There was the fire again, the spontaneity of its sounds and shape very much alive. The heat was constant, if limited, flushing his chest and face with warmth while his back ached with cold. Winter had seeped into his tower despite the strange walls. It came through the small windows, through the door beneath the bartizan that he would forget to shut on purpose. Ešl needed to breathe.
He liked the blustery winds as they whipped across his face, the snow as it drenched his clothes, the world white around him and the sun a pale yellow yet still strong enough to melt the snow between the grooves of stone into running rivulets at noon. The water was cold, and when he immersed his fingers in one of the pools, his knuckles turned white around the edges though he felt no pain.
By night, the water turned to ice, the air biting every inch of skin, burrowing beneath the thick cloak he wore. He could stand all night outside, listening to the creeping of ice across the dark sky, but he would still feel nothing. Insensitivity seemed to be the price for endurance, and he did not know whether to be glad or not- made hardy though not himself as he remembered.
Winter in Menegroth meant blazing hearths and feasts with mulled wine, and people: such voices, and such songs. There were fewer worries in winter, when skirmishes and battles were less common and the warriors and the guardians came home.
Ešl sat inside the forge with the furnace ablaze, the tools lying peacefully on the anvil, an empty trencher haphazardly balanced on the edge.
He had a piece of wax and was slowly kneading it with one hand. In a picket line behind him stood finished and half-finished works, ill-formed statues that he had a mind to destroy except that they reminded him of what he had been. His hands were more sure now, he could see straight lines, absolute circles, and form material to his will more easily than ever.
The chill at his back was almost comforting; he could wait forever like this, sunk in reminisces. Someone would take a blanket and wrap his shoulders with it, bidding him to leave the elder's company for his bed and gentle dreams. Ešl always said nay, but then he would gradually nod off, and next morning he would be embarrassed that someone had to carry him to his bed and apologize for this trespass of the dignity of the King's household. The stern gaze of Thingol softened in those moments, and remembered that he too desired a child to put to bed and tuck in at night even if they were as old as this kinsman, who was scarcely out of childhood despite what the customs say. Ešl of knew none of these things, but the Queen's beautiful voice answered him, that the berth of the household's dignity could withstand sleepy young elves quite well.
He stood now, the memories of things tart in his mouth, the bitterness stinging his eyes. Turning slowly, almost lingeringly away from the fire, he placed the wax on the shelf nearby before his gaze turned toward the entryway. His hand jerked suddenly, and the trencher fell to the ground.
An elf, streaked with blood and dirt, was looking at him with a frightening expression. Droplets fell from his face and flakes of snow clung to a mass of dark hair, his face looked gray though purple bruise was gaining ground on a cheekbone. The wild stare was bright and undimmed, and there a vague air of appraisal in it that was disconcerting.
"I have been watching you," He said slowly, voice low and musical. Ešl could not move, pinned in place by a sharp confusion. He realized what was so frightening in the elf's features, fair despite the grimness- the eyes, very wide and unblinking, they were bleeding as if the other was crying blood, "I knew you had to be here. I saw you, a mere glimpse from the windows, off those accursed mirrors.
"Why did you not come?" The elf asked, a desperate whisper, "I thought you were dead. We all did, we thought you had turn to ash, so the rumor was. Your brother is less kind in sharing his secrets than you ever were."
Even if Ešl did not understand the words, which he did not, the tone of resentment was clear at least.
And when he gave no answer, the elf moved closer, his walking shadow dancing in the firelight on the walls. The metal around his torso and his arms flashed beneath a dark cloak.
"Feanaro! Feanaro Curufinwe!" The elf called, his arms extended and his palms upward, supplicating, "We knew it could not be true. We knew it even as we knew that you would never betray us, but live forever, the flame of Eru undistinguished for the Noldor. Feanaro even as your mother called you, even as Curufinwe our beautiful craftsman.
Then to Ešl's amazement, the elf dropped to one knee before him.
"I..." He bit his tongue, the pain freezing speech. His fingers tingled to touch the bent form.
When the elf looked up again, his eyes were filled with tears. It ran down his face, melting the flakes of snow and the look of drear frost on his cheeks. There was no blood now.
"I know you would not forsake us. Your sons wait for you still! Such horrors, milord, we have endured in search of you. Helcaraxe proved a sore trial. You should know that we would follow despite all you may do; you should not have feared the rumors of treacheries among us, those loyal to the House of Finwe would not have stood for it. Spare not a thought for the cowards who heard the whispers from the doom Morgoth deceived. Your sons now guards the lands of Bereliand, we smote against the very gates of this place, did you not hear us?
"SonsÉ" He understood that word at least.
"Dearest Prince, milord, we must escape.
"I do not remember." Ešl whispered to himself, and shook his head dazedly.
The elf sprang to his feet, so quickly that the air in the room shifted, turned warmer, and was pervaded with his scent: full of earth and brine.
"The foul air has clouded your mind, an illusion is what kept you here. Do you fancy yourself home? It is not so milord, for this is Angband, the vile fortress in which evil dwells incarnate, where Morgoth builds his army and keeps you in this prison of tricks. FinweÉplease.
Angband. Ešl had almost forgotten that word, where he was. No one said it to him and he had not cared to say it himself. It does not have a pleasant echo.
His hand was seized suddenly in a fierce grip, and fiercer kisses were placed on them. The skin tasted warm beneath the Nololinde's lips, and the feeling shot a burning heat ran through him. He had been cold so very long, waiting, until he saw through the time of the change of guards from the Northern fringe, the reflections upon the mirrors that hid the small door from view. He and a small group of others alone had remained while Nolofinwe withdrew their people to Hithlum. Spies, surveyors all, yet he doubted others knew of his suspicions- they never saw the shifting sneer of the Balrog, of Morgoth himself as he loomed as a great shadow safe inside his fortress.
Nololinde saw everything. He kept the libraries in Valinor. He wrote the libraries because his eyes rendered differently of what others saw, another kind of perception, born from his amber eyes perhaps, that sketched the world in bare lines and sudden patches of color. The surface of his vambrace dug into his skin as he held the fine muscles and the finer bones of his lord's hand tight within his.
Ešl, startled for a moment at the contact, but he loved, loved the intensity of the kisses, of the emotions that twisted inside him. Gently, he touched the elf on the shoulder. The elf rose. They stood, different comprehensions in their faces. Then clasping each other's arms, Ešl leaned closed and their lips touched. The fury of the clash of teeth as he pressed forward stung and drew blood from their lips, flavoring this single kiss. Tongues swirling hotly against the other, Ešl felt himself drawing the other into a close embrace, and he was heedless of the metal pushing sharply against his clothes.
Nololinde did not expect this, but he knew the necessity, had seen it many times upon the ice, in Endore- forsaken in grief. A renewed hatred flamed his heart even as he returned it strength for strength.
Their mouth drew against each other until all the air was gone. Breathing harshly for a moment, forehead to forehead, bright eyes companionable, Ešl licked his lower lip and pulled away, almost afraid.
Wordlessly, sensing the time, Nololinde grasped Ešl's arm and pulled him out of the forge.
A thick cloak was placed on a chair outside, his own, Ešl noticed, and put it on, self-conscious in each of his movement as the other elf looked warily about.
This time, he followed as they began to walk again. They slipped out under one of the stairways, dimly lit with small white crystals until they met a wall. Ešl wondered then, but the other walked on and he followed and the wall seemed further. Two steps, and it would still there, as far as away as it was before.
"Mirrors." Nololinde whispered without looking back. His hand was on the hilt of his sword. The entrance was a bright glare around the corner of a corridor and there they stopped, Nololinde because he was trying to determine the time of the day from the thin ray of sun that struck the muddy floor, and Ešl because following the path of the sunlight that glanced off the metal clasp of his cloak, he could tilt his head and see himself; at least, it must be him.
Mouth dry, he swallowed, stared and touched the cold plane of the mirror, tracing the features of his face. He could cry, for only those were the same, and yet, even then, the eyes that studied him with a meticulous air were no longer dark with the glimmer of starlight in them.
The moment passed even as he realized other things, the fairness of his skin, the strange, subtle peculiarity in his expression; the sound of the grating of metal against stone provided the excuse for turning his head away.
Pausing upon the threshold, Nololinde considered. Then drawing his blade, then another, silently, he laid that in Ešl's hands. In his left hand, he held a white knife, the point glinting. Nodding, and a silent gesture with his eyes, he went out and Ešl followed.
They kept to the walls as well as they could. Ešl's feet trod firm for the first time in years. It was snowing, and the ground was beautifully pale other than the yellow eyes that flashed briefly in front of Ešl, before everything fell apart.
Before he cried out, he saw them emerge from a distance, running, some falling in the thick snow.
Nololinde despaired. In all his calculations, he had not accounted for the sporadic movements of nomadic troops in winter. This was a large one, a warparty, and it fell upon them wildly with a certain excited raggedness and disorder. A cross-cut across the throat, the first orc fell soundlessly, but there was more behind them, one after the other, driven by a tired desperation that reminded Nololinde of the faces of his kinsmen upon the ice even as he quelled the distasteful thought with a vicious stab.
Twin blades flashed quickly in the morning, and the white ground became gray within their sights. Utumno grumbled beneath them, but they could not hear the sounds.
His blade bright with black blood, he went on, and Ešl fought beside him as well as he could, his arms finding a strange rhythm in the strokes. Orcs did not fight very hard, he realized, not as they did when they took him. Swathed in path of blood, a great burning cloud fell the scene in front of him and everything was silent. Nololinde ran toward him, but the creature brandished a whip that curled around the elf's waist and drove him to the ground. He fell into Ešl's arms, and the armor was sticky. A hideous wound leaked onto his fingers, and when Ešl looked at his hand, the viscous liquid flowed down the ice crystals between his fingers and painted it a clear red.
The orcs that had disappeared returned, their claws dug into Ešl's shoulders and hauled him up. A rope was thrown around his neck in a tight noose and his arms were yanked back and tied.
"Feanaro!" Nololinde cried, rough hands pulling him away from Ešl.
"It is not him." Gothmog replied in Quenya, Valarin accent especially pronounced, his form diminished to a dainty elf with of shimmering wings that caught the dazzle of snow, "I know because I killed Feanaro, your precious divine fire, reduced to the dust beneath my feet.
He danced a bit, stomped the earth twice and thrice with light feet, the unsuitable merriment cutting in Nololinde's heart.
"I do not believe you.
"He is not. Ask him. He does not understand your tongue.
The elf did not turn his head to ask, but Gothmog threw a contemptuous glare at the Sinda. Ešl struggled against his bonds but he did not speak, guessing that he should. He could not, not when he did not know what to say.
"Feanaro is dead, gone to Mandos for eternal torment, for his treachery against the Valar. They are not kind, you know it when you heard the doom they put upon you.
"I do not believe you." Nololinde shouted, dared to scream in the face of Gothmog, "Foul fire of Morgoth! Liar and servant of a liar!" for the last time ere he was taken away.
Ešl waited, frustration pent in his muscles. The ropes chaffed his neck and his wrists, and the orcs' fingers had claws that pierced layers of cloth into his flesh. He watched in horrified silence as the shadows unfolded like great wings
A beast, a balrog breathed on him, its flames flickering burns on his face. He felt raw.
"So here you are," It said, and cocked the great horned head, the eyes, two great pupil-less eyes gleamed like emeralds forming in heat, blazed fierce against his own, A sharp nail traced up his inner arm, reaching skin, "I knew you were there, was curious about you, and now that I have seen you, what should I do with you?
"Loosen my bonds and then die" Ešl answered, his gaze anguished and the light intense with grief, "Grant me a safe passage outside, along with all the others you have currently in thrall.
"Impudent thing," Gothmog laughed, "I can have you as I like, and you can join our cavorts in the snow. Do you not think winter is too drear here? Your blood would add nicely to the landscape though I do not think," He paused suddenly, "No, he would not be pleased, and you are still so intriguing to him.
The balrog leaned close, "He thought you are Feanaro did you know.
Ešl bit his lips: I did not mean to deceive.
"Go back, little elf," The monster fire mocked, "Out of the snow and rain back indoors where it is safe and warm. It is late and long past your bedtime.
Ešl growled, struggled, but they carried him bodily to the entrance of the tower. The doors opened by themselves and the orcs shoved him inside, scaly cold fingers all too detectable on his arms and sides. Ešl fell to his knees, hard, the pain stunning him.
Falling sideways onto a bruised shoulder, he cried out even as a blast of winter wind hit him in the chest. The floor seemed as ice.
His hands were red and wet with the other's blood, he could taste the tang from the other's mouth.
The doors shut, but all the heat had already escaped.
Drawing his legs close against his body, Ešl shivered.
--
"I have seen him." Gothmog declared, whispered conspiratorially, triumph shining through and through.
Sauron sat startled in his seat, His fingers still sticky and half-dried with the grime of his work. He rubbed his thumbs together and stripped the soiled layer away from that part of his skin.
"Now I know," The balrog continued, watching the army array themselves, "I could have him." He added, an eye sliding to see that Sauron had paused all movement, his fana fading into something more insubstantial and more powerful, "No different from the others: no more, no less.
"You shall not." Sauron said, hissing slightly, like the steam that rose from the pits. He was not looking at the balrog. The orcs had been assembling, and he noted that they seemed better, taller and stronger than all the others before them. Eyes flitting over the columns, the increasingly Arda-bound souls had made his work easier as the light dimmed from those who came from over the sea. He was glad of it despite a vague unease that coiled within him at his own success for he had not thought it possible that traces of paradise could fade from one who had lived in it.
"Close blood at Cuivienen must have sundered before their march," Gothmog continued, ignoring Sauron's darkening face, "Elwe, Finwe, Igwe, they were all of one house once upon a time. When the world was young and Imin, Tata and Enel awoke as chieftains of their people long before the call and did not know their immortality. When the land was dark and absolutely ours, Minyar, Tatyar, Nelyar, the Sindar were part of the Nelyar. Teleri, they called themselves before Bereliand ceased to became a camp, their march forever halted." He paused. "The Teleri who reached Valinore became the Falmari, and of the Nelyar, most became the Noldor.
Sauron was sullen.
"Our times are precious. Your point?
Gothmog tipped forward, his hands upon the other's knee. Sauron did not flinch, but neither did he turn to the balrog when his form began solidifying beneath the touch.
"He is almost a replica of the infamous Feanaro is he not? Less blessed of course. Is he kin to Elu, silver-haired even as Miriel the mother of Feanor was?" When it went unanswered, Gothmog tightened his hold, his fingers deep enough to bruise flesh. "And what are you making, a Falmar?
Wresting his gaze from the long cavern beneath them, he said evenly: "I am making nothing.
"Nothing indeed, when the Blessed Lights flashed across my skin like a blade, in double strength with understanding of Endore's darkness, it was nothing" Gothmog traced a finger along an inner thigh, knowing that he could be thrown off at any moment, or even felled. "Yet I must congratulate you." The twitch of muscle under his palm was satisfying. "The pain must have been great for him, when divergent paths for their souls were forced to converge. He had to die because Feanaro died, and Feanaro had to live because he lives. Is it not beautiful, the broken music, the broken symmetry? The broken balance of the Music, which they all feel even if they could not hear, sings inside me. The Noldor when they came and met themselves, that was a moment, but never had one been made into another, when the equilibrium is disrupted when the basic essence transmutes in form. Did you ever suspect, that it would not have happened, the sheer semblance of life for life, form for form, between Valinor and Endore if the Valar had not bore them away? They have given us a great aid
Prying the fingers off, Sauron stood, towering over the fana of the balrog, who had been fearless. Sauron noticed that in front of him stood Feanor even as Melkor described him when Morgoth first fled from Aman before the First Children's wrath.
"Hide him." Then after a moment, "I could help you." Gothmog waited, and he was naked as he reached up and touched an iron collar of Sauron in formless power.
Then the air thrummed with his voice: "I would have him as he wishes, I would have him as I would being who I am, and being Maia, be unparalleled in my desire.
The chamber was dark, eerily lit by the cavern below. A lone elf stood facing a great empty chair full of shimmering air, shaking his fists, his skin gleaming and his shadow fierce.
"You would have him as you would have a jewel within a box, as you would to mimic even as you curry to our lord's moods," The balrog glowed and burned a bright orange, fana unsustainable, "My. Father's. Moods.
Sauron laughed then, the clatter mixing with the rude sounds of the orc drills below.
"Is this what it is about, jealousy!" He sank into fana again, so he could see Gothmog's face proper, to taste the scent upon his skin.
"I am my father's son even as Eonwe was Manwe's yet you would vie for his favor with meÉ" Gothmog let out a great roar, and so great was the rage in him even the ancient ground shook with the sound. "How?
"I chose, while you could not.
Stunned, he broke through the fairest form and lunged toward Gorthaur, trapping him within smoke and shadows. Eyes gained clarity within the embrace of shadows and flame, tearing into the beast of fire. He took a sharp breath, and the silence pushing. He had nearly forgotten, Sauron also saw the Lights of Aman, and being made before Arda, the light did not fade. Close against him, the sorcerer's body was warm even within the flames.
"Have you ever met a son in Arda who would go against his father's wishes?" Sauron asked calmly, immovable, only a small voice at first, then his anger flared, harsh and burning, I had everything to lose while you had nothing. Son of Melkor and Ulbandi, you were filled with darkness the hour of your birth, disorder was your unparalleled mettle. Ulbandi fled though she was Queen of the Night, for she could not comprehend Melkor at the end, but you remained, forsook your mother and sought under your father's wing, and gained form from stealth- a lone discord in the First Music before Eru saw his thoughts fail. There is no strength in your loyalty, only ignorance.
Taken aback, Gothmog shrank back even as his lips curled. He pointed a finger at the laboring orcs below, new heights among them, brightly clothed and fair and clean limbed for the most part. Their astonished eyes were curious as they stared at the review of the awkwardly shaped horde with the incongruously star kissed steel and the palpable strength bred out of ugliness.
"I could have something now, the elf you keep in the lust of your fana. Do you somehow foretell with your own the comportment of the Second Children, Sauron? Shall we look to you for the fate of them?
Sauron walked away, the scent of smoke upon his scorched clothing. He had no dealings with such, short-lived mortals and easily hurt, half beasts that were no greater than beasts, only a little better than mockeries, for they were tenacious of life, as if Eru realized the soiling of His firstborn and angrily birthed another.
"So you do not deny it, it is his flesh you crave even as the basest mortal creature would crave another: injure, kill, betray for it." Gothmog said, and the other's ponderous steps that was silent.
Yes, Sauron fancied he could, and would-the flesh is a terrible thing to deny and he would do all things to deny himself nothing. Why else is he here, enthralled within Melkor's uncreated world, but to consummate all his desires?
The dun-colored walls marked with dried and ancient blood called a remembered knowledge before Sauron eyes- of a time in an eddy. Having forgotten much since Melkor had him, he had never liked the reminder. Turning around, the anguish of such things gripping his being, the words were soft and threatening with deep pain when he spoke.
"Know this at least," He said evenly, the darkness a shroud around his eyes, "Even if all else is gone from you in the hour of death, High Captain of Angband, Melkor needs me.
"And you need that elf, an impersonation of your desires. Why must you have them?
He wrested with the question, rather, the answer to it, for it seemed absurdly simple though he could not articulate it.
"Do nothing." He said finally. Two words, yet all the world's threat was behind them.
"Fear not," Gothmog said, as facetious as a balrog could, behind Sauron's retreating back, "Alas, I have no time other than to do my father's bidding. Him and his damnable crown.
--