When Fëanaro wakes, he is naked, laying down on a table of stone, and is surprised by the total absence of pain.

Ever since Finwë died, his life has been a never ending flow of stress, fear, anger and grief, all battling to take hold of his mind. The suffering of his spirit bled constantly through his body, plaguing him like poison.

He feels oddly calm, still half asleep. His mother was right, he was tired, desperately tired, going on endlessly like a flame fed with bad fuel. He doesn't want to wake, nagged by the feeling that something has gone awfully wrong. The consciousness comes back, gradually.

Miriel can't have been there.

Fëanaro wonders if he's dead or crazy. Miriel's apparition makes sense if he is, indeed, dead; that would explain the lack of suffering. Nonetheless, madness is not entirely invalid as a hypothesis, because he doesn't feel like a disembodied spirit.

Panic starts to creep in when he tries to move and can't. His brain is trying to process that it's not pain that's missing, but feelings. His limbs, his hands, he can't feel them or move them, as if they were still attached but unresponsive. He can breath and move his eyes but nothing more. He sees needles at the periphery of his field of view, digging into his flesh, and the fear intensifies despite his sedate state.

A lean, tall creature appears on his left. He knows it for a maia without a doubt. Most maiar, in Valinor, try to alleviate the elves's discomfort around them by trying their best to look elvish; the one in front of him is not even trying. It's not breathing, not blinking, is both incredibly tall and thin, has four arms and fingers reminiscent of spider legs. Its eyes are black and faceted and watch him like a corpse to dissect.

"Hello, your majesty," she greats him, lips unmoving, tone flat and meaningless. She seems to glide to his side, her long fingers catching a single needle embed in the noldo's throat. Fëanaro hardly feels anything more than a tickling sensation. "I hope you rested well. You were, truly, in a dreadful state of exhaustion when you were brought to me."

He manages to swallow, and understands the needle was somehow paralyzing the muscles of his neck. He supposes he can speak now. Not that he has anything to say to it.

"You have been such a delight to work on; such a bright, colorful little spirit." Still no intonation. "Nonetheless, my labor ends there. I am going to take the needles out. Please do not try to move. They are embed into your nerves, and we wouldn't like to deprive you of a limb or two, would we?"

"What did you do to me?"

He tries to sound angry, but his voice comes out thin and scrappy, and Fëanaro thinks he looks more like a child than a mighty king right now.

"I spun my web upon you. Now, if anything was to happen to you – accidents leading to your death, most likely, you would stay safely here, at my disposal until I see fit to provide you with a new body. Please, try not to die: the process in long and difficult, and you might stay houseless for years before we can reincarnate you."

The more she speaks, the colder he feels. Has he, truly, escaped Aman only to be imprisoned here, in life and death?

"Since our Master finds your current incarnation very pleasing, I have been tasked with weaving another net, very close fitting, which will keep your spirit inside your body despite pain, grief and extreme wounds. Trying anything foolish would thus prove incredibly distasteful to you. I advise cooperation, since escaping will prove both impossible and futile."

He wants to believe she is lying. The thought of death has been a comforting one lately. Not that he wishes to remain jailed at Mandos' mercy, but the hope of joining his parents, away from the weight of kingship and pain was a wall against his fears. Whatever happened death was to be the worst of it, and the worst wasn't that frightening. Some days Fëanaro believed he would have jumped down a cliff if he didn't have seven son to grieve for him.

And now, that slim hope of reuniting is gone. He wants, will all his heart, not to believe the creature, but he feels her power on him like a thin layer of oil.

He wants to move – for what he doesn't know. To throw up, to run, to attack, to bite and fight and cower and dream Finwë isn't dead and will come and save him. He was a fool to believe Middle Earth would be a glorious quest, he who had never known anything bloodier than hunts in which he had always been the predator. He wants to move but won't, because if he loses anymore strength (as she promised it will if he moves while she removes the needles), he knows he will lessens his chances of ever escaping this place.

Fëanaro breathes and steels himself. He sees an opportunity to talk her into giving him valuable information, despite the disgust that clenches his stomach.

"Who are you?"

She tilts her inexpressive head. Why she bothered to craft herself lips is beyond the Noldo since she doesn't use them. Their stillness adds to the blankness of her face.

"I am called Fairëliantë. Once my brother and sisters named me Varanathatzlûn. I was told you speak the True Tongue."

"Not as much as I would like to."

"The skill is rare among your race. I was told, also, that you are tremendously gifted with your hands and mind. I would advise you to befriend Mairon. He is powerful here, and most beloved by Melkor. With your talent and his favor, I do not doubt you will live quite comfortably."

The mere presumption that he may put his skills at the service of Melkor is laughable. It must have shown because the maia finally smiles.

"Oh, dear. You are planning to resist, aren't you?" A strange noise eruptes from her being, half-animal, half-mechanical. She is laughing. "Foolish little thing! Foolish, fragile little thing! They will break you in a thousand pieces! You will know pain, so intense every pleasure you ever felt will be dwarfed forever, and like all living thing, you will learn to fear it. You will live the rest of your life wondering when pain will return, if your next misstep will bring punishment; pain at the back of your mind, binding you, limiting and diminishing you, until you are the Spirit of Fire no more. This I tell you: tears unnumbered you shall shed. Mandos is now fenced against you, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains to the land of the deads. Your Oath will drive you, and yet betray you, and ever you will watch your treasures without a chance of ever reclaiming them; and when, finally, they will be in your reach, you will let them go for a prize dearer to you than the Light."

The touch of a cold finger ghosts on his cheek; again he cannot move, deprived of the control of his limb, petrified by the wording, so close to his fear.

Too close to the Doom of Mandos to be a strike in the dark.

"Yes, my little one. Long have I served my lord Namo, when in loneliness he dwelt, in halls built for Children unborn yet. I have my share of his gifts and powers; yet, in my kindness, and because compassion is not entirely foreign to him, I tell you this: renounce resistance, for it is futile. You can still bring great wonders to this world; beauty you will make no more if you give reason to Melkor and Mairon to destroy you. You will live in grief, but at the end of things, you will still be Fëanaro. Refuse He Who Arises In Might, and you will break like a twig, the shade of something great, passed and gone."

"Never!" he spits to her face. "I swore revenge for my father and myself! I will never be cowardly enough not to toil toward this goal! Your sly words do not move me, just like the words of Mandos couldn't turn me away from justice!"

"Such an oath must be pronounced twice to be binding, child. This is a secret shared amongst my kind. Believe it or not, but you are free from the Oath, unless you should decide to swear it again. But my dear, free as you are, you should know your children aren't –with your dying breath, lying bleeding and burnt between them, you, or rather the shell of you crafted by my hands, made them swear and doom themselves to the Darkness. Have you ever been there, my dear? Melkor can tell you everything there is to know about this place. He knows; it turned him mad, after all."

Her fingers entwined in his hair, sending a disgusted shiver through his spine.

"You will always be safe in my web, but what of your children? They swore twice, and their souls, unless my lord Mandos is kind enough to rescue them, will be lost to nothingness."

He wants to get up, scream at her, fight her, but there is a light prickling at the base of his neck and his body goes limp. He opens his mouth like a fish gaping out of water. The last thing he sees before the world turn to black is her unreadable, amused face.

Fëanaro doesn't know how long he sleeps this time, but he is alone when he wakes. There is a pile of rich clothes neatly folded on a table, shoes made of soft skin, and a gold diadem that isn't actually his. Everything fits him perfectly, down to the color themes he favors, though the broideries don't look noldorin at all. He studies the motifs for a moment: geometrical, sharp patterns forming various knots. He considers not accepting the "gift", but the alternative of staying naked doesn't really agree with him. He leaves the diadem untouched.

The room has a door, heavy and nondescript; unsurprisingly it's locked. Fëanaro became somewhat of a lock expert a few centuries ago, back when everything mechanical seemed to capture his attention, but he lacks the proper tools to open this one. If it's very simple he may manage by twisting the buckle of his belt and the diadem. He starts to unbuckle the belt and quickly buckles it again when he hears a latch being pulled back.

The creature in front of him must be a maia. Towering over him, skin the color of metallic gold, hair oddly coppery and eyes that shine like embers, he is at least entertaining the illusion of living – unlike Fairëliantë, he breathes, and his face doesn't seem to be lacking in facial muscles.

"Your majesty," the maia speaks, with a voice dripping with too much honey not to make a mockery out of it. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you – conscious and clothed. I am Mairon, Great Smith and Steward of Angamando. I have heard many things about your achievements."

By the look on his face, he doesn't look like those impress him.

"So have I," Fëanaro retorts. "You were sometimes discussed in Lord Aulë's halls."

"In good, I hope."

More like science gone bad.

"Good wouldn't be my choice of words."

Mairon sighs dramatically.

"Aulë is powerful and wise, but he was always lacking in both ambition and imagination. It is no wonder that both you and I left him to his conservatism and petty achievements."

"I didn't left him," Fëanaro clarifies. He resents the Valar, is suspicious of them, but despite all his failings, Aulë is the only one who never let him down. He was the one who, when he was but a child, claimed to the face of his brothers that he wasn't born of the Marring; he was his teacher when his father's home was torture to him. He was the one who presented him to Mahtan, even though Fëanaro had been firmly against leaving his service at the time, believing himself abandoned again (in retrospect, the teenager had behaved like a little beast during this particular discussion, and it had taken far too much time for Aulë to convince him that he should work with other noldor and have friends of his own race). Aulë had blessed his wedding, and some of the rarest materials used in making the Silmarils would have been impossible to obtain without the help of the Vala.

Yet, never had Aulë asked for anything that belonged, rightfully, to his former student. He understood that giving a piece of marble to someone doesn't make you the owner of the sculpture; he knew how much the Silmarils had cost, in body, spirit and mind.

He was the only one to defend Fëanaro when the Valar tried to coerce him into giving them away.

"My leaving Valinor is not a betrayal of Aulë or his teaching. If you believe you can win me to your cause by denigrating your former patron, you are thoroughly mistaken. If anything, it only makes you look like an ingrate traitor."

The maia frowns, his whole body tensing. The displeasure quickly disperses, but his voice remains cold and threatening.

"Angering me is not an advisable move, elf. You should do well to remember your place – for you have no power here, and are so far below me you will always lack the power to do me any harm. Likewise, you will never be able to do as much as scratch Lord Melkor's skin. Your only achievement in avenging your father and getting your trinkets back is a nickname."

"Names have power. Moringotto will never be Melkor again; he won't be trusted or pardoned anymore. The more his enemies will name him so, the stronger they will reject all thoughts of serving him. Each time his nickname gets out of a free mouth, his power erodes. You should know – Aulë is a master of language as well as a formidable crafter."

"Power?" Mairon jokes. "You know nothing of power. You are too limited in your perceptions to feel as we do."

"I know more than you believes."

"Do you?" A predatory smiles grows on the maia's face. "Fine. Let us put your knowledge in power to the test. Name me."

"Name you?"

"Yes. Name me in a way that, according to you, can limit me in any way. I will make sure your petty nickname (since I don't expect you to craft anything tasteful) spreads to your fellow Noldor. If this name proves, indeed, to be a weakness to me, I will owe you one favor. On the contrary, if I demonstrate to you that I can use it to my advantage, you will open your mind to me, wholly and without resistance, and for as long as I care to dwell inside your head."

"I will think about your offer."

"Doubting yourself?"

"No," Fëanaro answers. "I know myself." A lie. Lately, he has discovered far too much about how far he can go. "It is you I refuse to trust."

The maia turns to the door, opens it, and the great hallway is both appealing and a new source of dread.

"You should consider it. If your theory is right, not only will you be able to weaken me, but you may actually win a chance of escaping." With an elegant flourish of the hands, Mairon beckons him to follow. "Lord Melkor will receive you now. Try not to get yourself killed right away – I have many projects in mind than are far more entertaining than crafting a new body to host your soul."

Fëanaro always thought Melkor was creepy and stressful. Each visit from the vala left him shaken, worried and more than slightly paranoid.

Now, he finds Moringotto terrifying.

The throne room is lighted by roaring braziers, but the ceiling is so high the pillars lose their heads to the shadow. The delicate, intricate carvings at their base are reminiscent of the geometrical patterns of the noldo's shirt, meaning it's probably a constant of whatever artistic culture they have here. Moringotto himself sits on a huge stony chair at the top of a fling of stairs; here the motifs are filled with gold.

The combination of stairs, chair and sheer heights forces Fëanaro to look up dramatically in order to meet his foes' gaze. Moringotto is tmore than thirce his size, encased in an armor of black metal, with only his white face showing under a curtain of hair the color of ice. His skull seems constricted into his crown, and Fëanaro frowns at the sight of it: most probably iron, out of shape, the symmetry not even there, heavy-looking in weight and forms. He doesn't whish anything better for Moringotto, but it rankles to see his perfect Silmarils set into such a base design.

"King Fëanaro," Moringotto greets him. "How kind of you to come and visit my humble abode."

He smiles and it looks like his skin is going to crack. The hall is empty but for his valaraukar, Mairon, and some dogs that are most probably no dogs at all; the fiery demons let out a chorus of throaty laughing. Finally, the chuckling recedes and an embarrassing silence fills the hall. Fëanaro knows he's expected to answer something cheeky just so Moringotto can talk him down, but for once the Noldo doesn't want to talk. He will not be made a mockery of, and will not engage in playful, sadistic chit-chat with the murderer of his father.

The silence stretches until Moringotto frowns, apparently surprised that his usually very vocal prisoner has nothing to say.

"Well? No commentary to utter for once, Fëanaro?"

The elf's mouth stays resolutely closed.

"Nothing? No oath, no promises of revenges, no requests to get your beloved jewels back?"

He sets his jaw and ignores his words, eyes firmly staring into the Vala's, mind closed.

"You will answer when talked to."

No.

"Always difficult. Even here, as my prisoner, you would still disrespect me? Don't you ever admit defeat, arrogant child?"

Fëanaro answers only with silence. Suddenly, Moringotto lunches forward, with a lack of agility compensated by his enormous reach. The colossal monster grabs him by the hair with a hand so big he could crush his head in it and pulls, so hard the noldo has no chance to regain his footing. By the time Moringotto sits back in his chair, Fëanaro's toes are barely grazing the stairs under him, just enough to know he may touch the ground. Instinctively he tries to grab the steel-clad fingers, to carry part of his own weight rather than rest all of it on Moringotto's crushing grasp.

"Do not make me break you, Fëanaro. You are a worthy prize. Your beauty, your mind, your passion, I want to treasure them, but should you refuse them to me, destroying you will be most satisfying. Whether you live the rest of your life as a beloved pet or a mindless wreck is your own choice."

"A wreck I will be then, Black Foe, for I will never give you anything of mine!"

The fingers let go; the prisoner can't find his footing and stumbles halfway through the stairs, bruised and unsure of his legs. His neck, back and scalps are throbbing from the abuse.

"Never is a long time for someone so young," the Vala says with a chuckle in his voice. "I gave you a chance to take advantage of my fairness, Fëanaro, and you are going to regret refusing me sooner than you think." He sits back into his throne, smug and confident. "Bring our other guest."

The guest is an armored elf wearing plate armor, chest emblazoned with an eight-pointed white star. He is dragged unconscious to the throne room, feet scrapping the ground with a sound like a fork on a plate. The party of orcs taking him is cheerful; their ugly, grating tongue twisted by jeers. One of them clutches a plummet of red hair between his fingers, a grim trophy cut from the head of their prize.

There is only one elf with such an outfit, with such a rare color of hair.

A look of horror creeps on Fëanaro's face, mirroring the cruel glee on Moringotto's.

"It seems you noldor have some troubles keeping your noldorans safe and sounds. Young Maitimo thought he could outwit me, bringing a whole army to negotiate. Can you believe the nerves this young elf has?" He shakes his head in disbelief. "You can go to him if you want. Check that he's still alive."

He gestures for the orcs to drop their charge and step back. It takes all of Fëanaro's self-control to walk instead of run to his son's side. He kneels by his side, finds a pulse, and suddenly can't ignore the inevitable: that his beloved eldest is here, smeared in blood, unconscious, defenseless. The picture of Finwë's destroyed face overlaps with Maitimo's.

He can't bear it. Not after Finwë, not after his own run with Fairëliantë, not considering his own abject, instinctive terror under Moringotto's gaze.

Never is a long time indeed.

"What do you want from me?"

"Begging your pardon?" the Vala asks with false innocence. "I did not hear you properly, Noldoran."

"I said, what is it that you want from me Mor…" Bad idea. As it been his own skin, Fëanaro would have thrown insults over insults, but he won't squander Maitimo's life for the sake of bravado. "Melkor."

"Try again?"

Someone should take some drama lessons from Mandos. At least he knows how to make a statement.

"Lord Melkor."

"Be more specific."

He knows he shouldn't. The Oath forbids both helping and negotiating with the Vala, though the Oath seems to hold little weight against his son's welfare. Perhaps Fairëliantë is right: perhaps the vow isn't binding yet, or parental love is simply enough to override it.

"Please, lord Melkor, what can I do in exchange from my son's life?" he says, half-shouting. His voice echoes in the cavern and makes the orcs laugh.

Moringotto lets them laugh for a long time.

"Don't worry, Spirit of mine. I have a few ideas," the Black Foe answers with delight, "of ways of putting your many talents to use."