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Chapter 12:
Angamando

There were no more rest periods. But there was not much more distance to go either. And they were now so far into these mountains that the prospect of escaping from them was becoming more laughable than solvable. He was lost. He was blind. And in all honesty, Maitimo's resolve to be vigilant and calculating about his situation was quickly wilting away.

Throughout another day's uninterrupted travel, Maitimo had been nearly delirious with pain, a pain that only grew more excruciating with each jolt of his body. Because he was once again carried by the Orcs, divided among them by the hour, and it now felt like every part of his body was scorched with fire at the special treatment of his captures, from the head to the rib to the foot. Valar, his foot! He knew he should be grateful that the Orc-speaker had not just hewn the limb with the axe, but curse him to the Void! He had screamed, but the pain had been so intense that any preservation of dignity could not have mattered less. Even now, another sixteen hours later, the memory was still fresh of feeling the ligaments around his ankle caving under the blow of the axe's poll and the small bones bruising. At least he assumed they were not broken. They felt like it, but he never had the opportunity to inspect his ankle. Carried as he was, he could only ever feel it pulse and ache, hour after hour without reprieve. His rib and head were nearly forgotten in face of it until the jolting of the Orcs' cadence reminded him that they existed and were just as fresh in their agony too.

But when the delirium had faded and he regained some manner of cognitive function, he had just enough wits remaining to belatedly realize that the Orcs, or more so the Orc-speaker was being careful not to do any permanent damage. Even though the head wound had toed the line well enough. But his rib had been fractured. Fractured, not cleanly broken. And now the ligaments and tendons around his ankle had been impaired, but not its small bones, or so he figured. His left wrist had been his own doing and the damage to his neck by the suffocation had undoubtedly been a last resort after so many Orcs continued to fail to subdue him and fall beneath his sword. But nothing permanent. Maybe they were saving it all for the pleasure of Moringotto, he thought bitterly.

And that was the crux of it.

Because now, Maitimo was shaking. Shaking hard. He thought he had been mortified before, but now sheer terror ate at him and made him tremble so fiercely that he could not even hold a pebble between his fingers. He did not know why he was so disconnected from so many realities like he had been with those wasted deaths of the Noldor, as though he were inspecting the severity of a hearth's fire through a window pane instead of feeling its heat. But now, with Thangorodrim so close that not even the surrounding mountains could disrupt the sight of it, the reality of his situation was becoming more than just some intellectual understanding.

It was becoming very real, very fast.

He was being taken to Moringotto. And that simple fact terrified him. For a brief moment he felt a smidgen of disgust at how transparent he knew he must be, especially under the relentless scrutiny of the Orc-speaker. But image after image flashed through his mind of what had to be awaiting him, and completely not knowing what to imagine might even be in store for him only made it worse. Suddenly, any obsession for what the Orc-speaker must think of him, what the Orcs must think of him, of how abased and derisory and so pitifully helpless he must look tied up…it all became very small. Moringotto was waiting, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about the fact that he was being delivered to him like a merchant's goods. Oh Valar, what was he going to do? What was he going to do! All of this horde be damned, why had he not run when he could! Damn the Orcs who would have given chase. Damn the risk of dying in the unknown land of the south. He should have run! Bound, bloodied, limping, starving, parched, destitute, gasping from a cracked rib, vision reeling from a wounded head, at least he would have been running! And now, even if he broke for it with all the Orcs' attention focused on him, his all but broken ankle ruined any chance of even hobbling along at a brisk walk, let alone running. The Orc-speaker might as well have just hacked his foot off for all the use it now gave him!

And that was another thing. The Orc-speaker. Valar, that swiving fiend now never left his sight, always nearby, always but a vile growl of an Orc away. Maitimo closed his eyes, his throat closing up as despair ate away at what little composure he had left. Damn it all, what was he going to do?

So lost in the misery of it all, he was completely taken by surprise when he was tossed to the ground. Again.

Maitimo grunted as the air was expelled from his lungs in a huff (again) and he grimaced as his rib flared to life. But with hands still bound in front of him, he could only embrace what he could of the area with his elbows. When awareness came back he realized that he could hear a lot more noise than the ceaseless racket of Orc. A lot more. He heard a deep, thunderous rumble and, of all things, what sounded like a bubbling, churning of liquid. Water? A fierce hope suddenly blossomed in his chest. But before the thought could complete itself, something soft and gentle touched his cheek. His eyes snapped open. He rolled on his side, head whipping back and forth as he looked around, trying to see what touched him, to see beyond the moving Orcs. Something was falling from the sky, something powdery and soft, almost delicate in its slow decent.

Snow? He gaped openly, incredulous. It fell all around him, coating his hands and blasting away under the bursts of hot wind. But he frowned as he studied the fine substance.

No, not snow. It could not be. The flakes' hues were variations of grey, not white, and he was quite aware that snow mixing with shimmering hot air was not exactly possible.

Maitimo blinked a few times before his eyes widened in mild surprise. He could see. He could actually, finally see. It was no longer dark. Or not as dark, he revised. A crimson glow emerged from the ground just a short distance away and, craning his neck, he stared aghast at the ravine in the ground in horrified wonder. It was a river.

But not of water. Morbid curiosity made him list forward more to peer over the sharp ledge of the rocky bank and his mouth dropped open as he froze. Liquid fire? What in the name of all that was blessed was this rent in the earth? The river was flowing, churning thickly as it went like sea waves trying to break the surface. The liquid itself sent Maitimo afterimages of his father at the forge, creating delicate glass from sand, melting the sand in the sweltering kiln and lifting it from the molten pool with a steel rod, yellow and orange liquid slowly dribbling from the mass compiled on the butt. That was what it reminded him of, but this molten fire was a deep red with shots of yellow breaking through, some dark, crusty sediment floating on top, and the warm hues reminded him of the Valaraukar. He glanced up at the sudden thought, briefly expecting that one of those flaming demons would now be nearby after having not seen them once since awaking.

But when he looked up, Maitimo found himself inadvertently gawking at the impressive sight of Thangorodrim. The surrounding mountains had only increased in height and density, but they now might as well have been a flat plain when measured next to those threefold peaks. They must have been over two leagues tall. Maitimo's eyes slowly rose, traveling up the impossible length of those equidistant mountains, and at their crown his eyes widened even further. They were smoking. They were actually smoking, great billows of thick, black fumes puffing in a slow climb up to the tempest above. Valar, this whole time his people had thought these three peaks simply towered so high as to pierce into low-riding gales, but they were belching gales themselves!

Putting one and one together, he then realized that the flakes falling from the sky were not snow, but ash. His face crumbled at the revelation. Those three smoking peaks were snowing ash! He did not know why it was such a desolate realization, but feeling the hot air on his face and smelling the putrid reek on the wind, he stared at Thangorodrim and only saw the lofty heights of the towers. Saw the sheer walls that craggily sloped down to a thunderous base. Saw the curving fence of great mountains stretching out from either side east and west.

Maitimo suddenly recalled the look on his father's face before Fëanáro had thrice cursed Moringotto and then breathed his last. He had been looking at Thangorodrim, and Maitimo now questioned just what it was his father had seen. The memory came unbidden of Fëanáro's casual suggestion that these three towers were a mockery of Manwë's mountain, how Aráto had echoed it, and right now Maitimo believed it more than ever. Thangorodrim was tall, and though Oiolossë was taller, Oiolossë numbered one while Thangorodrim numbered three. Oiolossë, garbed in a snow of holy white while wreathed with a celestial purity and Thangorodrim, black with slag and wreathed in clouds of ash. Oiolossë, a tower of awesome majesty and Thangorodrim, threefold towers of dismal oppression. Oiolossë, mighty and unconquerable and Thangorodrim, mighty and unconquerable.

Maitimo slowly shook his head, eyebrows puckering. Oh brothers, he thought desperately, oh damn this all, what have I done? Valar, Káno, think with your head and not your heart!

The land stretching out behind and in front of Thangorodrim only reinforced the prayer. Maitimo was rendered speechless by how vast the mountains were that stretched behind the three peaks. The only range of mountains he could recall being mightier in size were the Pelóri. Valar, did Moringotto have a replication for every wonder of the West in Endórë? The lesser mountains encircling the base of Thangorodrim had opened into a sparse plain and, just like the one in front of his face, there were several rivers of fire snaking across from the towers like a watershed. He could tell because the crimson glow of the molten substance lit the way across the plains, illuminating the filth and desolation that visibly spread southward for many leagues. And the glow of fire also lit the base of Thangorodrim and the small field there, the glow illuminating all the smoke and flurries of ash unto what was clearly a battlement at the front of the central tower. A battlement….

Boom!

Maitimo jerked hard, heart skipping a beat as his eyes flew to the sky. They widened in disbelief as he beheld the east-tower of Thangorodrim belching forth fire. Or not fire. It was spurting a liquid-like fire, much like the kind that ran in the river in front of him, and the substance spouted into the sky like a fountain, only to fall down along the black slope in fiery rivulets. Almost as if in response to that east-peak, two more mountaintops behind Thangorodrim exploded in the same manner with thunderous booms, spurting fire and lighting up the horizon.

Maitimo stared at those peaks still spouting in gurgling spurts, aghast and incredulous and not a little terrified. Just what…?

Someone snorted.

Maitimo whipped around, leaning on one elbow and growing still as he found himself again faced with the Orc-speaker, who stood only a few paces away. His arms were crossed, the dark vambraces and breastplate dancing with reflections of the river's orange fire, and he looked down at Maitimo with more than a little derision and what looked like a small smile playing at his mouth. The Orc-speaker's eyes traveled from Maitimo to the exploding peak of Thangorodrim and back. He snorted again. "Welcome to Angamando."

Maitimo did not respond, a shiver running down his spine at the name he gave this place. Dread sprouted as its meaning sunk in. Angamando….

He must have blanched because the Orc-speaker suddenly cackled at him. He unfolded his arms and moved to step away. "Across the river we must bear you without dropping you in, so wait here awhile until the bridge across the sarsens is made ready. And take joy in this respite, for the next will not be until you are kneeling in the Nethermost Hall at my Lord Melkor's feet."

Maitimo watched him, speechless and suddenly weary as the Orc-speaker turned and began relaying orders in his familiar bark. The Orc-host hastened to do whatever they were being told to do. Maitimo could swear there was an extra spring in their step, probably from returning to the only place they could call a home. But Maitimo just stared at the Orc-speaker's back, shaking his head as hot air blew strands of hair in his eyes.

"Who are you?" He hated the hopeless lilt to his voice but pressed on anyway. "Who? How is it you speak the tongue of my people when you never dwelt with my kin beneath the Trees?"

The Orc-speaker cut off his shouts, spinning back around and looking down to stare at him. He said nothing, just stared. Maitimo maintained the stare, paying no mind as the air between them shimmered with the scalding heat and the bursts of hot wind burned his skin, the only illumination coming from the river beside them. The Orc-speaker's eyes narrowed, as if he were debating whether or not to speak. Or so Maitimo thought. It was difficult to read Orc faces. They all looked the same.

The Orc-speaker just huffed once more, seeming to be amused by something, and Maitimo thought he was going to ignore the question completely and just walk away. But after another moment the Orc-speaker turned to him more fully, cocking his head with a look of indulgence. "Who am I?" he finally grunted. He stepped closer, unhurried and looking almost too relaxed. "Well, it is only courteous to enlighten the ignorant. I am one of a higher Theme than you. I am one who had naught of cowardice in challenging your Valar and their doctrine. One who they could not gaol during their siege of my Master's first Dwelling. One who nurtured you Quendi while your Valar frolicked in their hills and mansions. One who escaped into the World when bidden and returned from my sleep in the World when summoned to redelve this fortress that now makes you tremble like a child." He stopped a pace away, bending down to bring his face closer to Maitimo's own. He smiled, but it was far more dangerous than humored and there was actual anger in his eyes. "And I am one who does not need to be among you lofty Children to know the lofty sounds of your lofty tongue, for no infinite Being is caged by the finite mind of an Incarnate." He spat the word as though it were repulsive and reached out without warning, too fast for Maitimo to even know how he should react, and he pressed the pads of his fingers to Maitimo's forehead, giving a slight shove.

But not of his head. Before the Orc-speaker even withdrew his fingers, a vision invaded Maitimo's sight and his mind was swamped relentlessly with image after image. He could not stop a ragged scream as his mind felt like it was being scrubbed with shards of glass. Fire. Emptiness. Explosions of power, faces and bodies that appeared and disappeared too quickly. Clashings of white and silver. Lightning. None of the images tumbling over each other made sense. None even coalesced into a single scene, not when what he was seeing were colors and harsh movements in the dark hues. Valleys upheaving, mountains falling, plains renting, stars bursting….On and on it went. None of it made even the smallest sense, but Maitimo could not cast the vision away as much as he tried to.

But suddenly he saw something, and his breath caught as he froze in genuine surprise. It was brief, coming and going faster than a heartbeat, but he saw it. In all the chaos unfolding in this vision, there was a spike of light, a shot of incandescence that glimmered behind all the scenes and images, various hues dancing along it. And to his astonishment, Maitimo actually recognized it. Recognized the pattern that all the hues of the color prism lined up in, recognized their unique weave. Oromë, he realized with wonder. So often had he accompanied Tyelkormo in his youth to Oromë's Halls that the recognition clicked into place immediately. That was Oromë!

Before the significance of that revelation could compute, the vision dispersed. His sight cleared and Maitimo blinked several times, gasping for air. He had fallen to the ground again and now lay on his back, but the sharp rocks digging into his skin helped him regain focus more quickly. And as his eyes focused, he saw that the Orc-speaker was still standing above him, still cocking his head to the side, still a look of indulgence on his face as a haughty smile played at his mouth.

"See?" he went on. "Finite mind that you have, you can little process the full depth of a Being greater than you. Who am I, you ask? I am my lord's fervent servant." He bent down low again, the brief smile disappearing. "Soon you will come to learn how a name is nothing." He looked to his right, to where Maitimo could now see the Orcs were quite busy, and turned back, the smile resurfacing but devoid of any humor. "Ready to cross, O mighty Noldo?"

The Orc-speaker spun back around without waiting for an answer and strutted to where the Orcs had gathered at a specific point on the bank of the river. Or whatever this canal of fire-like liquid was called. But the ravine was over twenty paces wide and further down from where Maitimo was laying, the hot substance was crashing against pilasters of igneous rock that jutted up across the river without any pattern, all varying in heights and widths. The fiery liquid slushed against their walls, the black crust on top breaking apart to reveal an even brighter liquid of yellow beneath. But the Orcs were crawling over the sarsens, several staying put and gradually forming a pathway across the scattered rocks to the other side.

But Maitimo's eyes swiveled back to the retreating figure of the Orc-speaker of their own accord. All he could do was stare as his mind positively spun with the sudden revelation. Did the Orc-speaker know that he had gleaned who his previous Lord might have been? Maitimo had the strong feeling he had not because, by the Orc-speaker's wording alone, his finite mind was apparently too finite in ability to comprehend whatever infinite vision he had forced on him. But Maitimo was fully aware that if he had been a Moriquendë of these Valar-less Lands, or maybe even a lowly Amaneldë who was completely unfamiliar with the Valar and their unique presences, he would not have recognized that streak of light with all its revolving hues shooting through it at all. It was only because he knew Oromë intimately enough that he did. He was tempted to enquire further, to mention the name of Oromë if only to see what response it might provoke, but absolutely nothing made him want to indulge his curiosity right now, nothing at all. Utter disgust washed over him at how afraid he was, at how easily he shrunk away from the thought of testing the Orc-speaker's tolerance with him. But that terror was only growing all over again the longer he lay there and he felt himself beginning to shake once more. In part –

His foot!

The thought came abruptly and he twisted himself up on his elbow again, wincing with clenched teeth when his ribcage moved accordingly. With as little movement as possible he dragged his left leg up over the ground, making sure to not let his ankle scrape against the beds of rock, and let it fall when he could see it within the river's dim light. He grimaced at the sight of it. Swollen, deep bruising of blues and blacks and yellows, the discoloration traveling up his shin and all the way down to his toes, wrapping around to nearly touch his heel cord. And true enough, it felt like it looked.

Maitimo gave a slight, dismal shake of his head as he stared at it. This was bad. This was so bad. With a brief flash of mettle, or maybe stupidity, he attempted to bend it and almost cried out at the lancing pain that instantly shot through his foot and up his leg. He grabbed his thigh with both hands, desperate to grab something, and his fingers clamped down as he waited for the pain to subside. Only after a long while did it finally start to ease.

He sighed shakily, collapsing back to the ground and shutting his eyes. His heart was pounding.

Aulë help him, what was he going to do?

O = O = O

That respite by the riverside was the last occasion the Orc-speaker or any of the Orcs addressed him, at least directly. The following hour consisted of the painstaking and, to Maitimo, heart-palpitating endeavor of crossing this hell-wrought river. It was the first time during this captivity that he was actually relieved to be treated like a sack of grain. He had crossed mountains, river rapids, scaled cliffs, joined his audacious cousin in a whole manner of wild feats, helped raise six brothers, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of that liquescent fire running and churning beneath him, the air so hot that it felt like he was suspended above a chiliad of candles.

Crossing it should have been impossible, but it was obvious the Orcs had traversed this junction before because they leapt and climbed over the columns of rock in a haphazard but remembered pattern to the other side that Maitimo probably never would have figured out on his own. Up and down, back and forth, but the chasm was eventually bridged. And at another order from the Orc-speaker, he was hauled up from the ground and carried across. The crests of the rock columns were so narrow that he could not have stood on them along with the Orcs, even had his one foot not been lame. But even so, he was not entirely sanguine with the fact that it would take only one faulty hold of his body or a push for him to be dropped into the fiery river below. Images invaded his mind as to just what would happen if he did, what he would feel, and so he wound up spending the entire crossing taut as a bowstring, for once very sincere in his compliance to maneuver however the Orcs demanded he move, to just do whatever they said.

Though there was unquestionably a watershed of these rivers as far as Maitimo could see, the remainder of their march was fairly straightforward and they did not end up crossing another. At most, it was occasionally overstepping hot veins of that bright liquid that shot across the drear dale.

Except now he was walking. Walking on his own one and a half feet. Why the Orc-speaker made him walk now he had not the slightest idea and he was frankly tired of trying to dissect the Maia's motives when it never amounted to anything. Particularly when walking proved to be an exercise in futility since he could barely hobble along at a lumbering pace, a crippling pain shooting up his left leg with every small step. Valar, even the most minimal amount of weight on his left foot made him want to cry out! But he was moving so slowly that the Orcs eventually just grabbed him by both arms and hauled him across the land, wrenching him upward whenever he stumbled, which was more often than not with every step. His feet ended up being only a means to prevent himself from completely tripping and falling.

At least he could see well enough into the distance, a far cry from before. The whole expanse of land was illuminated from the winding fiery rivers and the black chasms that opened beside the road. But in this case Maitimo almost preferred blindness because now it was clear that their end destination was not far away at all. He could see it from here and dread overcame him so powerfully that it siphoned off his breathing.

There was a great gate at the foot of Thangorodrim's central tower, arching wide with a gapingly dark abyss. Right now it was open, yawning like a grinning portal and there was no light whatsoever within it. The cliffs surrounding the Gate might as well have been embattled walls for how they looked and Maitimo realized it was the very battlement he had seen from the fire-river, only this time he saw it up close. It, and the thousand feet of sheer precipice that was rearing above it. Monstrous shapes were moving on top of the wall – Maitimo could just see them peaking over the ramparts as they strolled along the wall-walk. And several of those shapes – Orcs, he recognized – many of them stopped to lean over the parapets, and he could hear their guttural shouting from here as they looked down on them. Not a few canines were up there too, looking more like wolves than hounds, yet still somehow so much more vicious and savage than a wolf. And huge. They reared up on their hind legs to peer over the blackened ramparts, their fangs visible despite how dark it was. The Gate looked so minuscule in size when measured against Thangorodrim, but as Maitimo was forced closer and closer he began to deduce that its perception was just as deceptive as Thangorodrim's was in those leagues of grasslands because this entrance to so-called Angamando was massive. Maitimo felt like he was being swallowed up as its impenetrable walls loomed over him, carved into the wall of the mountain.

His throat tightened up as he stared. Sweet Yavanna. Like the mansions of the Valar, like Taniquetil, like the thrones of the Máhanaxar, this battlement was a creation that was impossible for Incarnate hands to make, not when it carried that notable signature of a higher make. It was so obvious that Maitimo only had to look at it to know it.

But when finally within a furlong of the Gate, he faltered. More than faltered. He outright stumbled and came to a staggering halt on one foot when his fëa was randomly assaulted with a battering he had never faced before, that his body had never faced. Valar, what was that? Something was in front of the Great Gate, was pulsing from it. He could not see anything, but he felt it! It was as though he had crossed some invisible wall that now pulsated outwards again and again, and it was very reminiscent of that Darkness the Orc-speaker radiated. Only much worse. So, so much worse, even than all those Valaraukar.

What was that!

Maitimo gave a short, desperate shake of his head, trying to twist out of the grips on his arms. Just no! Not there! This was no darkness that came from a lack of light, but actual Darkness and it only increased the chaotic lawlessness that was trying to suffocate his fëa. Valar, there was such disharmony, such a raw disorder, as if everything unmeant for the Order of Arda was made manifest here and now in whatever it was that pulsated from the gaping entrance. Yes, it was the same undercurrent sensed by all the Noldor in the Orc-speaker, in the Valaraukar. He knew it was. But this was still different, still so unfathomably worse!

It was more impactful than the poll of the axe had been on his foot.

Maitimo fought against the Orcs, fought and struggled as hard as could, ignoring how his wounds flared to life in result. Damn his cowardice, he should have done so in the beginning! Just no! After much grappling and yanking and a solid fist or three to an Orc's face, he managed to dislodge the Orcs from his arms and spun on his one good foot to run. Just run, damn it all!

But the Orc-speaker was there impossibly fast, blocking his path. Unlike the Orcs, he did not seem angry, not even irritated. But despite his calm composure, he still collided against Maitimo with all of his weight and grabbed a fistful of his hair, separating more than a few from his scalp. Maitimo fought against the hold, but his bad foot made it impossible to find any leverage, and the Orc-speaker forced him headlong into the entrance's gaping mouth and into the Dwelling of their Master.

He was plunged into utter blackness.

Maitimo's breathing hiked up in speed and his eyes grew wide, but he could see nothing. Not a thing. Not even those slight shifts in the shadows he glimpsed during the trek here. He only heard the noise and clamor of the Orcs surrounding him, their feet pounding on the stone ground. But the Orc-speaker, who had yet to release his hair, barked another order in that Orc-speech. He heard the distinct sound of flint and steel, of sparks coming to life. Only a couple moments later, a torch was flaming brightly a few paces away.

He blinked painfully several times, but his eyes had no time to adjust because the Orcs were suddenly hauling him along even more quickly, as if the fresh light meant that he now had no excuse to slow down or something. But Maitimo's gaze kept flicking back to the blazing torch and he grew more baffled with every new step. Baffled as to why they bothered lighting a torch at all when they had never done so before. It could only be for his benefit, especially when he considered the outstanding evidence there had been throughout this whole dismally dark journey that Orcs could see perfectly without a smidgen of light. So the torch could only be for him, not to mention that it was also carried in his proximity instead of at the van of the Orc-host, but why?

Maitimo's postulations were quickly distracted as, when his eyes fully adjusted, he began to truly see his surroundings in what little the light revealed. And he found himself whipping his head back and forth, despite the Orc-speaker's brutal grip on his hair, taking in as much detail as he could of what was clearly a tunnel. No, a Tunnel, and a great one. Like the battlement of the Great Gate, the Tunnel's flawless excavation was most definitely an impossible feat for hands of even the Noldor's caliber. Higher make. Again. But it was eerily empty of any Orc or other creature, though if that was significant or not Maitimo had no clue. Or maybe there were beasts inhabiting the Tunnel further along. He could only see as far as the torchlight, but what he could see was clear enough. Of the same coarse slag of Thangorodrim, the Tunnel's arching walls soared upward to a height loftier than the Two Trees had even towered, and its flat road stretched at least fifty paces wide. The torchlight danced on the black walls, the shadows of the Orc-host looming overhead.

The Tunnel seemed to have no end. And even the smallest noise of the Orcs, every scrape of their iron-shod feet and snort and clang of armor, all of it was magnified in the reverberating emptiness.

Maitimo's body was so taut with tension that he was shaking. He tried to resist every step, now panting from the exhaustion of it, but the several grips on his arms and the fist in his hair kept him moving forward. But strangely enough, the galloping of his heart and frantic racing of his mind began to slow and calm as they kept walking. Just kept walking. The continuous sight of the same walls and same road and same surroundings broke up any sense of measurement of how far they walked. Not that that intuition was very comforting either.

After going what must have been over a league deep into the Tunnel, Maitimo was shaken from his daze as he was suddenly jolted to the left, nearly stumbling all over again, but the hand in his hair kept him upright. He looked around, eyes focusing on a crevice in the wall. He would not have thought twice of the crevice, would not have even spotted it to begin with. There was no emphasizing of its presence in the Tunnel. It was just sitting there. A tall and broad crack. But the Orc-host veered towards it and, being made to plunge into another dell of darkness, Maitimo found himself almost falling down a stairwell.

Stairs. Maitimo looked down at the crooked steps, dreary understanding clicking into place.

Valar, no.

He ended up being made to walk for several more hours, which eventually started to quickly pass in a blur. But this time all Maitimo could glean of the journey was that the Orcs marched him down. Down and down and down. The Orc-speaker was a constant presence at his side, the hand never relenting in the grip of his hair, but the rest of the Orcs had bottlenecked at the crevice and were now spread out behind Maitimo with only a few preceding him. The width of this lesser tunnel was only great enough for a handful or so to stand abreast. The torch was borne by an Orc at the van and Maitimo kept tossing his gaze between it and the ground that the torchlight barely illuminated, but he needed to see where he was going, where he was stepping because these stairs were so hazardous to traverse with how crooked and misshapen they were, especially at the speed the Orc-speaker kept forcing him along.

Thousands upon thousands of steps, down and down and down. The stairwells spiraled, first one way and then the other. Maitimo's expression eventually twisted with anxiety. There was no logic to the pattern of the stair's layout! Maitimo tried, so greatly tried to memorize the path they took. To remember which direction they turned when a fork came in the tunnel, to remember any distinct landmarks that could be a guide for him. At several corners or turns there were carven images, which were memorable enough he supposed, but Maitimo was whisked by them too fast to discern just what was depicted in the stone. But he tried to remember the turns, so he could reverse them in his memory later on to retrace them. It was all he could think to do. Left, left, right, left, forward, down, right again, another right until he felt to go in a full circle, left, up a short stair, forward and back down another stair, right, left, another left….

Maitimo shook his head, despite the constraints of the Orc-speaker's fist. He wanted to scream. Just how huge was this damned fortress? He had always been able to take pride in a steadfast sense of navigation, but it was utterly failing him now in these winding tunnels and labyrinthine stairs. He only knew that they went down. And that they had now been descending this knot-work of passageways longer than they had walked the Tunnel. But Valar, he had to keep to memory something to be able to escape from here! Yet he felt like he was going in circles and was now so accursedly lost in trying to mentally map the layout. That tangible oppression of Darkness grew only more smothering and the Orcs echoed in the tunnels and stairwells even louder than they had in the Great Tunnel. They were elated. That much could be told by their voices.

Rather abruptly, the descent ended.

They turned one last corner and passed through an archway that opened up into another vast hall. Only this hall, long and straightly quarried, contained the first pair of doors he had so far seen.

The sight of such a simple commodity was almost startling. The narrow passageway broadened in width and grew in height. But the walls had a strange texture, their rock looking like it had been frozen in time during a bubbling churn of their stones. But straight ahead was a cavernous mouth of those two, incongruous doors. The doors were presently shut, but they towered at least four times taller than an Elf and were made of stone, framed in iron, and ribbed with tines. Iniquitous colors from yellows to reds permeated from the other side through the framework, giving it a glowing outline much like a gate.

Maitimo stiffened, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach as he stopped breathing. The Nethermost Hall. That was what the Orc-speaker called it. Named it! His heart faltered for a brief moment in his chest and then jumped to a palpation it had never raced at before. He could barely breathe air into his lungs or remove his eyes from those doors that loomed ever larger the closer he was shoved towards them. Until he was kneeling before his lord in the Nethermost Hall, the Orc-speaker said. Great Manwë, Moringotto was on the other side of those doors. The tendrils of Darkness brushing his fëa grew more vicious and Maitimo felt faint on his feet, but the Orcs and Orc-speaker ensured that he did not miss a single step.

Maitimo was dragged closer to the doors, close enough that he could see that the doors had no handles or method to open them. Unless they opened only by the will of he who made them. He could hear a whole assortment of noises from the other side, cordoned off only by the doors' thick stone. There was a shifting of shadows in the light that shone beneath the doors. The heat grew. The Orc-speaker glanced at Maitimo as he finally slowed their pace down to a clumsy stop, though his fist twisted even tighter in his hair in clear warning.

And without any forewarning and seemingly of their own accord, the doors opened.

Angamando: Angband, translating to 'hells of iron' or 'iron-gaol' from Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth MR.350
Moriquendë/Amaneldë: the singular of Moriquendi/Amaneldi
Geography: As with all geographical minutiae, Karen Wynn Fonstad's The Atlas of Middle-earth, Revised Edition was also consulted for the potentially conjectural volcanic activity and the dimensional detail of both Angband and Thangorodrim.