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Chapter 13:
Moringotto

Maitimo was shoved through the doors before they even fully opened.

And again he stumbled and nearly fell flat on his face, but the Orc-speaker still held a fistful of his hair and, once more, he was dragged upright by said hair. His scalp by now felt like it was burning, but such a complaint became nonexistent when Maitimo was finally hauled to a stop in the center of a cavernous chamber, which was filled to the brim with a host of dark creatures. The Orc-host followed close in his wake and halted to gather together behind him. His eyes flew around in the sparse few moments he had and he was rendered completely and utterly still as his surroundings became clear. Valar, he did not even twitch.

This was a throne room if there ever was one and it was lit with the fire of flaming braziers erected on either side of the dais. Many pillars vast in height towered in a circle to the dome-structured roof, ruthless and ghastly images carven into their granular stone, and their beams connecting to the ceiling twisted like serpents. There were three other archways barred by iron gates in the walls of the Nethermost Hall, leading off into some other unknown passageway. Hideous devices clearly fashioned to inflict torment lined the walls and were coated in what were equally clearly layers of dried blood, along with a whole assortment of lethal armaments, spears and scimitars among them and many more weapons so bizarre in their craft that Maitimo could not even think of what to call them, if they had a name. The stone floor was shot with veins of iron and in the shadows of the pillars he could see with a sense of revulsion many snakes curling and uncurling, their hissing lost in the echoing ruckus of all the beasts. And the very air itself singed with wizardry of some sort because colorless shapes shimmered and weaved through the open space, distorting the fire of the braziers whenever they passed in front of them.

And there on top of the dais straight ahead and on an obsidian throne sat Moringotto.

The Orc-speaker suddenly released the ruthless grip on his hair. Maitimo nearly sighed in relief without even thinking about it. His scalp's reprieve was instant as the copper strands fell to sweep against his back.

The relief was short lived.

He heard a clang to his left and, whipping his head in that direction, he was only fast enough to see that the Orc-speaker now held a long-shafted spear in hand. Before any significance of that could even compute, the Orc-speaker moved with that uncanny speed of his and the spear was swept into action, blurring in the air as it arched down and slammed against the back of Maitimo's knees. He collapsed to the floor, pain shooting through both his knees as he crashed down on them and he cringed, hunching over as he clenched his teeth against the searing hurt. Loathing for the Orc-speaker burned in his chest again as he kept his head bowed, but he turned a dark glower in his direction. But a greater fury was blossoming as he felt his body spark with something dangerous all over the place. He could have hissed. He dared, Maitimo seethed, working his jaw. He dared! Valar, that any creature of even the weakest kind would be expected to kneel before Moringotto!

He shifted on his knees to spring to his feet, or foot, but before he could do much more than straighten his back, he caught sight of a flash of silver out of the corner of his eye and felt a prickling sting at his neck. He froze, eyes traveling up the shaft of the spear to the Orc-speaker, who met the intensity of his glower without a flinch. The Orc-speaker held the whetted spearhead against the hollow of his throat, the angle of its tapered point just right so that it would spear into his skin should he rise up any further.

Maitimo glared at him. The Orc-speaker glared back with a faint look of amused pleasure, as though daring him to rise, to just revolt away at being made to kneel before his Master. Maitimo watched him for a long moment. And the Orc-speaker watched him, his hold of the spear unwavering. Maitimo turned his eyes down to the spearhead, briefly observing how its beaten iron reflected the light of the braziers. He looked away.

Well, he was glad to be off his foot anyway.

Moringotto softly chuckled from his throne, the sound dark and deep, and all the other riotous noise in the Hall immediately died down. "Well done, my children."

Maitimo stiffened, his whole body flushing with heat as he snapped his gaze up to glare at him. Oh, to the Void with his foot! Even though it was not of his own accord, he would still not kneel even upon two broken knees before that hell-wrought Vala! Dismissing the spear at his throat entirely, Maitimo shifted even quicker to rise to his feet, his movements agitated.

But looking fully at Moringotto for the first time, Maitimo froze before he could roll off his knees, shock stealing over him.

Moringotto sat there on his throne, clothed wholly in the blacks or various shades of it and with one leg crossed over the other. And there they were, resting on his head: the Silmarils, all three of them with their lustrous and bright Light, but his father's Jewels were enmeshed in the crooked claws of some horrid, metal crown.

But it was not the Silmarils that rendered Maitimo speechless.

It was Moringotto himself.

Maitimo could only stare at him, barely stopping himself from gaping. He was different. So different. So horribly different. In Valinor he had walked clad in an appearance so similar to that of Manwë's that no one who saw the both of them together could deny they were brothers. Brilliant blue eyes ringed with gold even more so than Manwë's, holy in their countenances, faces lit up with beatific smiles, and right along with Manwë Moringotto had been garbed in raiment fit for the highest of kings. Literally. Because once he had been reinstated by Manwë among the Appointed Dwellers and released from his parole, Moringotto's true magnificence had seemed to blossom into full bloom as he became a Being so bright and glorious that his presence alone had been humbling. Valar, he had been more beautiful than Manwë himself! More than the Elder King, who had been the longstanding epitome of might and blessed beauty. He could still recall how it had been spoken far and wide of how even Manwë looked lesser in power and majesty when standing next to his brother, let alone the rest of the Valar. But now….Maitimo regarded him with no little horror. By the vastness of Eä, what cruelty had befallen him that he now looked like this? Moringotto's face that had been so unspeakable in beatitude was now hideous. Was now something disturbingly dark. His hair was no longer its unbound tresses of silken golds and whites, but now black and coarse and almost as lackluster as the hair of those Orcs who had any, and his eyes were a soulless black. Or so dark a brown that they nearly looked black. But all of it was made doubly awful because, forget whatever fell fate he had cast upon himself, Moringotto was still so recognizable!

Maitimo could not help but think that this was what a skewed and broken version of Manwë would look like. As if, like Thangorodrim with Oiolossë, with the Mountains of Angamando and the Pelóri, Moringotto now sought to make a mockery of Manwë himself with his own appearance. As though if Manwë were to look into a blackened mirror, distorted with cracks of evil and streaks of hellacious blemishes, this was what he would see staring back.

Moringotto quirked an eyebrow, a faint look of what might have been amusement ghosting across his face as he gave an absent flick of his fingers. "Finished staring?"

The abrupt power of his voice snapped Maitimo out of his daze and he glanced down at the brief movement of Moringotto's hand. His brow creased in a frown. Moringotto's hand was black. He first thought it to be a play of the shadows dancing throughout the Hall, but no. That hand was literally blackened.

Why was it blackened?

Also belatedly, Maitimo realized that though Moringotto had spoken in Quenya, his minions appeared to have no difficulty understanding what he said since they now cackled and shuffled energetically at his words. Even the witless Orcs, Maitimo noticed with some surprise. He looked quickly around the Hall, only with his eyes and barely turning his head, truly taking notice of the other occupants of the throne room for the first time. Throng after throng of Orcs lined the walls, along with what looked like canines and even felines that were monstrous and vicious in their forms intermixed between the Orcs' bodies. There was even a Valarauko present, he suddenly saw with some alarm. Valar, how in all of Arda had he been unaware of the presence of a Valarauko when first entering? But the demon wreathed in flame was there, towering above him and the heat of his fire burning Maitimo's skin.

But, almost by chance, Maitimo distinctly noticed that several of the many Orcs stood with the same stillness and dangerous silence as the Orc-speaker did. The same calmly composed set in their postures, the same fey look on their unreadable faces, and the same sensation of Darkness that seemed to exude from their very beings.

Maitimo felt a wave of foreboding come over him as he recalled the conversation with his brothers, of his own thoughts after first meeting the Orc-speaker. Valar, did Moringotto truly have more Maiar at his beck and call? Obviously yes now, but how many?

Maitimo forcibly turned his eyes back to Moringotto, but he kept his mouth shut.

Moringotto seemed possibly even more satisfied, but his face was difficult to read. He cocked his head, never removing his eyes from Maitimo as he gestured towards his crown. "You wanted one of these?"

Maitimo's eyes flicked up to the Silmarils and he felt a strange, pained sensation in his chest as he took in those self-luminous Jewels. He was almost startled by the fierce longing that hit him without warning as he became agonizingly aware of just how long it had truly been since he last saw the Light of the Trees. But, forcibly again, he ripped his eyes away. He did not know what Moringotto wanted, but he would not give him any satisfaction if he could help it. Not any more than he already had.

He deflated a little bit, swallowing down all the words that wanted to burst from his mouth. "What do you want of me?" he forced out.

"What want I of you?" Moringotto echoed in a tone of mild surprise, though his eyes did not look the least bit taken aback. He relaxed against his throne, twitching the fingers of his blackened hand again. "Should such not be my question, esteemed prince? Or has your body grown so feeble that all your wits forsook you upon such a meager stretch of land?" He shook his head dismissively. "Come, wise son of Fëanáro. Ill deeds you may have done, but you have yet to fall so far that your intellect would be diminished. No, Nelyafinwë, you followed me to Endórë in my wake, as I recall, so what do you want of me?"

Maitimo face grew dark as he scowled at him. "You still dragged me here, and I refuse to play any game of words with you. In adders would I place more trust," he rasped out. "You may force me to my knees, but you would have to kill me before I would ever do it of my own accord, so pray stop your playing, Moringotto!"

"Moringotto…." He murmured the name in nearly a whisper. A slight smile tilted up the corner of his mouth as he visibly reflected on the meaning of the title. But he never removed his eyes from Maitimo. Maitimo tensed, suddenly wondering how Moringotto would react to the name his father and now the Noldor called him. But Moringotto did not speak of it at all. "You speak of tongues," he said after a long pause, his face clearing of whatever idle contemplation briefly showed there. "Yet you seem ill aware that it would take but one fleeting thought of my will to see your own wagging tongue carved out and tossed at my feet."

Maitimo opened his mouth to spit out the response that instantly sprang to his lips, but he bit them back before the first syllable emerged. He closed his mouth with a glower, pressing his lips together even as he felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders coil tight. He could taste the bitterness in his mouth, but as much as it made him simmer, he knew Moringotto had the upper hand right now no matter what he would say.

Moringotto's face appeared to take on that faint expression of amusement again, though no smile or any hint of humor quirked his lips. "Well, well," he drawled. "He can learn. I suppose I should be grateful to have hesitated to see you slain with your kin upon that field. But pray tell, why did you decide to bring three score Noldor instead of one?"

He again held his tongue, refusing to take the bait. He forced his voice to be calm. "What do you want of me?"

"As to that, you will see. Does a master answer to one on his knees?" He grinned softly, a fleeting twist of his mouth. "No, I think not."

Maitimo almost glowered. "Why not answer? You slew sixty of my people to see me brought here, so be done with this!"

Moringotto stared at him, did not say a single word or so much as twitch, and their conversation lapsed into a silence that started to feel very awkward. Maitimo did not know what to expect and he stiffened again as the silence grew thick with tension. Even the Orcs were shuffling their feet. But all the Vala did was narrow his eyes, yet not in anger. Maybe. Maitimo could only see mild curiosity in them. "What have you seen of Angamando?"

Maitimo regarded him blankly, nonplussed. His own eyes narrowed as he looked up and down the Vala's form. What trick was this? What could Moringotto be fishing for with such an innocent inquiry? It was precisely because it was innocent that Maitimo did not trust it. He gave a slow shake of his head. "As if it matters? Even if it did, I refuse to let the words of Quenya suffer the telling of my thoughts of this cave."

Moringotto showed no reaction. "I asked not what you thought but what you saw."

Maitimo hesitated again, the suspicion growing. "Nothing."

"Exactly. I have little patience to speak as I would in the face of such ignorance." Moringotto uncrossed his legs and gave another absent flick of his hand. Maitimo frowned as his eyes were again briefly drawn to the blackened appendage. The Vala really seemed to have a habit of doing that. "I will not barter with a prince of fools, but with one enabled to understand my will." He held up a finger. "So this once I grant you leave to speak whatever you wish to say. Or ask. Do with it as you will, but know on the morrow that your tongue will be as greatly bound as your hands now are. So be at ease to let it wag freely one last time."

Maitimo dithered at the pronouncement, the headache along his temple slowly returning with a vengeance at the booming of that baritone. He did not know how to respond to that at all. He wracked his brain, for what he had not a clue, but he worked it nearly as fast as his heart was beating, careful to not let one thought enter his face. What should he say? Or more so, why should he even bother saying anything? It was not as if he had nothing to say. Oh no, he had plenty. But the whole slat of brickbat he was all too ready to vocalize was barricaded by the very real fact that now was not the time for rebellious words, not when it would not amount to anything beneficial except to make him feel better. Which still felt like a worthwhile incentive, but he had to tread cautiously right now until he caught on to just what game Moringotto was determined to play. So he said nothing at all. For all he knew, Moringotto was expecting him to burst out in flaming wrath, maybe even looked forward to it. And that was as good a deciding factor as any for him.

But Moringotto just waited. And waited. The tittering of the Orcs began to grow at his prolonged silence and Maitimo sighed, refraining from rolling his eyes. "And what should I say?" The lilt of sarcasm was not lost.

Moringotto's eyebrow hiked up just a little, his face one of distrait patience, but that could have easily been a mask for all Maitimo knew. Moringotto shifted forward, leaning on his knees as he canted his head to the side. "How about why you decided to bring three score Noldor instead of one?"

Maitimo scowled, unable to withhold both the biting irritation and disgust at his apparent fascination with the subject. A whole slew of emotions churned in his chest at the thought, but Maitimo refused to answer. He had no idea why Moringotto so badly wanted that detail clarified and Maitimo was not even sure if he even wanted to know his reasoning.

Moringotto chuckled from low in his throat, smiling in full as he gave a slight shake of his head. "You cannot even say it."

"Say what?" he snapped. "How you are deserving of any woes to befall you for every evil you purposed?"

Moringotto snorted. "Bold words for one who marched into an unknown land to parley with an unknown enemy with thrice the number agreed upon, and thus leading all those with him to their deaths in a territory you could little predict." Maitimo inwardly started at the words, but a morsel of it must have shown in his face because Moringotto gave him a meaningful look. "I think I know my own land better than those who invaded it." It was all he said.

But it was enough and Maitimo felt himself deflate, and it was a battle to keep his face empty of any thought now. Sornion and Carnistir had been correct, he realized with a faint sense of despair, guilt washing over him all over again. Both of them had spoken of it being an unknown territory to the Noldor and both had proposed that Moringotto had selected the steppe for the appointed place precisely because they knew nothing about it. They had been right.

Moringotto huffed, his eyes contemplative. "Truly, Child, whatever led you to believe that you could win against me when not even my dear brother can?" he asked softly with a hint of incredulity.

Maitimo scoffed, not bothering to answer that one at all. Even if he could or wanted to, there were only two answers. Either he could win against him and Moringotto was just shrouding himself with a splendid act or he could not, especially if said dear brother could not. But then, that was difficult to tell since the Valar had done nothing at the time of the Darkening.

"Exactly."

This time Maitimo could not keep the surprise from his face, startled that Moringotto had perceived his thought. But in retrospect, he realized after a pregnant moment, it was foolish to be struck by it at all. As had been emphasized since before their Flight and after, Moringotto was a Vala, akin to his Brethren in every way, including, as now evidenced, their perception of the workings of Elves' minds. But the Valar had always possessed the courtesy to grant the Amaneldi privacy for their thoughts. Only now, Maitimo postulated darkly, Moringotto would probably exploit everything the Valar had not, use every ability that a Vala had whether an Elf permitted it or not that the Valar had never abused with the Children. The full implications of that revelation nearly sent Maitimo shaking all over again.

Moringotto chuckled again. "Come now, be not so harsh on me just yet. Really, such faith you have in my Brethren. Be honest with yourself, Nelyafinwë, for do you truly believe that your precious Valar never inspected your thoughts, even at a distance? That they always granted you that courtesy when no Elf would be the wiser otherwise?" He scoffed, leaning back to sit erect again. "Do not bother me with such naivety, and be not such a fool. But then again, I must digress, for you Noldor ever loved to shout you were above the folly of thinking wrongly. Too wise to stoop so low."

Maitimo lowered his gaze, sighing and feeling all of the sudden weary and despondent. "What do you want?"

"Need I a reason?" He tsked. "Typical Noldo, to think all things revolve around you."

Maitimo turned a derisive scowl on him. "And typical evasion. Three times have I asked and three times have you denied answering what you want of me."

There was a silence. A long silence. A silence that even fell among all the beasts in the Hall with only the burning of the braziers and hissing of serpents echoing in the vast cavern, and Maitimo again tensed, expecting some hostile response to his words. He became acutely aware again of the spear still poised at his throat, the razor point digging into his skin. But then Moringotto smiled, just a slight one. But that minor smile was more sincere than any he had given so far and Maitimo shivered at the dark promise and even pleasure it carried. He then realized with a sense of foreboding that he must have spoken something very wrong in regards to himself, or very right in the eyes of Moringotto. The Vala was clearly pleased.

That could not be good.

Moringotto finally shifted his all-pervading eyes away and looked somewhere off to Maitimo's right, somewhere behind him. He nodded his chin towards whoever was there. "Bring it," he called. Lingering dust stirred from the floor at the boom of his voice and several Orcs shifted against each other, small high-pitched whines emerging from more than a few. Maitimo flicked his eyes over to them warily, shoulders immediately tensing.

There was a shuffle close by and Maitimo turned his head to look, wincing as the spear finally sliced into his skin. He stilled, castigating himself as he felt the hot dribbling of blood gather in the hollow of his throat. But he looked off to his right nonetheless and his brow furrowed in confusion. An Orc was passing him to approach Moringotto. The one he had kicked, he realized. When an arm's length away, the tremors now visible in the Orc's frame, Moringotto held out his hand and the Orc produced a sword, resting it in his Master's palm.

Maitimo's breath caught in his throat. It was his sword. His! That sheath and hilt were as familiar to him as his own limbs were. Astonishment washed over him and Maitimo strained his memory to recall any time he had seen that Orc bearing the sword he had owned since his self-imposed exile to Formenos. Valar, he had believed it lost on the field of the skirmish.

Moringotto dismissed the Orc with a wave. The silence of the Hall persisted as his eyes traveled unhurriedly along the weapon's length. The black fingers of his right hand moved softly along the exquisite craft of the sheath, fingertips tracing the intricate carvings in the heat-hardened leather. Gentle carvings often found on the spines of Fëanáro's many tomes. His other hand clasped the elegant hilt, the tang and guard crafted perfectly with the finest steel and the grip made of deeply dyed shagreen. And the pommel was bedecked with the smallest and brightest adamants arrayed in the design of his own emblem on one side and the Star of the House of Fëanáro on the other. Maitimo's eyes burned at the sudden memory of watching his father's dexterous fingers patiently cut every stone, carve every line, hammer and treat every fragment of that blade and then piece it all together. Of him glancing up from the delicate work to give a fond and even humored smile at Maitimo's rapt attention from where he hovered over his shoulder.

It was a beautiful sword and Maitimo's heart began to pound faster as he watched Moringotto paw at it.

Moringotto's voice resonated throughout the Hall, his eyes never ending their inspection of the sword. "Behold the craft of Fëanáro, mightiest of Children to have been and to be," he mused, an indiscernible look on his face. He reversed his grip on the sword so the hilt rested in his right hand, fingers still ghosting across it. "Yes. This sword of flawless make. This sword molded by flawless hands." His eyes turned from the blade to rest on Maitimo, dark and glittering. "This sword that could not even save his own firstborn from the thralldom he is fated to live." The Orcs tittered and yipped, but he spoke over their clamor as he unsheathed the sword, the slither of steel echoing. The razor-edged blade was still streaked with the dried, black blood of Orc, the fuller packed with congealed globs of it. He looked fully at Maitimo, the volume of his voice rising but still ever so composed. "Because you see, Nelyafinwë, one thing I learned while dwelling in the Abode of my Brethren is that the Noldor are a cancer, apparently no matter where they are, and such is it only proper to remove it. I will see your people gone from my demesne whether by death or by flight. Of that you may be assured. But you?" He gestured at him with the hilt of the sword, his other hand clenching on the sheath as another smile played at his mouth. "You will see a great many things.

"For one…." He rose from the chair, stepping down from the dais. "In Manwë's halls you bathed in scented waters and ate from silver salvers. In Manwë's halls you were garbed in kingly robes fit for the Ingaran and given leave to walk the wonders of my brother's abode freely. But in my halls," he went on with a meaningful look, and he reversed the grip on the sword so it was held aloft properly. "Pray let me clear you of any misconception."

Moringotto tossed the sword into the air, the steel briefly dancing with the hues of the flickering fires before the Orc-speaker caught it, removing the spear from Maitimo's throat as he did. Just as it registered to Maitimo that now would be as good a time as any to rise or attempt anything at all, he suddenly found himself faced with a mass of Orcs charging towards him and grabbing hold of him, urged on from what had to be some unspoken command from their Master. The Hall erupted with their roaring and cackles and the baying of felines echoed above in the heights where they lazily lounged to watch to the spectacle below.

The next few moments that went by impossibly fast were impossibly slow.

Maitimo began to fight against the pawing of the Orcs all over again when he realized their intent, his shoves and kicks erratic and frenzied. But the tearing of fabric somehow sounded even louder than the deafening noise in the Hall. His hands remained bound, the Orc-speaker once more a short distance away, but what had to be dozens of clawed hands grabbed fistfuls of his garb and tugged and yanked without care. His gambeson tore at the seams and elsewhere just from the tension put to the woven threads. He toppled over as the same was done to his leggings and the braes beneath them. Maitimo's sharp cry of pain was lost in the noise as both his rib and foot flared up mercilessly, but the Orcs kept at him like wild beasts fighting over the last scrap of meat until there was not one thread left on his body. And, again in unison, the Orcs retreated from him as he knelt there on the floor, hunched over and absolutely speechless while they all looked on.

Maitimo swiveled his eyes around wildly, catching his balance as he swayed and he became painfully aware of his nakedness when seeing every single pair of eyes trained on him. The subtle stirring of dust in the Hall felt more prominent than ever when it brushed against his skin and he shivered. Hard. His breaths came in small gasps, eyes widened as he watched the shreds of his clothes be dropped in a pile at Moringotto's feet. He stared at them. Utter shreds.

Moringotto observed it all in silence. But his eyes gleamed with a peculiar light and Maitimo was hit with the painful desperation to hide his body the longer they all watched him like a delightful spectacle. But he could not do anything, not even with his hands, no matter how he contorted himself. Just kneel there, his hair his only covering as numerous gazes burned into his skin.

Moringotto gave a single nod, looking him up and down. "So shall your presence be in my halls! For you are no greater than the frail flesh you were born in. But more than your tongue and the toils of your body are now mine. Cover your indignity with a swaddling cloth if the shame burns you so greatly, but there is one glory you have that you shall not retain." He nodded to the Orc-speaker.

The Orc-speaker bowed, tossing down the spear where it clanged against the floor and approaching Maitimo with the un-Orcish speed he always moved with as he visibly adjusted his grip on the Elven sword. Maitimo frantically shifted to rise, but someone clamped down on his shoulders from the other side and he snapped his head around to see two Orcs rearing above him. Before he acted out, the Orc-speaker reached out and grabbed hold of his hair once more in a vice-like fist. All of it. He jerked Maitimo's head back at a painful angle, making it impossible to shift and, with three fluid motions of the sword, he sheared the locks of hair at his neck.

Maitimo's eyes flew open as his head fell forward at the sudden release and a great roar from the Orcs sounded in the Nethermost Hall, drowning out the baying and barking of the thanes and canines. The short, scraggily strands fell forward to curtain his face, but Maitimo was staring at the floor with unseeing eyes, frozen in utter shock. His hair….Maitimo's breaths quickened until he was hyperventilating, thoughts flying maddeningly as his whole body went quaking with fierce tremors.

His hair….

"Not anymore." Maitimo's eyes snapped up, crazed and shaken. Moringotto had returned to his throne, arms resting on the broad armrests. His left hand was held up, fingers working the long strands of hair between his knuckles, absently twisting it and running his thumb along the platform of hair as he inspected it as meticulously as he did the sword, as though it were currently the most interesting thing to exist. Moringotto looked at Maitimo, raising an eyebrow as he observed the expression on his face. "Be not too concerned," he said soothingly. "I have a double purpose for it." He wrapped the hair more fully around his hand, as if to store it away.

Maitimo watched his shorn tresses be fondled and felt as though he had been struck in the chest by a battering ram. The ignominy churned in his stomach until he tasted bile on the back of his tongue and he cringed as the wretchedness grew so consuming that he could not even feel the physical pangs of his body. His head spun, his heart felt to be crawling up his throat as his eyes raptly alighted on the way the firelight danced off the copper strands as they swayed back and forth in the hand clenching them. A choked wail broke from his throat. His hair….

Moringotto was watching him, never once lowering the handful of hair. He snorted, amusement breaking through to the surface of his face at only the Valar knew what he found humorous. "Some Finwë you are. You disappoint me. You will be tasting the most bitter of bales and this –" He gestured the hair. "– is hardly it. Yes, go ahead and trust me less than your adders!" he declared. "You will soon learn of all I speak, no matter the bitterness my words will be upon your fëa. But tread you wisely, Nelyafinwë, for insolence will earn you the lesson of contrition and disobedience will lead to far worse." The warning in his voice was very real and reflected in his hard expression. He again rose from his throne, moving more swiftly than the Orc-speaker did in a flurry of black robes until he stood before Maitimo's marked and naked form kneeling on the floor. He looked down at him, another peculiar light in his dark eyes. "What do I want of you? A bargain. But only after you see will I tell you of it."

"See what?" Maitimo screamed indignantly at him, horror and humiliation raw in his voice. His breathing came erratically. He could not slow it down!

But the satisfied look that coalesced in Moringotto's face told Maitimo that he had bitten the bait.

Moringotto stared at him for a long moment before turning his gaze on the Orc-speaker. And he nodded. "Ready the metal for the maker's hand."

The Orc-speaker and not a few other Orcs hauled him up to his feet ruthlessly. Maitimo's face contorted with disgust as he tried to wretch his body away from the paws that gripped at him in bare places, the movements short and desperate. The Orc-speaker did not grab him viciously by the hair again, as if he even could anymore to the degree he had before, but the clad Maia did clasp his strong fingers around the back of his neck, his claws piercing into the ring of bruises on either side of his throat. And the next thing he knew, he was being as manhandled as when he was first marched downward through all the tunnels as he was turned around and shoved towards the open doors of the Nethermost Hall. Not even a quarter of the Orc-host he arrived with moved with him, but he was still surrounded and the cackles and roars and growls of the many fell beasts in the domed throne room resounded behind him. His left foot seared with agony upon every step and he practically hopped on his one good foot, dragged the rest of the way.

"Nelyafinwë, beware!"

The Orc-speaker forced him to a stop just beyond the threshold of the doors and turned him back around. Moringotto was standing in front of his throne, fingers absently wringing the mane of hair. His Orcs and other creatures did not quiet down, but he spoke over their noise, uplifting his chin and his eyes penetrating Maitimo's own. "If you are brought to this Hall outside of my summons, someone will die for it. Heed that well."

Maitimo wanted to scoff to the ceiling and then follow it up with a mocking laugh, and he would have if not for the Orc-speaker's nails digging into his neck! Well, he supposed he must give Moringotto some credit. It was the first time he had been directly threatened with death ever since he awoke from unconsciousness. Not even the Orcs or even the Orc-speaker had indulged in that. Sure, they had jostled him and slammed axes against him and threw him against rocks and debased him in whatever manner they could, but even they had abstained from such direct threats. Oh, let him go forth instead and tremble before Moringotto! As if he had never once anticipated the very real possibility of being killed!

Maitimo knew his face was dark, but Moringotto did not comment on it. He just looked on as he spoke further, "Be welcomed to Angamando, for you have found your new home, thanks to your father." He lifted an eyebrow, another suggestive smile appearing. "Or mayhap it shall soon be thanks to your brothers."

Before Maitimo could even formulate a response, the stone doors rolled on their hinges and boomed shut.