marble as Morgoth relinquished him, the breath rattled all wet and hurting and sticky into his lungs as for a moment he spluttered, he raised his bound hands to wipe away the worst of the blood from his throbbing face, and how viciously then the Moringotto smiled.
"So then, elf lord, let us repay graciousness in kind."
With that the lord nodded, and two hefty Valaraukar stepped forward from the assembly, their scorching hands locked about Maedhros' arms and dragged him to his feet, they spun him about and horror seethed in his heart to glimpse what might befall him. For a team of orcs were clustered upon the farthest edge of the dais; two scraped back a great marble tile from the floor to reveal a host of deadbolts and fastenings below, and up the stairs a company hauled a thick wooden post, before securing it tightly into the floor.
"The crimes of your family have defiled mine earth," the Moringotto intoned; desperately Maedhros twisted in the Valaraukar's grips as they hauled him towards that post, as he glimpsed the manacles and iron fastenings that studded into its sides, as the waiting malice of it seemed to drown him. "Your father paid me great insult once, and how fitting now that such slights might be redressed."
"No!" It was scarcely a word that bleated over Maedhros' lips, more a terrified noise of blank refusal as his bare feet skidded across the marble no matter how hard he might struggle. "No, no no no, stop! Stop!" He kicked, he bucked, he fought his captors with every ounce of panicked strength that he possessed, but his pleas fell upon uncaring ears, and with brutal purpose the Valaraukar stretched his arms high. Into a metal ring near the top of the post they slotted his manacles and bound them fast; the strain of the position pulled uncomfortably through his shoulders and arms, it left his back so terribly exposed and his chest scraping across the rough wood before him as still he struggled.
The cuffs dug into his wrists bruised down to the bone, blood inched down the back of his throat in the wake of that awful slap before, and a keen of horror bubbled up through it as the Moringotto proclaimed, "Witness now, servants and soldiery all. The lord of our enemy I lay bare before you, king of the craven Noldor who in their arrogance lay siege to these lands, and for the insurrections of his kindred now might he face consequence. Think fiercely now, you citizens of Angband's mighty halls, for this elf and his people would have seen yourselves as but thralls before them. Nay, more base still: he would have stolen from you your lands, your property, your lives. He would have expunged your very memory from this earth!"
Mutters and jeers broke from the assembled crowd but Maedhros scarcely heard them; there was nothing but the pant of his breath and the frantic beat of his heart as Morgoth continued, "The line of Finwë is nothing but a blight upon Arda's face, and at last one small chance for an exorcism has come. With Fëanáro many of you are acquainted, for his infamy precedes him in all things, and in conceit not the least. Greatly I had desired to extend to him my hospitality, my gratitude, even, for gifts so lovingly parted. Yet ever the wretch would snatch from me my pleasures, the pleasures owed to all who labour in my name, and it is no secret now that he committed the grave discourtesy of perishing before our noble captains might lay hand upon him."
A grumble rolled through the assembly at that; fangs were bared and curses spat, but decadently then the Moringotto purred, "It seems his eldest whelp shall have to suffice."
Obscene pleasure roiled in the lord's eyes as he strode before Maedhros then, and at the flourish of his hand a whip was pressed into his palm. Cold, unspeakable horror knotted in Maedhros' innards at the sight of it; it was barbaric, a cruel, many-stranded thing strung with little flints of metal at the tip of each lash, and desperately, futilely Maedhros wrenched at his bonds as the Moringotto turned it. Those shards of metal flashed hungrily in the gloom, they clattered out their waiting malevolence in the hand of their lord, and as Morgoth stalked behind him frantically Maedhros bit down the panic that surged in his blood. And from where he found the composure to steel himself he did not know, for something powerful seemed to grip him then, it silenced quailing fëa and fortified hröa: resolve settled like a leaden weight within his stomach and it banished all lesser emotions.
For though his enemies might hurt him he would not be swayed by them, though cruelty was dealt he would not yield to it, Fëanor's son in spirit and body then he stood and by threat of pain he would not be broken. Lá axan, lá melmë, lá lár maciliva,caurë hya raxë, lá mandë imma, varyuva quén Fëanáronna, ar nossenna Fëanáro; in fire and wrath those were the words that he had sworn, and they bound him more tightly than any mortal chain. Tersely then he gritted his teeth: he would not beg for clemency, never would he stoop so low as to lick a plea of mercy into Morgoth's blackened fingers, never, the Oath pounded through his blood and from it he throttled his resolutions, he bore them like armour to mask the fear that churned in his stomach.
The first slice of the whip was horrifying; red, fizzing stars smashed across his vision, pain exploded across his back as those little shards of metal clove bloody furrows through his skin. It sent him staggering forward into the post with its sheer impact; desperately he bit down the shriek that clawed up his throat, but he scarcely had time to draw in a ragged breath before the whip cracked across his lower back, and an ugly grunt of pain punched out of his lungs.
It echoed in all of its disgrace through the throne room, a host of eyes gleefully beheld the blood that already began to drool down his back, but as best as he could then he scraped himself together. His hands clenched into gaunt fists within his bonds as the Moringotto slashed across his shoulders; the whip's strands sprayed out across his spine, his arms, again and again it crashed down upon him, and his jaw clenched into a grimace as the agony of it only intensified.
It was not so bad – CRACK – it was not – CRACK – it was not so… so bad - CRACK – it hurt so much to keep that mantra running through his head, and as time and again the whip snared through mutilated flesh he felt that will begin to erode. Acrid bile bubbled up his throat as metal cleaved through already torn-open skin, he twitched and jerked like a ragdoll at the strings of some sadistic puppeteer as bloodied welts patterned crazily across his back; an angled blow sent a howl punching over his lips as the lashes clipped into the sensitive sides of his ribs. His vision speckled over all carcinogen reds and abyssal shadows, his fists shook as agony redoubled in him, but the Moringotto gave him no pause.
And Maedhros could almost feel the glee that thrummed in the air, blood splattered to the marble between his trembling legs and how luxuriously Morgoth smiled; the malevolence in the air was strangling, choking, and startled tears jumped to Maedhros' eyes as a blow high upon his shoulders set him stumbling. His limbs shook with the stress of it all and no longer could he still them, exhaustion and shock ploughed through him as with each strike now the Moringotto stopped to admire his handiwork. It was all grotesque, weeping skin; there was nothing left across Maedhros' back but redness, and as a savage blow ripped across his spine finally he slipped in earnest. Upon the floor made slick with his own fluids his knees buckled, painfully hard he dragged upon the manacles that bound his wrists, and it was only with some colossal effort of will that he found the strength to haul himself up again.
The concussive force of the whip sliced across him slammed a howl from his lungs; a series of desperate, bleating sobs followed in its wake as he twitched with that fresh agony, and though he did not see it, as a maelstrom of agile, cutting little blows hailed down upon him even Morgoth's lieutenant turned his face away. Frantically though Maedhros sought to master himself, despite the pain that blazed in him with each tiny motion he drew a shaking breath into his lungs, and with such sickly triumph then the Moringotto gave pause.
Blood sluiced to the floor as Morgoth reached forward, he seized Maedhros by the hair and slowly wrenched his head back, and how Maedhros groaned as ragged, ruined flesh was forced to contort so cruelly.
"What a disappointment, Maitimo," the lord sneered. "Is this all that Fëanáro's bloodline can give? Perversity and weakness…"
And it was so hard to concentrate; shock buzzed in Maedhros' ears, phosphorescent motes of light flashed at the edges of his vision, but somehow still he found the strength to spit crimson saliva up into the Moringotto's face.
"Insolent little wretch," the lord growled; roughly he discarded Maedhros and left him to dangle, and with each word he clove the whip across his back. And no longer could Maedhros restrain the yelps that broke from him with each lash, the breath fluttered all shallow and beatless into his lungs. He scarcely registered the Moringotto stalking about to his front; it was only the handle of the whip knocking into his cheekbone that dragged him back to clarity.
"Come, elfling, do not despair," Morgoth smiled, and how Maedhros shuddered to see it. "For there are places far more sensitive…"
With that the Moringotto stepped back, and one cruel, arching strike he slashed across Maedhros' front. The lashes caught upon the post before him but still its shards carved their devastating way across his chest, his stomach, his groin; the sheer force of it felt as though he had been kicked clean in the guts, pressure and pain slammed through his torso and how he whined with the humiliation of it as far, far beyond voluntary control he felt his bladder void itself. And how the howls of the courtiers' laughter crashed down upon him as he felt warmth come running down his legs, his cheek ground against the wood of the post as he sagged forward in his shame but he didn't care, there was nothing but the utter degradation of that sodden heat between his thighs and the scorn in the Moringotto's smile.
"Pathetic," the lord sneered, he stalked around to Maedhros' back once more and scoured the whip over the flayed skin there, and it was far too late to stifle the sob of anguish that gasped over Maedhros' lips. And with that first sob it was as the patter of rainfall that heralds the flood; again and again Morgoth struck him and under that onslaught he fell apart. Hopelessly he sobbed, feebly he twitched as pain erupted across his back, but as once more he slipped upon the mess beneath his feet he no longer had the strength to right himself. Limply he hung from his chains, and a gurgle of abject misery clotted in his throat as thrice more the whip clove over his spine. Blood soaked through his leggings; shock dredged the feeling from his limbs as waves of impending unconsciousness washed through him, but no such relief would the Moringotto grant him.
For quickly Morgoth grasped him once more by the hair, weakly Maedhros scrabbled for purchase upon the floor as his back arched in the lord's grip, and nothing but golden, exultant malice burned in the Moringotto's eyes as he purred, "Would you beg now, Noldo? Would you plead for clemency?"
A long silence reigned then, words seemed such an effort but thickly at last Maedhros gurgled, "N-no." Pain racked through his body, his vision slipped and blurred before his eyes, and hoarsely he croaked, "My… my f-father…"
"Your father was but a blemish on mine earth," the Moringotto growled, "and one so easily extinguished. And what then remains of his seed? A few miserable heirs to an undeserving crown. Yet how swiftly your kin disburdened you, elfling, they saw you for what you were: weakling, craven, warped by foul desires and a maudlin heart, and gladly they traded you away. Cruel, cunning Macalaurë, he sold you to us so that he might be king, you suffer here and merrily he wears your pretty crown."
"N-no…" Maedhros whimpered, "that's… that's a lie…"
"Is it now?" Morgoth gloated, his eyes alight with glee. And how Maedhros screamed then as the lord ran his fingers across the flayed skin of his back, through peeling skin and ruptured muscle they slid, and came away slaked in crimson.
"Do you understand yet, elfling?" the Moringotto purred, he stepped aside to lift his fingers to Maedhros' face and daubed a bright smear of blood across his lips. "There is nobody coming to save you. There is nobody left who cares."
Defeated tears trickled down Maedhros' cheeks as the words sunk in, with two horrid fingers the Moringotto parted his lips and how Maedhros retched and gagged as fresh blood was slicked across his tongue.
"For what worth is there in just another thrall?" The Moringotto's words were awful, unthinkable; weakly Maedhros tried to pull himself away but harder still the lord rammed his fingers down his throat; he left blood and metallic saliva frothing upon Maedhros' lips. "A stupid little prince with no talents save for bedplay."
The shame in the Moringotto's words cut down to the bone; desperately Maedhros whined out his refusal, his denial, he wept with the unbearable hurt of it all as with such vicious delight Morgoth unhanded him, and again the whip cracked down upon him. He simply jerked and twitched as agony flared across his back with each new strike; wordless little noises of distress tumbled out of his throat with each impact as exhaustion and stress stole the strength from his limbs.
How long it took for Morgoth's lieutenant to step forward then he did not know; he gasped as the whip clawed through his shoulders, but dimly he heard the Maia begin, "My lord -"
"Hold your tongue, Mairon!" the Moringotto snapped; so cutting was his rebuke that both captive and lieutenant alike flinched. "Or you shall take his place."
The impact of the whip smashed down upon him left him reeling with shock; convulsions rippled through him as he dangled in his bonds, his legs curled uselessly beneath him and his head lolling forwards onto his chest. The hall dimmed before him then, it speckled over in black and searing, blinding white as his eyes fluttered shut, and for how long then he drifted out of thought and feeling he did not know.
But it was the soft hands brushing over his cheeks that called him back, they lifted his face so tenderly and it must have been Finno, Maedhros thought desperately, it was Finno, it was Finno come to take him home, come to make it all go away, it was such an effort to open his eyes, and what unfathomable horror clawed through his heart then as he saw only Mairon standing before him.
A ragged, hysterical whimper curled in his chest as the Maia peered at him; a lungful of air he snatched as Mairon's fingers tilted his chin and opened his airway, and as the whip tinkled impatiently behind him firmly the Maia said, "My lord, he will not live…"
A derisive scoff clove through the air, but Mairon's gaze was resolute, and contemptuous then was the Moringotto's voice as he turned aside. "See that he does. I am not finished with him yet."
Piteously Maedhros whimpered, the air scraped with a blaze of pain into his lungs, but gentle still were the lieutenant's hands upon him.
"Hush now," Mairon murmured, and beneath the Maia's fingers Maedhros felt a faint swell of puissance flow forth. Silver and strange it rolled over him, it dulled his agony by a fraction and innervated limbs long since deadened, and how Maedhros gasped as even that slight relief elated him.
Slowly Mairon's grip upon him lessened so that he might carry his own head, and carefully then the Maia reached for the bonds about his wrists and deftly unclasped them. Once bereft of that support though Maedhros' legs buckled, his knees crashed hard to the slippery floor and there he slumped, wretched and bleeding as agony compacted within him.
With a grimace of distaste slowly Mairon moved to help him up, but the Maia's hand had scarcely grasped his arm when coldly the Moringotto said, "No."
"My lord?"
"Leave him there to rot," Morgoth sneered, and reluctantly Mairon obeyed; the Maia took Maedhros' wrists and fastened them into a set of metal restraints bolted one each to the sides of the post, binding him there irrevocably on his knees. Grievously then Maedhros flinched as the whip clattered to the marble beside him, stained in his own blood it lay there like a coiled, ugly serpent.
A spluttering sob caught in his throat as the lieutenant withdrew, he did not even have the strength to pull against his restraints as Morgoth curtly said, "Come, Mairon, we have business elsewhere that must be attended."
The court emptied in the wake of its lords, and alone Maedhros was left in the brooding vastness of the hall, bloodied and shivering upon his knees. The mutilated skin of his back glistened red and raw in the gloom, tremors shook uncontrollably through his arms, his crumpled legs, his ravaged torso; exhaustion dragged at him and all too eagerly he slumped forward against the post, as best as he could he cradled his aching chest and face against it and he keened out his misery as agony pounded across his back.
Delirious thoughts swirled through his mind; a series of exhausted, hysterical whimpers panted over his lips as shock and pain engulfed him, but suddenly his mother's voice was there again; she looked down upon him huddled and broken in the mess of his own fluids and such unbearable pity was in her eyes.
"You must be kind in this life, Nelyo," she whispered, and go away, he told her, go away, just leave me alone, but her half-remembered words sliced far deeper than any whip ever could.
"You must be kind, my little prince, and people will treat you with kindness in return."
But before the world bled out into darkness and despair there was but one aching thought left in his head.
No, he thought, you're wrong. You're wrong, ammë.
There is no kindness here.
Hope everyone enjoyed the update, and of course, more to come as soon as possible. :) A quick note of reference - thanks to Quenya101 for the translation of the Oath of Fëanor into Quenya, and the line of it used here! I am no linguist, but other than that all elements of the Orcish language used are derived either from Tolkien's original Black Speech or entirely invented by myself, to add credit where credit is due!