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Chapter 10:
Awake, Your Majesty

The slamming impact against the hard ground jolted Maitimo awake.

A pained groan tore from his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut as he cringed at the searing agony that happily lanced through his skull. It traveled on down through the rest of his body, pulsating with every beat of his heart, and settled at the base of his spine in particular. But compared to his head….Valar, his head hurt. He groaned again, head slumping to the side as he tried to figure out just why his body felt like mush against the ground. A big pile of mush. He dragged in a few more exhausted breaths before lifting his hand to cradle his forehead. To do something to massage the pain away, as if that would even work. It was only then, when the lifting of his right hand pulled the other one with it, that he realized that his hands were bound together.

Wait.

….Bound?

What?

Eyes. Needed to open eyes, but why did his eyelids feel like they were pasted shut? Maitimo shook that question off and with a valiant effort he managed to pry them open a crack and he strained to see whatever he was looking at. Which was nothing. Or maybe nothing. Maybe. His brain had no time to register anything he might have seen because at the mere, slight opening of his eyes, his vision swam maddeningly and he was nearly overwhelmed by a sudden bout of nausea, a feeling that only increased when his body wracked with a convulsion in response. He felt bile rise in his throat and it was only by sheer willpower that he managed to keep it down. Valar, it felt like a knife was stabbing him through his skull, and said skull only again went on to throb with abandon, wave after wave of that unbearable pain washing over his cranium and down into his body, though now he was able to isolate the source of the pain to the right side of his head, just above his temple. It was that part that continued to throb ceaselessly, at least, to the point that it made tears sting the corners of his eyes. He lifted his hand again – or both of them, rather – and delicately threaded his fingers through his hair to hold his head. He almost whimpered.

Valar, his head hurt.

He waited for the pain to recede and, slowly but surely, it did, at least to a gentler pounding. He let out a small sigh of relief when the nausea began to dissipate too, however much his stomach still felt one swallow away from rebelling. He slowly drew in several gulping breaths, willing that bilious sensation to go away, but every throb of his head only seemed to exacerbate every other sickly sensation his body was unrelentingly making him aware of.

For one, breathing was not supposed to hurt. He knew that for a fact no matter how much his head was spinning. But his throat was hurting too. Badly. Every time he drew in a ragged breath it seemed as if it was resisting the effort, as if someone had taken a belt and tightened it until everything in his neck had been cinched together. Every attempt to inhale air was a struggle and sent a searing burn throughout his throat while his lungs felt as though someone had scrubbed the insides of the tissue with their claws. But even that tenderness was still a fickle thing compared to the misery of his skull. He tightened his grip against his head, the beds of his fingers deftly massaging the skin in a desperate attempt to alleviate the throbbing. Not that it mattered because it only ended up instigating more pain, something he realized a little too late when it finally filtered through his mind that the area must be a mass of bruises from how the surface felt deep-seated with fire with every press of his fingertips. Forget it. He dropped his arms back down, though with the bindings of his wrists his elbows could only drop alongside his ribs. He clenched his jaw in frustration as he struggled against the fastenings, his fingers actually tingling from how tight they were. But Valar, his head hurt!

It was only when he was convinced that his skull would stay knitted together after all that he realized he could hear. And not only that, but that he was hearing noise around him. A lot of noise. Some monstrous, rumbling undertone. That ear-grating clamor of metal on metal, some of the sounds soft and distant while others were so loud that it intensified the nails being hammered into his brain. And footsteps. So many strides going back and forth gracelessly, scraping abrasively on the ground. An Orc somewhere off to his left growled, the sound disturbingly close. Wait a moment. That monstrous rumbling he was hearing was not some faint groaning of the earth, but rather the incessant growling of many Orcs, all ranging in pitch and volume, but all snarling out whatever ridiculous speech Orcs communicated with –

He froze. Orcs….His head….

His eyes flew open.

Doing so had probably not been smart since the throbbing in his skull soared to unspeakable levels again, but the terror that suddenly dwarfed him was so overpowering that he could barely feel it. His gaze flicked around rapidly, the beginnings of panic already settling firmly in his chest before he could even register what he was seeing, though the answer was not long in coming. Orc after Orc littered his vision and his eyes were trying to jump from one to another, but there were just so many. Those coarse boulders of different heights broke up the throng of beasts, though it did not stop them from looking like a wall that was growing more tightly knitted together the more they moved around. Orcs disappeared behind the boulders while others appeared from the other side, guttural sounds growled out and sometimes roared as they did who knew what in the shadows. Maitimo felt a chill run down his spine at some of the noises he heard, noises he could put no visualizations to. There was not even one torch carried among this party of Orcs and he was somewhat amazed he could still see the fiends at all, dark as it was, especially when the skies above them were more thick with clouds than ever.

If he froze before, he froze even more now, refusing to even so much as twitch where he lay prostrate on the rock-strewn terrain, sharp chippings of gravel digging painfully into his shoulder blades. The panic was coursing faster through his veins the longer he lay there, so fiercely that he began to feel lightheaded. By the stars, had they heard him groan? He must have been dropped to the ground like a bushel of grain from the shoulder of whatever Orc had been carrying him. But had they heard his immediate mews of distress? Had they seen his squirms on the ground, small as they had been? His heart crawled up his throat at the possibility they had and his eyes swiveled furiously from Orc to Orc, barely breathing.

Nothing happened. Unless…no. It seemed like no one had realized yet that he was, in fact, awake. Several quick beats of his heart passed, but nothing happened to suggest that they knew he was conscious. Maitimo relaxed a little bit, his breaths coming a little slower now at that small relief, though he still did not so much as lift a finger. Valar, he did not care about the tremors that still made his muscles bunch up. He had been fortunate that his initial stirrings had gone unnoticed, curse it all! Even the smallest shift of a leg or arm could destroy the illusion he unwittingly woke with. But…no. Nothing. The Orcs were loitering around as if this were just a resting period of some sort. And he himself had just been an empty weight for them to dispose of during the break. That was good. He was still unconscious to them. Good. He relaxed a little bit further, willing the tension to sidle out of his limbs.

"Ah. Look who awakens."

Maitimo stiffened, closing his eyes in impending dread at that familiar voice. But he opened them again immediately, snapping his eyes over to the right. He almost cried out at the agony that split his skull as his head turned with the quick movement, but he forced that distraction to the wayside. He concentrated his gaze on the Orc-speaker, his body now growing still for a whole new reason.

The Orc-speaker looked down at him. There was no particular expression on his face, but by the unperturbed set of his shoulders and the almost lackadaisical posture of his broad body, he was content. Very content.

Maitimo did not move.

The Orc-speaker, however, did.

He stiffened further as the Orc-speaker crouched down beside him, dust stirring beneath his feet as he snapped his hand out. Maitimo flinched away at its sudden proximity before he could stop himself. Not that it mattered because those vice-like fingers closed the distance and clamped down on his head. A putrid stench overwhelmed his nostrils and he only just caught his breath before his head was being turned, and he could feel the clammy coldness of the Orc-speaker's fingers even through the thickness of his hair. He continued to watch the Orc-speaker from the corner of his eye, every sense on alert, but the Orc-speaker appeared to be merely inspecting him and Maitimo belatedly realized that this…thing of Moringotto was examining his head wound.

A part of his mind screamed to lash out and fight the Orc-speaker's blatant show of dominance, but he could not move.

The Orc-speaker grunted, releasing his head with a slight shove. "It is well you have no severe concussion," he finally said. Maitimo only just stopped from cringing. Valar, the guttural quality of his voice was so atrocious that he could barely distinguish the words. "My Master was rather particular of your wellbeing. How honored you must feel."

Maitimo opened his mouth to speak, a vile retort springing to his lips, but as soon as the first rasps came from his voice, a sharp pain erupted along his neck, devastating enough to snap his mouth shut. Damn his idiocy, how could he have forgotten about his tender throat? His hands flew to his neck in a vain attempt to lessen the soreness as he blearily recalled the brutal suffocation by the beast now crouching so insouciantly over him.

The beast that was now observing where his hands had flown. The ghost of a smirk crossed his mouth. The Orc-speaker reached out again, running a single digit along the black and blue discoloration he knew ringed his neck. He rose to a stand, head cocked to the side. "My Master bid me deliver you functional," he explained rather glibly. "He spoke naught of you being delivered flawless."

Before Maitimo could even think of a response to that, a louder than normal growl came from his left.

He had no idea what happened next.

All the Orcs in the vicinity seemed to realize in unison that he was finally awake. Whether they came to that conclusion because their leader was talking to him or because of whatever twisted logic Orcs existed with, Maitimo could not guess. All he knew was that there was a pause in the air before a countless number of Orcs charged him at once. Eyes widening in shock, he shifted to spring to his feet. He did not have the slightest idea just what he would do, but survival instinct could not have been flaming hotter.

But mid-rise, he felt a hand on his back, fingers mercilessly clutching a fistful of his hair and shirt, and then he found himself suddenly flying backwards through the air, feet and all. Only a brief moment passed when he was suspended in air before landing on his side, crashing against the unyielding apexes of small rocks that lay in front of one of the larger boulders. The impact made his breath explode out of his lungs and he gasped for air as he rolled on his back, anchoring himself up on an elbow to at least act in some fashion, to do something, anything! But he froze at the sight he was met with.

The Orc-speaker stood with his broad back to Maitimo, stood between him and a ring of restless Orcs. Shouts and roars echoed along the rocks. Maitimo cringed openly this time, turning his face in against his arm as he felt his fëa twist at the hellacious sound of whatever black speech they exchanged. He convulsed, his whole body shaking and his elbow almost slipping to send him falling prostrate to the ground again. But he could not help turning his head back to watch them, too terrified by far to turn his attention elsewhere. But the shouting went on, the Orc-speaker shouting back. The many Orcs shuffled their feet, faces wreathed in a very real hate, but they came no closer to him. Maitimo eyebrows drew together. What in the name of Arda was happening?

An Orc to the left suddenly leapt forward. The Orc-speaker lunged for him, growling out some more of that speech as he bared his teeth at the Orc. The axe-bearing Orc retreated, snarling in clear anger. Maitimo stared, almost gawking. The Orc-speaker was shielding him from the Orcs, he realized. He looked on, expression unreadable, wholly nonplussed. Why?

Deliver you functional. The Orc-speaker's last words echoed in his mind. He continued to stare as true understanding of their import dawned on him.

Oh Valar….

Swiftly enough, the throng of Orcs simmered down in their evident desire to charge him and do only the Valar knew what to him. They dispersed, one by one, returning to whatever thing they were doing prior to his waking up. But Maitimo could still hear them and he did not really know if he would rather see them with his eyes than leave his imagination free to conjure whatever visualization the many noises inspired.

The Orc-speaker remained where he stood for a while longer, until the majority of Orcs once again disappeared into the shadows. Then he turned, yellow eyes alighting on Maitimo and Maitimo tensed in anticipation. He could no longer deny it. The Orc-speaker's gaze was rapt and fell, yes, but there was a fey quality to it that could belong to nothing but a Maia and any remaining doubt, if there was one, that this creature was of that higher Order vanished. It was that distinctive raw power, that raw darkness that was emanating from the Orc-speaker and that was now ailing his fëa all over again. By Aulë, it was a curious thing that the Orc-speaker did not even bother to conceal it. Why did he not? Did he want Maitimo to be aware of what he actually was? To know of his true origins? Or did he simply not care? Or did it simply not matter anymore? Maitimo suppressed a scoff. The latter rang to be the most true because, great Manwë, even if Maitimo became aware of any and all secrets kept from the Elves, he was powerless to do anything with them, just as there was absolutely nothing he could do with knowing the Orc-speaker was a Maia. He could have shaken his head. It actually, really did not matter.

The Orc-speaker came near, his steps slow and measured and his head was tilted partly to the side. His utter silence was a contrast to the Orcs grumbling away and Maitimo felt himself tense up even further, growing more and more disturbed by it. The Orc-speaker stopped at Maitimo's feet, eyes narrowing in a dangerous, yet almost curious stare.

"Nelyafinwë, King to Be," he guttered out, and Maitimo nearly flinched at the ghastly mangling of his own name again. Valar, no Firstborn speech was meant to be voiced by such foul tongues! "Of you my Master has taught me enough, so hear me if you believe yourself wise indeed. Perceive my words as pity, if it gladdens you, however well-deserved you are of all to come." He crouched down once more, the thrust of his sword scraping against the gravel, but he made no move to touch Maitimo. The fell light in his eyes, however, grew more intense and Maitimo was at pains to hold that gaze, but he would not break it. Refused to. The Orc-speaker paused as though waiting for a response, but Maitimo had nothing to say. Even if he could find the will to speak, he did not even know what he would say. He watched him warily.

"Now listen well," the Orc-speaker went on. "Your task is simple: come quietly. If you even think of running or be the cause of any such grievance, I will gladly swing the poll of an axe into your instep. But you see, past evidence has taught us that you Elves seem to believe fighting your fate will free you from it." The cords of muscle rippled along his forearms as he clenched his fists, and he gave what could be misconstrued as a smile. "So." The Orc-speaker stood. "Allow me to spare you the burden of such a misunderstanding."

So quick he was a blur, the Orc-speaker lunged down and grabbed hold of him. Maitimo threw up his hands to ward him off, but the Orc-speaker flicked them aside with an ease not found in any Orc, hauling Maitimo gracelessly to his feet with a clenched fist on both his shirt and the front of his leggings. With such ease as if he were weightless, the Orc-speaker bodily threw him and Maitimo felt himself sailing sideways through the air with such speed and force that when he crashed solidly against the wall of rock behind him, the air was ripped from his lungs and he felt a rib give way. He fell in a mass of limbs back onto the rock bed and lay there motionless as pain exploded across his body, his mouth open in a silent cry. He cringed, writhing feebly as he tried to support the pulsing excruciation on his right, but his bound hands prevented it. He gasped, but the inhale only exacerbated the rib and he cringed further. Valar. He had literally felt the rib break.

The Orc-speaker regarded him dispassionately, head once again cocked to the side. "Cannot run if you cannot breathe. Yes, you would have found little success in trying to flee even if wholly well and unhindered, but why borrow trouble?"

The Orc-speaker turned around and left. Maitimo heard his receding footsteps scrape against the ground but did not even bother to see where he went, could not find it within him to care. That swine had tossed him against the boulder with just the correct force and at just the correct angle to crack the middle rib, one of the ones that expanded the most when breathing. His face was sour as he struggled to sit up. He had to alter his earlier postulating. If there had been any doubt remaining as to the Orc-speaker's identity in the Order of Eä, now it was completely gone. No Orc was capable of that amount of such casual strength. Valar, no Elf was capable of it! He collapsed against the face of the boulder as he finally managed to angle himself upright, gasping painfully for air. He let himself go limp as a wave of exhaustion washed over him.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the rock as he concentrated on lessening the pain that shot through his right side with even the smallest breath. Wonderful. Something now to keep in time with his fluttering heart and pounding head. He clenched and unclenched his jaw, his brows drawing close together and eyes squeezing shut tighter. Gradually but far too slowly, the pain began to recede, though not nearly enough. But in replacement of it, he immediately began to register the other ailments his body was trying to scream at his brain. Had been screaming for a while now, he realized.

Landing on it twice now, he was surprised the shingles of the rock bed had not punctured his skin. But Aulë help him, it felt as though someone had slammed the broadside of a rake several times over his flesh. His fingers were tingling from the limited circulation of blood and Maitimo could only imagine with impending dismay the burning pain that would encompass both hands when the flow of blood came freely once more. Whenever that would be. He twisted in the tight restraints at the thought, stopping with a wince at the sudden fiery twinge that shot up his left wrist. Oh. He sighed sullenly, belatedly remembering how he had ripped his wrist from the fastenings of his shield when they had pinned it down, how the tendons and muscles had pulled further than they were meant to as a result. But he hurt everywhere! Deep in his right shoulder, in several places along his back, and his whole right side felt as though he had been slammed into by a battering ram, nevermind the newly cracked rib. He tried to piece together how he had accrued so many hurts, what had caused them, but his head only pounded harder in response. It was all such a blur, but the last vestiges he recalled were the broken images of a fiendish face above him, blackness encroaching on his vision and unyielding fingers wrapped around his neck. Valar, it was no wonder his throat hurt. It had barely been all of –

Where was his armor?

The thought came abruptly and he snapped his eyes open, looking down at himself with a frown. He had been stripped of his armor. Every single piece of it. He knew he should have registered that immediately once awareness returned to his brain, but he only now just comprehended that he had been left in only a single layer of clothing: leggings and his gambeson, both streaked with filth and spotted heavily with blood, only it was so dark he could not precisely tell whether the hardened blood was of black or red hue. Probably red, and most certainly his own. It felt like it, at least. Even his belt and boots had been removed, leaving him barefoot and exposed to whatever merciless ground he might be made to walk on.

His heart began to beat wildly again as the reality of his situation made itself fully known to him. He did not know why the realization that he had been stripped of his armor and even most of his apparel made it real for him, but it did.

Great Manwë, what was he going to do? He looked around quickly, trying to see into the impenetrable shadows, where the noises of the Orcs increased and grew louder. But he did not have the slightest notion as to where the Orc-speaker had disappeared to. How many were there? How many surrounded him while he lay bound and stripped at the base of a rock?

He shook himself, forcibly directing his eyes back to his hands. No. He just needed to calm himself.

Think. Just think. He had to think. But oh Valar and damn it all to the Void, what was he going to do!

He closed his eyes again, absently pressing his hands against his chest. He could not breathe. He drew in short, quick gulps of air, but he could not breathe! As though someone had wrapped a fastening around his chest and tightened it like a vice. Calm yourself! He almost gave into the temptation to knock his head against the rock behind him, but he thankfully had enough wits left to know how unwise that would have been. He clenched his fists, focusing on the painful impressions of his nails into his palms. He forced himself to draw in a deep breath and to release it just as slowly. It did nothing and he did it again, and though it came out shuddering, he felt his galloping heart begin to slow. Just a little. But he no longer heard the pounding rushes of blood in his ears and it was enough to concentrate on taking several more steadying breaths. He drew his knees up to his chest, resting his bound wrists against his thighs.

Think. Just think.

He had been taken by the Orcs. By Moringotto. That much was clear. But what in the name of all that was blessed and holy had happened to result in that? How had he missed the reality of just how overwhelming a force Moringotto had sent? How had he been blinded to it until at last facing a mere 'delegation' of twenty? He had been so careful. So damningly adamant to turn tail and flee back across the steppes at the merest suggestion of culpability! A crippling shame rose up and this time he did bang his head against the rock, uncaring of the aggravation it caused his skull. How had he missed it?

And that was it, he realized. That was just it: He should not have missed it. Not when it was Orcs they were dealing with. These foes of the Enemy did not march absent of an evil presence, and it was a resonance so fey and so disturbingly dark that it was impossible to feel nothing when in their proximity. It had been one of the reasons why they had been capable of hunting down nearly every Orc after the assault of Moringotto when his hordes had fled in terror back across the mountains. And during their marching to the place appointed, all the senses of over sixty Elves had been overly high. And he himself knew what to sense, knew the telltale residue left in the air by those foul beasts of Moringotto. He should not have missed it, so it only stood to reason that there was an actual explanation as to why he had.

It had all fallen into chaos so quickly, but Maitimo forced himself to recall the details before that chaos had unfolded. The score of Orcs with the Orc-speaker had been visible, very visible, but even as he had been concluding that no Silmaril had been among them, a horde of Orcs maybe three hundred strong had been coming up on their rear. More had filtered in from the sides once the Noldor engaged in battle, but he would have had to be deaf and dumb and drunk on the most potent of ales to have missed such a force behind them. But all the Elves had. Why? He tapped the back of his head against the rock again. Come now, think. More details came to the forefront of his memory and Maitimo felt a sudden rush of disbelieving rage at one of them: The wind. He remembered observing earlier in the march how no cold wind blasting across the steppes ever came from the west or south, only from elsewhere, and it had been blowing fiercely from the northeast. And blowing without pause against the three score Noldor, neither sound nor scent of the horde of Orcs would have been able to reach them when being blown in the opposite direction. And the rolling thunder that had went on booming louder and longer the closer they approached the appointed place must have masked the march of their cadence. Orcs were not quiet. Maitimo quite doubted if they even knew how to be quiet. And the cadence of three hundred would have been a thunder on its own in the echoing emptiness of those plains. But due to the unrelenting thunder overhead, he had not thought twice of it.

But how had the Orcs bypassed their sweepers? Several Elves had been tasked to scout in the wake of their rearguard for the very exact purpose of spotting any foes encroaching on them from behind. Or had they been killed before the rest of them had even realized what was going on, shot down by Orc archers maybe? Whether that was the case or not, whether it was possible or not, the easiest explanation was the acknowledgement that the Orcs had equally benefited from the cover of darkness, the same advantage that he and the Noldor had planned to exploit. No torchlight had been among them and no starlight present to illuminate whatever weapons they bore. But still, that did not answer the question of how their acute sense had failed them entirely. Not sound or smell, but that actual presence on a more fëa-resonating level.

Maitimo frowned, glancing in the direction the Orc-speaker had disappeared to. Was it possible for one presence to overpower another? For the tangible energy exuded from a Maia to overtake what existed in a lesser being? Yes. Without question, yes. The Valar knew how often that had been proven in Valinor. But among the hordes of Moringotto? Maybe, maybe not. Yet why would it not? Moringotto was just as much a Vala as his Brethren were, so would it really be any different with his Maiar specifically? Maitimo remembered their first encounter with the Orc-speaker, how they had all been able to almost instantly recognize him as a Maia, despite all the deception he worked to weave around that simple truth. They had all immediately sensed that corona of raw darkness around him, not actual darkness but a true Darkness. That resonance had been present at the place appointed and powerfully so, but Maitimo had assumed it to come solely from the Orc-speaker. Had it not? And if so, had it truly been so potent and mighty as to encompass leagues of the steppes? Creature of lesser gen though he was, Maitimo still knew that was a stretch. The furrow in his brow deepened. Was it not? Or had it been the presence of the Valaraukar that had distorted any possible sensing of the Orcs behind them?

Maitimo's face cleared into an expression of alarm.

As subtly as he might but with far more trepidation than before, he cast his gaze around the clearing again. Where were the Valaraukar? There had been four of them. He peered everywhere, between the boulders and spiked rocks, trying to spot such monstrous forms, which should have stood out like nothing else in the dark. Those demons were wreathed in living flame and their dark fire stood out more prominently even than the stars during the night. Those things did not need to be looked for in order to be seen. He looked around again, the turning of his head more quick and rigid. Where had they gone? He could neither see nor sense them. But, he reflected darkly, he had not been able to see or sense them when ambushed by them either. Not until they had rent the ground wide and deep and popped up from the depths.

For that matter, how, by all the wonders of Arda, had they managed to burrow themselves into the earth in the first place? Were they burrowed underground again right now or had they really departed? Just what in the name of the Valar comprised this throng of Orcs to deliver him functional? And just what by the stars did that even mean?

Maitimo bowed his head again into his hands, fingers pulling painfully at the disheveled strands as anxiety started to flood him. His heart went galloping again in the space of a breath and his hands once more took on a perceptible tremble despite their fast bindings. Oh Eru, he cried, a crippling sense of wretchedness sweeping over him. What was he going to do?

No. Just think. He had to keep thinking.

But this time he kept his eyes firmly shut. Valar, why could his hands not be free so that he could cover his ears for even a moment? Anything to block out the Orcs' rumbles and caterwauling. Just think!

He had been taken captive by the Orcs. By Moringotto. He was alive. He had no idea why, dreaded to guess, but he was alive. He opened his eyes, casting a prudent look around the vicinity again. He could see shapes shifting in the shadows, accompanied by their many suspicious snarls and jarring discourse. But there was no Orc in sight, though he had no idea if any were, in fact, watching him. The Orc-speaker might have just retreated to the veil of a boulder's shadow to observe him for all he knew. The Orc-speaker had warned him against running, quite emphatically, but Maitimo doubted that shifting where he sat would count as that. And so he moved, cautiously and at a speed that would impress a turtle. He attempted to do it quietly, but the shingles constantly shifted and slid against each other beneath him and he grimaced with each obnoxiously loud scrape. He shifted against the face of the rock, leaning painfully on his elbow, hands held awkwardly in front him as he leaned to peer around the boulder into the northeast.

He knew he would see Thangorodrim, but his eyes widened nonetheless at just how much more massive it appeared to his eye. From how much nearer he was to those three towering peaks, it was clear he was being taken to Moringotto's Dwelling. But Valar….Just how tall were those three mountains that they would look so mighty and large when they still had some distance to travel to even reach them? Was sixteen leagues truthfully the equidistant mark between the mountains and Thangorodrim, or had that been just another weave of the web?

He turned his eyes from Thangorodrim, looking around him once more with no little apprehension. Just where was he in this accursed land? How close were they really to whatever place housed Moringotto? How long had he been unconscious? How far had they carried him? All he knew with certainty was that he was closer to the Enemy's lair. The sky was blacker, the gales thicker, and the relentless bursts of wind harsher and the scent of burnt sediment on the air stronger, which still flummoxed him to no end. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, but even then his sight was essentially useless. The only reason he had seen Thangorodrim was because of the red illumination in the dark clouds around it and the shots of lightning. No starlight. No torchlight. Only the soft glow of Light he himself emitted. The number of boulders and ominously spiked rock formations had increased in both size and haphazardness. But there was absolutely nothing to tell him where he might be in relation to the sixteen league mark. How could he hope to escape from this captivity if he did not have even an inkling of where he would escape to?

Maitimo retreated back around the boulder to once again lean against it, resting his head on it more gently this time. He closed his eyes, concentrating on quelling the sharp desperation that was steadily rising in his chest. He had to find a way out of here. He had to escape, the admonitions of the Orc-speaker be damned. But….His face twisted in despair. What was he going to do? An undetermined number of Orcs encircled him, his wrists were bound so tightly that they tingled with long-set numbness and were bound in coarse rope that was impossible to unfasten, he was stripped and left in only the barest of apparel, suffered a head wound and a broken rib and a damaged wrist and Valar knew what else, had no weapons, no inkling of his location, no knowledge on where he could flee to, and did not have the beginnings of an idea on how he could make himself disappear from these beasts in the first place. The tendrils of despair wormed in further. What was he going to do?

Approaching footsteps sounded over the Orc-noise.

Maitimo's eyes snapped open and he forced himself to sit upright, suppressing a wince at the pain of it. It was the Orc-speaker, an atrocious roar booming from his barrel of a chest out to the surrounding jumble of boulders. Maitimo watched him in alarm with barely a movement of his body, his eyes wary. The command was met by the response of increased yips and growls from the many Orcs, their shapes shifting with more activity in the darkness. It was fairly easy for Maitimo to guess just what that meant.

The Orc-speaker confirmed it anyway, stopping at his feet and not even slipping on the unstable shingles as he looked down at Maitimo. "Time to march."

Maitimo stared at him, taking a deep breath and readying himself for the soreness of his throat. "For how long was I unconscious?" His voice was nearly unrecognizable, raspy and broken with the syllables that were barely decipherable, and his neck burned with an ache at working the abused flesh.

The Orc-speaker returned the stare, head tilting to the side and eyes narrowing only just as a suspicious look flitted across his grotesque features, as though gauging whether or not such information would be of any benefit. Or at least that was what Maitimo assumed he was thinking. And he went to pains to keep his expression utterly unreadable. It was but an innocent question any might feel driven to ask.

The Orc-speaker did not so much as blink. "Four days."

Maitimo gave no visible reaction. He resisted the temptation to twist around again and estimate the nearness of that towering Thangorodrim, instead attempting to calculate in his mind just how much further along they must have traveled. He wanted to ascertain a bearing on just how vast these lands were, where he might be right now in particular if the Orcs traveled on a linear path akin to the one the Noldor had traversed. But really, unless he knew the speed by which the Orcs marched, he could not determine just how much further he had been carried across these steppes. Certainly, he knew how fast Orcs could run based on when he and his kin had hunted them down. But after the ambush, he was truly starting to question everything he had presumed about the Enemy.

Maitimo made sure none of his thoughts entered his face as he focused his attention back on the Orc-speaker, who seemed to be waiting for a response.

Maitimo nodded.

The Orc-speaker scoffed. "Then rise, for you will be carried."

Maitimo stared at him, nonplussed and not a little aghast. "I can walk," he rasped out harshly, stare turning into a glare.

The Orc-speaker scoffed again. "So?"

Maitimo then understood and his eyes slid away from that dastardly fiend as he clenched his jaw, fury blossoming hotly in his chest. Being carried on the shoulder of an Orc while fully conscious and perfectly able to traverse the ground on his own would be humiliating. He could have scoffed himself. Why was he even surprised?

The Orcs in the darkness stirred and came forth, clearly readied to march again. And Maitimo gritted his teeth as one came forward at a charge and grabbed hold of the knot of rope binding his hands. He was hefted upward in one pull, arms nearly jerked from their sockets at the merciless handling. He wanted to kick, to land whatever blows he may, but he forced himself to be limp.

Maybe, just maybe if they thought him weak or subservient enough, they would not think he was planning to flee.