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Chapter 11:
To Thangorodrim
The next time he was tossed to the ground, Maitimo was close to snapping. Fury of the darkest kind was churning in his chest and he clenched his jaw so hard that it hurt. He immediately rolled onto his back, ignoring the shingles that dug into his shoulder blades. Orc laughter erupted around him at his graceless tumble and he felt a strong hand grip his thigh, claws tearing into the fabric and he jerked away, swinging his other leg up and around to slam his shin into the Orc's neck. The Orc let out a furious roar at him, stumbling away, and Maitimo rolled in the opposite direction to spring lithely to his feet, also ignoring what felt like shards of glass digging into the beds of his feet.
His hands were still bound, but he held them up anyway, willing to swing both fists if it meant hitting someone. Oh, he was ready to snap a neck. To draw blood even if it meant savagely doing it with his own fingernails! His breath exploded out of him in harsh pants as he glared at the snarling Orc with hatred so intense that he was shaking. The Orc bared his bestial teeth, a gargling sound in his throat as, without warning, he charged at Maitimo. But Maitimo met the charge, rushing forward in a flurry of movement and turning his shoulder in to ram it into the Orc's face. Maitimo was taller than every brute here and he moved with enough speed and power that he knew his shoulder would crush in the Orc's face beyond recognition. Good swiving riddance!
The Orc slid to a halting stop before they could collide, shuffling back.
Maitimo stopped as well at the last moment, nearly stumbling at the loss of momentum. But he regained his footing, readying his stance to react in whatever way he needed in response to whatever provocation. But the Orc did not lunge for him again. Maitimo glared. The Orc's face was contorted with savagery, his eyes lit with fury, but he still would not attack. Maitimo's eyes slightly narrowed, gaze flicking from one Orc to the next of those who surrounded him in every direction. His hands balled into white-knuckled fists, but none of them moved. He spun back and forth, hair whipping over his shoulders, feet shifting across the ground and his breathing coming all the faster, but not one Orc moved to attack. They shuffled and snarled and clenched their fists, but not one of them took another step forward.
Come on, he silently urged, muscles flexing so hard in his arms that they started to cramp. Come on!
The Orcs did not advance, no matter how much he goaded them to. He caught several listing forward in the same way they did when he first awoke and they had all collectively attempted to tackle him. But every time Maitimo turned to face them they halted. No one moved. Maitimo watched, slowly spinning. Many eternal moments passed and he felt like screaming as he waited, turning and turning to meet the first tackle head on. And he would meet it. Just let him prove it! But no tackle came. One by one, the Orcs backed away, still roaring away in their apparently endless anger, but they disappeared into the curtain of darkness to do whatever they did during one of the rest periods. The Orc he kicked in the neck was the last to leave and Maitimo tensed up at the gleam in his eye. Maybe the creature really was going to finally attack him. But the Orc drew back too, glaring at Maitimo the whole way.
He watched them go, his eyebrows drawing deeply together. What, they were seriously not going to attack him? Why by the Valar not? It was not as if the Orc-speaker was around to stop them this time and Maitimo would be damned if he let the Orcs think he was not ready to beat the life out of every single one of them! Come on! They clearly wanted to tear him apart limb from limb, so why not try? Just try. Please go ahead and try it! Maitimo's lip faintly curled up as he looked away with a glower. Whatever. Orc logic was beyond his brain and, frankly, not worth the effort of any Elf to figure out. They could rot away in the darkness for all he cared. Just…whatever.
Maitimo let out a breath, deflating as he relaxed in his stance, the tension that had built up finally bleeding out. He almost shook from how tense he had been and felt unstable on his feet at the sudden loss of it. He stumbled back, shoulders hunched and eyes trained on where the Orc had disappeared. The sharp rocks digging into his bare feet made his steps tentative and when he finally neared a large stone that was tall enough to lean against, he lowered himself to the ground to hunker down next to it. His hands were still bound in front of him, so sitting was less elegant and more of a collapse when almost all the way down. But he sat there, leaning his head against the stone's surface with a sigh as his panting gradually stopped. He closed his eyes.
Damn it all. Just all of it.
There were still no means by which to measure the passage of Time, at least that Maitimo was aware of, but he still had enough inherent cognizance of it to know that a whole day had passed since he woke up from unconsciousness. And if his head was hurting before, his rib now made its agony clear at every possible moment, with every breath he drew and every heartbeat and every slight movement. The pain in his skull had subsided somewhat, much to his relief, though there was still a residual throbbing that would just not go away. But the jostling and careless treatment of his broken rib had made tears sting his eyes on more than one occasion. Yet Maitimo had suffered broken ribs before, so he knew how to tolerate it on some level. Knew what to expect. But that still did not stop the wound from intensifying the fury that was gradually accumulating in droves.
Maitimo shivered slightly at a harsh burst of wind, drawing his knees up to his chest and huddling against the rock to retain what warmth he could. He shivered a little harder. His fingers still twitched with the urge to do damage to that Orc, to any Orc, and he vaguely wondered if his heart had ever felt so black before. As if he really cared. He was again starting to appreciate why anger felt so good, why it felt even better the longer he could cling onto it. It was invigorating, so lively and it made his senses sharpen to an acute level. But now, left alone to his malediction and accursedly morbid thoughts, Maitimo had to fight the urge to break down and weep, something that was becoming more difficult with every passing hour. Brow puckering, he closed his eyes tighter, resting his cheek against the coarse rock.
All of the three score Noldor were dead.
He had no clue why that fact had not registered with him immediately when recollecting everything that had happened. How had it not? Especially at the time when he had been focusing exclusively on just how they had managed to be ambushed so efficaciously without anyone being the wiser? How had he wound up not even thinking twice of it? Just how? It was as though he had been disconnected from the reality of it all while trying to remember the details that had escaped him during the attack, but that was ridiculous. Even as he had been going over the skirmish's events, he still remembered seeing the Elves fall around him. Valar, he even vaguely began to recall the madness that had consumed him. But for some reason, the truth of the matter had not settled fully in his brain until this past day. Until he had become acutely aware that not one other Elf, even unconscious or maimed, not one was being hauled across these wastelands with him. He had not been actively looking at the start, but as league after league had passed under the Orcs' steadfast march, the thorough lack of Elven life around him had resonated so deeply within him that he was still shaken by the sharp realization that all the Elves with him had been slaughtered. Completely cut down and slaughtered.
The sounds of their screams now accompanied the afterimages of those Noldor falling. Cries abruptly cut short. Faces in the shadows of their helms contorted in pure panic. The shrill clashing of metal on metal, the noise of those clashes nearly overtaken by the Valaraukar's crackling fire. The pennant of the Star of Fëanáro clattering to the ground, its rich fabric soaked in blood. It all relentlessly swam in front of his eyes and the grief had faded over the course of the day, though only to the point where it was not quite so crippling.
But now he found his mind haunted with questions that would just not leave him alone. Whether any one of those Elves would have refused him in the first place if they had had the smallest inkling of what their end was going to be. Whether the Captains lamented being so steadfast in their trust of his judgment during that briefing in the fissure. Whether they would have still followed him even if they had not. Whether Sornion had regretted being so faithful in those final, life-ending moments. Sornion, his unwavering, obstinate and somewhat sarcastic companion that he had grown to have more respect for with every new month, and who had remained loyal to a fault even when bidden by his father to take up the command of the Nelyahossë. And who had clearly anticipated the possibility of being unable to retreat, and planning accordingly; Maitimo remembered how the Elves had encircled him at Sornion's quick command once the ambush was sprung. His Second had been on his flank and he had not seen him fall. He had been fighting right there next to him and he had not seen him fall! And Aráto….Valar, he had never spoken to him as he had intended to for over a week, and now he could not help but wonder if the Captain had died with an additional millstone of guilt around his neck. First for failing his father and now him, despite that it resulted in his own demise, and he even wondered if that had been a prolonged affair, wondered if all their deaths had been quick and painless as possible. But even from a logical standpoint he knew the improbableness of that, and that just made him want to curl into a ball even more.
It was also no help at all that he still had so many questions about the ambush itself that were unanswered and that now most certainly could never be answered. Or if they could, they would not be. Maitimo huffed, the side of his mouth twisting upward derisively. Not that obtaining any answers mattered. Oh no, not anymore. None of it would change or reverse the reality that they were all gone and the reality that it was all because of his bad judgment. Multiple bad judgments. They were dead, and these swiving Orcs had been gleeful of that fact the whole day. Tossing him around like a limp ragdoll to pass him from shoulder to shoulder for someone else to carry, aggravating his rib to the point of making him scream and exacerbating his head wound to the point where he would gladly take another blow to the head just to fall unconscious again. Valar, it was so mortifying, this being treated like a lumpy sack of grain. He could feel the flush of humiliation rise up his neck and into his cheeks just thinking about it. But he knew the Orc-speaker had done it for precisely that purpose.
Maitimo let out a sigh, one more grudging than weary. In retrospect, he knew he should be grateful that he was being carried instead of made to walk. His soles were far more calloused than the average Elf, but after observing the shingles and beds of grit flying beneath him for hours, he knew without a doubt that his bare feet would have been shredded apart into a bloodied mess within a matter of hours if he had been forced to run at the Orc's pace on this unforgiving ground.
He often wondered, had he been made to run, if the Orc-speaker would still have made him move on bloodied feet, which then led him to further wondering if the Orc-speaker ever considered actually making him walk in the first place. After all, there was no question so far that the Orc-speaker and the Orcs had no qualm in delivering pain by whatever means the Orc-speaker permitted them to, so it really stood to reason that ruining his feet would only please them more, right? Or maybe the Orc-speaker had actually considered that, knew what would happen if he made Maitimo run, and maybe figured that the humiliation was worse than such physical misery? Or maybe the thought had bypassed the Orc-speaker completely? After all, Maitimo would have wound up being carried anyway once his feet were ruined to the point of uselessness. Or perhaps the Orc-speaker really had not thought of it because he could have just slowed their march to make Maitimo crawl on hands and knees the rest of the way instead, which would have been far more humiliating. Or maybe the Orc-speaker was not allowed to slow their return to Thangorodrim or wherever, and so Maitimo would really had to have been carried after his feet were ruined. Or maybe the Orc-speaker knew that too and instead determined that it was more humiliating to be carried from the beginning so that he would not feel any sense of gratefulness for his feet being granted a reprieve, even if it meant shame as the price. Or so he thought. Or was he spouting nonsense? Of course not, for if the motives of Orcs were anything, they were always logical!
He was becoming sick of his own company.
He shivered slightly again and locks of hair fell over his shoulder as he curled up further against the rock. He grabbed the end lengths of his hair and absently worked them between his fingers. He wove the strands around his knuckles, however stiffly thanks to the long-set numbness. His hands were still bound and he knew his wrists must be discolored with deep bruises by now, and though his fingers tingled they still had not lost all feeling just yet. Which meant he could still play with his hair a while longer. He found himself doing it whenever the Orcs rested, only after he had unbound his hair – he had managed earlier on to free it from its restraints, which had proven a bit problematic with the bindings. But he had quickly learned that the Orcs liked to grab hold of him by his hair to tell him where to move, so he had undone the plaits. Not that the Orcs did not simply grab hold of his unbound hair instead now, but he supposed it had been worth the attempt.
He sighed again, more softly this time, absentmindedly relaxing against the rock more. Though the angle he sat at was not necessarily good for his rib, it was such a blissful relief for his skull at resting his head completely on the stone. He worried the hair faster between his fingers.
There was only one thing anymore that he could say with absolute certainty, and that was that the Orc-speaker had lied to him about how long he had been unconscious.
He became more aware of his body throughout the day, especially as the discomfort and pain only seemed to increase with each hour, and he knew it was impossible for his body to have become thinner as it now was in only four days. His stomach curdled with the long-set knots of intense hunger and his throat was parched, mouth taking on that feeling of cotton. But though he logically knew that the Orc-speaker must have been force-feeding him some kind of nourishment while unconscious based on how healthy he still felt, somehow making him drink water at the very least, the obvious loss of weight to his frame spoke for itself. It had to have been at least a week, maybe longer. He had never been in a similar predicament before, at least with being without food or water for an extended length of time, but he had lived long enough to know his own body better than most people could claim to know their own.
It was not as though he was flustered by the fact that the Orc-speaker had lied (he was becoming rather used to the concept, really). Just now he wondered why he bothered to lie in the first place. Four days, one week, two weeks, it was not like any amount of time improved his circumstances, so why lie? All it did was suggest that the appointed place had not been the actual midpoint of the steppes. Maitimo hesitated.
Was that why?
Where was the Orc-speaker anyway? It was not the first time the question had popped up in his mind, but the Orc-speaker had disappeared halfway through the day. During all those hours and on whatever Orc shoulder he was being carried, the Orc-speaker had always been nearby in the immediate vicinity, never more than twenty paces away, which was just about the distance he could see in the dark without a qualm. The darkness was still heavy and, if anything, it had grown thicker. But halfway through the march the Orc-speaker had run ahead and disappeared from view. Not that Maitimo lamented his absence. His loathing for the Orc-speaker had become so intense that simply no longer seeing him was a reprieve on its own. Maitimo had no clue why he had gone on ahead and could not again care less, but he had not seen the Orc-speaker since.
And after an additional nine hours of travel, he was beginning to wish he did. He realized he had been correct in his guess the previous day that the Orc-speaker had been warding off the Orcs from attacking him. Because ever since he vanished from sight, the Orcs were quicker to manhandle him, rougher in maneuvering him, more eager to paw at him and certainly more happy to talk to him in whatever vile speech they shot his way. More than once Maitimo believed they were on the verge of finishing the attack they had started yesterday, and he further wondered if it was only the Orc-speaker's order that was stopping them from killing him outright. It was easy to see they wanted to, but they held back. Despite that he was glad to see him gone, Maitimo felt in more danger without the Orc-speaker there.
He was not certain he liked that.
It was why he had undone his hair. Either that or have the roots of the strands ripped from his scalp. His gambeson was becoming more worn and torn with every hour and was taking up the appearance of the dirt and filth of their surroundings instead of its material's silver hue. He was hardly surprised at its crumbling state considering the abuse it took. A gambeson was woven specifically to be donned under armor to protect the skin from the armor's pinching, but his own was not padded. Woven thick with cotton, yes, but it served the double purpose of being worn as a garment on its own. And so he was cautious to do no further damage to it than the Orcs had already done. The wind was abnormally, icily cold and with each new tear in the fabric, however small, he could feel the tendrils seeping in to ghost across his skin. This garment and his leggings were all he had left, but each time the Orcs laid hands on him it seemed as though the clothes gained another year's wearing down. These lands only continued to grow colder, and if he managed to abscond from this company of Orcs he would have nothing to provide warmth for his body except, literally, the clothes on his back.
Because he had not stopped trying to formulate a way to escape. Despite that he had fairly well ruined feigning submissiveness when his anger went through the ceiling, he was still cautious to at least not give them any reason to assume he was plotting, especially the Orc-speaker. These Orcs may act dumber than a drunk chicken on occasion, but he had no doubt that that Orc-clad Maia would be the first to notice his intentions and the first to respond, and most likely respond without the hesitation that the Orcs appeared to have when it came to assaulting him. Before disappearing, the Orc-speaker had watched him as though he were just waiting for the slightest excuse to carry out his threat. It was one reason Maitimo was glad he was gone, even if it meant the Orcs reveling in their freedom to mistreat him more than before. So he made sure to be compliant, moving where he was forced to move and dealing with the burn of shame when he was carried. It helped knowing that all this would only last as long as it took him to devise a way to flee. The sooner he escaped, the sooner having to suffer this degradation would come to an end. An abrupt, wonderful end.
Maitimo's lips pressed together in a tight line, tension building in his shoulders. That thought did not bring him as much comfort as before anymore because now, almost twenty hours later, the edges of desperation were starting to impede on his focus. Because, for the life of him, he could not think of any way to actually run from here. Not even one! Maitimo cracked his eyes open, looking around without turning his head. A whole manner of curses sprung to his lips. If he had possessed no knowledge on where he was in Endórë before, it was truer now than ever.
They had entered a mountain range. The lands on this side of the sixteen league mark were heavily littered with enormous boulders, spiked rock and beds of tumbled stones. But it had definitely evolved into an actual range of mountains, something that anyone with a morsel of intelligence could tell. He remembered the conversation with his father after crossing the Ehtelë Sirion Pass for the first time, how they had discussed the visible Thangorodrim and Fëanáro had made the idle comment about another vast expanse of mountains existing out there. He had obviously been correct and, equally as obvious, they were entering the base of said mountains now. These mountains were small in retrospect, but if these actually were the skirt of the true mountains further ahead, Maitimo could only imagine how vast they were going to soon become, especially with how much more massive Thangorodrim loomed in the distance now. If he could even call it a distance anymore. Those three peaks might as well be right around the next bend, right beyond the next ridge. He often found himself staring at Thangorodrim, straining his eyes to see more detail, but it was still too dark.
That red in the skyline Aráto had remarked on was still there, though, even more prominent than before. Staring at it only made the sense of cataclysm in his gut grow greater, because really, what in all of Arda was causing that? Could cause that? What even was it? It was as if the features of Endórë were changing the further east he traveled just for the sole purpose of mocking him for ever believing they could be predictable, because really, how dare he think that?
Because that was another thing, these features of Endórë, and Maitimo did not know if he was more shaken or baffled by them. The steppes were gone, having transitioned into what could truly be called a wasteland. There was no grass, no shrubbery, no moisture on the air. Just rock, rock, and more rock, with a lot of gravel and sharp shingles thrown in for good measure. He had never felt air so dry and dismal that it really was no wonder no birds flew out here. And he had never seen soil more inhabitable for greenery, if it could even be called soil. A flush of burgeoning shame swept over him again at remembering the steppes. Valar, how could he have ever called those grasslands a wasteland? They did not even deserve to be compared to where he was now! So what if the steppes had been flat and quite featureless, absolutely boring on a good day? At least there had still been life out on those plains! Even something so simple as grass. Here there was nothing.
But again, it was not as if any of it mattered. Grass, rock, a field of daisies, nothing changed the fact that Maitimo had completely lost all sense of direction out here. With no starlight and absolutely no chance of it, and with how the Orcs went off their straight road to take a convoluted path through the mountainous terrain, Maitimo did not even know which way was north anymore. The constant battering of wind from the east was now broken up by the massifs and towering ridges, though it still surrounded them in maelstrom blasts. Maitimo watched it stir up plumes of dust even now from where he sat.
So. He had no wind to determine his direction. The only thing he did have was Thangorodrim. Constant, reliable Thangorodrim that was always the perfect marker since the Noldor went on this mad expedition. Thangorodrim was northeastward. That was all he knew. But even that view was being broken up by the crests and apices of these little mountains. On a sudden turn he might lay sight on Thangorodrim and then regain some sense of direction, but being carried as he was, he found himself looking at the ground more often than not. Valar, if there was any proof that roaming into wholly uncharted and unknown lands was perilous, this was it.
Because if he did actually manage to escape from this captivity by some miracle, what then would he do? Where would he go? Those tinges of desperation were growing stronger because right now, his best hope was to just blindly flee and run as fast as his feet could carry him, and to keep running even when they became pulverized by the merciless ground. His only hope then would be to lose the Orcs among the mountains' ridges, but was he proving himself a fool by even believing that he could? He almost snorted in contempt. Of course he was. Maitimo was lost within an hour thanks to whatever pattern the Orcs marched in, but it was clear by their steady pace that the Orcs knew this landscape. Or at least the Orc-speaker knew it. So how much of a chance would he have to stay ahead of their pursuit, let alone actually lose them in the crags? Was there any chance? And even if there was, even if the Orcs and the Orc-speaker were as clueless of this place as he was, even if he were successful in losing them…what then?
He had no food. He had no water. He had no means to obtain either. And if these wastelands indicated anything with how they grew more barren with every new league eastward, it would be stupidity at its finest to hope he might happily come across any resource along the way. These very real doubts did not lessen his desperation to escape, but he had to admit that staring into an unknown outcome was daunting. But, Maitimo darkly conceded, being dragged bound and helpless to Moringotto's Dwelling had to be far worse than whatever risk escaping into a desolate wilderness imposed. And that was another thing – the rope tied around his wrists.
Maitimo looked down at his hands, hair now thoroughly bunched in between the knuckles. The skin of his wrists peeking out from the highest coil of rope was an abrasive red, torn and blistering from how often he pulled and twisted to break free. But the rope only bit further into his skin and some areas on his wrists were beginning to bleed. The slickness of the blood made turning his wrists in the coils of rope smoother but, by all the wonders of Arda, he could not rip his hands from this damned rope for anything! He had thought to maybe contort his body to try and attack the knot with his teeth, but the knot was on the inside of the bindings. How the Orc-speaker had managed that, he had no idea, and it only added annoyance on top of the many other dark sentiments he was feeling towards him. He also thought to cut the rope. There were many sharp shingles littering the ground and if he could position himself with a proper rock at just the right angle, maybe clasped between his knees, he could saw through the rope. A sharp blade would be more ideal, but these Orcs were not that stupid. So a rock would have to do. But even that oh so brilliant plan was thwarted by the fact that he was constantly watched during a rest period. And though the Orc-speaker had warned him against running, Maitimo still had no desire to know what would happen if he were caught freeing his hands. That, and that this unnaturally coarse and hardened rope was just so damn impossible to shear!
He just had to think. Just think!
Even if he could free his hands, he would have to wait until he concocted a further plan to actually escape into the mountains. Because once the hands were free, he had to run. But he was running out of time. Every hour brought him closer to Thangorodrim, or to wherever it was Moringotto dwelled. Never before had he felt time move so fast and so slow.
But even as all these wild and frantic thoughts ran through his head, he found himself thinking about Makalaurë more than anything.
Maitimo began running the pads of his fingers along his hair again, more gently this time. Valar, he did not want to think about Makalaurë, did not have the time to! But like a stubborn itch he kept robbing his focus, curse him, because Maitimo could only imagine – dreaded to imagine what his brother must think of him right now. Or would think. Four days or a week, however long he figured he must have been unconscious, his brothers must be looking for his coming by now. If they had arranged for sentries to remain in the fissure to await his return, that is. Otherwise it would be extra days before they would grow suspicious of his lack of absence if they had returned to the Grey Fields.
But whether now or a few days out, Maitimo could not stop envisioning over and over again just how his brother's face would crumble, all of their faces, when they deduced what happened. He knew they would search. All of them. And even if they did not, he knew others would, especially Vëantur and Yánadur. But Maitimo could not even bear to think about it. He could easily predict their reaction when coming upon the massacre. He could only fathom how he himself would react if he went out searching for a delegation that never returned. If it had been any one of his brothers instead of him, and he was suddenly almost overwhelmingly relieved that he had been vehement to do this alone. But he could not think what Makalaurë would do when he searched for the body of his only older brother and never found it. He actually did not know what Makalaurë would do, what any of his brothers would do, and that terrified him on a wholly different level. Because he should know. He was their brother, curse it all! Yet he did not.
Valar, were any of his little brothers even ready for this? They had already lost their father and he was terrified that his own predicament would finally be one knife to the fëa too many. What would they do? What would any of them do once learning he had not actually died with the rest of them? They had not prepared for this possibility, had never imagined it. None of them had foreseen such an end! Death, yes. That risk they had all been willing to take on this venture, however much they prepared against it. But not for him to be solely taken captive. Great Manwë, why would they have thought that? It was ludicrous! But would his brothers come after him? By the timing alone and if he did not escape from these Orcs, he would most definitely arrive at the Enemy's Abode before any action could be taken. Maitimo wanted them to come. So badly. He wanted out of here! Valar, he wanted them to appear between the crags right now! But he seriously questioned what victory could be achieved, if any. Their lack of knowledge on how to defeat these Valaraukar was still the biggest chink in the Noldor's armor and until they deduced how to slay those demons of fire, they would always be at the bottom of the hill. Makalaurë knew that. His brothers knew that. He knew they did. But would they remember it, logic prevailing when all manner of it was being torn apart by every new disaster? And the problem of the Orc-speaker was an entirely new element to add into the pot.
Valar, what had he done?
He meant what he said by that mountain spring. Meant it! But Makalaurë was bound to recall the conversation – Maitimo would be surprised if he did not, but what would he think now? He had been sincere with what he said, curse it all! And equally sincere in his reasons for speaking it to Makalaurë, but Valar, he had never intended for his words to be some ill foretelling of what would happen. Would Makalaurë remember what he said but now believe that Maitimo had expected for this parley to have been folly all along? Even if he heeded his counsel by that spring, would Makalaurë now doubt the genuineness of his honesty in speaking it?
Maitimo closed his eyes again with a sigh, turning his face further in towards the rock. "Káno, forgive me."
The whispered words barely made it past his lips, immediately lost in the baying wind, but Maitimo could not be bothered to care at his lack of voice. His chest ached as his brother's gentle visage swam beneath closed eyelids, followed one after another by those of his siblings. He scoffed low in his throat. How would they look if they saw him huddled against a rock like a pathetic child hiding from the terrors nearby? What would they say if they knew he smelled the scent of ashes, as if from a recent fire? That he felt like he had been put under a grindstone? How would they act if subjected to the same efforts of the Orc-speaker to see their prisoner so demeaned? What would they do if faced with his own predicament?
Maitimo snorted in dark amusement at that, the chuckle sudden and brief and he was unsurprised at how hoarse the sound was. He knew what Tyelkormo would do, at least, and he wished he had some of his impetuous brother's nerve right now. He had already deduced several times over what each of them might do, but none of it would amount to anything unless some miraculous door to a way out of here opened up. Out of every scenario he had run through his head, even the most outrageous was just a passing fancy when he did not have even the slightest hint of what was before him or behind him or around him. Yes, he would first need to free his hands from this unyielding rope and yes, he would have to think of a way with whatever fickle luck he had left by which to break through this throng of Orcs that constantly encircled him. And yes, he would most likely have to beseech the mercy of Eru Himself not to be captured again. But he would also have to pray for the pity of Eru so that he would wise up in the ways of Endórë as intimately as the Moriquendi were in approximately one hour.
In fact….Maitimo opened his eyes, this time with purpose.
Casting a cautious glance around again, he uncurled from the ball he had retreated into, the movements slow and quiet – he could not afford to arouse suspicion now. The Orcs were swathed by the shadows, as they always were, but the noise level of their cackles and growls did not change, which Maitimo hoped indicated that he was going unnoticed because so far, whenever they focused on him, their noise level went up. Right now it was steady, so Maitimo took that as a good sign and moved further. Not rising from the ground, he shifted around the wide rock, elbows digging painfully into the shingles until he came to the other side. He lifted his eyes, quickly finding the massive silhouette of Thangorodrim. Even though clouded by a stirred dust, that ominous haze of red lining the underside of the clouds made those three peaks even more prominent.
So. That way was east. Or eastward. Northeast? No. East. It was east at the very least. He looked to the right with a twist of his neck. He could see absolutely nothing to the south. Whatever land was out there was shrouded in darkness and blocked by the gradually heightening mountains. He could not retrace his steps west; far too long a journey to ever hope to survive. Nothing good could lie in the north that was not a frore netherworld, and all the wonders of Eä could not make him willingly take a step further into the east. As of now, south was the most sensible direction to head, yet it was the one point of the compass he knew the least about. In essence, nothing. Would it be another thirty leagues of empty plains just as it had been coming from the Ehtelë Sirion Pass? Or more, Valar forbid? Or would it be nothing but more wastelands like what he was traveling now? Or would there be some semblance of life beyond a league or two of travel, be it a dying brook or plant?
His neck was burning with strain and he sighed shortly, clenching his jaw as he dropped his head. Even a break in the clouds on the horizon would be encouraging. He looked south once more, then to Thangorodrim and back again. His eyes narrowed, swiveling back to the three peaks. He began to crawl again, digging his elbows into the shingles to haul his body forward. If he could just–
He gasped, biting off a cry as a sheer edge of a stone pierced into the side of his elbow. He felt the hot trickle of blood fall down his skin but otherwise ignored it as he kept shuffling forward, his back towards the rock. He came to a stop a short distance later, grimacing as his hair caught beneath his body and pulled, but he kept his eyes angled up towards the skies. If he could just determine the pattern of the clouds, maybe he could garner which way was best to go. The direction of the high winds was sometimes a telltale sign of the land features they hailed from. But it was too dark. He could barely make out Thangorodrim, let alone the movement of the gales above it. And all he could see of the gales was that they were thick, black, and churning. If they moved in any course it was at the pace of a snail, the complete opposite of the wind that presently battered at him from every seeming direction. He pursed his lips in mild disgust. It was a real pity that not even the sky could go untouched by Moringotto.
"Nôr."
Maitimo jumped slightly at the unexpected sound and whipped around, startled eyes flying back and forth. An Orc had come in from the pervading darkness, several of them, but the one who spoke the one word had a look of glee aimed at him. The beast's axe was in hand, fist clenching and unclenching the haft. Maitimo realized that it was the same Orc he had kicked and that the fiend was huffing, the rumbling of the other Orcs nearly drowning out the harsh breaths. "Nôr," he grunted again. "De nôr!" And then he turned to his fellows, that black speech that felt like strikes to Maitimo's very fëa booming from his throat. The other Orcs echoed the shouts, louder and louder.
Maitimo stared at him, at all of them, blood draining from his face. He recognized those two simple Mithrimin words, knew that the Orc was saying something about him and running in the same sentence. Which was not good no matter which way he turned it. On the one hand, Yánadur had been correct in his supposition that if the Orcs could converse at all it would be in the speech of the Moriquendi, horrendously fragmented on their tongues. On the other hand….Maitimo shook his head frantically, his heart crawling up his throat. "No," he forced out. He knew that much in Mithrimin. "I no run!"
The Orc laughed uproariously. He approached, hefting the axe higher, and Maitimo shifted in a frenzy to spring to his feet again. But before he could do more than just sit up at a painful angle, a loud roar came from his right and Maitimo snapped his head around. His eyes widened in alarm. The Orcs looked in the same direction, the axe-bearer stumbling to a halt and Maitimo's breath caught in his throat. Oh Valar, no. Now what?
Seemingly from nowhere the Orc-speaker appeared out from the assembly of Orcs, marching agitatedly not towards Maitimo, to his slight wonder, but towards that one wielding the axe. He did not even glance at Maitimo. Maitimo froze where he leaned on an elbow, watching them go back and forth with a wide-eyed stare. He could not even begin to imagine what they were saying, or rather shouting like untamed beasts. Shout and roar and yap. It went on and on, the Orc-speaker the loudest of them all, and Maitimo had absolutely no idea what to do. Just what could he do? More Orcs were invading the space, probably summoned by the racket, and his heart pounded harder against his ribs as every viable pathway of the scrawl of mountain paths were closed off, one by one. He cringed as the Orcish speech increased, the assault on his ears literally making them ache. He reached up to plug them, straining against the rope. It was a wonder they were not yet bleeding!
Before he could even think of how to react, the Orc-speaker suddenly spun around on his heel, yellow eyes alighting on him. He barked one more time at the Orc with the axe and said Orc retreated from him, hateful displeasure plain on his face.
Faced now with the Orc-speaker, Maitimo switched to Quenya. "I do not care about the witless minds of your jackals," he nearly shouted, the anger that boiled just beneath the surface making his voice shake. "You know I am not running!"
The Orc-speaker did not remove his eyes from Maitimo as he reached behind him and snatched the war-axe from the Orc's hand, reversing the haft so that the broad blade was facing up and the poll of the axe down. "Yes, just as I know well that you are thinking about it." He cocked his head, a derisive lilt to his voice. "Heeded you not my words? I told you plainly: you Elves are predictable. None but one of a maimed mind would content himself to be borne to the core of Elven bane. And you, Your Majesty, are proven the fool if you believe me to be taken by this pitiful compliance." He came closer, almost at a leisurely pace. "Tell me. When did you plan to flee?"
Maitimo glared at him, the anger rising until he shook with it, and he caught several Orcs behind the Orc-speaker stepping back at whatever they saw in his face.
But the Orc-speaker just smiled a mocking smile. "Exactly." He barked a sudden order to the surrounding Orcs and his eyes remained steadily on Maitimo as several Orcs began to shuffle and move, their whines and cackles rising to a fevered pitch.
A wave of dread overcame Maitimo and survival instinct flared to life immediately as several Orcs lunged at him, this time with permission. Bound as he was, he fought with viciousness so fierce and desperate that the Orcs were warded off at first. But they increased their efforts and though he fought them off by whatever measures he could, whether kicking or slamming his elbows or both fists or the back of his head, there were too many of them. Too many hands that grabbed hold of his arms to pin them at his sides and grabbed fistfuls of hair to yank his head back and immobilize him. Too many that crushed him with their weight until his desperate movements were rendered useless. A pair of arms – or two of them, he could not tell – wrapped around him and squeezed with a vice-like grip, expelling the air from his lungs and making his rib feel like it was breaking all over again. He felt his legs being grabbed, several hands around his left ankle as it was stretched flat to the ground and held there immovable.
Maitimo's breath came in panicked gasps, his heart fluttering like a caged bird. He gritted his teeth and continued to struggle against their unyielding holds as the Orc-speaker closed the last few steps between them. Head tilted back at the painful angle it was, he could only see him marginally, but he saw him. Saw him finally move his sallow eyes from Maitimo's own gaze to his foot. Saw him heft the axe in its reversed grip.
Maitimo tensed, but when the poll of the axe-head came crashing against his instep, his vision flashed white, mouth opening as a scream was ripped from his throat.