The hours drew long in Angband's mighty hall; flames hunkered low in their braziers and shadows bled down the walls, and beneath them Maedhros suffered. There was nothing left to him but the agony that pounded across his back.
With every miniscule movement, every tremble of his thighs left cramped and contorted beneath him, each twitch of his wrists left awkwardly trapped within those tight cuffs discomfort jerked through his limbs, white lines of pain flared and tugged across his back. His distressed little whimpers ebbed through the silent hall as agony gripped him; ugly wounds yawned open across his spine, gore and bruising matted the churned skin of his ribs like some obscene battlefield carved into flesh, and through the mass of reds and purples, bone gleamed white through open, bloody furrows of tissue.
Half-formed scabs cracked and oozed with his every shuddering breath; constricted muscles ached in their stricture until at last Maedhros could bear his own weight no longer. Beside him still the whip lay coiled where its lords abandoned it, and Maedhros did not dare to look upon it as with a gargantuan effort of will he rocked himself forward, he cradled his battered face and chest against the post to which he was bound, and for a while then everything slipped away.
Stupid, stupid, the Moringotto's words tolled through his head, they snared about his bones, just a stupid little prince with no talents but for bedplay. But that wasn't true, it wasn't, his name was Maitimo, he told himself, Maitimo Nelyafinwë Fëanorion, and he wasn't stupid, he was clever and brave and strong and he wasn't a slave, he… he wasn't, he couldn't be, he couldn't be…
The brand upon his chest pounded out its malice, dried blood crusted across his lips and his head ached as he rested it against the splintering wood. Angry shadows glowered down from the ceiling and how they hated him, they goaded his torture, they twisted healing to injury and helplessly he shivered as their evil enshrouded him. In anguish and delirium perhaps he drifted away, consciousness seemed far too much of an effort and into the mires of imagination he was cast; thoughts, pleas, nightmares, they all tangled together and burrowed through his skin, bravery slammed into cowardice and madness toppled to ruin, and as for the thousandth hurting time he stirred with their furore it was all too hard to stop from coming unravelled.
For how his parted thighs trembled as he shifted; valleys of clotting flesh peeled open, they wept blood anew to drip down into the fluid mess that slicked the marble between his knees. Drenched in his humiliation they had left him, that awful wetness between his legs clung as moist, chafing irritation as the hours rolled by without remorse. The foul scents of urine and blood scraped through his nostrils and weakly he moaned as fatigue crushed through him, as once more he was forced to so delicately shift his weight upon his knees.
The tortured groans of the earth echoed through Angband's hall as the hours turned and the darkness thickened, and such was the terror of that unholy place that Maedhros quailed. The mountains heaved and foundries churned far below, and from them spilled puissance potent enough to scorch the rocks with its fury, and as the distant ghosts of their rage brushed over him Maedhros simply keened in his anguish, frantically he jerked against his bonds and despairing tears trickled down his cheeks.
Káno might yet come for him; the treacherous thought crooned, Káno would come and make it all stop, make him stop hurting, but as the colossal vastness of the hall loomed up about him how tiny and forlorn were his muffled whimpers amid it.
Why hadn't Káno come? The evil thought rocked through him, why; the answer chimed through his head and piteously he sobbed as the truth of it broke through him.
Káno had sold him, they had said, had sold him like he was a dog, like he was worthless. Maybe Káno didn't love him, maybe that was why he had done it, maybe he had never loved him and everything was a lie, every smile, every grin, it was all fake, it was all a trick, and maybe Turko had laughed, stupid, stupid, stupid, and Moryo and Curvo thought he was weak, and Pityo didn't care and Finno was gone, and -
The grinding scrape of the doors of the hall being swept open sent a bleat of horror punching from Maedhros' lips. Terror speared through his heart as those metal facades were thrown open, against the torchlight that fizzed from the corridor beyond a great host of shadows waited, and one among them stood greatest. And as Morgoth and his courtiers stalked through the hall desperately Maedhros writhed; panic lent strength to his contortions as violently he twisted his wrists within their bonds, yet although such tender flesh felt bruised down to the bone by his efforts, they did not avail him, and sickly he turned his face away. For how horribly the Moringotto's evil clenched inside of his head, spines of pressure dug into his temples and sent acrid bile bubbling up his throat, and as a terrified animal faced with its abuser he could but cower as Angband's lord drew nearer.
Trailed by his lieutenant the Moringotto ascended the dais, clad in heavy robes of obsidian cloth and crowned with the Silmarils blazing upon his brow Morgoth stood before his throne, and malice thickened like cream through the air as the courtiers bowed low before their lord. Such was the power, the raw puissance of obeisance that clenched in the hall then that against the post Maedhros fell as if stricken, he could only tremble there and pray for deliverance as ponderously the Moringotto approached him.
"My, my, Maitimo," the lord purred; greyed fingers knotted through the cropped, sweaty mess of Maedhros' hair and wrenched his head backwards. Morgoth's golden eyes roiled with delight as they skated the wounds upon Maedhros' back, as they fell upon the sodden mingle of fluids that lingered still between Maedhros' legs. "What a mess you have made of my floor."
A terrible pause lingered upon the air, and the haughty sneer that curled over the lieutenant's lips sent horror tipping through Maedhros' innards.
"I should make you lick it up."
Roughly then the Moringotto discarded him, and propelled by that momentum Maedhros crunched forwards into the post. And in those short, gasping moments desperately he tried to steel himself; he needed to be strong now, he needed to struggle, to resist, but as countless hours of abuse took their toll he could only muster the will to moan in protest as Morgoth's dreadful gaze fell upon him once more.
"Would you submit now, elfling?"
He cringed away as those words broke over him, he pressed his bruised face into the post as if somehow it would make it all go away, but as his silence grew too long the kick that slammed into his ribs sent the breath skidding from his lungs. Blood drooled to the marble below as scabs tore, as mutilated flesh wept, the hall tilted giddily before Maedhros' eyes as the concussive force of that blow sent him staggering to his side, and though his legs twitched beneath him he no longer had the strength to right himself.
Like some mangled puppet he dangled there from his wrists; there was nothing but the agony that screamed through flesh and bone alike, and the Moringotto's voice in his ears.
"Atrocious," the lord sneered, over Maedhros' crippled form he nodded to his lieutenant, and swiftly Mairon stepped forward.
Piteously Maedhros whimpered as the Maia unlocked the shackles about his wrists; pain cramped through his arms as at last they were released from their bondage, yet all of those hours of exhaustion and stress leached the strength from his muscles. Insistently Mairon tugged at his arm to draw him upwards but Maedhros could not do it, his legs simply would not hold him, and upon his aching knees then the Maia dragged him about.
Every muscle in Maedhros' body strained with the effort of not collapsing as Mairon hauled him before the base of the throne and remorselessly bade him kneel, between Morgoth's spread thighs the Maia pushed him, and the utter ignobility of his station sent horror twisting through Maedhros' stomach. Agony howled across his back as ruined flesh was so carelessly handled, and how sickening then were the Moringotto's vile hands upon his face.
"Not so bold now, elf lord," the lord purred; firmly the Moringotto tilted his chin, the sacrosanct light of the Silmarils blazed before his eyes and faintly still he yearned for them. Yet far, far stronger came the dismay that stabbed through his heart as he gazed upon them, and he felt their radiance prickle across his skin. For caught amid their blinding annuli his flesh itched as though lice were crawling across him, unclean, it seemed to shriek, unclean, unloved, and a mournful, choking little sob welled up in his throat as their judgement crashed down upon him.
Weakling, coward, this father's jewels painted the truth of him; murderer, kinslayer, craven, a slave, a slave, a mewling little slave who in that moment dared not to fight back, and drenched there in his shame Maedhros squeezed his eyes shut.
"Not so holy," the Moringotto murmured, and below him Maedhros whimpered as the flesh of his face tingled as if he had been scalded. It was with but the slightest pressure of touch that Morgoth discarded him, sent him tipping backwards to the floor to splutter there in all of his ignominy.
Pain slammed over his back but he could not feel it, the numbing tendrils of shock wrapped about him and throttled from him all feeling, all reason; the marble jarred against his cheek and shoulder but it felt as if he might fall straight through it. The anchors of reality came unmoored as utter desolation eroded them, and silent, senseless tears trickled down Maedhros' cheeks as Morgoth and his lieutenant looked blandly down upon him.
"Get that wretch from my sight," Morgoth commanded, or maybe Káno sneered it, or his father cursed him to suffer; memory and reality collided into one indistinguishable blur but desperately Maedhros twitched as he felt hands close upon him anew. Feebly he kicked out; no, he wanted to scream, no no no, let me go; pain blazed across his shoulders, an arm curled about the backs of his crumpled knees, and as he was hauled upwards all that escaped him was a delirious moan of pain.
Into Mairon's arms Maedhros found himself cradled; the Maia bore his weight with startling ease as coolly they descended the dais, and as Mairon bore him away from that place of suffering Maedhros' head lolled to a miserable lean against the Maia's chest. A thin, ragged moan caught high in his throat as the Maia's arm jostled the raw wounds across his shoulders, but almost apologetic was the lieutenant's voice then as they strode through the outer doors of the hall and into the fortress beyond.
"Hush," Mairon murmured, "Hush, now." And so golden he seemed then in the amber light of the flares, he sounded so much like Finno, gentle and wise and kind. But Mairon wasn't kind, Maedhros thought desperately, the lieutenant had struck him, mocked him, hurt him, but with the same hands he had unfastened those shackles, he bore him away from that hall and all of its evil.
Those thoughts swum together in one confusing tangle, and they would not so easily come apart.
Through Angband's corridors they strode; grim marble facades smudged in and out of focus before Maedhros' bleary eyes, the jilt and chatter of orcish voices dulled to an indistinct susurrus in his ears as exhaustion claimed him, yet a commander's bark some minutes later dragged him fitfully back to reality.
"My lord!" an armour-clad uruk called, and as Mairon turned to meet it dread flooded through Maedhros' heart.
"My lord," the uruk snarled; bright and curious were its eyes as they fell upon the lieutenant and his captive, but officiously then it snapped, "The fusillades have been assembled, as you ordered. The captains are being briefed before trials begin, perhaps you might wish to observe?"
"I shall attend presently, Griznur, thank you," Mairon said genially, and briskly the uruk nodded.
Yet curiously the uruk's gaze turned to Maedhros once more, and far more informally it asked, "Who's this little worm, eh? Need you aid in his burden, my lord?"
For a moment Mairon paused, and such unspeakable terror swarmed through Maedhros' veins. No, he wanted to cry, no, he couldn't go with the uruk, he couldn't, they would take him away and only hurt him more, hurt him again, and instinctively he turned his face away. His hand closed into a gaunt, shaking fist about the Maia's shirt, and though pain throbbed across his back desperately he pressed himself into Mairon's chest. And he dared not look up, he dared not glimpse the smug little smile that wound about the Maia's lips; he simply quivered with terror until at last the lieutenant replied, "Do not trouble yourself. I bear him upon our lord's errand, and best I should see it done."
"As you command, my lord," the uruk growled, before slapping its hand upon its bracer in a military salute and quickly striding away. And such relief flowed through Maedhros then that he nearly sobbed with the ache of it as the Maia turned aside and bore him onwards.
It was not until many minutes later that dimly Maedhros became aware of the wetness that was soaking through Mairon's shirt. Blood, his blood, it was sticking through the fabric, it shone dark and gleaming in the torchlight and with that realisation a gross wave of dizziness swept through his head. The ceiling blurred into a fathomless swathe of shadows above him, and as the Maia turned sharply about a corner nausea roiled in Maedhros' stomach.
All the tighter his innards knotted as Mairon stepped into a sturdy cage-trap elevator sunken into a crevice of the corridor; a ghastly squeal and judder of metal surrounded him as wires strained and wheels whirred, and Maedhros was so sickly thankful for the emptiness of his stomach as they lurched into ascent. Blank walls and slatted metal hemmed him close; senseless lights flickered before his eyes as he dared a glimpse out at his surrounds, but those shapeless blurs of crimson and orange sent his head spinning, and he simply shivered in the Maia's arms as at last they slowed, and with a rattle of mechanics came to a halt.
He did not remember how they came to the healers' chambers, corridors and archways hovered like uncertain mirages before his eyes; the only things that he knew to be true was the insistent pressure of the Maia's arms clasped about him, and from the fluid pall of nightmares at last came the gentle prod of new fingers upon him.
"Tch," a stern voice clicked suddenly, and blearily Maedhros stirred as a broad, orcish face hovered into view. The dour slate ceiling arched high above him, and though there were no windows somehow it gave the impression of airiness, and the looming threat of the fortress dissipated by a fraction in his heart. Yet fear did not relinquish him entirely as he glanced about and saw a wooden cot bolted into the corner of the room, and against the opposing wall a large table cluttered with medical apparatus was set. It teemed with needles, wires, vials of murky tonics and sharp-bladed instruments, and upon these his gaze lingered the longest.
They would only hurt him more, instinct blared at him, it was all too hateful to look upon, and fretfully he moaned as the orc huffed once more, as it paced a wide circle about him cradled in Mairon's arms. Its shrewd, dark eyes skated the wounds ripped over his back, and as it ran a tentative finger across a raw wheal upon his ribs a feeble twitch of protest jerked through him.
"Tch," the orc clicked again, it withdrew for a moment and affixed both captive and lord with a cantankerous glare, and snidely it grumbled, "You cannot play with broken toys, Mairon. You of all people should know that."
At that the lieutenant bridled, some unpleasant emotion quirked across his face but was swiftly wiped clean as he sighed, "This was not of my doing."
"It is never of your doing, so it seems," the orc said darkly, but before further word could pass between them the orc harrumphed to itself, and its stumpy fangs gnashed as it gestured to Maedhros' stained, sodden trousers.
"Get those off him," it snapped, and though Mairon's eyes rolled at the heat of its tone, smoothly he complied. Gently he lowered his captive's feet to the floor, yet still Maedhros whimpered as even with that simple motion mutilated flesh was punished anew. Slowly the Maia turned him, his legs shook pitifully as he struggled to hold his weight but always Mairon was there, the Maia held him securely as the orc stripped the fouled trousers from him.
Wretchedly Maedhros shivered at his nakedness, he closed his eyes against the humiliation of it as the orc laved the blood from his thighs, with a warm, wetted cloth it rinsed the ghostly streaks of crimson and urine from his arse and legs, and before blood could stain them anew it bade Mairon lay him down upon the cot.
A quiet sob welled up in his throat as gently the Maia manoeuvred him chest-down atop the thin mattress, and a moment later he felt the bite of steel about his ankle, and the soft trill of shifting chains sounded in his ears. Miserably then he lay as he heard the orc begin to rummage about with the instruments laid upon the table; fear and exhaustion and such crippling loneliness engulfed him in that vulnerable moment as the lieutenant withdrew from him.
He was going to leave, he was going to leave him all alone, all alone, in that instant it was all too much to bear, and desperately Maedhros lunged forward; he clutched to Mairon's hand and tears thickened his voice as he whimpered, "Please… please d-don't go…"
A traitorous smile played about the lieutenant's lips as Maedhros' fingers gripped about his own, but soft was his voice as he replied, "I must, elfling. I must depart, and you must stay here, do you understand?"
"P-please…" Maedhros spluttered; the orc turned with something shining in its hand and panic bolted through Maedhros' veins. "Please," he begged, he shivered and squirmed and anguish wrenched the words from his lips. "Please, please, I… I just w-want to go home…"
"I know," the Maia murmured; the orc drew near and weakly Maedhros recoiled, and his fingers slipped from Mairon's hand. "But such a thing is not within my power to grant, nor is it your right now to request."
"B-but…" Dark, hurting tears trickled down Maedhros' bruised cheeks, desperately he gulped back the despair that clotted in his throat, and as the orc grasped his arm and slipped a clunky, fluid-filled syringe into the exposed vein at his inner elbow, how gentle was Mairon's touch upon him. The Maia's fingers felt like poison, they felt like nothingness; everything came all dizzy and draining as merciful anaesthetic rushed through his veins.
It soothed away hate, it numbed away pain until Maedhros felt that he might float upon it, and Mairon's voice was but a whisper in his ears as he said, "Sleep. Sleep, princeling, and surrender."
But no, Maedhros thought, through the fog of his mind still that thought pierced with clarity. No, I should not surrender, I should not, but as the intoxicating stupor of relief took hold golden hair and treacherous eyes fell away to the dark braids that he loved; to Finno's gentle hands, to his strength, his warmth, to Finno, Finno, Finno, I'm so sorry. And how like Finno's voice was Mairon lulling him down to sleep, all sick and sweet and awful, and as at last unconsciousness reared up to claim him the it was the Maia's voice that lingered in his ears.
For how long Maedhros slept he did not know; the blank, brooding stones of his chamber would not betray such secrets, and the candles burned with an ensorcelled light from where they clustered high upon the walls. Strangling dreams melded into senseless awakening, there was nothing but the tremble of exhausted, abused muscles and the pinch of torn flesh being sewn back together. Water trickled into his mouth and instinctively he swallowed, he spluttered and retched as something bitter was forced down behind it and he dared not open his eyes to see what it was. Somehow that knowledge may have proved worse than helpless ignorance. And it was all too much of a relief as fatigue snatched at him once more, as something cool was smeared over the flayed skin of his back, and the cot beneath him listed, and he crumbled through the world with its ecstasy, and into that abyss of sensation he came undone.
The ruddy glow of the candles seeped steadily through the cell as at last Maedhros struggled back into true wakefulness, a mournful little whimper bled from his throat as his eyes blinked open, and so swiftly he wished that they had not. For in that moment everything was so horribly disorientating: nausea roiled in his stomach as he lay heavily upon it, his cheek clung with sweat where it pressed into the back of his hand which had come crooked under his face, and suddenly a voice hummed above him, metal clinked and glass grated, and pressure shifted across his back.
A low moan of horror sounded in his throat as he realised that it was the orc who knelt beside him, that the orc was doing something to him, and though it seemed a titanic effort of will weakly he stirred, he flinched away from his captor but how piteous was the motion. His legs tangled through the unfamiliar woollen blanket draped about them; he scarcely shifted his torso an inch before the jerk of chains upon his ankle halted him, and miserably he stilled as the orc took notice of his wakening.
"Easy," it growled, but though its tone was gravelly it did not speak unkindly. "Easy, now, lie still."
Stumpy fangs split its thin lips asunder; its coiled, roped hair was dampened to its skull with a pungent ochre-like mud, and though its words helped to soothe him as pressure still twinged and softened across his back Maedhros stirred, and fitfully he jerked as a sudden blade of pain seemed to stab down through his spine.
"No," he whimpered, it was scarcely a word but a frightened, animal noise of anguish as pain skewered through him anew. "No, please… p-please…"
"Quietly now," the orc crooned; it did not cease in its furtive motions atop him but its voice was almost meditative as it spoke, and tightly Maedhros clutched to that slender lifeline of reprieve amid the tempest that threatened to drown him. "You must lie still now, hmm. Take one deep breath and let it out slowly, nar, through your mouth. There, there you go. One more, now. One more. Shiokh, shiokh."
That strange, sharp word the orc repeated deep in its throat, yet soon enough Maedhros' breaths began to steady, and soon he felt the worst of that fright dim from him. Discomfort still burned across his back but somehow now he did not fear it, and as it tugged something taut through his flesh the orc smiled down at him.
"Shiokh," it murmured. "Better now, yes," and so benevolent was its tone that tentatively Maedhros nodded.
"Come," it said to him, "come what is your name, now?"
"M-maitimo," Maedhros croaked, and again the orc smiled at him, and though its dull, yellowed fangs were not pretty, somehow its merriment felt genuine.
"Maitimo," the orc repeated, and though the syllables sounded odd upon its tongue tightly he held to that utterance not made in hatred or derision, he steeled himself about it as the orc reached aside. "It is a good name, hmm, very good. You may call me Styrrak, for it means 'healer' in our tongue, and many here call me so."
Quickly Maedhros nodded, but his eyes flared wide with panic as it saw the syringe gleaming in the orc's hand, and weakly he cried out as he glimpsed the dark, alien fluid captured within its glass barrel.
"No, no, d-don't, please…" he moaned, yet Styrrak turned to him with resolute eyes, and gentle was its tone even as he struggled.
"Calm yourself, Maitimo," it murmured, and patiently it waited until his frantic little protests ebbed away. "There, there, better now. I will give you an antiseptic, no more. Willow bark and yellow wort, and dirzûm moss from the mines. It will help you to become strong again, to heal. It will take the pain away, but you must be good for me now. You must lie still. Do you believe me? Do you?"
Weariness dragged at his heart, and faintly he felt himself nod; he shivered as the long needle punctured through the skin of his back but no longer did he fight. And such bliss flowed through him then as slowly pain faded away, it sluiced from him like filth through a drain, and as oceans of mellifluous peace stretched out before him Maedhros just let himself drift.
Pressure still tugged through his skin as Styrrak continued its stitching, it sealed gaping furrows of flesh in neat little sutures of catgut. Like a doll, Maedhros thought dully, like a broken toy it sewed him back together so that they could break him again, and as the hours turned and at last the orc finished its careful surgery Maedhros stirred.
He would be sent back to them, dread clawed through his innards, he would be sent back to the Moringotto and his followers so that they could play with him again, they could make him hurt, make him bleed for their vile amusement, and a tiny, shuddering sob bubbled up in his throat as the evil thought rocked through him. Yet Styrrak left him there to lie; the orc packed away its equipment, discarding bloodied rags and stray curls of catgut thread with clinical efficiency, and once it was finished it turned back to Maedhros and pressed a cup of water to his lips.
"Easy," it murmured; water flowed over Maedhros' tongue and tears stung like grit behind his eyes, but gently the orc removed the cup, and serenely it looked to him. "Easy, now. It is over. The worst is done. Thralkûn we say to children, and I say it to you now. Be at ease, rest now, recover."
Meekly then Maedhros lay upon the cot, he cradled his head into the crook of his arm laid beneath him, and unbidden a question slipped over his lips.
"Why…" he croaked; he cleared his throat and tried again, and timidly he asked, "Why are you doing this?"
"I am a healer, and I am the best in this fortress," the orc said tonelessly, its hairy knuckles showed a pallid grey beneath its skin as it leaned back against the table. "Styrrak I am named, and in my lord's service I mend what is broken."
"But," Maedhros said, the words stumbled over his tongue, "but you're not… you're not like me. You're not… you're not a…"
Slave.
The word glistened upon his lips, but he dared not spit it forth. He dared not breathe life into it for the horror of its admittance.
But still Styrrak seemed to grasp his meaning, for heavily it sighed, and said, "You are hurt, and for what you are, or by whose hand your hurts were inflicted I care not. We are made of flesh, us both. Slave, soldier, servant, lord; we are made of meat, and sinew and bone and blood. All are breakable, and in my centuries here I have threaded them all back together. It matters not to me what you are. I mend what is broken. It is simple."
And though the logic seemed somehow ruthless dimly Maedhros nodded, his eyes drifted shut to the quiet tinkle of metal upon glass as the orc gathered up its supplies and smoothly exited the chamber, and into the thoughtless oblivion that beckoned to him then gladly Maedhros sank.
Hours, days; they passed in an abstract blur as the candles burned on unchanged, and there was scarce little to pass the frightful tedium of Maedhros' waking hours save for the pain that twinged across his back, and Styrrak's intermittent visits. Diligently the orc tended to him, and as the dullness of his cell grew relentless Maedhros' heart would swell with relief as the door would be swung open, as Styrrak's squat, robe-swaddled silhouette would stand illumined in the light, and for a time the orc would bring him some measure of company.
With adroit precision it would sew up wounds ripped open afresh by nightly terrors, and when he was able to stand unaided it would shoo Maedhros from the bed as far as the shackle about his ankle would allow and it would strip down the bedding, and how Maedhros rejoiced in the cleanliness of the new, scratchy blanket and sheet which he curled himself upon. To garb him Styrrak swiftly knotted about his waist a rough-spun kilt, its thickly pleated skirt fell just short of his knees and Maedhros was so fawningly grateful as that fabric covered him; a small measure of confidence he drew back to himself and with far greater ease then he would rest in the orc's presence.
Often too Styrrak would press a plate of porridge, or a bowl of stodgy, near gelatinous rice into his hands, and it would allow him to eat freely whilst it prepared its supplies. Sometimes, even, it would bring him an extra morsel of food, a small stack of sweetened biscuits, or a bruised apple discarded from the kitchens, and though the sycophantic edge to his happiness galled him, Maedhros could not deny the joy that swelled in his heart with each small mercy vested upon him.
Upon occasion the orc would talk to him, and though in the beginning he had feared the guttural accent of its voice, soon enough he came to tolerate it, to wish for it, even, for some small shred of distraction from the dread that still preyed upon his heart.
Attentively he would listen as Styrrak grumbled to him of the knurlnith, the stonehearts, orcs who staggered through the healers' chambers with stiffened limbs and jaundiced eyes. It was an imbalance, Maedhros learned, the timid question that came to his lips obliged him an answer; some lingering imperfection within orcish blood that hailed back to their birth in the Dark Days. In some families it lay dormant for centuries, yet once exacerbated by bodily strain it morphed healthy blood to splintering crystals of granite, little shards of rock that split veins within the tissue.
Certain herbs could slow the ailment, Styrrak said, and desperately Maedhros swallowed down a wince of pain as the orc rinsed his healing back in a stinging solution of iodine. Of other things the orc sometimes spoke; inconsequential snatches of gossip from about the fortress, or of accidents in the mines deep below; of limbs mangled beyond all rescue by great cogs of industry, of flesh charred upon the bone as magma spewed and bodies boiled.
Nervously Maedhros would listen to those accounts, and with the orc's every passing visit worry gnawed that much more keenly in him. For loath though he was to admit it, Angband's herbcraft proved no less potent than that of his own people; the wounds across his back closed with astonishing swiftness, and with each day he could feel greater strength creep back into body and spirit alike. But how those feelings terrified him, lonely and frightened he would lie upon his cot in those long hours of absence and despair as they raced through him. Because one day it would not be the gruff, gentle orc standing in the doorway to tend him, it would be someone else, someone far, far worse, they would take him away and what might come after that he could not bear to consider.
Yet though the dangerous thought more than once flitted through his mind he did not dare re-open the wounds that arched across his back. His hands were not manacled, he could do it, he could do it if he was brave, but the terror of what consequences might follow such dire insurrection smothered such thoughts in their cradle.
No, he would simply endure; he would curl himself up upon his cot and make himself strong once more.
Yet for all his stoicism what unfathomable horror stabbed through his innards as that fatal visit at last came. Both he and Styrrak looked up from where the orc bathed the reddened, fragile skin of his back to glimpse the hefty uruk framed within the doorway. Thickly muscled and fierce it looked, and as Maedhros' eyes fell upon the leash that was coiled about its clawed hand, a piteous whimper tumbled out of his throat.
"No," he whined, "no, no, please…"
Needles and gauze scattered to the floor as he scrambled backwards upon the cot, he wrenched at the shackle about his ankle as the uruk approached him, and the heavy tread of its booted feet sent panic bolting through his veins. Grotesque was the uruk's leer; its lips were scarred with some repetitive, triangular pattern like fangs carved into grisly flesh, and looming over Maedhros then it indeed was monstrous to behold. And in that dreadful moment terror drowned out strength, like a trapped, trembling animal Maedhros only mewled out his horror as roughly the uruk snatched up his wrists and bound them tightly before his stomach with a length of cord, and swatted his head aside to clasp the leash to his collar.
And with that insidious snick of metal he could not quite find the will to kick out as the uruk unfastened his ankle, a vicious tug upon the leash knocked the breath from his throat and dragged him to his feet, and helplessly he swayed as stiff muscles were so uncaringly stretched. Swiftly the uruk turned him, its foul eyes ran over the marred skin of his back but thickly then it snorted, but whether in approval or disdain or some other unthinkable emotion Maedhros did not know.
A sharp series of words in the orcish tongue the uruk rapped out to Styrrak, and blandly the orc replied from where it stood now by the table, the scattered needles held carefully in its palm. A short, tense pause followed Styrrak's words, but with a menacing growl the uruk at last seemed contented; it glared to Maedhros upon the end of the leash and to him snapped, "Walk."
"Where are we going?" What nerve spurred those words over his lips he did not know, what vestige of boldness yet burned bright in his heart, but quickly he flinched back as the uruk rounded upon hm. He braced himself for what crunching blow was sure to come but though the uruk's hand twitched with barely restrained longing, it seemed to wrestle back the urge to strike him.
"Walk," it snarled once more, and the ferocity of the jerk upon his collar brokered no further argument as it dragged Maedhros a few stumbling, coughing steps towards the door. And above the wheeze of his breath, as the uruk tugged him through the doorway Maedhros heard a soft voice behind him.
"Rathmak, Maitimo," Styrrak murmured. "Farewell. I should hope that we will not meet again."
The crushing malevolence of Angband's power tipped as a tangible weight upon Maedhros' shoulders as unwillingly he was pulled through those brooding corridors. Nervously his hands fidgeted with their bonds, silently he glanced out at his surrounds from beneath the messy crop of his hair splayed about his cheeks, and what he saw seemed to dampen the courage that smouldered in his heart.
For unabated was the aura of oppression in the air; though the corridors were wide their facades were accusing, watchful and wary, dripped in red and black marbles and filled with cavorting shadows, and creatures stepped out of nightmares. Goblins squalled and chattered in their clicking tongue as they scuttled to their posts, lone orcs hurried to and fro upon their errands and manifold was their monstrosity; some were loping and ape-like, and others almost insectile in nature, all chitinous teeth and spindly, stabbing limbs.
Yet wide-eyed Maedhros stared as the uruk tugged him into a hallway, as lanterns wheeled overhead and light refracted in dazzling sprays of phosphorescence across the walls, and from the corner of the room a spirit looked at him. An impossible creature, so Maedhros thought it, a Maia clad in its elemental form, for though vaguely humanoid in shape the spirit's skin was as a jagged lattice of glass, all slicing edges and translucent, silvery scales. It dropped tiny shards of splintered shell to tinkle upon the marble as it slunk then from the room; its gait was so profoundly disturbing, at once lolling and rigid, and Maedhros shrank into the uruk's heels as that spirit passed him by.
Aberrations of the hröa piled upon blatant usurpations, the Moringotto's power seemed to corrupt all that it touched into mockeries of what once Palúrien had sung into being, and dismal then was Maedhros' mood as the uruk led him onwards. Through a secluded corridor studded with barred doors and cobwebbed alcoves they walked, when suddenly a whimper came to Maedhros' ears, a tiny choking noise that set his skin crawling. It was awful to hear when it came again, something in its pitch was so horribly sensual, and disgust spilled through Maedhros' innards as he was led past an alcove, and concealed within its shade he glimpsed the unmistakeable shine of manacles clasped about pale wrists.
A thin, scrawny slave was pressed there upon his knees, and as a clawed hand came down hard upon the back of the slave's bobbing head, nausea turned in Maedhros' stomach, and ashamedly he looked away.
"Move," the uruk snarled, and numbly Maedhros followed, and there was nothing but the bubbling chokes of that wretched slave in his ears as its master took its pleasure.
Hard Maedhros' stomach knotted as he walked on, for though forgotten in the turmoil of weeks past now memory crashed back down upon him; crawl, little piggy, the orc had gloated, they had pulled his legs apart, fingers had traced over his ankle as he had lain there drugged and vulnerable and how helpless it had made him feel.
But though they might taunt and touch he would never let them go further, never, abhorrence burned in his heart as he trailed the uruk down a tightly spiralling staircase. Pain was one evil, but to be touched unwillingly like that was another altogether and he would not let it happen; he was a king, he was Fëanáro's son, he was not some whorish thing for them to delight in, and he would fight them, tooth and nail he would fight them if ever such a thing was pressed upon him.
For what felt like a small eternity he and the uruk wound down those endless stairs, horrors tumbled through Maedhros' mind and desperately he tried to still them as the air about him grew dank. It hung close and sticky in the throat, chill humidity brushed over his skin and dully he watched as whorls of mould bloomed in sickly patterns across the damp stones of the stairwell. Down and down still they stepped until it seemed that the bowels of the earth might go no deeper, and even the uruk groaned in relief as at last they spilled out upon a landing, and after a moment's pause traversed down a dark, cobbled passageway.
Tension clenched in Maedhros' innards as past row upon row of cells he was marched; blank iron doors etched with some unknown system of numeration hemmed him close, and their grey faces stole all semblance of warmth from the air. No sound there was to rive the deathly silence asunder, no sound but the thud of the uruk's boots and the occasional snap of a flare burning in its bracket, and how that quiet seemed to leach its malevolence into Maedhros' very skin. Yet determinedly he gritted his teeth, he steeled his will against the lurking intimidation of that place, but though he walked past the doors without outward sign of nervousness, such calm was but a brittle mask for the frightened beat of his heart within his chest.
That fright erupted into a fizz of adrenaline as set amid those tomb-like rows one solitary door stood ajar; forcibly Maedhros was jostled through its aperture, and giddily he stumbled as that sense of terror within him magnified tenfold as he crossed its threshold. Crippling pain flared across his back, across his chest, and as desperately he struggled to right himself only then did he glimpse the two figures who stood within the cell already.
A dingy light bled from overhead, yet its radiance did nothing to dispel the shadows that clotted about the Moringotto's very being; stern and tall and crowned in the blistering light of the Silmarils he glowered at Maedhros, and golden sadism flickered in his eyes as he watched his captive suffer. Behind him a great bench was set into the wall, and by it Morgoth's lieutenant stood, his back turned to Maedhros as he tinkered with some unseen object ensconced there amid the gloom.
"Maitimo," the Moringotto drawled; madness, pestilence, atrocities, they rolled in his tone, and at its master's voice how the brand upon Maedhros' chest burned, it sent a gasp of pain retching over his lips as the uruk dragged him into the bared centre of the cell. "At last you deign to join us. Your presence has been so sorely missed. I might only presume that your convalescence was pleasant? Upon my orders Styrrak spared no effort to aid your recovery."
"F-fuck you!" Maedhros spat, and from where came the fire that rushed suddenly through his veins he did not know. Betrayal stabbed through his innards and in its wake flowed only hatred, only hurt, fear, impulsion, and as the uruk cut free the cord from his hands those potent emotions slammed him into action.
Desperately he lashed out; a low, dirty punch he threw towards the uruk's stomach, he twisted and scratched as it recoiled in surprise and in those brutal, pounding seconds frantically he pushed his advantage. He scrabbled away from the hand that clawed for him, he ripped the leash free of the uruk's closing fingers and victory screeched through his veins as truly then he escaped its grasp, he twisted his way towards the door that yet stood ajar but in that moment how such noble sensibilities came undone.
For with a click of the Moringotto's greyed fingers agony exploded across his chest, the brand upon him seared as if the iron was pressed glowing into his flesh, and at the howl that tore through the chamber then even Morgoth's lieutenant grimaced. To his knees Maedhros dropped; it felt as though the breath had been punched clean from his lungs and helplessly he panted as those waves of pain crashed through him, burning, shaking, devouring as they went and only quickening in their urgency. Desperately Maedhros scrabbled at himself, he pressed his hands to his chest as if somehow he could make it stop, as if somehow the pressure could stifle that blinding, howling agony, and helplessly he groaned as the Moringotto loomed over him, and softly spoke, "Learn your place, thrall."
Shrill, wordless little grunts of pain ripped out his throat as Morgoth left him there to convulse, and swiftly then the uruk stepped forward. Its thick fingers knotted through Maedhros' hair as cruelly it dragged him backwards, his knees scraped over the stones as it hauled him more upright, and far, far beyond coherency he gasped and shrieked as it seized his arms away from his chest and drew his wrists behind him.
Into a painful strappado of thin, cutting wire it fastened him; his arms were hauled agonisingly high up behind his back even as his knees ground into the rough stones below, and only a squeak of misery at the utmost end of anguish wormed from between his lips as finally the Moringotto released him from his spell. There was scarce little more that Maedhros could do save slump deliriously forwards, the collapse of his upper body dragged excruciatingly hard upon his wrists but he barely felt it, so great was the shock of that un-hurt that he simply gulped in air, and limp save for his wracking breaths he hung.
Wet, guttural groans edged over his lips as slowly that shock dissipated, or perhaps his captors merely grew bored of him, for as a minute turned quietly the uruk slipped from the cell, and disdainfully then Morgoth clicked at him.
Grimly Maedhros looked to the lord who stood before him, he pushed himself back within his bonds to lessen the pressure exerted upon his arms and chest, upon the strained, sore muscles of his back. At the Moringotto's feet he moaned like some simpering beast, yet quickly he tried to salvage even a solitary shred of composure as the lord reached for him, as the Moringotto raised his chin upon one burned finger and softly spoke, "Your impudence tries my patience, elfling. Ever the Noldor prove themselves discourteous, and their king squalls like a child more base than a whoreson."
A snarl twisted Maedhros' lips at the insult, but hard then Morgoth's fingers gripped about his jaw, and the lord glowered, "Temper your mood, lest evil befall you where wiser actions might curry better favour."
Grievously Maedhros flinched as a sudden clatter of metal slipped from the table set at his left hand side; a scowl of displeasure flitted over the Moringotto's features as roughly he relinquished Maedhros and left him there to kneel. And although his neck ached with the strain of it desperately Maedhros contorted himself about to his left; terror quivered in him at what horrific thing might have made that noise, and about the trembling curve of his chest faintly Maedhros glimpsed Mairon turn about with an incongruously bashful look caught upon his face.
A monstrous set of pincers the Maia wielded within his hand; its jagged, toothed claws he clipped together with an all too gleeful smile, and lightly he said, "Apologies, my lord. Still a little slippery from the last."
A bloodied strip of cloth Mairon drew over the pincers before more carefully setting them aside, and time seemed to coalesce then into only a torturous parade of cruelties as Maedhros watched the lieutenant pore over the table's contents. A hideous pair of pliers gnashed and glinted in the light as Mairon turned them in his hand, a vile contraption of a wooden frame built about a central metal screw the Maia twisted, and Maedhros gagged in horror as crimson flakes fluttered down to the floor by the Maia's feet. Hot, panicky bile sizzled up his throat as Mairon wheeled a meat cleaver through his fingers, every muscle in him trembled with strain as three vicious clamps dangled from an interwoven series of chains in the Maia's palm, and as the stress of holding his twisted position grew all too much then at last Maedhros had to turn away. His breath came short and tight through his lungs as the dread of what might be put to him sank in, as unknown items scraped and clinked beside him, and desperately he blinked back the frightened, stupid tears that prickled behind his eyes.
"So much pain," the Moringotto murmured; metal screeched over metal and piteously Maedhros flinched, yet desperately he tried to rally himself as Morgoth continued, "So much pain might be dealt within my realm, to those I deem deserving of it. Traitors, slanderers, usurpers of order… Pain is merely an enforcement of control."
Something cold trailed over Maedhros' back, something thin and sharp and Maedhros whimpered as it snagged over sensitive, healing flesh.
"Yet some who dwell upon mine earth hold strange philosophies, the Moriquendi in their filthy caverns preach that the phenomena of pain might be perceived as an evolution, an overcoming. A transcendence of will, for upon its endurance or in the throes of its aftermath one might find ecstasy, or clarity, or forgiveness, or whatever empty platitude one seeks as a balm for his vices. A quaint belief they hold, yet compelling in argument. So tell me then, Maitimo, what might you discern the purpose of pain to be?"
A cry of discomfort rocked over Maedhros' lips as the cold thing upon him nudged over too-sensitive flesh; it banished both words and focus from his mind in the shock of its touch, and it was all that he could do to swallow down the cry that welled up in his throat as Morgoth purred, "A poor answer, elfling, yet perhaps such enlightenments elude us in moments of distress. Objectivity becomes dissolute, the visceral becomes the actual. Such momentous decisions might best be left to more opportune percolations of clarity, hmm?"
Hesitantly Maedhros nodded; discomfort burned through his shoulders and arms left bound taut in their stricture, and the lord's words were convoluted beyond all sense of meaning. Yet somehow he sensed that it was the answer that was looked for, and relief flowed through him as that cold, threatening thing was removed itself from his back. Footsteps shifted about him and metal clinked upon the table, and at last the Moringotto raised his chin once more.
Before Maedhros' face the lord extended his hand, and something was poised between his fingers. A thin, brittle-looking pod, or so Maedhros perceived it to be, chestnut brown in colour and intricately layered upon itself in wafer-like folds of organic matter, and Maedhros' brow crinkled in puzzlement as Morgoth drew it before his eyes.
"Do you know what this is, Maitimo?"
A long silence reigned then, sullenly Maedhros looked upon the folded, pod-like thing, and reticently he held his silence. Yet only a garbled cry of anguish tumbled over his lips as that silence stretched too far, swiftly the Moringotto slapped him about the cheek, and darkly said, "Do you know what this is?"
"A… a pupa…" Maedhros spluttered; he did not know with certainty but fear shook his best guess from his lips. "A chrysalis…"
"Very good," Morgoth purred, and from where he stood now at the side of his lord, a condescending smile rolled over Mairon's lips.
"Some believe the chrysalis to be a symbol of hope," the Moringotto drawled, and silkily he looked to the pupa in his hand. "The vermin of the woods worship the fluttering imagos that emerge from their slumbers as signs of divinity, as the transcendence of what is base and squalid in this world to a thing of beauty, for so the wriggling larva unveils its wings and is more sacred than it was before. Pain, suffering, hardship; oft I have heard it said amongst your snivelling kindred, amongst even my brethren themselves that these serve some higher purpose, that agony might be their chrysalis, a vessel of salvation that once come to its end might reveal its cargo in beauty and glory unparalleled to what it was before."
"They are mistaken," Morgoth snarled, and how Maedhros quailed before the feyness that glittered in his eyes. "For in species come to flourish under my realm there comes no imago, no delicate moth nor flitting butterfly to emerge from the filth of its womb. The chrysalis is no vessel of transformation, no holy deliverance does it bear. It is an execution chamber. Tissues dissolve, viscera decays, flesh melts in the fury of its own acid and it bears forth no fruit, no salvation save for the cold embrace of the grave."
All too keenly Maedhros was aware of the puissance that crawled beneath the Moringotto's words, each horrible word hung in the air with supernatural clarity, and about his airway something seemed to constrict. Tighter and tighter his collar wrenched about his throat, black malice bound it fast and Maedhros writhed as it dug into his flesh, as truly it became strangling. Desperately he shook in his bonds as it inched yet tighter, and it was only as his struggles quietened and his vision sparkled that the Moringotto's spell ceased, and miserably then Maedhros knelt at his feet.
Shallow, hurting little breaths he gulped into his lungs, and he could scarcely even squeak in protest as with pitiful ease Morgoth forced his mouth open, he forced that hideous chrysalis to sit upon his tongue and such was the tightness of the collar now fixed about him that he could no longer swallow.
"There is no honour in your suffering, elfling, nor dignity in your disgrace. You kneel before me like a craven beast, and pretences of righteousness will not save you."
And how Maedhros choked as the chrysalis scraped over the sensitive tissues at the back of his throat, he retched and spluttered but even as he tried to spit it out then swiftly the lieutenant stepped forward, and a thick, leather gag Mairon fastened about his face.
"Your metamorphosis is death."
The wide strap of the gag parted his teeth, it trapped that awful thing upon his tongue and Maedhros could but writhe and squeak in muffled, breathless protests, but as the moments passed and they did not aid him, at last he stilled.
"Think upon mine words, elfling," the Moringotto said. "And think wisely, afore we speak again on the morrow."
Imperiously then Morgoth swept from the room; tiny barbs pricked into Maedhros' tongue and weakly he cried out as only Mairon stood before him. Desperately he tossed in his bonds, though it felt like a pollution of his very fëa beseechingly he blinked up at the Maia, and thinly he moaned in his agony, he could only hope against all hope that perhaps Mairon might pity him, might release him, might spare him from this torment.
Yet a cruel smile played about the Maia's lips as he sank before Maedhros' face, and even as Maedhros fretted and whimpered softly Mairon whispered, "Hush, hush now, Maitimo. It will all be all right. But you must obey now, do you understand? You must obey."
How horrible then, how sick and wrong and gutting and awful was the fleeting kiss that the Maia placed upon the leather gag between Maedhros' teeth. For sweetly Mairon's lips brushed against his own, and how he hated it; it set emotions lurching in his stomach that he did not dare give name to, and he could only whimper as the Maia turned from him then.
The chrysalis needled into his tongue as the door before him slammed shut, as the Maia left him bound there in all his discomfort, and Maedhros could but endure as the lonely, aching, humiliating hours sank in.