His shoulder did not hurt.

He was slowly drawn up out of sleep, coming back to himself and feeling as though he had been adrift on a dark and dreamless ocean, and as he woke he realized several things, all in quick succession. First, that not only was his shoulder free of pain, all of him was; second, that this assessment was not entirely accurate and that, rather than being free of pain, he was merely suffused with a dull and almost pleasant ache; third, that 'suffused' was a ridiculous word; last of all, that he was no longer held aloft by one wrist but was -

"Bed?" Maitimo said aloud, and flinched violently at the sound. It was rough, and weak, and hard-edged like a serrated knife. More than anything it resembled an Orc's voice, not his own. A frightful thought pierced through the haze of sleep - what if I am doomed to speak thusly for the rest of my life? - and he shivered and blinked back sudden tears. I do not know where I am, and so I cannot cry. Will not cry. This is some trick of Moringoþo, some foul illusion that will end badly or some trap set to catch me in its steel jaws. I will not go blindly into yet more suffering.

As he lay in bed, he began to take stock of himself. The room where he was currently being kept was roughly made but not so crude as to be truly ugly based solely on craftsmanship. Its walls were white, and whatever was beneath the pale paint was smooth but did not reflect light as stone would. In the corners, and overhead, he could see dark wooden beams supporting the structure, while the ceiling appeared to be made of some sort of plant matter. His bed was simple but sturdy, four posts and a headboard made of the same sort of timber that kept the room up, and it was covered by pale, roughly-woven sheets and a wool blanket that had not been dyed. The pillows were definitely stuffed with down, but when he shifted position on the mattress he heard it rustle beneath him and the sharp but unmistakable scent of straw hit his nose.

To his right, Maitimo saw a window some three steps from the bed. It was a crude thing, cut into the wall itself. There was no glass, but there were wooden shutters anchored in the wall on either side, and a small glass vase with a few red-gold leaves in it rested on the sill. Outside, he could see daylight, and puffs of cloud, and blue sky. So I am not far from my former home on the cliff-face, then, he thought, and this brought yet more tears. He had hoped that this might have been a truly new part of Angamando, perhaps the laborers' barracks in the mines, but instead it seemed he had been freed from the mountain only to face some new horror.

He shivered again, and looked at the rest of the room. It was smaller than the first cell he had been kept in but larger than the last, with two yards' distance between the bed and the door in the upper left corner. There was a chair made of woven reed at the foot of the bed, and another rough wool blanket folded neatly upon it. The floor was yet more dark wood. There were no weapons, or chains, or whips upon the walls, and -

- and the iron collar was no longer about his neck, and he could look down at his chest and see bandages rolled about his ribs.

His heart thudded in his chest, and he tried to sit up, bracing both hands against the mattress and the roughly woven bedclothes. As he pushed himself upright, his right hand slipped on something; he fell back onto the pillows with a hoarse curse. Frowning, he settled back into a reclining position, leaning heavily on his left side as he drew his right arm up and out of the pale sheet and blanket. I am not in any pain, what - ?

Maitimo froze.

He was staring at his right arm, this much was evident - it moved when he moved it, and he could take two fingers of his left hand and trace up the limb from wrist to shoulder and feel it. But it was wrapped in white cloth, and smelled of strange salve and herbs, and -

- and there was no hand past his forearm, only empty air.

He was shaking, he realized, as his left hand gripped his bandaged wrist. Shaking hard enough to blur his vision. The tears he had fought against since his awakening spilled out of the corners of his eyes and ran over his cheekbones; he tried to breathe and found all he could do was gasp for air in horrible half-sobs.

"What?" he asked again, aloud this time. "What did I do? "

He could not remember. He could not remember misbehaving, or speaking out of turn, or looking one of his masters in the face without permission, or hesitating to obey, or resisting outright. Of course, Moringoþo needed no excuse to maim or mutilate him, but if he remained within the bounds permitted to thralls he usually had a chance of escaping the worst of his masters' attention.

Maitimo groaned, and slammed his head back into the pillows, still holding his arm above his chest as he tried desperately to remember what, if anything, he had done to deserve this sort of punishment. He could feel the tremble in his limbs now, could feel it mingling with the pounding of his heart and the frightful panic mounting in his mind. I am slain, he thought suddenly, and this was a knife of desperate clarity. I may breathe, but I am as good as dead. He will end me. He has healed me only to execute me. He - !

The door at the top corner of the room opened. Maitimo sat up all at once. His back protested, but he did not dare show any weakness, did not dare reveal the terror mounting behind the calm expression he shoved onto his face with every scrap of willpower he had left.

"Þa - !" he began, expecting the hated face of Moringoþo's lieutenant, or else a pair of guards come to drag him before the throne. But the word shriveled up and withered in his throat, before he could finish it.

In the doorway, concern written plainly on his face, was Nolofinwë Finwion.

Maitimo stared at him, eyes roaming over hair and robes and signet brooch, mouth falling open in shock. Nolofinwë stared back, solid and unwavering, as Maitimo gaped at him. Of all the dreams I might have had, he thought, and shook his head.

For what felt like an eternity, neither spoke, and his eyes came to rest on his uncle's hands and the sleeves of his robe. He swallowed hard, blinking several times. Each time, the image was the same. None of the wavering, too-real intensity of Moringoþo's illusions, or the gleam in Sauron's eyes that sometimes shone through if he had been careless.

This… this is real, he thought. He shuddered, and his arms went limp, with his hand and wrist falling back into the tangle of sheets. I. I think this might be real.

"You're awake?" Nolofinwë said. His voice had not changed - it was still the same as his father's, only tempered with calm rather than drenched in rage and ambition.

This truly might be real.

He whimpered, and shivered, and forced himself not to cry. The tension melted out of his shoulders, and he slumped back against the mattress.

"Where… where am I?" he asked. The words were a low and frightened rumble.

Nolofinwë winced at the sound of his voice. "You are in the encampment of my host, nephew," he said. "On the shores of a lake that the Sindar call Misrim."

"Misrim?" Maitimo asked, half-incredulous. "I know that name, somehow." Something was rising in his chest that he could not name, some bright burning thing that was lifting his heart up out of the empty hollows of his stomach. He could feel the long-stagnant wheels of his mind turning, beginning to piece together what exactly was going on in his chest -

- he coughed once, twice, and then a bark of hoarse laughter fought its way up through his teeth. He looked up at his uncle, this time fixing his eyes on the spot between Nolofinwë's brows, and gave another awkward laugh.

"Misrim?" he asked, and made a face. "Truly?" If this is an illusion, it is a ridiculous one. Back in Miþrim again? After all this time? Before, it was always Formenos, or Tirion.

Nolofinwë exhaled sharply, almost laughing himself.

"You were not driven mad, at least," he said. "And you recall enough of your life to find that absurd."

"I do," Maitimo said, and rolled over onto his back with a quiet moan. Can I trust this? he thought, wincing as the pains began to creep back in. It is probably not a dream, if I am in pain, though it has been so long since I dreamed that I could not say if such a thing were possible. He looked around the room again - it had not changed, or wavered, or shifted. But the best of Þauron's illusions were just as convincing. But he has never given me this before. Even when I was 'rescued', I was taken back to my father's.

What am I to do?

"Are you all right?" Nolofinwë asked, stepping into the room proper. Maitimo flinched violently, jarred out of his thoughts; he instantly rolled onto his side, watching the other nér warily, ready to fight or to spring from the bed in obedience "Are you in any pain?"

Does he know where he is? Maitimo thought. Next thing I know, he'll be asking me what all these bruises are from. His face, however, showed none of his incredulity when he spoke aloud.

"No," he answered. "Well, I am a solid mass of aches and dull burning fire in my shoulder, but compared to what I have known? This is bliss and Aman in the spring." He was not sure how he was so calm, so articulate; he could feel incoherent terror behind every word and decided to count his blessings for now. And besides, the odds are that this is yet another illusion, or another one of Þauron's lovely pretenses. It is safest to go along, but… no. No, this is not real.

"Good," Nolofinwë said. He was standing at the foot of the bed, resting one hand upon a post. Maitimo could see there was a restless light in his eyes. "I had intended to see how you were sleeping," he continued, "but now that you are awake, and possessed of your wits -"

"That is debatable."

"Possessed at least of clarity of mind," his uncle amended, "and so there are things we might discuss."

"I doubt I will be of much, or any, help," Maitimo murmured. Now that it seemed unlikely that he would be dragged before a crowd of jeering orcs and terrified thralls and hacked to pieces, he had very little strength left, and what remained was taken up by furious plotting to stay ahead of whatever game this was that he was caught in. "I cannot even say how I came to be here, atarháno." If you even are my atarháno, which remains to be seen.

"What?" Nolofinwë asked, and his eyes narrowed.

"When I was last possessed of 'clarity of mind', as you put it, I was suspended by my right wrist from a cruel shackle in the outer walls of Thangorodrim itself, with nothing to clothe me or shield me save the wind and the rain, and no one to hear me cry out for aid," he explained, and shivered. If he closed his eyes and opened them again, the glass-sharp cliff face would be behind him and the wide expanse of the world below; that much was certain, and yet he almost did not want to believe it. "I was weeping, and weeping miserably - there had been a great host of some sort that came to the very gates of my prison, and they sounded trumpets and called out a challenge to Moringoþo, but try as I might to call out to them and beg them to slay me and end my misery, they heard nothing. I cried out until I lost my voice, and when it was clear that there would be no answer, I lost myself in my grief and despair." He shrugged and continued. I will play this game through to the end, I suppose. "Though I am certain many days and nights must have passed since that hour, I could not give you an account of my time until now, when I awoke in this room." It was the most he had spoken in a very long time, and he found that every heartbeat edged his vision in hazy white as he sought to catch his breath.

His uncle, meanwhile, had grown paler with every word he'd spoken, until at last when he had finished Nolofinwë resembled a corpse more than a living, breathing nér .

"That was my host," he said, and his hand gripped the bedpost so tightly that the blood was driven from his fingers. "My challenge to Moringotto, and my trumpets that were sounded."

"Did you see me, then?" Maitimo asked. "Was it you who freed me?"

"No," Nolofinwë admitted. "We saw no one, heard no cry for aid."

"Then how - ?"

"How were you freed?"

"Yes."

His uncle glanced down at him ruefully. "It is a rather grim story, Maitimo."

It was the first time anyone had said his amilessë in years uncounted, and the sound of it brought yet more tears to his eyes.

"What do you mean?" he asked, lifting his right hand to wipe his eyes before remembering that he had no right hand and using his left instead.

"You were borne out of the north on the back of one of Manwë's Eagles, unconscious and very near to death and thusly maimed," Nolofinwë said, gesturing to his right wrist. "It was Findekáno who - !"

"Findekáno?" Maitimo demanded, pushing himself upright with his elbows. Suddenly, he remembered - kneeling on a black glass floor again and again, the voice and weight and sick warmth of Moringoþo, and above all the pale blue thread of someone else in the confines of his mind - and he felt the blood drain from his face. No, no, no, this must be wrong, I am mistaken, I have to be mistaken, they would not - oh, oh Valar, oh I am a fool, this is all because they have caught him!

"Findekáno went to Angamando to save me," he said flatly. His voice was shaking.

"Yes," Nolofinwë answered, "he -"

"Alone?" he pressed, and he could not think to be angry at how much emotion he was showing. His eyes were wide, his heart was pounding, and already he was weighing his chances of survival if he tried to fight his way out of the room. If this is real - he is - he went - I shall have to find him, I shall have to go to him, I cannot leave him here alone, I -

"He went alone, yes."

"No," Maitimo moaned, slumping down into himself. "No, that was folly , that was madness , he should not have done it!"

"You and I are in agreement, it seems," Nolofinwë told him.

"How can you be so calm?" Maitimo asked, his heart racing and his voice building to a fever pitch. "What sort of father are you, to sit and speak of this as though it is the distant past and long-since mended?" Is this proof you are false? It must be, it must be! The Nolofinwë I remember would never be so easygoing at the thought of his son in torment!

"You cannot - !" Nolofinwë began, only to be interrupted.

" Where is he? " he demanded, fixing his uncle with a stare made of silver fire. "You let him go?!"

"I did no such thing!" Nolofinwë insisted indignantly.

Maitimo leaned forward and seized his uncle's robes, forcing Nolofinwë to look down at him. "How long has he been missing?" he continued, voice growing higher and more desperate with every word. "How long has that bastard Mairon had him for? Do you have any idea what might be happening to him right now?" Oh, I called him a bastard, I will pay for that, but I don't care, I don't care - !

"Maitimo - !" Nolofinwë began, but before he could continue a third voice cut through the cloud of terror.

"Russandol!"

Maitimo froze, his whole body shaking, and he flinched as if hit by the force of his name. What? No, no, this cannot -

Slowly, carefully, terrified of what he might find, he turned his head to look back at the open door. No, he thought again, no, no - !

Findekáno stood just outside in the hall. His hair was unbraided, bound behind his head in a low knot, and he wore a tunic of deep blue over brown breeches. There was a crutch propped under his right arm, and his left ankle was wrapped in white bandages, and his face was unnaturally pale and his eyes were growing wider by the second.

Oh, thank Eru, thank Tulkas, thank Irmo and Vairë and Varda and even Námo, Maitimo thought, and suddenly he realized that he had seized his uncle's robes and shouted at him and the fear for Findekáno that still coiled about his heart turned to fear for himself.

This is an illusion, a game, a farce, and I - ercamando, I have transgressed -

"I am sorry!" he said sharply, desperately, and released Nolofinwë, and shoved himself backward from where he sat until he had fallen off of the bed. Behind him, he could dimly hear Findekáno cry out, but he was already kneeling again, his head bowed and his arms raised, waiting to catch the brunt of whatever blow was coming. "I am sorry I spoke out of turn, I am sorry I spoke so forcefully, I am sorry I seized your robes, I - !"

A pair of arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him back against familiar clothes and unfamiliar scents, and he retched and coughed and swallowed bile.

"Russo," Findekáno said again, only now it was by his ear, and he could feel his lover's - his husband's - heart thudding against his back. He looked up at where Nolofinwë stood, and saw that his uncle was staring at him with an expression that could only be described as utterly horrified.

"Please," he managed to say, and he was weeping again, "I will not act in such an unbecoming manner a second time."

"You thought I would strike you," Nolofinwë said. It was not a question, and the horror lingered in his face.

Maitimo swallowed, instantly forcing the mask of calm back onto his face. "Aren't you going to?"

Findekáno's arms went tight about him, and Nolofinwë started back as if in shock.

"No," his uncle said. "I would not strike one of my own people for treating me thusly, if they feared for the life of their friend. Why would I raise my hand against my own kin?"

Maitimo blinked, and tears dripped down off of his cheekbones onto Findekáno's sleeves, and he found himself staring down at his left hand as it opened and closed again and again.

"That is how it is in Angamando," he said, and he could feel his teeth chattering. How it is here, but if I say that it is false it will fall apart around me.

There was a rustle of cloth, and the thud of boots on wood, and then his uncle was kneeling beside him.

"That is not how it is here," Nolofinwë said. "I swear it."

Maitimo took a deep breath to anchor himself, and found he could only sigh and swoon. His strength deserted him entirely, but when he fell forward Findekáno was there to catch him. He let himself be guided back again until his head was leaning back over a broad shoulder, and he watched as the ceiling shifted and faded to white while he wept.

"Come," he heard Nolofinwë say, and his uncle's voice was far-off and under rushing water. "Let us get him into bed."

"Right," Findekáno answered - Findekáno was here, was holding him , this was a dream this was a dream this must be a dream - and the hands that were so gently stroking his hair and his chest shifted to grip him under the arms, and then he was borne up off the floor, and, and...

Maitimo opened his eyes. He was lying on his side, in the bed once more, and Findekáno was beside him, staring into his face. The sheet and blanket were drawn up over both of them. He realized suddenly that both his husband and his uncle were clothed, while he wore only bandages; he thought that he ought to be ashamed of this but found he did not have the energy.

"You fell asleep, enda-nînya, " Findekáno said gently, and he reached out with one hand and brushed a strand of hair from Maitimo's face.

"And you were watching me?" he asked weakly, trying to smile but finding he could not force his lips to curve upward.

"I was, once my father left us alone," Findekáno said, and his eyes were soft and warm. "Is that so wrong?"

"Nolofinwë is gone?" Maitimo asked, and pushed himself up on his elbow. The room was empty save for the two of them, and the door was shut.

"He helped me get you into bed again, and ordered me to sleep myself, and went back to his duties. But I am not tired, and so, I watched you."

Oh, Maitimo thought, and his stomach twisted on itself, and he fought to keep from retching from the realization. Oh, it is false, and I am a fool. His eyes filled with tears again, and his rage at being deceived once more was mingling with sick fear at what he knew was coming next.

"Russandol?" Findekáno asked, and his resolve broke and he was on the edge of weeping again, trembling so violently that he could feel himself shaking against the mattress. I do not want this, he thought, and it was plaintive, and it was desperate, and Þauron would use that against him, and he did not care.

"Russo," the thing in Findekáno's shape said, and it sounded so very like him, and Maitimo was choking on his own nausea. Just do it, he thought bitterly. The faster you act the faster it will be over.

The false Findekáno moved closer to him, wrapping arms about him, cradling him against a hollow chest that only served as a mask.

"You are safe," it said, and he shook his head. It was not worth pretending he was fooled anymore. He could feel the shape moving, curling around him, holding him close, kissing him; every touch and caress left him colder and more hopeless.

I could pretend, he thought to himself, letting Þauron wrap arms and legs that belonged to someone else about his bandaged body. I could let him have that victory. I am exhausted, and this is his best illusion yet.

No, he immediately answered himself, though he was unable to be angry anymore. No, you will only suffer more. You can endure. But you mustn't pretend.

All right, he decided, and let his eyes slip shut and forced himself to imagine that it was not his hair being stroked, his neck being kissed. All right. I will not pretend.

He sighed, and sliced up his knife-sharp agony, and buried it deep until he forgot it existed.

"Russandol," a low voice said in his ear. "Russandol, you must wake."

He opened his eyes, and sucked in air, and pushed himself up onto his right elbow, all in the same heartbeat. It is not safe to sleep, you idiot, he castigated himself, but even this was a dull flat statement rather than true annoyance. You know what happens if you sleep in his arms. And yet, as he pushed himself away from Þauron's arms, he found that his captor let him go easily, and looked at him with an expression that mimicked concern and fear so well that it was almost convincing.

Almost.

What is it? he thought, unwilling to give Þauron the satisfaction of hearing his voice. But the Maia ignored him - he obviously heard me, there is not a single thought I have that is my own - and sat up himself, looking over his shoulder.

"The healers brought some broth for you," he said, turning at the waist to retrieve something sitting behind him. When he was facing Maitimo again, he was holding a small earthenware bowl and a wooden spoon, and there was steam wafting up from whatever was contained within the clay vessel. "Since you're awake enough to eat."

Eat? Maitimo thought, and this nearly cracked through the flat calm that held his thought in an iron grip. I - I don't -

- clearly this is some kind of trick, or trap, or else I am being healed so that I may be tormented again.

He sighed, and swallowed, and he had to admit that whatever was in the bowl smelled better than anything he could remember. I will be fed it whether or not I cooperate. I might as well avoid having it poured down my nose.

"Can you sit up?" Þauron asked, and he sounded so like Findekáno that if Maitimo had not known the truth, he would have been convinced in an instant. He did not answer, or blink, or exhale; even thinking of thinking I will not help you torment me would garner him pain, and so it was easiest to lie still and do nothing at all.

The Maia laughed, soft and low and warm, and it was so familiar that made the hair on his arms stand on end. "You cannot eat lying down," Þauron said, "and even if you could that would doubtless end with broth everywhere. Here, let me help you." There was a sound of crackling straw and shifting bedclothes, and then the low thud of a bowl being placed on a side table, and then there were those damned arms wrapping gently about him and pulling him up so that he was no longer lying half on his side and half on his back. He was arranged in a position that was more or less upright, with his back propped against several pillows and a sheet and blanket covering him from the waist down, and his arms rested at his sides. All of this was done by Þauron; he did not move, and was limp as a boned fish. His eyes stared down, unfocused, at his right wrist.

I was right, he thought, and it was nearly bitter. I am still being punished for whatever I did that cost me my hand. Somehow, Þauron did not answer him, instead retrieving the bowl and filling the wooden spoon with a clear liquid.

"Can you eat?" the Maia asked him, and that was funny enough that he almost twisted his bandaged face into a half-smile. He wanted to reply, to give some sardonic retort, but instead his gaze dropped to his missing right hand and to its bruised and bandaged twin.

"Oh," Þauron said. "Of course. I - I will help you, I am sorry for the indignity, only…" His voice trailed off in a perfect mockery of concern and embarrassed altruism, and again, Maitimo thought that his illusion was very near to perfect. He shifted position so that he sat on his knees beside the taller elda, and offered up the spoon.

"Open your mouth?" he asked. "That and swallowing are all you must do."

Maitimo turned his head, and looked down at the broth, and let its scent fill his mind. He could not help it. He was hungry, and the sight of something warm being offered to him made his hröa remember the foul things he had been fed to keep him from wasting away entirely. His stomach growled, and he sent several curses in its traitorous direction. Þauron's expression softened, and the spoon was lifted higher.

"Please," he said softly, and his face was a flawless imitation of Findekáno when he wanted something very badly but was too polite to show it.

He was never able to resist that face, and it made his heart twist in his chest and brought tears to his eyes for a few seconds. What little resistance he had left him all at once, deflating any hope he might have been burying that he could avoid being harmed by this series of shades and phantoms.

Defeated, he opened his mouth, and Þauron slipped the spoon into it. His lips closed around the wood, and he swallowed as the broth spilled over into his mouth, and the tears that had threatened to overtake him moments earlier ran down his face to match.

This was the best thing he had ever tasted, and the shock of it overwhelmed him utterly. He turned his eyes back to Þauron, who was watching him and weeping along with him, and he swallowed the damnable broth and knew the end was coming fast.

You have won, he thought. Once more, as you always do. You found yet another way to hurt me. End this, and return me to my shackle and my emptiness, and -

The spoon left his mouth, and in its place came a gentle kiss to the edge of his lips, and another to his bandaged cheekbone, and a third to his temple.

"You're doing well," Þauron told him, and the praise made his gut clench and twist on himself, and he nearly retched and vomited up the mouthful he had just swallowed. No, he thought, no, please.

But pleading was useless.

Another spoonful, another swallow, another kiss and caress, another encouragement that left him sick and shaking.

When there was no more broth, Þauron saw fit to reward him with yet one more kiss, this time fully on his lips.

"I feared I had lost you," he said, eyes filling with false tears; Maitimo found he could not be entirely unmoved. "I thought - I thought you would perish, either there on the cliff or here from your wounds, or…" His voice trailed off, expertly imitating anguish and fear and relief, and he sighed and wiped his eyes.

"I thought you would die, and leave me here," he said. Maitimo thought his heart might burst. He has gotten far too good at this, he realized with mounting dread. I - I will be utterly heartbroken before the end.

Damn him. And damn me, too. I am lost.

He said nothing, looking up hollow-eyed at Þauron, who let out a faint cry and threw his arms about Maitimo's shoulders.

"I am - I am so glad - !"

He burst into tears, sobbing into Maitimo's shoulder, soaking the bandages through.

"You have been in Misrim for nearly two months," Þauron told him, once his fit of feigned tears had passed and they were lying side by side. The great light in the sky - the Sun, he had been told - was sinking down behind the trees, bathing the whole room in gold and amber and red.

"Oh," he said, dull and listless. I suppose I cannot get away with being completely silent.

"You slept for long enough that my wrist healed," he continued, lifting his right hand and waving it with a faint smile. "It was broken on the mountain, when I freed you."

I noticed your cast, Maitimo answered, stopping the thoughts just before they could rise to the surface and be felt and plucked out of his head. You are getting better at pretending. I am shocked you have not yet touched my hair. But then again, you have never played this game when I have needed to heal from some torment or punishment.

I wonder how long it will last.

"Russo?" Þauron asked him, and he flinched. What? You never - !

His eyes flicked up, and his impassive mask nearly cracked and broke; he found Þauron's face and let his gaze burn into it. I am risking much, I am very nearly telling him I know our game is false, but - but he never - !

All that Maitimo found was the same face, the same deep brown eyes, the same nose and jaw and lips that even now he longed to kiss, despite everything.

"What is it?" Þauron asked him.

He sighed, and dropped his eyes back down, and looked away.

"Are you tired?"

He nodded. He wasn't sure if he was in fact tired, but he knew he could sleep, given the chance, or given the order. And who knows what he will do to me tomorrow?

"Then let's sleep," Þauron told him. "Sit up?"

Maitimo obeyed long enough for the pillows to be rearranged, and for Þauron to lay him down against the mattress and cover them both up with blankets. He took a deep breath, feeling the bandages tighten about his ribs, and sighed, letting it all out at once. At least I am not being tortured, he told himself, only to feel something rather like pain swell up in his chest.

He did not let himself weep, even when Þauron seemed to have fallen asleep and the silver light of what he was told was called the Moon rose up like Telperion regrown. Instead, he took the arm that was so like his husband's and draped it over his frail shoulders.

He may not be Findekáno, but perhaps I can pretend, for a little while.

This will not be so bad.

Two more weeks passed, and the days were much the same. Maitimo was fed, and kissed, and caressed, and coddled, and his bandages were changed twice a day; he was never asked to draw Þauron a bath, or to sit quietly at the Maia's feet while he worked, or to sleep on the wooden floor while his captor lounged on the bed like the high lord he was. He was left to heal, and heal he did, though that only brought mounting dread.

As soon as I am not bleeding through the bandages, he will probably ask me to spread my legs for him, Maitimo thought, and then scrubbed out every trace of the sick revulsion he felt. And then it will be over, all of this, and it will be back to the same games as always. Somewhere deep within him was the urge to vomit. He cut it out and buried it until he could feel nothing.

"Russo!"

Þauron again, coming through the door, smiling as though he could light the world with it. He was holding a book, and stumbling over his crutch in a perfect impression of eager clumsiness. Maitimo flinched - I am still not used to you calling me that - but found it well hidden beneath the blankets and beneath a few easy blinks of his eyes.

"Hello," he said, as Þauron shut the door behind him.

"I thought I'd read to you," his captor said, kicking off his boot and climbing into bed. "If you wanted."

Maitimo was going to nod, to take this more or less effortlessly, to subject himself to Eru knew how many more months and years of this farce.

He was going to be good, until he opened his mouth.

"When are you going to bed me?"

Þauron started back, staring at him.

"What?"

Oh, ercamando, muk, damn it, I am going to pay for this, but honestly? I would rather cut to the core than sit here and wait for him to make his move.

"When are you going to bed me?" he asked again. "I know you will want to."

"I - !" Þauron said, paling and then flushing red. "You - here? Now?!"

"Where else would it happen?" I really have ceased to care if I live or die, haven't I? But death - death would be better than this, I think. If Þauron is going to kill me, I would rather it be on my terms, and this? The care, the gentleness, how he looks at me?

This is breaking my heart.

Þauron looked at him, warily, uncertain in every movement.

You are so - you are perfectly like him, Maitimo thought, this cannot go on, you are using my name, you monster, you - !

"I want this," he said, and he meant it. "I want this." I want it to be over, but I know what I am asking for. I could even say no, and go on with this game, and nothing would happen to punish me. No. I want this.

His words seemed to hang in the air, between them, burning through the silence. And then Þauron took a deep breath, expression pained, and nodded.

"If… if you want this," he said, eyes wide and uncertain. "If you want this."

Maitimo lay himself down on the mattress, half-reclining against the pillow, and let himself drift off as darkness descended over his thoughts and he knew no more.

Findekáno did not know if what he did was wrong, or right. He was pressing gentle kiss after gentle kiss to the pale flesh beneath him, nuzzling and licking, and Russandol was utterly silent and still.

He - he has barely looked at me, he thought, tears filling his eyes. Is - is this all I am meant to do? Does he love me? Did he - was I wrong? Did he burn the ships?

Does he hate me?

He realized he was weeping as he moved, hot tears falling down onto his husband; he would have sobbed at any other moment. Please, he begged, barely knowing who he was speaking to. Please, he - I love him, this cannot be how we end...

Blue and copper, flaring in his mind for half a heartbeat, sending echoes down through his bond.

What? Findekáno thought, shivering, gasping, nearly choking. Again - gold and blue, copper and silver, twining and rising up in the darkness at the back of his mind where the ruins of his marriage-bond lay. Another handful of heartbeats, with fits and starts of bright color half-blinding him -

- and then suddenly, suddenly, the embers sparked, flakes of fire devouring one another and letting themselves be devoured, until they were igniting every ash that was left of their bond. There was an inferno blazing in the back of Findekáno's mind, tearing through the back of his skull, burning, burning -

Russandol jerked beneath him, gasping, moaning. Something hard slammed into his sternum, forcing him up, and at the same time there was a hard blow to the side of his head. Findekáno scrambled back onto hands and knees, gaping, mouth hanging open like a dying fish.

"Mana?" he cried, but suddenly he found himself staring at Russandol.

Russandol, who was sitting up in bed and staring at him, silver eyes blazing and filling with tears.

"You…" he said, choking on the word. "You're real?!"

Findekáno felt his heart drop out onto the floor beneath the bed.

"I… what?"

But Russandol was weeping openly now, clinging to the bedclothes, and shaking so badly that he could barely sit upright.

"You - !" he gasped, when he was not coughing up his own tears. "This is - you are not - !" Another sob, another gasp, and then he finally managed a full sentence.

"Þauron could - he could imitate, he could recreate anything," he said, and the tears had clearly blinded him. "Faces, forms, places, it - anything, except - !"

"Except what?" Findekáno asked. "And who is Þauron?"

"Our bond," Russandol said. "He - our bond was - it was never there, I tore it out - you - this is - I am - !"

Findekáno inched closer to him as he wept. Each sob shook the whole of his body.

"Russo," he said, and that tore a frightened wail from panicked lips, "what is it?"

"I…" the other nér moaned, "I am out? I - truly?!"

Findekáno reached out and touched Russandol's shoulder, feeling it shiver.

"Yes," he said, and when his husband looked at him, he thought he would weep from anger and from relief. "Yes."

Russandol cried out again, throwing both arms around him, almost knocking him over.

"Thank you," he said, voice muffled by pale blue linen. "Thank you."

Findekáno held him close, and let him weep, and felt their newly-restored bond consume them both.