Moringotto's idea of using his many talents is, thanks Eru, a show of pettiness rather than pure brutality. He invites Fëanaro to grand diners with enough food to feed an army, his servants waiting silently while the two banqueters eat alone and make conversation. It's tedious and the noldo feels sick at the thought that he should stab the Vala a thousand time with his kitchen knife instead of talking with as much charm as he can musters (which is, actually, very little; his tongue feels like lead and he has to bit back the truth every time he opens his mouth).
Not now. Not yet. With his apparent submission comes more freedom, and he hopes to find a way to escape with his son.
After a few weeks of idleness punctuated with diners and the occasional walk to the cells to check that Maitimo is still alright (always when he is asleep), Moringotto commissions a necklace from him. Fëanaro accepts because he can't see how a piece of jewelry can be used against his family; he hates the idea that anything from his hands will rightfully belong to the Black Foe, but it's neither sword nor armor, and may allow him to steal much needed tools.
The smithy they give him access to is a marvel of organization and technology. The ovens are of a quality rivaled only by those of Aulë, fitting for a Maia, the working bench clean and spacious. It is lacking in light but extra lamps have been added for his sake.
When the smith asks Mairon if the workshop is his, he remains stubbornly silent.
The commission is an ambitious one. It's Mairon who gives the specifics: high necked, the choker will go down to the back and chest, cover most of the shoulders, and be ornamented with artificial gems meant to magnify the natural glow of eldar skin, giving them a light "of their own" when worn, and no light at all when laying down on a cushion. In a way it's more like an ornamented gorgerin of swirls and delicate patterns than a true necklace. The Maia is vague regarding the recipient, whose measurements are needed: she's female, favors white and silver, and with a quick gaze Mairon proclaims she's of comparable build and neck circumference as Fëanaro.
Mairon leaves him alone with a guard. Fëanaro is taken aback by his strange appearance, but there is nothing that marks him as anything other than a quendë; he cannot see any visible deformation, though the elf squints away from the many lamps. His new jailer is more akin to him than to the orcs.
The noldo king observes him openly. The attention doesn't seem to make him uncomfortable: he returns the gaze with grey, alert eyes, duller than his own but with an evident lack of submission. He is half a head shorter with snow white hair, though a very thin shadow of black near the scalp suggest it's been bleached. His skin is chalk white, unnatural, probably covered with some kind of whitening foundation to make it looks like so; it is marked with scars, precise and deliberate, arranged in circles and markings that can't be anything but cultural designs, much like the tattoos displayed by some of the Sindar of Mithrim. His lips are painted black, his eyes smeared with kohl, and he has no eyebrows at all.
His clothes, as well, betray his high rank: lavish fabric dyed with sharp, bright colors, mainly a dark blood red, embroidered with the geometrical patterns Fëanaro is starting to link with Angamando's art style. He wears a coat of whitened leather stitched with white beads, perhaps made of bone, closed with golden clasps. A gold circle the size of a ner's hand is embed into a bright red sash around his belly, exquisitely engraved with the stylized image of a tree.
Not a common orc indeed.
"My name is Fëanaro. Who are you?" he asks in a friendly tone. If he can find allies here… When the other doesn't react, the king guesses he can't understand quenya, and try again by pointing at himself. "Fëanaro. You?"
His gesture is met with icy indifference.
"Quendë? Kendë?" he tries a more archaic tongue, but still the other watches him, straight in the eyes, without any notable reaction. "Did Mairon order you not to answer when I talk to you?"
He tries to mime the question. The ner follows his movement, but if he understands, he doesn't show that he does.
The commission takes many days to complete. The silent quendë watches him the first day and is replaced, after that, by subordinates. They whiten their skin too, but their hair bestow natural colors; they have inferior but tailored clothing, less scarifications on their face, and the symbol of their clan (the stylized tree) is engraved on a lesser metal. Each time Fëanaro tries to talk to them, only to be met with stubborn silence. They all watch him like hawks, and he can't steal the tools needed to escape (it's a shame; he knows the path to Maitimo's cell by heart now).
Fëanaro must admit his work is subpar compared to his usual creation. There is a certain dismay in the admission: he wasn't ready to bet Maitimo's life on a flawed piece, but it's like his former drive bleeds out of him, when it's not simply absent. He already had troubles concentrating after the creation of the Silmarils; he hasn't actually crafted anything since Finwë's death. He finds the design uninspired at best. Has the Darkening eroded what was left of his talent? The idea that he may have lost more than his Jewels, more than his father and home, but his aptitudes as well scares him.
When Mairon considers the final product, Fëanaro feels like a student under the gaze of a stern teacher. It's a stressful feeling, one he didn't feel in centuries.
"It's… adequate," the Maia concedes. Fëanaro shows him the glow of the crystals. "How do you achieve this effect on the gems?"
There is curiosity mixed with an undercurrent of jealousy.
"For those, it's just precise stone cutting. They have natural proprieties that make them redirect the light and amplifies it if the angle is right."
"Is it the technique used for the Silmarils?"
"No. It's the technique I used for my first experiments in gems and light. It's inferior in a lot of ways to the Silmarils despite the level of skill actually required to obtain this effect. But," the gem-crafter quickly adds, before Mairon has the nerve to accuse him of crafting lesser pieces when he could do much better, "my more advanced techniques are unusable here. None of the gems and crystals you gave me were suited, and you are lacking the proper equipment. They were not needed anyway, since these gems, as they are, already have the propriety you wanted."
Mairon watches him like a hawk, but Fëanaro gives nothing out, and the Maia finally relents.
"You will show the necklace to Lord Melkor in a few hours. Clean up and put on your best clothes. Considering the quality of your work and the disappointment it will elicit, you will need all the aid your pretty face can provide to avoid punishment."
"Would you be able to replicate this low quality piece, Mairon?" Fëanaro retorts. The smith sends him a seething glare.
"Of course I can."
"Really? Because it looks like to me I was more advanced as a jewel maker when I was two hundred years old than you are right now. You are aware that this technique, while not my most complicated one, still requires quite a level of mastery?"
The Maia is on him in less than a blink of an eye, his hand grabbing his neck like a vice.
"Are you implying that I am an inferior crafter, elf? That your talent not only rivals mine, but exceeds it?"
"I wouldn't know. I haven't seen anything meaningful made by your hands yet," Fëanaro replies. "What do you think?"
The pun his rewarded by a sudden, white hot rush of pain. The agony surges from his spine and spreads to his whole body. It's like he's burning from the inside, continuously; for how long he doesn't know. One second, forever, it's the same: his mind simply stops, unable to process. He's left crumpled on the ground, breathing hard, throat hoarse from a scream he didn't even hear. His body is trembling uncontrollably, tears streaming; he's hysterical, as he was when the news of his father's death was broken to him.
Fairëliantë was right. Even the best orgasm is weak in intensity compared to this pain. He is cold with terror at the thought of burning that way again. He weeps when he thinks that Maitimo may endure such torture himself.
His guard is the white haired one adorned in gold. Fëanaro searches his gaze. Surely, an elf like himself cannot bear to witness the suffering of another and do nothing! But nothing there is: the face of the ner doesn't even twitch, and there is no pity in his dull eyes.
The king curses himself for his weakness. He survived Finwë's death. What is the suffering of his body compared to the agony of his soul? Will he truly admit defeat for mere seconds of pain?
He forces his breathing back to regularity. The ache in his limbs recedes, allowing him to stand again. In any case he should stop angering Mairon needlessly and focus on escaping.
First, he has to present the necklace to Moringotto.
[Trigger warning for rape. To skip the scene jump to "Nothing ever prepared him for this."]
The necklace is presented to Moringotto on a purple cushion by Mairon himself. Fëanaro is alone with them in a relatively small room, clothed in elegant black and red, braided as if to walk the palace of Tirion.
He isn't going to try foolish provocation again.
The Vala has decreased in size since their first meeting in the throne room. His slenderer fingers allow him to follow the intricate design, his eyes alight with pleasure and greed. Despite all his lavish offers, Fëanaro always refused to work for him, and this is the first piece made deliberately for his foe.
"Definitely not your best work, Fëanaro, but I guess the conditions are less than ideal for your artistic genius to show. It's still very beautiful, and worthy of a king. Have you seen the finesse of the engraving, Mairon? The perfect equilibrium in the placement of the gems? And those curves?"
Fëanaro shivers in disgust. Seeing these blackened fingers caressing his creation is almost like feeling them on his skin. Even the white, pure light of the Silmarils reflecting on the white stones can't clean the filth.
"I like those curves. You should copy this design, Mairon. Those squares angles and sharp lines of yours are soulless compared to them. They remind me of those dwarven weapons. If you have to find inspiration somewhere, at least take it from a noble race."
The smith bows respectfully, but the glare he throws Fëanaro is less than gentle. It comes at no surprise that the patterns engraved everywhere are Mairon's, for they remind Fëanaro of Aulë; a twisted, more constricted version of his esthetic preferences. Still, to call them soulless is another proof that Moringotto truly is a tasteless fool. In the last days, Fëanaro developed a grudging respect for the motifs; he doesn't know which ones yet, but he is certain there are mathematical formula shaping them, and appreciates that they work well on fabric, leather, metal and stone. That the Vala isn't even worthy of his own Lieutenant is oddly satisfying.
"Let's see it on skin. Put it on."
Fëanaro freezes. He's the only quendë in the room and Mairon is far too tall to try the necklace on. His own tunic, however, is very high necked (interestingly enough, he was only given high necked clothes), and there's absolutely no way he can try anything without taking it completely off. Standing half naked in front of Moringotto is not what he hoped would happen.
"Well?" Moringotto asks, as Fëanaro doesn't move to obey. The black power dissects his discomfort with barely hidden glee. "Do you need help undressing or what? Should I ask Mairon to rip the clothes off your back?"
"No. I can do it myself, thank you." Maitimo's bloodied face flashes in his mind, and he quickly adds: "Lord Melkor."
He knows he won't be able to stop the Maia if he decides to "help" and would like to keep at least a modicum of dignity. He unbuttons the outer layer, slowly, and carefully folds it on a nearby table. The tunic underneath has a round neckline, hugging his neck too closely, and Fëanaro has to take it off as well. The air around him is warm enough, but he stills shivers when it comes in contact with his naked skin.
The necklace is cold, made colder still by the silver light the gems emit while in contact with his skin. Fëanaro doesn't like the feel of it; he finds high necked clothes stifling, and high necked jewelry choking, like the collard of a dog. The piece hangs down his back and chest and makes him look like a glorified courtesan. He regrets having braided his hair so carefully.
"You are very beautiful."
The tip of his ears turns red with shame. He doesn't want to be found beautiful by Moringotto, and if this is his definition of beauty, he doesn't feel complimented in any way. It's vulgar, at best. He can't bear to say anything that would sound pleasing.
"Undress. Completely. I want to see you naked."
"Why?" he croaks more than he asks. This is a nightmare. "The necklace..."
"I want to see you naked. Utterly defenseless, wearing a collar made by you at my demand. Mine."
The smile on the Vala's face is predatory. The quendë feels bile rising up his throat. He has never been overly prude before, but it's not a habit of the Noldor to show their skin so freely. Furthermore, the encounter feels more and more sexual. He was married young and his whole sexual life, nowhere as scandalous as most people imagine, always revolved around Nerdanel. The very idea of...
But what choice does he have?
His fingers tremble, but he obeys, his whole face and neck pink and hot. He is disgusted by the perverted glee on Moringotto's face, and not one bit reassured by Mairon's embarrassed expression. It's not as if his fellow smith is going to help him anyway.
"Come here."
The noldo takes a few steps forward. The air feels colder. The Vala lifts a finger and traces the golden swirls on his chest.
"You should always be like this, Fëanaro. Only precious metals and gems befit someone like you. Bracelets of gold. Sleeves of delicate chains. A red, beating ruby on your heart." He tangles his fingers in the ebony hair. "Diamonds for you hair, like stars. I will make you as beautiful as Varda."
Fëanaro wants to pull out in revulsion, but Moringotto snakes an arm around his waist, hard as marble, far too strong to resist. The monster is moaning in his hair (my Varda, my Varda, mine, mine mine mine), so engrossed in his own false dreams he's not even seeing that Fëanaro is trying to escape his grasp, his breath, the growing (far to huge) arousal against his legs. He doesn't hear his protestations even as the noldo begs (please please stop just stop no no no no) and cries and grows hysterical when the clawed fingers handle him like a mindless doll. When it's clear that he won't stop at sniffing his hair.
It takes Mairon's protestations to make him halt.
"Master!" He bows very low. "You will kill him if you take him. His body isn't strong enough for the might and power of the True King of Arda."
The Vala grabs Fëanaro by the hair and pulls him away, watching his face as if discovering it for the first time: the glowing eyes reddening with tears, his dripping nose, quivering lips, terrified gaze, corpse-white skin. For the first time he sees Fëanaro being weak instead of fiery, proud, charming or angry. He notes all of this with disgust and contempt and stands up, throwing him to the ground as he does, not even bothering to push him off his knees. Fëanaro scrambles to the wall and grabs the first piece of clothing he can hide behind.
Nothing ever prepared him for this. Not his long life as a crafter, his intellectual prowess, his studies on Middle Earth (how ridiculous those are in retrospect!). He had believed, foolishly, that his travels to the limits of Valinor and hunts in the woods of Oromë had made him tough. He had though his mother's death had made him know grief. He had been proved wrong when Finwë was ruthlessly murdered. His mastery of himself and others crumbled in Alqualondë. He knew fear and fought it with rage.
But now there is no rage. The white phantom of Miriel has deprived him of the driving madness, purged him, turned him back into who he was in Valinor. Without the madness he can't but fear the pain, the brutality, and see how Moringotto's power is impossible to resist head on. He can't live through being tortured, humiliated and raped. He can't live knowing Maitimo may be next if he doesn't comply.
He feels as impotent as a child watching his mother die.
He feels cheated that Finwë indulged his childish fantasies about their former lands. His father knew Middle Earth and war, he knew how hard, how terrible it was, and all he ever did was smile sadly every time his son presented him with a new book. He feels cheated by all those "old" elves who fed them with the nicest stories and kept silent on the true threats from the Shadows.
He should never have come here.
Mairon breaks his train of thought by throwing what remains of his clothes at his head.
"Get dressed."
He obeys with trembling hands and ends up following the Maia with a half buttoned tunic. The necklace dangles from the smith's hand, half crushed, and Mairon throws it to the fire once they arrive in the workshop.
"You are lucky. Once Lord Melkor lets go of an obsession, he doesn't come back to it. Now that he has seen that you aren't anything more than an overrated brat, he won't turn his attention back to you. How he could even compare you to Varda is beyond me." A mocking smile curves his mouth. "Who knows? He may turn to your son next. My Lord set his eyes on Arien once, his fiery hair may remind him of her."
Fëanaro's fingers are struggling to straighten his clothes. They stop like dead spiders.
"Please, no." There is desperation in his voice. "Please, not my son. I'll..." What does he even have to offer? "I accept your dare. I'll find a name for you. Let's say we both win. You owe a favor to me and I promise I will open my mind to you. I'll let you steal all my knowledge from me if you want, if you help me first."
The smile grows on the fair, golden face.
"And what will you ask of me, fair prince of the wise elves?"
The king (is he even king still?) ignores the derisive tone.
"Let my son out of Angamando."
"Deal. Your son is nothing to me," Mairon explains, "compared to what I will win."
"Swear that you will let him out. Swear twice."
Twice is biding, Fairëliantë said; Mairon seems surprised he knows. Unless he is just taken aback by how hysterical he sounds.
"I swear with Eru Iluvatar as my witness that I will let Maitimo Nelyafinwë out of Angamando."
"Again."
"Swear your part also, noldo."
"I swear with Eru Iluvatar as my witness that I will let Mairon into my mind once."
"How generous."
"Once is sufficient."
"Fine. I swear with Eru Iluvatar as my witness that I will let Maitimo Nelyafinwë out of Angamando."
"And I swear with Eru Iluvatar as my witness that I will let Mairon into my mind, one time and one time only."
Mairon keeps his word, and Fëanaro feels like a fool (a shocked, panicked fool) to have believed there was even a single sincere bone in the Maia's body.
Mairon does "let Maitimo out": he hangs him to cliff out of Angamando, alone and suffering, cold and ever hungry, his spirit bound like his father's to a body he can't leave. The smith takes the father to see his son suffering there. He drinks his horrified screams like seasoned wine ("you truly lack experience in the matter of treason, brat").
Then he takes him down to his chambers and inflicts pain so intense, so gratuitous and undeserved, there is nothing more Fëanaro can do but suffer. One can beg when one has something to offer, or someone to take pity. But Mairon is simply cruel, jealous and hateful, and wants to destroy one who could have been a rival. He shows clearly he isn't interested in what Fëanaro knows: he doesn't even bother to collect his part of the deal ("you have nothing to teach me, brat! Nothing!").
Fëanaro doesn't know how long it lasts. It may be mere minutes, but for the thinning of his malnourished body; perhaps it lasts years or ages. Pain becomes the only horizon of his life, his greatest fear, and when he doesn't actually feel it, he lives in dread, for he never knows for how long he is left alone. Sometimes he dreams of a man with dark hair, grey eyes and a deep voice, but he doesn't know who he is anymore.
Agony and Mairon are the only world left to him.
