Hells of Iron

by chiliadicorum

*canonical gap-filler* Tolkien left a huge gap after Fëanor died. What happened to Maedhros in Angband after he was captured? What became of the Noldor and Maglor as their newly appointed ruler and of them abandoning Maedhros? Behold the missing tale. (also feat.: Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufín, Amrod, Amras, some Sindar, plenty of Noldor, and many others)

19. I do not speak Edhellen

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Chapter 19:
I do not speak Edhellen.

Maitimo could not see anything. His eyes widened in result, straining to the point of hurting, but no matter how quickly he swiveled his gaze around he could make out absolutely nothing in the dark, not even a shadow of a shape beyond the Moriquendi. Because he could see the Elves, thanks to the faint and disconcertingly dim glow emitting from their bodies, but it was not enough to illuminate even the proximate walls of the tunnel. Orcs were here, their unique chatter echoing so wildly off the walls that it was impossible for Maitimo to pinpoint their exact location. But they were here, mostly behind them and several up ahead, moving with the Elves and even jostling them, or so Maitimo assumed since he was shoved more than once by the bumping of a nearby Elf. Maitimo wondered what had happened to their soft murmurs, wondered if there was some unspoken rule to be silent in the presence of Orcs. But he could hear their sharp breathing. He scrabbled both hands along the right wall, focusing on the task of just not falling on his face, which creased with a cringe at each merciless left-footed step. But several Elves grabbed hold of his arms each time he nearly did, hauling him back up and ushering him along. Valar, how could they see in this accursed dark? Walking and walking and rounding corners, they did not slow down even for the sharpest of turns or steepest of stairs.

When Maitimo saw the torch, he only just managed to keep back the small noise of relief. It was mounted on a bracket nailed into the wall. Another tunnel branched off at the torch to head down even more stairs and the group of Elves veered towards them. Down more stairs, to the left, round a bend to the right, another left….Maitimo's head began to spin. This could not be the way to the Nethermost Hall! He had never encountered a flaming torch on his way up or down with the Orc-speaker. But there was no sense of hesitation among the Moriquendi. They appeared to know where they were going. Well, as long as they were not fighting the direction they were hustled along he supposed he could trust them that much.

He almost immediately retracted that opinion when they came to another fork in the tunnel with another dancing torch as its divider because, this time, the group of Elves began to split between the two, half turning to go left while many kept on going straight. Maitimo faltered, gaze moving between the two tunnels. Which way was he supposed to go?

An Elf grabbed his arm and yanked him to the left, murmuring something harshly in his ear. Maitimo sent him a mild glare. No, he had no clue what had been said, but the tone of voice had been clear enough. Sort of. A shiver wracked through his frame. Sweet Yavanna, it was cold.

The end of the tunnel came into view. An actual end, he saw, not just another fork. But he frowned. It was another pocket like there was in that smithy, though on a lesser scale. Another torch was lit from within and he could see even from this distance that the dimensions of the vault were far smaller. And as he walked through the mouth of the vault, he saw he was correct. He stumbled to a halt, moving to the side as more Elves entered, looking around and seeing that it was a dead end, a pocket with no other exit to it than the one he just came through.

He sighed, uncertain how he should feel. He watched the other Elves, observing how they moved about with casualness, almost a familiarity to their stride and how they appeared more calm and subdued than before, their frames no longer taut with that underlying sense of distress.

Maitimo twisted his jaw. Hm. This pocket evidently brought them some level of comfort, though looking around at the dingy and barren walls he could not fathom why.

A cringing creak of unoiled metal on metal echoed in the vault and Maitimo jumped, spinning around just in time to see a heavy door slam shut over the entrance. Maitimo gaped at the broad slab of metal but then froze. No bang of a lock bolting shut followed. Maitimo gaped for a whole other reason. No lock? Were Orcs truly that stupid? But no sound of a lock came. Elation flared up in his chest but died just as quickly when he saw in the torchlight that there was no handle on this side of the door. Just a tall wall of iron. All right, that was clever, he conceded bitterly. He would credit Moringotto that much.

The Elves were sitting or collapsing to the ground, whispers passing between some of them while others continued to shoot discreet glances at Maitimo himself. Feeling a shaft of annoyance, he ignored them and reached out to a nearby Elf, tapping his arm. The Elf turned and leapt away, his watery eyes slightly widening. Maitimo shifted to balance better on his right foot. "What–" He hesitated, remembering his father's comment that alluded to variations of that word being used depending on the question being asked. He shook his head. Not much he could do when he only knew the word itself. "What…this?" He gestured around the vault. "This. You. Me. What?" The Elf's eyebrows arched up high on his forehead and Maitimo bit back an exasperated huff. "I do not speak Edhellen," he nearly barked. He gestured more sharply around the small cave. "What this?"

The Elf's expression was open and only grew more dubious with each new sentence that fell from Maitimo's lips. His brow creased, eyes traveling up and down Maitimo as he swept loose hair behind his ears. He gave a halfhearted shrug. "Lostam si."

Maitimo closed his eyes, jaw slightly clenching as he took a steady breath. "I do not speak–"

"Araw veleg! Man thellinodh ir pedodh i ú-istodh Edhellen?" A pause. A long one. Maitimo stared. When the silence finally became awkward the Elf released a small sigh, gnawing on his lip. "Lostam si," he repeated more cogently, his words slow and insistent as he gestured around at the other Elves.

Maitimo hesitated. "Lostam?"

The Elf nodded. "Lostam si," he said simply, gesturing again to where many Elves were sitting or lying, many of whom were currently watching their exchange without even trying to be subtle about it. "Losto, hîr nîn." He put his grime-streaked hands together as if in supplication, tilting his head and resting his clasped hands against one cheek. "Lostam."

Sleep! Maitimo bit back a despondent cry, briefly desiring to bang his head against a wall. Valar, how stupid did he sound to these Moriquendi? If he had simply waited and observed these Elves in silence, he would have eventually figured out that this was a place for sleeping! Not some holding cell or…whatever else. How exhausted must he be that he could not even assume it might be a sleeping chamber? Several Elves were already sitting, several more lying down….He ran his hands over his face, turning away from the Elf. "Thank you," he muttered over his shoulder as he went. Damn it all, what a dimwitted fool he must look like!

He looked around the vault before retreating to one of its nooks towards the back, if it could be called a nook. It was more like a slight indentation in the roughly hewn wall, but no Elves were over there. Nor did it look like anyone claimed it. The Moriquendi were huddled in groups of twos or threes, a couple groups consisting of six or ten, most if not all of them exchanging quiet conversation, their voices so soft that Maitimo could not pick out any words with his sensitive hearing, despite their strange syllables. He hobbled around the cave over to the shallow cranny, using the wall as a brace and gritting his teeth as he tried to ignore these Moriquendi. Though they were now more subtle about it, he caught many of them casting glances his way as they talked, some of their curious gazes remaining on him longer than others. Maitimo looked away.

Valar….

He lowered himself to the ground, the muscles in his right leg finally beginning to burn, but he collapsed against the grout with a sigh of relief. He rested his head against the wall, heaving in several slow lungfuls of air. Sleep. All right. It was apparently time to sleep. He looked around at the others, seeing how many just simply stretched across the stone floor. How could any of them slip away into rest when it was so accursedly cold? Already he could feel the chill from the rock seeping into his backside and bare back, a clammy discomfort that would undoubtedly give his muscles a deep-set ache by the time he woke up.

If he ever did, that is. Finally resting and left to himself, the exhaustion was mercilessly making itself known on his mind and body. He had not slept since he had awoken on those wastelands, he realized, and that last sleep had been induced by suffocation and a head wound. Over a week ago. He sighed, relaxing his eyes as he shifted to lie prostrate on the floor and nearly moaning in the bliss it granted his body. His head wound flared up as he rested his head against the floor, but he ignored it, ignoring also the hunger pangs that now started to manifest. But though his throat was parched and he craved a mere sip of water something fierce, he knew he was not as thirsty as he ought to be, especially when his last swallow had been before the ambush at the appointed place, now certainly over a week ago. The Orc-speaker really must have forced some manner of drink down his throat while unconscious. Ugh, as if it mattered. He shifted, unable to stir up enough energy to even care.

He waited for unconsciousness to take him again, for that black haze to come over his vision, but his head wound throbbed unrelentingly no matter how he rested his skull against the floor. A perceptible shiver began to race through his limbs and he shifted to curl in on himself, on his right side then left, but then again to his back when his cracked rib screamed at him. He gritted his teeth as he worried his brow, shutting his eyes. Come now, just fall asleep!

Someone tapped his knee.

He snapped his eyes open, stiffening at the sight of another Elf crouched beside him, unerringly similar in face to the Elf he had just been speaking with. A relative, maybe? The Elf's forehead was bruised along the hairline and a tentative look shone in his dark eyes. Maitimo sighed, forcing himself to relax as he lifted himself up on an elbow. "I do not speak–"

"Iston," the Elf interrupted with a quick nod, his gaze full of understanding. The hesitant look now moved to his face as he gestured towards Maitimo, or maybe the gesture was to his head. "Goheno nin, Lachend," he murmured, "ach iuitho i laub dhîn sui pesseg." He gestured further and Maitimo watched the Elf as he pointed at Maitimo's waist and then to his head, touching the draped fabric of the shirt. The Elf looked at him expectantly, but Maitimo could only stare back with a furrowed brow, his gaze flicking to the garment. Something about his shirt and head?

He frowned further. "I do not understand," he muttered stiffly, but though the utterance had been in Quenya the Elf appeared to have no difficulty comprehending what he meant.

The Moriquendë again touched the shirt, lifting the hem. "Laub."

Maitimo nodded after a moment. "Laub," he repeated slowly.

He pointed at Maitimo's head, the floor, and then patted the back of his own. "Pesseg." He pointed to other Elves lying down, many of whom were still watching him, but Maitimo's eyes fixated on how many if not all of them had their own shirts bunched up beneath their heads. Those already without shirts had removed their leggings and done the same, and Maitimo felt himself relax further at how unabashedly they did so.

Maitimo looked back at the Elf, nodding more fully. "Thank you." The Elf nodded and scuttled away to the opposite side of the cave where he lay down close to another who already appeared to be deep in sleep. Maitimo glanced around the pocket again with a mild glare but relented when he saw that most of the Moriquendi had turned their attention away from him to curl in on their sides. Good. Even their quiet murmurs had dissipated until only one or two spoke a word on occasion, and the vault was filled with a deafening silence only broken by the dying flickers of the single torch. An awkward silence. Maitimo made a face at it but rolled on his back and shifted up his hips to unknot and wrestle the shirt from around his waist. Once the garment was pillowed beneath his head, he sighed at the instant relief that swept through the whole of his skull. The pulsing headache did not go completely, but it did diminish enough that he could ignore it.

His heart skipped a beat when an Elf suddenly began to hum. He looked over at the group of Elves towards his left, but he could not discern whom the baritone might belong to. The voice of whoever hummed though was faltering, a melody breaking through sporadically as one might hum beneath his breath but then do so too loudly by accident. It was a tune reminiscent of the songs fashioned among the common folk, but though the raspy voice was as a balm unto Maitimo's ears, it was hardly soothing with its haunting and even forlorn descant. Well, it would have been laughable had it been a merry tune. But shortly after it started, the Elf's humming faded away.

His vision glazed over with blackness and when it cleared away, he jerked at the feeling of an Elf shaking his shoulder.

The Elf jumped at his gasp, snatching his hands away while Maitimo bit back a cry as his rib was unwittingly aggravated. He embraced his side with one arm, glaring at the Elf before his eyes narrowed in realization that the Moriquendë was again one he had never encountered before. The glower returned. What, were they taking turns with him?

"What?" he bit out in muddled Edhellen, shaking his head to clear it of the cobwebs. His body felt like lead as he struggled to haul himself up against the wall. Valar, it could not have been more than a few hours since he had fallen asleep. He ran his hands haggardly over his face, without thought threading them up and through the strands of his hair. He froze when he reached the empty air of their ends, his heart fluttering as he recalled the previous night. He glanced at the Moriquendë, seeing how intently the Elf was still looking at him. Maitimo closed off his expression as he swiftly worked what remained of his hair into a haphazard knot at the back, the motions of his hands rough and stiff.

The Elf shifted back on his knees, beckoning him with both hands. "Tolo, Lachend!"

Maitimo's flying thoughts stopped at the undisguised urgency in his voice and, focusing more keenly on the Moriquendë, Maitimo could see that same suppressed sense of panic in his face. The torch was no longer lit, the cave pocket as plunging a black as the tunnel had been, but not even that hindered the look of the Elf's face. Maitimo shook his head again as he squinted up at him, wincing as the headache returned with a vengeance. "What?"

"Tolo!" the Elf reiterated in a harsh whisper, gesturing more fiercely. He scooted further back on his knees.

Tolo. Maitimo was starting to figure that the word had something to do with coming, or following, or heeding a summons. Or something like that, considering that every time a Moriquendë used that word with him they were beckoning him in some manner and not stopping until he followed. The word was similar enough in Quenya, so maybe it was. He hoped. He glanced around as he belatedly took notice of movement around him. The door was open and the Elves were filing through, many stumbling along the way. Maitimo shifted further, reaching behind him to grab his shirt and working it back around his waist. "Tolo?"

The Elf nodded, rising to a stand where he swayed once or twice. He beckoned him again. "Ú-ídhrathodh dortho si ir in urchin tolir."

Maitimo's eyes jerked up, piercing him with a sharp look. He recognized their word for Orcs in that sentence. But he refrained from glowering at the Moriquendë as he dragged himself up to a stand. These Elves certainly knew by now that his Edhellen was laughable, so why did they still insist on speaking it as if he could deduce anything of what they said? The Elf did not offer a hand as Maitimo used the wall to anchor himself. To the contrary, the Elf actually took a full step back, a glimmer of uncertainty entering his eyes before he turned completely and hastened for the pocket's mouth. Maitimo looked after him in bewilderment. Now what was wrong with the Moriquendë? He sighed, shuffling forward after him with a disgruntled grunt. He had no idea what the issue was now, but he refused to lose the guidance unwittingly provided by these Elves.

He passed through the door and into the tunnel, his nose crinkling at the air's sharp staleness while he used the Elves directly ahead of him as his source of direction. Orcs lined the tunnels, positioned at a standstill at varying intervals where they watched the Elves, their hateful leers passing from one lithe Moriquendë to another while their chattering growls reverberated along the walls. Maitimo looked at those he passed, his body tensing as he waited for them to lunge at him as they had on the wastelands, now free to do so, but the Orcs did nothing except to shuffle where they stood. Maitimo moved passed them, pushing against the wall to aid his limp, but none of the tension left his body as his heart fluttered in his chest. So long as they let him be he had no reason to strike, or so he figured. But the Elves before him were clearly cowed, staying flushed along the right wall as well as they could, as if in fear that the Orcs' reaches were longer than the actual length of their arms. They moved quickly and Maitimo was at pains to move faster. They knew better where to go than he did.

A right turn. A slight left, another right. Maitimo concentrated, but this moved like a winding tunnel more than anything. He dragged the palm of his right hand along the wall, using it for support as much as searching for any abnormalities, much like the unmarked crevice in that Tunnel that had initiated his and the Orc-speaker's descent. He felt nothing beyond ridges and minor fissures, but he had no idea if the left side of the tunnel did indeed have other passageways branching off it.

They reached the end, only to turn a sharp right and he realized with a pitiful swell of satisfaction that this was the junction the Moriquendi had divided themselves between on the way here. As if in proof of it, more Elves were filtering in from the left tunnel, moving with a surety in their step to join them and Maitimo found himself being forced along even faster. Valar, these Elves would just not slow down, even though they looked as tired as he felt. Maitimo ignored the Orcs that still lined the tunnel, climbing the random sets of stairs and straining his focus on moving ahead while he kept his right hand flushed against the wall. His right thigh again began to burn as he used it to haul his weight up the steps. Before long, he nearly stumbled sideways as his hand met empty air and only met wall again after several more steps. It happened twice more. Three times his hand met empty air, passing by gaping holes that were so dark that he could not even see whether they led up or down, though they had to at least be three new tunnels branching off from this main corridor. Maitimo turned his head to peer after one but was ushered along by the Moriquendi. The Moriquendi who, he noticed, only kept moving forward, overstepping those tunnels even though they all remained along the right side. The Elves ahead of him turned right at another junction, this one with two other tunnels branching off.

Maitimo gave a slight nod. Right, slight left, another right, a sharp right, straight three times, right.

But then they came to a winding stairwell, up and up, followed by a left turn? No. Straight. Straight and then a slight right, or maybe this was just another winding tunnel since he could not see any unmarked passageways along the walls like earlier. Straight now. Up and up and up. Down? Maitimo almost fell forward at the sudden drop, but it was only three steps. Constant veering to the right, a sharp left up another crooked stairway….Maitimo gave a fierce shake of his head, blinking several times. Come now, he could do this!

Before he could focus again, they entered the forked, broadened passageway he recognized from yesterday. And sure enough, that persistent glow of the forge fires came into view. Maitimo lost the support of the wall as they passed into the broadened tunnel, his limp becoming more pronounced. The Moriquendi filtered down the stairs into the cavern where many more Elves moved to and fro, working the bloomeries in the exact same manner as those before. But unlike before, many Orcs at least three dozen strong were interspersed along the walls and in between the clay structures, their eyes following the Elves as they wrung the rods in their fists.

The Moriquendi apparently knew where to go since they spread out without hesitation. Maitimo stared after them, confounded. What should he do? Follow one of them? But he froze in his tracks a few paces beyond the last step, staring with unblinking surprise.

The Orc-speaker was just ahead, standing with his eerie stillness while his eyes were trained unwaveringly on Maitimo, the drear light of the furnaces making his appearance even more baleful. The Orc-speaker lifted his chin, his face unreadable, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "Ah. His Majesty can walk." The side of his mouth twitched again but quickly morphed into a feral bearing of teeth as he turned his eyes on the surrounding Moriquendi. He barked out several short and sharp sentences in Edhellen, that strange speech so corrupted on his voice that Maitimo could not make out one word. He cringed slightly, wondering if it sounded as perverted to the Moriquendi as the Orc-speaker's Quenya did for him. But the Elves jumped into action at whatever he said, some stumbling in their haste, all of their gazes to the ground.

The Orc-speaker's eyes snapped back to Maitimo. "And you." He stepped closer. "Of the last to arrive. You had best begin to move faster if you love your skin."

Maitimo scowled at him. "I do not move for you."

The corner of his mouth quirked again as the Orc-speaker peered at him, tilting his head. "You will." His sallow eyes traveled up and down Maitimo, settling on the garment around his waist. His face was indecipherable, but a look passed over it that sent a shiver down Maitimo's spine and he had to resist the urge to back away at the spike of revulsion that suddenly twisted his gut. He must have revealed something of what he felt, however, because the Orc-speaker's eyes traveled back up to his own, the ghost of what was definitely a small smile creasing his mouth. "And very soon, though I shall relay to my Master your words that he may know you move for him, if not yet for those who speak in his name."

Maitimo's eyes widened, a flush of fury rising up through his body. His muscles coiled tight and his fingers twitched as he glowered at the Orc-speaker, nearly shaking. He clenched his jaw and he could feel the strain on the tendons of his neck as he just stopped himself from listing forward. That accursed swine!

The Orc-speaker looked at Maitimo knowingly, that small hint of a smile reappearing again. "Do it," he nearly whispered.

Maitimo stared at him in glowering silence but then scoffed and shook his head, glaring harder. "You wish I would stoop so low," he bit out, though he forced the tautness in his muscles away. "Seek your sport elsewhere."

A pause. The Orc-speaker narrowed his eyes. "Taking the high road now, are we, Kinslayer?"

Maitimo scoffed again, biting back a laugh this time as he worked his jaw. "Do it yourself. If such a word already known to my ears is your lowest blow, you will have to do far worse to make me do it."

"Ah, how you still think words have any power in these pits." Another pause, but then the Orc-speaker suddenly chortled as he stepped nearer. "Soon enough I will have hair again to twist in my fist. Lachend." He uttered the last with a clear lilt of mockery. "But for now–" The brief end was all the warning Maitimo had before the Orc-speaker surged forward impossibly fast, hand reaching out to grab hold of his throat in that merciless grip of his, his claws puncturing the skin of the ring of bruises still yet visible and yanking Maitimo forward from where he hastily began to list away. "Pray come to your new throne room. Charcoal aplenty in the fuel pit to craft a crown!"

He stiffened and jerked back, but the Orc-speaker's grip did not loosen as he forced him forward. He felt the claws puncture his skin as he fought the hold, but the Orc-speaker's grip was like iron and Maitimo was soon busy with just trying to keep his balance as he was hustled along with no consideration to his limp. Shoveling and crouched Moriquendi turned their heads to look their way as he neared their bloomeries, and he could feel their gazes burning into his back as he passed. But no one extended a helping hand. Valar, no one even shifted away from their stations. And the Orcs jittered away as they watched the Orc-speaker manhandle him, but that was nothing surprising. They probably wished to do it themselves, if they but had the nerve to.

The Orc-speaker led him to the right pocket at the back of the cavern, which had several more curved steps leading down into the cave. With only the release of his throat as forewarning, the Orc-speaker shoved Maitimo through the pocket's mouth with another pound against his back. Maitimo managed to land on the stairs on his feet, but his left foot crumbled immediately beneath him and he fell with a disgraceful tumble, rolling the rest of the way until crashing just beyond the last step. Again. Fire burst from his rib as he rolled over the grit and he lay there immobilized (again), forehead pressed to the ground and face contorted in pain, gasping short bursts of air.

"Lie around and you will find yourself unable to rise!" Maitimo jerked his head around at the vicious shout and the Orc-speaker huffed. "You are no precious gem in this house of fire to be exempt from any link of thralldom's chains."

He turned and left. Maitimo pushed himself up with a grunt to peer through the pocket mouth and watch his retreating back. Elves scurried out of his way, even those who were not in his path and Maitimo could not help but observe the lot of them, his stare fluctuating between confusion and disgust as he felt a mounting sense of incredulity towards the Moriquendi. Valar, the Orc-speaker had not even done anything to warrant such frightened haste and yet these Elves were cowering away as though he had unleashed an unholy rage on them.

The deep rumble of an Orc growl boomed behind him, the sound bouncing off the walls. Maitimo hurried to his feet, twisting to awkwardly stand with his right leg. The Orc-speaker may have done nothing, but these Orcs just might with how they permeated that eagerness to lash out if only given the smallest reason. He turned when he managed to stand erect, glancing about to observe this so called 'fuel pit'. He felt his heart flutter faster, eyes widening in disbelief at the mountainous piles of black rocks. Charcoal. Globs of sediment big and small – all lump as far as he could tell – filled the pit like a small set of rolling hills, refusing to reflect the torchlight in the way charcoal did, for there were twenty or so torches mounted on bracers taller than he and interspersed throughout the pocket. The fuel pit may be far less grand in size when compared to the cavern of bloomeries, but it was still colossal, easily capable of housing the most expansive of households built in Valinor among the gentry. But Maitimo had never seen such a massive amount of charcoal in one location in his life. Forget that. He was astounded that such a mass could even be compiled in the first place! Where did they make it? Nevermind that too. Because where did Moringotto acquire the impossible amount of materials needed to even produce it? He observed the nearest pile more keenly, confirming again by their coarse shape of charred bark that it was lump charcoal. That meant wood. Which meant trees. Maitimo stared. It had to mean trees. That amount of wood could come from nowhere else, but how by all the Valar could there be trees in this place?

One fire was lit in a stone-hewn brazier alongside the mouth of the pocket, providing ample illumination of the steps. There were at least a dozen Elves interspersed along the bases of the gargantuan piles of fuel, all shirtless, the soles of their feet blackened with their hands and forearms nearly the same. It was obvious they had been laboring away for the whole duration Maitimo and the others slept, and maybe even then some. Their ribcages and spines showed far too prominently along what Maitimo could see of their backs beneath loose hair, their skin peppered with streaks of black and a whole assortment of red abrasions while a layer of sweat covered every bit of said skin. The perspiration was so great that it dampened their leggings, fell from their brows in droplets and even coated the backs of their hands as they shoveled heap after heap of charcoal into what had to be transportation devices. Carts on low wheels or sacks made from closely bound staves of wood. Again with the wood.

Maitimo caught one or three Moriquendi chancing glances at him, but they kept on shoveling, or in some cases carrying, Maitimo amended as he watched two Elves take up a sack each onto their shoulders, filled to the brim with charcoal. They hobbled over to the fuel pit's entrance. Their passing caught one Orc's attention and the beast growled out something as he stepped towards them. The nearest Moriquendë screamed something in response, his voice frantic as he threw up an arm and veered away, nearly knocking his partner down in the process. But the other Elf caught the first and ushered him along, grabbing his arm as he stumbled on a step.

The Orc growled after them and Maitimo's eyes were taken by the object that swung wildly from his hand. His eyes widened slightly. Blessed Varda, what cruel instrument did the beast carry? He recognized the nimble rods those Orcs in the smithy carried, but this tool was a handle of some metalwork from which sprouted three flaying strips a cubit long of some kind of coarse, dark material, a material that looked to be tightly braided with two small, bulbous knots stacked on top of each other at the tips. The Orc took notice of Maitimo's stare and stepped forward, some indecipherable speech falling from his mouth, but he recognized the warning look on his face and shifted his feet to move away. Where to he had no idea, just away and preferably in the opposite direction.

Work. He just needed to work with the Moriquendi and imitate whatever it was they did for now so he would not be suspect or be kept an eye on more than any other Elf. Though he suspected that was already the case. He did not exactly blend in.

He moved towards the left of the pit, intending to go to the furthest corner where he could see no Orcs. But his left foot could only tolerate thirty or so paces before he came close to falling to his knees. He changed directions and moved instead towards the nearest pile of charcoal. Towards the Elf that was standing at the base of the mound, shovel in hand as he leaned over to stab the cutting edge into the pile, scraping it down so it tumbled towards the bottom. A cart was beside him, along with two more shovels – spades, the iron flatheads as blackened as the charcoal itself. Maitimo looked around, wondering if these spades were already claimed and said Elves had just yet to return. His concern that they might was fleeting when he saw that one Orc again and he clumsily closed the remaining distance towards the Moriquendë, who either did not notice him or refused to acknowledge him if he did.

Maitimo watched him for a moment, hesitating as he discreetly observed how the Moriquendë's muscles too discernably bunched and flexed along his shoulder blades and arms with each repetitive movement of shoveling, the layer of sweat making strings of his dark hair cling scraggily to the Elf's back and around his neck. His eyes traveling up and down over the length of his body, Maitimo reached out with a tentative hand and hesitated only once more before tapping the Moriquendë on his shoulder. "Elf?" He prayed these Elves would not be offended by such a crass greeting. The Valar knew his own people would be.

The Elf spun, smacking his hand away hard enough to hurt. "Avgarfo!" he whispered through clenched teeth, turning a sharp look on Maitimo. But the Elf froze and it was almost comical how his eyes had to take the brief time to travel upward. They widened, their dark grey flitting back and forth between Maitimo's own before he visibly grew subdued, his shoulders hunching in a way that gave him the appearance of wanting to shrink within himself or return to his stooped stance. He probably would have even retreated back a step had there not been a shoreline of fuel at his heels. The Moriquendë's gaze flicked unobtrusively to his left as though in search of something before it returned to Maitimo, and his countenance both softened and darkened at the same time as his lips pressed into a tight line. "Avgarfo," he repeated far more meekly, turning away. Maitimo listed forward, straining his ears at the low whisper. The Elf stabbed his spade into the charcoal, wrestling the shaft to loosen the compact lumps. He turned his head over his shoulder just enough to mutter at Maitimo under his breath, "Boe i vudam, i dhartham carweg."

Maitimo gave a small shake of his head, briefly clenching his jaw as he reached out and tapped the Elf's shoulder again. "I do not speak Edhellen." Valar, how stupid did he sound saying that? But he enunciated the words slowly, taking the hint and whispering too.

The Elf paused in his shoveling and looked at him, nodding. "Iston." He went back to shoveling.

Maitimo stared at him, nonplussed and not a little irritated. What did that mean? It sounded familiar, but it could be a bidding to go away for all he knew. Nearly every Elf so far had regarded him with surprise, if not shock, and then bafflement whenever he said that he could not speak their language. This Elf had not, but Maitimo did not know what being dismissed as he just was meant either.

He was tempted to leave him be, even now desired to, but he needed some instruction, some guidance, anything if it meant the Orcs' eyes being kept off him. He tapped the Elf again and was again met with something close to a glare. "Quenderin?" Maitimo asked, barely moving his lips. Is that what they even called the ancient speech in Edhellen? Or had the name changed as much as their language had too?

The Elf sighed, his lips pressing together as he again looked to his left, eyes passing back and forth quickly with an expression that was a cross between annoyed and anxious. Maitimo followed his gaze. He saw seven Orcs, the nearest one not twenty paces away, but none were looking in their direction. The Elf then looked at Maitimo the way he had expected him to earlier: in perplexed disbelief. "Man?" he hissed, his brow creasing worriedly.

That meant what. Maitimo knew it did; he had used it earlier himself. "Quenderin." He spoke it slower, nearly pleading. "Do you speak Quenderin?"

The Elf stared at him, his face blank. "Quenderin?"

Maitimo nodded, waiting for more but nothing came. He sighed again, that seed of hope shriveling up. Wonderful. He glanced quickly to his right, relieved to see they were still free from the awareness of any of the Orc overseers. Maitimo reached down to take up a spade, hobbling closer to the Elf's side. Working evidently kept the Orcs' eyes elsewhere, or it at least did with this Elf. Though his colorful back told a different story.

Maitimo knelt down, in part to give his left foot a reprieve and also to hide from the view of the Orcs in the cast shadow of the cart, even though the crown of his head still peeked above it. He again grew very cognizant of the thorough absence of the Orc-speaker and again felt the overwhelming crash of relief that he was not present, because Valar, Maitimo truly questioned whether he would have been able to even utter a word to another Elf if that accursed Maia had been here to watch him with his unceasing eye. He could at least breathe a little right now.

Maitimo watched the Elf for a moment, trying to determine just what he was doing because he was not even shoveling any of the fuel into the cart, though it was partially full already. He just stabbed the head of his spade into the upper portions of the pile to make the charcoal tumble downwards and gather at his feet. Presumably to make the shoveling of it into the cart easier, Maitimo added with a nod. He began to do the same, his reach shorter due to how he knelt there on the stone floor, but the lumps still tumbled at his jabs. He caught the Elf glancing at him, but it was too fleeting a look for him to read what might have been in that weary gaze. A moment later the Elf slowly knelt too, or more so collapsed to his knees halfway down, his face half hidden by his loose, filthy hair as he continued to work the granular lumps. The corner of Maitimo's mouth twitched up in a brief smile.

"What is your name?" he whispered. He was again met with a blank look, though now creased with mild incomprehension. Maitimo winced, wondering if it was his pronunciation that was horrid or if he just had the wrong Edhellen altogether. Maitimo twisted his jaw, carefully peering over the rim of the cart, but the Orcs still appeared blissfully ignorant of their one-sided conversation. He leaned in closer to the Elf. "Name?" he repeated, worrying his brow. "Name? You. Name?" The word was eneth, was it not? It was nothing close to their Quenya, but he could hear his father's voice echoing that word repeatedly in his head for 'name' as he practiced the different uses of the syllables on his perfect tongue. Maitimo frowned. Or maybe he said the word for an Elf-maiden. He recalled them being eerily similar in pronunciation.

The Elf continued to stare at him, unresponsive, and Maitimo began to believe he simply had the wrong word, though he could not imagine what he would otherwise be saying. Maitimo shoved the spade into the charcoal, holding the shaft steady with one hand as he tapped at his chest with the other. "I am Maitimo." He tapped his sternum again. "Me, name, Maitimo." He pointed at the Elf. "Name?"

The Elf was silent as he stared, the hint of confusion now replaced with a wary thoughtfulness as his eyes again flitted back and forth between Maitimo's own, though just what he was searching for Maitimo could not even begin to guess. The Elf shifted on his knees, glancing again over the cart towards the Orcs. He met Maitimo's gaze before quickly averting his own, turning away as he gave a small shake of his head. "Únad," he muttered. He jerked his spade out of the charcoal and shoved it back in, his face visibly growing more distressed.

Maitimo frowned at the negative intonation but dismissed it as he tried to catch the Elf's gaze again, eyebrows hiked up in question. "Únad?"

The Elf gave a stiff nod, still refusing to look at him even as he turned to Maitimo more fully. He patted the cart with his palm, leaving behind faint traces of blood on the dark wood. "Mudo lagoren den echadi cûl bant," he mumbled as he gestured several times between the fuel and the cart, hefting his spade in emphasis.

Maitimo understood that gesture well enough, at least, and it was confirmed when this Únad began shoveling the charcoal into the cart, the moves made clumsy because of the angle kneeling put him at. But since he had the longer reach, Maitimo continued to scrape the fuel down the mound for Únad to scoop up, glancing over the top of the cart once more as he did. The Orcs' focus was still rapt on whatever poor Moriquendi garnered their attention. Maitimo had to shut his ears to the noise, but each startled cry still made him jump as he winced involuntarily with every sudden, muted noise that reminded him of the sound that came from beating dust from a rug. Maitimo chanced a subtle glance at Únad, but the Elf appeared unbothered by the clearly distressed calls of his kin – his face may as well have been carved from stone for all that Maitimo could see in it, and the Elf still would not look at him, despite that he turned his way to heave the charcoal over the cart's rim.

Maitimo winced again as he heard a clatter of a dropped spade in the distance and, a desperate flicker of inspiration sparking in the back of his mind, he knocked his knuckles quietly against the cart's hull. Únad jumped, which made Maitimo jump, and he glared at the Elf in mild incredulity. Valar, this Elf was skittish! Maitimo made a face as he tapped the cart again, this time with the pads of his fingers. Únad's eyes followed the gesture and Maitimo nodded. "What in Edhellen?"

Únad frowned at him. "Man?"

Maitimo licked his lips, tapping his chest again with his free hand. "I speak Quenya," he said, enunciating the words even slower since he had to whisper. "Quenya. Me language." He pointed at Únad. "You–" He pointed at himself. "Me–" He gestured back and forth between the two of them. "–in Edhellen is…Edhel?" he ended uncertainly.

Únad raised an eyebrow. "Edhil."

Maitimo stared and then nodded once. "Fine. You me in Edhellen is…Edhil." He paused, glad to see Únad's attention was still focused on him and not his paranoia. "You me in Quenya is Eldar. Edhil is Eldar." He tapped the cart again, keeping his hand against it. "In Quenya is norollë." He tapped the wood again. "What in Edhellen?"

Únad's brow creased into a frown again, traces of confusion surfacing. "Tawar?" he murmured in slight disbelief, as though Maitimo should have known it all along. He gave a quick shake of his head before Maitimo could respond, turning his eyes down as he worked his spade into the charcoal and heaved only half a load into the cart. "Boe i gwael a chirodh múlamudas," he mumbled from the side of his mouth.

Maitimo blinked. "What?" he hissed impatiently.

Únad sighed and gnawed on his lip, appearing to hesitate before craning his neck to peer over the rim of the cart again. Satisfied by whatever he saw, he suddenly dropped his spade at his knees and hunched down, grabbing Maitimo by his shoulder and pulling him in closer. "Quenderin," he muttered under his breath. "Sa Edhellen iaur, i lam iaur an lammathemen?"

Maitimo hesitated. He recognized their word for 'language' in there again but had no notion what correlation it held with his mention of both Quenderin and Edhellen. He nodded anyway, not bothering to hide the confusion from his face.

"Adui, boi i chirodh múlamudas i sennui len aliatha aen adh i bith dhîn, pe cilitha. Istatha aen."

Maitimo gritted his teeth, glaring harder at the Elf as his mouth twisted down in irritation. "I. Do. Not. Speak–"

Únad cut his hand sharply through the air and Maitimo snapped his mouth shut, though the intensity of his glare did not lessen. "Iston!" he whispered harshly. "Dan lasto, Lachend. Lasto annin!" Únad looked at Maitimo intently, holding up a finger in a clear indication to be attentive to what he was about to say. "Lasto." He pointed to his lips and then to both of his ears. "Lasto."

Listen. He was telling him to listen. Maitimo nodded, his eyes softening into something more concentrated.

Únad nodded in return, seeming to finally calm down himself, eyes flicking over to his left and then back. He held up his finger again. "Múlamudas."

Maitimo nodded once. "Múlamudas."

Únad gave another slow, intent nod. "Ma." He pointed at Maitimo with both hands. "Den–" He touched the corners of both his eyes, swerving them back and forth as though searching for something. "Cilodh–" He crept his fingers up over the rim of the cart and pointed towards the mouth of the fuel pit. "Múlamudas."

Maitimo's attentive frown deepened into slight bewilderment. He gathered that he was supposed to find something, but he shook his head at the Elf, gesturing questioningly with his hands. "What is múlamudas?"

Únad made a certain face that had Maitimo believing that he only just refrained from rolling his eyes. How he looked at him now certainly supported that, if his exasperated glare said anything. "De Edhel," he muttered, almost patronizingly.

Oh. A person. He was supposed to look for a person. Maitimo gave him a tight, humorless smile. "Where?"

Únad slapped a hand over his face, rubbing it a few times before removing said hand, a few streaks of soot left in its wake. "Ú-iston." The words were spoken softly, but Únad again pointed with his finger from his eyes to the mouth of the pit, the digit traveling back and forth between the two several times. "Dan boe i chirodh den," he said emphatically, but Maitimo just decided to ignore any of his garble and just focus on the gestures. They made more sense. "De Edhel nan i dâl faeg."

Maitimo jerked his gaze up from his hands to frown sharply at Únad, those first three words finally something familiar to him. "The Elf with what?" he hissed.

"Dâl faeg," he repeated. Maitimo's attention was drawn once more to the Elf's hand as Únad mimed walking with two of his fingers, letting the first knuckle of one finger cave under itself with each step it walked. He then clenched both his hands into fists, flushing them together inwardly so that the thumbs and forefingers touched. He turned his fists down and away from each other, as though breaking an invisible bundle of sticks. Únad then pointed at Maitimo's left foot and mimed the awkward walking again.

A limp. It was the only thing the Elf could be attempting to say. But it only made Maitimo's frown deepen. He was supposed to find the Elf with a limp? He patted his tender ankle as he stared at Únad. "Dâl faeg?" he repeated uncertainly, though he did so more for the sake of saying something.

Únad nodded, pointing again at Maitimo's bad foot. "De Edhel nan i dâl faeg. Han Edhel," he emphasized, "est Múlamudas." He pointed at Maitimo and did his finger-walking in the direction of the entrance of the pit. "Gwa na den."

Maitimo glanced over the cart to the entrance but turned back to Únad with a frustrated glare. "Where?" Valar, he wanted to shake him!

Únad shrugged, pointing again to the fuel pit's entrance, which Maitimo could only deduce to mean that this Múlamudas was somewhere out there. Únad said nothing more, turning back to the charcoal and taking up his spade to pierce it into the lump and heaving it up with a grunt.

Maitimo watched him work with that frantic speed in silence, a wave of despondency washing over him as he shifted his grip on his own spade. He shoved it into the charcoal, wrestling it under the lumps and heaving it over his shoulder to hear it clatter and tumble in the cart. He shifted on his cramping knees as he repeated the move, glancing up to peer around as discreetly as he was able. He was taken aback when he caught several Elves looking at him from where they worked their own hills of charcoal, all of whom quickly cast their eyes back down when they saw that he noticed. Well, they had certainly mastered the art of peering about without their Orc overseers becoming aware of it. But none of them would hold his gaze. Not one.

Maitimo sighed, turning back to the fuel but glancing up again and again to observe one dark head after another. One marred back after another. One Elf that looked exactly the same as the other after another.

So. He was supposed to find the Elf with the limp. The Elf he assumed with a steel surety that appeared as nondescript and as plain by Moriquendi standards as all the Elves he was observing right now. Unless this Múlamudas had russet hair like himself, he might as well interrogate every Elf all over again as he had done with Únad to learn their names. And how could this Elf be identified by a limp, of all things? He was limping himself! And he had seen at least four Moriquendi hobble along in the fuel pit alone, so just how many more were hindered by ruined feet outside in the bloomeries? If he could even manage to make his way out of this pit. Valar, why did he even have to locate this Elf? Maitimo was seriously but one frustrated thought away from banishing the unlikely idea of finding him altogether.

But he could not erase the memory of the distress in Únad's face as the Moriquendë fought through his paranoia of the Orcs' awareness to try and communicate all of this, an endeavor that had taken twice as long due to how slowly he spoke for Maitimo's sake. It was evidently important enough for him in the eyes of Únad.

Maitimo sighed again, closing his eyes in resignation. Curse it all. He shoved his spade into the lump a bit more viciously. Well, this task of locating an Elf should not be difficult at all!