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Chapter 21:
Múlamudas

Valar, this was ridiculous. Resisting the temptation to rush over to that Elf then and there was not easy. He had even listed forward to do so, hands twitching to lean the shovel against the bloomery. But he forced himself to be rational. Not cowardly, rational. Making his way to that Elf was one thing, but finding the time to initiate a conversation was another, doubly so when his Edhellen fumbled past his lips as it did. Unless he followed the Elf into the tunnel, there was no way to prevent being caught walking away from his work. Unless Múlamudas somehow came to him at the bloomery without being seen by the Orcs, but to hope he would (or could) was preposterous. Of course, that Elf might not even be this Múlamudas, but if that limp was not a limp at its finest then he direly needed to be reeducated on just what a limp was.

No, he had to wait, wait however accursedly long that might wind up being. Maitimo clenched his jaw as he agitatedly worked the shovel into the lump that had just been restocked again. He would not risk garnering the attention of the Orcs, which would probably again result in the Orc-speaker, but he now knew that he had to contend with the Moriquendi as well, which was so wrong and backwards that it made his knuckles go white as he gripped the tool's shaft. These Elves were clearly as unwilling as the Orcs were to let any disturbance interrupt their labor's progress, even to the point of dropping their own tools to openly drag him back by the arms while screaming whatever Edhellen they screamed at him. Of course, he would not be trying to attack an Orc this time, but it all still boiled down to the fact that he truly had no idea what to expect of these Moriquendi, even if it were something as simple as approaching one of them. Because if they were to react to him, even just by holding him back for whatever reason, it would surely attract the Orcs' notice. Which would probably again result in the Orc-speaker.

And if the Orc-speaker returned, he might as well forget that he even spotted that Elf with the limp.

So Maitimo spent the next several hours watching when he could risk a glance. Watching for when Orcs were not looking his way so that he could quickly peer between the bloomeries to the carriers lining the right wall of the smithy, watching those particular Elves emerge from a tunnel with an empty carrier only to switch it out with one lying ready on the floor, loaded with iron ore. They still moved in pairs, but Maitimo noticed after many of their rotations that some came and went alone, bearing a contraption on their backs meant for one person instead of the double-shafted canvas, much like the staved-wood sacks those from the fuel pit carried the charcoal in. He watched them and watched for maybe-Múlamudas to reappear. But if he had, it was when Maitimo was not looking and besides, what would he do if he saw him again? Just mosey on over there with empty hands? No, he had to be carrying an ingot. That was the only reason any Elf went to the carriers as far as he was aware. But he had no way to make that delivery coincide with whenever Múlamudas entered the smithy. He could not make the bloomery smelt the iron any faster, could not make the ingot cool any faster, and he sure as by the Void could not walk any faster. Valar, just how was he supposed to time this to make it work? He kept on with his sporadic glances towards the tunnels, his movements growing more agitated as he continued to ignore the many Moriquendi stares. That was another thing. How was he supposed to make his way to that Elf without the Moriquendi knowing if the Moriquendi kept looking at him?

Valar, this was ridiculous.

And so when he saw the Elf with the limp suddenly emerge from the tunnel, Maitimo's eyes widened as he froze where he knelt. His mind raced frantically for only a split moment before he abruptly lifted up the porous mass of iron from the bloom bed with the tongs. Third-Elf stumbled quickly out of the way of the steaming ingot, glaring at Maitimo as he dropped it onto the skin, tossing the tongs aside and hastily gathering the corners.

"Ai!" third-Elf hissed anxiously over the furnace's thrum, still glaring at Maitimo in mild incredulity. "Man carodh? Ú-nonen–"

"Please!" he whispered urgently, eyes flicking over to Múlamudas before turning back to look up at third-Elf. He gave a short but insistent shake of his head. "Please. Do not."

But third-Elf had followed his gaze, slag hammer held limply in his hand. He looked back down at Maitimo, his expression softening as he gave a near indiscernible nod of his head. Maitimo could not stop the elated rise in his chest. It was Múlamudas!

He nodded towards third-Elf, putting as much gratitude in the small gesture as he could, and watched as he quickly scuttled around to the other side of the bloomery while he himself continued with hastily bunching the corners together to hold the weight of the unfinished ingot. All of the clinging slag had not been completely hammered off the ingot, which would necessitate a resmelting of the whole nugget for it to be of any use at all. But there was no reason the Orcs would be able to tell the ingot was unfinished unless they demanded he open the sack, which had never happened yet. Besides, all these smelted lumps of ore would have to be resmelted anyway. Beating the slag from the ingot's surface did not remove the smaller particles that had found their way inside the ore or imbedded themselves in the exterior. Resmelting ore twice over was always done and his father had even repeated the process a third time to ensure the purest consistency in the metal. But Maitimo had quickly given up earlier on with trying to figure out why the smelting was only done one time before the ingots were carried off to the Valar knew where – the material was practically unusable unless thrown in another furnace. But nothing here made sense, which in turn made no sense because Moringotto would not be so senseless!

Bleh. If the unfinished ingot helped him make his way to Múlamudas, he could not care less about its state.

Maitimo hefted up the skin, muscles in his shoulder burning as he held it outward and away from his body while he moved as quickly as his foot would let him. And prudently. Maitimo's eyes flicked around as he weaved through the bloomeries and the Elves working them, taking a path that was less clogged with Orcs and more filled with bustling Elves, though Orcs patrolling around a smelter made Maitimo slow down on more than one occasion. The Moriquendi's eyes followed him as he passed and trained on him when he neared – nothing new on that front – and several stepped away at the sight of the skin sack; everyone knew what blistering hot thing lay inside and Maitimo quite doubted that there was any salve for burns down here.

His heart started to beat a little harder. Múlamudas had not disappeared inside the tunnel yet, bustling around two carriers with his extreme limp, but Maitimo was pained to move faster. Though hindered by the worst limp he had seen so far, Múlamudas still moved rather quickly. Even as he had the thought, Múlamudas was squatting down with the majority of his weight on his right leg, hefting the one-manned carrier onto his back and leaning against the wall to pull himself to a stand. The muscles and tendons in his neck strained as the Elf's face cringed with the effort, his right leg quivering.

But now he was disappearing back into the darkness of the tunnel. Maitimo looked both ways before passing by the last of the bloomeries, his mind flying. The logical thing to do would be to dispose of the ingot on the double-shafted carrier, the one Múlamudas had ignored in favor for the one-manned carrier, so that any Moriquendi watching him (or Orcs for that matter) would see him doing the proper thing. And he could feel multiple eyes on him, had for so long a time that he was beginning to grow numb to it.

But there was no reason for him to go into that tunnel empty-handed. Valar, there was no reason for him to go into that tunnel with an ingot either. And he would lose the time spent on relieving the skin of the ore without severely scalding himself, crouching down to see that the ingot did not roll off the carrier. Yes, it was only a few extra moments, but he knew nothing of this tunnel system and in that pitiless dark, a few moments could be all it took to find himself lost.

He took the iron with him.

Maitimo moved along the carriers, crouching down and trying to move along as deep as he could into the cast shadows, bypassing the carriers altogether and nearing the crevice in the wall, only so broad as to allow maybe three Elves to stand abreast. He did not waste the time to pause and look over his shoulder to see if any Orcs were looking his way – they either did or did not by this point, and he might be spotted by wasting the time to check to see if he had been spotted instead of slinking into the tunnel. To the Void with that.

Clang!

Maitimo jumped, spinning around. He recognized the sound of tongs being dropped on other tools, but it appeared to come from near the middle of the bloomeries. Several Orcs were making a ruckus as they rushed over to said smelter, several Moriquendi looking to see the commotion before turning away and working twice as hastily. Maitimo barely spared the cavern a glance, taking advantage of the distraction and pushing headlong through the crevice and into the tunnel.

The light from the smithy barely penetrated the darkness, but Maitimo kept his free hand scraping along the unsmooth wall, taking large steps to avoid tripping on any unsuspected nooks on the floor. He just had to hurry. Múlamudas could not be moving that fast, especially with the load of ore he was carrying. They both had limps, but he knew Múlamudas' was worse. He was almost tempted to shout the Elf's name but gritted his teeth and shuffled along faster, ignoring the pain that tore through his ankle in bright, bold bursts. He could hear Múlamudas up ahead, heard the slight echoing of his awkward gate. Come now, just a little closer so that he could whisper! Come on!

Wait a moment….Just wait a moment. Maitimo stared ahead in consternation. He could see him! Not distinctly, and not only by the very shallow glow he emitted, but there must be some kind of a light source further in the tunnel that filtered back to them, enough to silhouette Múlamudas and his lumbering shadow as he rounded another bend in the twisting tunnel and disappeared from sight.

Curse it. Maitimo began running. Limp-running. He gasped at the pain, the ingot crashing against the wall as he used both hands to guide himself, stumbling as he ascended uneven steps. He rounded the bend, eyes alighting on Múlamudas just ahead as the noise of the smithy receded into distant bangs. "Psst!" This area of the tunnel was lighter and he saw Múlamudas' head snap up from where it hung towards his chest. "Múlamudas!" he hissed as loud as he could, not daring to raise his voice just yet, not when it could still echo back to the smithy.

Múlamudas turned away, taking another extreme limp forward. A pained grunt followed. "Ego!" he harshly tossed over his shoulder. "Avon dartho maetho i anghaw hen angin!"

Maitimo closed the last few paces between them and reached out with his free hand around the carrier, grabbing and pulling on the Elf's shoulder. "Wait."

"Ego!" Múlamudas smacked the hand away, turning with a slight glare and apparently unaware that Maitimo was not even speaking Edhellen. But the Elf spun around so fast that, combined with his lame foot, he fell over to crash against the wall. Maitimo tried to catch him, but Múlamudas fell all the way, the weight of the carrier throwing off his balance and he landed on top of his left foot with a bit off cry. Maitimo winced.

Múlamudas softly growled. "Bannos mabo den, nin ú-narannenodh aen man–" Múlamudas looked up to glare at him in full, but the vicious snarl was abruptly cut short when, like Únad, his eyes traveled up to settle on Maitimo's face. Múlamudas' eyes flicked back and forth between Maitimo's, the annoyance in his face morphing into a strange, almost intrigued expression as his eyes slightly narrowed. "Ai," he murmured, gaze still perusing Maitimo's visage. He gave an absent nod. "Noner thand, cenin, idh lyss e-lachend." The words were muttered under his breath and Múlamudas cocked his head to the side, much like a chicken would.

Maitimo frowned at the shift in his tone, just managing to recognize that last word and he shook his head several times. "I do not speak Edhellen." He lifted his eyebrows in question, though they creased anxiously nonetheless. "Quendian? You speak Quendian?"

Múlamudas raised an eyebrow, his lip faintly curling in distaste. "Yes, dan elbereth velui, stop speaking Edhellen. Remmirath, so bad."

Oh Valar….Maitimo swayed at the sudden dizziness, the relief so palpable as it washed over him that, for a moment, he could not even breathe. Moisture burned his eyes and Maitimo viciously shoved it back, refusing to make a fool of himself now. He opened his mouth to speak, but Múlamudas was hauling himself back upward to an awkward stand, pulling himself up the wall and staring at Maitimo the entire way. The intrigued expression was still intact and he looked Maitimo over before returning to his eyes. "Is true you not speak Edhellen, then?"

Maitimo frowned slightly but nodded anyway, frantically digging up the Quenderin deeply buried somewhere in his brain. "Too little. Not enough."

"Ah." Múlamudas looked him up and down again, clicking his tongue as he stared back at Maitimo, a humorless smile twisting his mouth. "Might want to fix. Go away." He turned around, limping forward another step.

Maitimo's hand snapped out to grab his shoulder again. "No! Wait!"

"Baw!" He smacked the hand away. "No yourself, úchannas," he spat, spinning back around. He almost fell over again but slapped a hand against the wall to steady himself. "You dally outside horn. Ego, ego!" He shoved a hand against Maitimo's chest, brow crinkling in a mixture of anger and anxiety. "I not be beaten for you!"

Maitimo glared at him. "What–"

The sudden horn blast startled both of them and both snapped their heads around to peer in the direction Maitimo came from. Neither spoke. Maitimo stared into the pitch blackness, the sound of Múlamudas panting beside him now the only noise to be heard. He waited, but damn it all, no second horn blast came. Maitimo twisted his jaw, glare turning into a glower. Pff. Of course no second horn came. Who was to say a day within this cave was given the same length of time as a day outside of it? But wait – another single horn blast….Did that mean they were allotted a second break today? That was what the first horn seemed to signify.

He turned to Múlamudas for an answer but leaned back against the wall in wary surprise at the suspicious scowl he was receiving. Valar, what was wrong with this Moriquendë now?

Múlamudas narrowed his eyes further. "How you do that?"

Maitimo scrunched up his face with another mildly mordant glare. "Do what? I did nothing." He gestured behind him. "You say of the…the thing?"

"Hm." The scowl eased, though Múlamudas continued to stare at him as he awkwardly lowered himself back to the ground. "Go away."

Maitimo watched, mind scrambling uselessly for something to say as the Elf stretched out his legs across the floor of the tunnel, wrestling the carrier off his back with a gasp of either pain or relief and collapsing against the wall. He was heaving in air, but he continued to peer at Maitimo with an almost invasive stare and Maitimo looked away. Almost against his will, his eyes latched onto Múlamudas' left foot and they widened, mouth falling slightly open. Valar, that foot was not just injured. It was broken. Not sprained or damaged as his had been, but actually broken. The light in the tunnel was very minimal and Maitimo still had no clue how further along the tunnel its source had to be, but just enough was filtering to where he and Múlamudas were for Maitimo to be able to see the noticeably crooked malformation of Múlamudas' ankle. He was no healer, but that had to be a clean break, maybe several. Great Manwë, how was Múlamudas even able to put weight on it, let alone walk? It was impossible!

"Múlamudas…." He gave a small shake of his head, gesturing towards the stretched out foot as he worked his brain, but he could not remember the word for 'ankle' for the life of him. "Your…foot. It is broke."

Múlamudas huffed. "Really?" he intoned, voice liberally dripping with sarcasm. "Go away."

Maitimo made a face, shaking his head again. "No. Broke, yes, but you need it set. Fixed. Before it heals like that."

Múlamudas finally looked away, turning his glower on his ankle before lowering his eyes to his lap. "It already did. Go away."

Maitimo regarded him sharply before looking again at the ankle, frowning. He was right, he realized. The ankle was misshapen far from what a normal ankle looked like, but none of the skin around it was bruised, had no deep colorization that came only from broken bones, and not even swollen. The skin was clear. Filthy and with several abrasions, but clear. Maitimo sighed, resignation sweeping over him.

He lowered himself to the ground, letting the ingot drop with a careless clatter before sitting to face Múlamudas by leaning against the opposite wall, stretching out his legs as well. He briefly closed his eyes, relishing in how good it felt, especially on his own left ankle, which was still beautifully discolored. But he opened them again only to find Múlamudas staring at him. Again. Maitimo stared back, lifting an eyebrow. Well, he certainly shared that much in common with the other Moriquendi; their apparent inability to stop looking at him. Múlamudas broke eye-contact first, looking down to silently stare at Maitimo's sack-covered ingot instead.

Maitimo pursed his lips. Well then. He glanced back down the tunnel, gaze contemplative as he gestured towards it. Múlamudas' eyes followed. "That…h-horn." He motioned uncertainly with his hands, suppressing a mote of frustration. Valar, he was beyond out of practice with Quenderin. "One horn is rest from–" He pointed down the tunnel. "–from labor? Our work?"

Múlamudas nodded, finally relenting a little bit in the raptness of his stare as he relaxed his head against the wall. "Yes," he muttered. "One horn always rest. Two horns time to sleep. Three horns…." A noise emerged from his throat that sounded in between a chortle and a scoff, the side of his mouth twisting upwards while his eyes darkened. "No three."

Maitimo frowned. "What is three horns?"

Múlamudas shook his head dismissively, combing his hair behind his ears. "I not know word. Not want to hear three." He glanced at Maitimo before looking away again. "Go away."

Maitimo's frown deepened, but not only at the continual shunning. It was a task just trying to make out what he was saying. Múlamudas' Quenderin was heavily accented, some syllables intoned in ways he had never heard before and there were many words Maitimo had to take the time to actually spell out in his head to make sure he was hearing what he thought he was. But he could not be too annoyed. If Múlamudas' Quenderin was this accented, his own must be just as heavily influenced by Quenya and probably sounded just as distorted to Múlamudas. It was difficult to guess Múlamudas' age, though it was obvious he was a learnt Elf if he turned out not to be at least Maitimo's age or older. He did not know if Múlamudas was also having trouble with actually communicating in the ancient speech beyond forgetting a word or two or if it was his own rusty memory that was twisting Múlamudas' words when going through his ears. The side of Maitimo's mouth twitched upwards. Valar, his father would love this right now.

Múlamudas' eyebrows hiked up at his flicker of a smile, but Maitimo ignored it. "So," he sighed, twisting his jaw. Just what was he supposed to say? "You are Múlamudas?"

Múlamudas stared, absently pulling on a loose thread dangling from his leggings. "Obviously."

Maitimo frowned at the cantankerous undertone, narrowing his eyes. After a moment he gave a small, bewildered shake of his head. "I understand bitter– being bitter in this pit, but why you so hostile to me?"

Múlamudas' forehead creased slightly. "Why I so what?"

Maitimo hesitated. "Ah…." Great. Either he himself was mangling the word or Múlamudas did not know it himself. He resisted tapping his head against the rock wall. Come now. Another one, another one. "Mean. Why you so…mean?" He grimaced slightly at how it sounded out loud. As if that did not make him sound like a whining little toddler. "No Elf act this way with me yet. Only you. Why? I do nothing to earn this…behavior." And it was true. If Múlamudas was like any other Moriquendë in these caves, his reaction to him made no sense, save for the endless staring, and Maitimo was already growing tired of the continual glower.

Múlamudas was silent, his stare persisting as he tugged faster at the string. Did he not know how to blink or something? It was almost startling when his gaze darted away, openly moving down Maitimo's chest to the garment tied around his waist. He released the loose thread to gesture briefly at the shirt, eyes flitting back up to Maitimo's. "Do not part from that shirt."

Maitimo glanced down at it, looking up with a frown. "What?"

He shrugged, staring again. "Is that not-mean enough?"

Maitimo looked at him, the frown deepening and mind spinning on the matter of just how he was supposed to reply to that.

Múlamudas finally averted his gaze, running the back of his hand against his mouth. "Nice hair," he murmured. "What you do to lose it?"

Maitimo's hands twitched in his lap as he became acutely aware of the emptiness along the back of his neck, of how well the skin of his back could feel the texture of the rock wall he leaned against. Gritty, cool, bumpy. Maitimo glared at Múlamudas, chest churning with something that ran hotly through his veins, but he forced himself still. He did not know what was more annoying, Múlamudas' mockery of his hair or his insinuation that he would actually allow it to be filched. But Valar, he would be damned if he gave into the temptation to feel for hair that was not there, especially when this Múlamudas was raising his eyebrow at him again.

Maitimo clenched his jaw, giving a slow shake of his head at the Elf. "Nothing."

He scoffed, looking somewhere off into the tunnel. "Furas."

Maitimo narrowed his eyes at the barely muttered word. "Pardon?"

Múlamudas looked back at him. "You may be new come here, Lachend, but–"

"Maitimo."

"What?"

"My name is Maitimo," he said slowly and concisely.

Up went the eyebrow. He twisted his jaw. "Huh." He tilted his head, the stare diffusing into something more curious. "I suppose you not have name in language you not speak."

Maitimo only nodded, somewhat sarcastically. He did not want to be mocking, but Aulë help him, he was already becoming exasperated. He frowned again, eyes searching for anything to read in Múlamudas' face. "What is your problem with me, Múlamudas? Or is being…like this amuse you?"

Múlamudas made a face. "Avno'gron," he shot out. "It is true, is it not? You not here to help us." His expression darkened as he looked up towards the ceiling of the tunnel. "Balagerch," he groaned, or maybe cursed, his face pained as his hands flexed several times. "Hen agor nan thel 'waur."

Maitimo leaned forward and outstretched a hand, snapping his fingers. Múlamudas looked back at him. "In Quendian, please. What you say?"

He gestured towards the smithy, eyes not leaving Maitimo as his eyebrows drew together bleakly. "They talk and talk. I hear it. And they all keep ask me if it true, if you here to help." His expression contorted into that familiar bitterness again as a knowing, mocking grin played at his mouth. "But you not, are you? Even if you come from dor-rodyn, you not here to help us. I know it."

Maitimo stared at him, mildly incredulous as the words filtered through his brain. For several long moments he seriously contemplated that he was just misunderstanding, but none of the words fell out of place. His brow furrowed in confusion and he gestured helplessly. "Help you?" he clarified.

Múlamudas nodded. "Yes, but you not, are you?"

"What do you say, help you?"

Múlamudas did not answer and for a moment looked like he was not going to at all. But his gaze slid away, losing its intensity as he blinked several times. "To save us," he mumbled, looking everywhere but at Maitimo.

Save them….Maitimo mouthed the words, rendered silent this time by the implication. An implication that kept growing clearer with every time it turned over in his head. He could only meet Múlamudas' gaze helplessly as the Elf stared at him expectantly, almost hungrily and even he dared to say with a smidgen of reluctant hopefulness beneath it all. Maitimo breathed out, leaning back against the wall again. He shook his head. "I am not here to help you."

There really had been a hopeful spark in the Moriquendë's eye, and Maitimo only knew it because it died and disappeared immediately, replaced again by that invasive, bitter haze. "Yes, I know," he grunted with a tight nod. He glanced away, muscle in his jaw ticking. "Rhach am gin," he added in a harsh whisper.

Maitimo scowled. "Eh!" he barked. "Enough with your Edhellen. And with what you say." He rested his head against the wall, absently rocking it back and forth as he went over every single word and half-word he had articulated in both languages since first being in the presence of these Moriquendi. But his mind came up blank and he glared at Múlamudas, torn between whether he should feel troubled or exasperated. "Not once," he enunciated clearly, "did I say I am–" He motioned around the tunnel. "–here to help. Valar, I not even know Edhellen word for help!"

"But you not say no!" Múlamudas said insistently. He crossed his arms over his chest but unfolded them almost immediately with a grimace, as if the slight move pained him. He gestured back down the tunnel again. "Now everyone speaks, wonders if you came to help, únauthach." He looked away with a glower, fiddling harder with the thread. "And 'help' is alio," he added in a grumble.

"You make more questions than you answer, Elf. I not say no? Say no to what?"

Múlamudas sighed again, mild exasperation morphing his expression as he pointed impatiently towards Maitimo's waist. "To that Elf. Who gave you shirt. He ask if you come to save us. You did not say no!"

Maitimo stared at him in complete incredulity now. "You think I know what he said?" he demanded with a hint of anger. "When I not know Edhellen? Aulë á alyanyë, how could I–" He paused, brow furrowing into something more concentrated as Múlamudas' words circled through his mind again. "How know you what he said to me?"

"He told me, únauthach."

Maitimo hesitated, the image of shirt-Elf's face flashing in his mind. "What is his name?"

"Ask him yourself."

Maitimo slowly worked his jaw. "I cannot speak Edhellen, remember?"

"Not my problem."

Maitimo met the words with a cool stare, remaining silent for a long pause before he leaned forward. He did not stop leaning forward until Múlamudas pushed back against his own wall, inimical gaze shifting into something more wary. Maitimo held up a warning finger. "Let me say something and say it clear," he said softly, his eyes hard. "I came here not two days ago. Only yesterday, dragged here only to have my hair stole and clothes ripped from me. And, ló quanda melehtë Valaiva, my mind is this close to edge! I am lucky to understand one Edhellen word and while I understand being bitter, I not sit here and…and hear your – your not-pleasure for me not being who you people hope I am. I not know why you even think it! That you do is…." Curse it, what was the word for ridiculous? "And I – I…." Maitimo shut his eyes and leaned back against the wall, running a hand roughly over his face. Damn it all, why could he not have been able to learn Edhellen before coming here? His thoughts were growing so scrabbled and frustrated that piecing the Quenderin to speak them was becoming impossible. "I am here not full day and have no idea what is happening."

"Ah." Múlamudas' face softened somewhat, though that rancorous quality still remained. A quality, Maitimo belatedly recognized, that had been there before Múlamudas had even realized who he was, before Maitimo had even grabbed hold of his shoulder. Múlamudas raised an eyebrow in question. "So then why you here to disturb my day's bout of self-pity?"

"I–" Maitimo faltered, lapsing into silence almost instantly as he realized that he had never thought past finding Múlamudas. He had just been so focused on finally speaking with someone who knew Quenderin, to finally just talk with someone in this place where he could not communicate with anyone that he had not considered why he should go to Múlamudas in the first place, why he even bothered. What he should even say, or ask. Maitimo deflated a bit as Múlamudas continued to peer at him, who seemed to deflate a little himself as he waited, head tilting to the side. "I not know. I was told to find you, that you speak Quendian." He huffed. "You are hard to find."

"I was in the Low Smithy at least dozen times today and saw you plenty. Look harder."

Maitimo did a double take, wondering if he interpreted a word wrong. "Low Smithy?"

A look of understanding dawned in Múlamudas' eyes and he gave a knowing nod, still staring. "Be stuck with smelters, have you?" He gave a low chortle, though not at Maitimo it seemed since he slid his eyes down and away. "Pray you stay with them. More worse in High Smithy."

Maitimo motioned him to stop. "There is another smithy?"

"Well, where you think this…this–" He gestured towards his load of iron. "–this tinc angren goes each time you see it go in tunnels?"

"But…." Maitimo shook his head doggedly, looking from the ore-filled carrier to Múlamudas. "I wondered, but the Elves are in this smithy." The solemn, slightly dubious look on Múlamudas' face made him pause, a seed of foreboding sprouting in the back of his mind. "Are they not?" he added. Valar, he hoped the question was rhetorical. "I know now there are more than the fifty or so Elves I first seen, but–"

"Fifty?" Múlamudas echoed in disbelief, eyebrows climbing up. He blinked a time or three, as if wondering if he himself had heard wrongly this time. "You said fifty?"

Maitimo swallowed, hesitating only briefly. "How many of you are here?"

"Oh." He relaxed again, shrugging a shoulder as he went back to pulling at the thread. "I not know. Hundreds. I quit counting."

"Hundreds…." The word faded away and Maitimo could only stare, body growing still as the full implication of the answer pieced together in his mind. Múlamudas was watching him, waiting expectantly at the dangling response, and Maitimo gave a short nod of his head. "Oh," he replied, simply for the sake of saying something.

Múlamudas clicked his tongue. "Smart únauthach."

Maitimo barely heard the murmur, mind already drifting back to the attestation of just how many Moriquendi were in these pits. He could see the vastness of the smithy, the layout of the glowing bloomeries and the Moriquendi hunching or hovering around them, the fuel pit and that other cavern pocket he had yet to see the inside of, the smelter smoke pluming up to the inverted funnel of a ceiling….To fill that whole cavern to the brim with the two hundred bodies it could easily house and then to multiply that smithy by two, by five, by ten. How many smithy caverns would it take to equal the number Múlamudas was inferring? Maitimo could scarcely envision that number of thralls here, so much so that he wanted to call Múlamudas a liar, but to know that those numbers were real…and to magnify that with the consideration of how they all looked – Valar, how Múlamudas currently looked right now!

Maitimo's eyes focused from the daze they had settled in and less unobtrusively than he should have, he could not help but run his gaze over Múlamudas. Over the tattered leggings that were torn off at the knee like all the others (something that was still baffling to no end), over the threadbare shirt that hung dangerously from his thin frame, over the brittle wrists that protruded from sloppily rolled up sleeves, over the countless bones that should never show so ghastly beneath the skin that stretched over it but did, and over bare feet that were so weathered and blackened that Maitimo doubted any amount of scouring would reverse it. How long would it take for his own feet to look like that, to take on the appearance more of leather than actual skin? His eyes traveled up a ways. Or for his hands to be so calloused that they could not even blister anymore, he added dolefully as he watched Múlamudas' sinewy hands, one of which was still tugging at the loose thread while the other scratched incessantly at the ground by his thigh. His eyes traveled up more, past the exposure of gaunt ribs he could see at the deep collar of his shirt and to the mess of hair on his head. Maitimo's own locks felt disgusting on their own, especially at the scalp, but he had never seen hair as filthy with grime as Múlamudas' was now. Valar, how long did it take for hair to be like that?

His eyes flitted across Múlamudas' dark expression, ignoring the steady stare the Elf still leveled on him despite the exhaustive haze that glazed over his eyes like a film, that thickened and then receded depending on how he looked at Maitimo. Right now his eyes were clear for the most part, though he still blinked many times. But Múlamudas' stare was now turning into an open glare as he again pressed himself flat against the wall, fingers moving faster against his leg.

"What?" he snapped defensively, bringing his knees halfway to his chest.

Maitimo raised an eyebrow, lightly pursing his lips. "You are uneasy around me."

Múlamudas scowled. "Do not think yourself so high."

Maitimo glanced down pointedly at his hands, raising both eyebrows now. "You are fidgeting."

"I am cold."

Maitimo almost wanted to scoff at the absurdity of that but managed to shove down the bark that rose in his chest, though he could not quite stop his mouth from twitching. "Hard to believe when I see sweat on your brow."

Múlamudas' scowl deepened as he stilled his hands and clenched them into loose fists. "You be here for one day, Lachend," he snarled. "Be here long as me and you be fidgeting too. Now go away."

"Stop telling me–"

"No, Lachend," he bit out harshly, but then he suddenly sighed, collapsing against the wall as though that final bark had driven whatever energy he had left out of his body. His expression was still less than cordial, his intense stare steady, but now he just looked exhausted as he tilted his head back to lay it against the rock, moving his eyes to meet Maitimo's, that haze over them deepening again. He lifted an arm and pointed down the tunnel towards the smithy, letting it drop back to the floor. "These horns not last forever. You dally outside horn and not supposed to be here." He pointed again, more insistently. "Go before blows again. Not worth it."

Maitimo hesitated but relented with a small sigh. He supposed it would be wise to listen in this instance. Between the two of them, Múlamudas was the one who would know the duration of the horns better than him. With another quick breath, he hauled himself to his one and a half feet, pulling on what nooks he could find along the wall. He ignored how Múlamudas watched him the whole way, his eyes running along the lines of his body again before settling on his face and perusing it as captivatedly as he had the first time. He ignored that too.

Maitimo looked down at him. "One more thing."

Múlamudas snorted. "What?"

"Are there any others? Any more speak Quendian?"

"Aw, my company not nice?"

"I said you were hard to find. I was fortunate this time. But if there are others I can talk with…." He gestured uncertainly. "High chance I not see you again and–"

"You will." Múlamudas nodded at Maitimo's questioning look, giving a tight smile that was empty of any real humor. "You see. You will be in mines. If not mines, then carriage like me."

A slight frown made its way into his face. "What say you?"

Múlamudas once again trailed his eyes over Maitimo's body, but this time just momentarily before he quirked an eyebrow at him. "You have strong back still, and a nice one." His gaze flitted down to hover around Maitimo's shoulders and chest. He snorted, looking away to his right. "Enjoy your skin while it lasts."

"Answer the question."

Múlamudas made a slight face but relented. "No."

Maitimo gave a small shake of his head as his frown intensified. Valar, that was not the answer he wanted to hear. "You are certain?"

He nodded again, more blearily this time. "I think. I not know." His turned his eyes down into his lap, jaw ticking once more as he pulled at the thread now with both hands. "Go."

Maitimo exhaled, dismissing the sullen pall that settled over him as he leaned over and snatched up the ingot, figuring Múlamudas would not appreciate it if he just dumped it in his carrier with the rest. He shifted on his feet to turn, adjusting his grip on the bunched up skin, but before he took more than two steps back the way he came he had to stop, twisting back around to look at the Moriquendë. Múlamudas was watching him again and he raised his eyebrows at Maitimo's somewhat troubled expression as Maitimo looked from him to his ankle and back again. He wetted his lips, nodding towards the Elf's ankle. "I am no healer, but you must have…foot healed. Broke again to heal. Not by me, but there must be an Elf–"

"Ego, ogron!" he practically hissed. "Ego! Been like this for years. Go away!" He turned away.

Maitimo froze. Years? Something sprouted in the back of his mind that he wanted to snuff out, wanted to deny. What Múlamudas just said, just inferred….His breath caught in the back of his throat as he thickly swallowed. "How long you been here?"

Múlamudas appeared startled by the harshness of his tone and seemed even more perturbed by whatever he then saw in Maitimo's face. He gave another minute shrug, shoulders tensing as he watched Maitimo warily. "Ten." His face crinkled with uncertainty. "I think. Might be more. Less. Cannot really count anymore."

Ten years….Ten – now wait a moment. These Moriquendi calculated time differently than the Amaneldi did. That had been one of the first factors of these Elves' culture they determined when some manner of understanding had been gained from Lord Neldoron and the Mithrim. Their years were different, measured by means of a different way. Some explanation about the rotations of constellations or something. It was very reminiscent of the Teleri's methods of measurement, but Alqualondë's length of years, even days, had still been the same as the Noldor and Vanyar and Valar's. These Moriquendi, however, had shorter years. Quite shorter. How many Endórë years equaled one year? He could swear it was somewhere near a dozen, maybe a little less; it was why the number ten rang so clearly in his head. They had never troubled themselves with measuring their crossing of Hísilómë in Endórë time, though they had still yet to learn just how it was figured. Why bother when they had their own easy timetable that had yet to fail them even without the waxing of the Trees to measure it? But here in Endórë, it was around ten of their years to equal one. His father had managed to glean that much from Lord Neldoron. One year….More or less, Múlamudas had been here for one year.

"What?"

Maitimo's vision clouded over as the full implication of that struck him. For one whole swiving year Múlamudas had been in these caves? Had all the Moriquendi been here that long? The apparently hundreds or even thousands of them? That was not what necessarily rendered Maitimo speechless, however much it froze him where he stood. What made him speechless what was he was finding when searching his memory, going back one year ago. Which meant….Maitimo's breath caught in his throat. Which meant that – Because one year ago….

A year ago they had still been in Tirion. And Valar, not just in Tirion and before crossing any Sea. A year ago, Fëanáro's coronation had not even happened yet, his crafting of the new Crown had not happened yet, their Oath had not happened yet, their Flight had not happened yet – great Manwë, the mere suggestion of even going to Endórë had not happened yet! Had not even come into conception! Or if it had, the idea's seed had still been planted deep in Fëanáro's mind. They had only just commemorated Finwë, the Noldor of Formenos reintegrating with those of Tirion while all of Valinor was turned upside down at the very real happening of needing to crown a new Noldóran in the wake of the Two Trees' deaths, all the while trying to come to terms with the weight of it all.

"What?"

Maitimo's heart was pounding. So just what did that mean? That while they had been bemoaning the Dark, lamenting the lack of Light….Maitimo's spare hand twitched. While all that had been happening, Moriquendi meanwhile were being enthralled. Hundreds being enthralled while the Amaneldi sang their woeful songs in memory of the Trees, everyone arguing and in a tumble over trying to recover from Moringotto's blow to their happy livelihood. And Moriquendi were meanwhile being captured and enslaved by an Enemy they had no idea was coming while the Noldor, Vanyar, and Teleri continued to sleep and eat and rule their respective realms, wringing their hands over something that was done and over with.

And the Valar did nothing.

They had to have known. Damn it all, it had been Manwë who told them that they did not need to fear anymore because Moringotto had fled to the other side of the Sea. And what, the Valar did not know or even guess just what Moringotto might do when on the other side of that Sea? Sure, the Amaneldi did not need to worry, but the Moriquendi evidently did. Blessed stars, they had to have known, and even knowing it…they did nothing?

Who could be so cold?

Makalaurë's words beside that mountain stream sprung to the forefront of his mind, but he had to shake it off. No. No, there had to be an explanation. As that Orc-speaker had so smugly attested; finite mind compared to an infinite being. There had to be something he was missing, something he was unaware of that would explain why the Valar had done and were doing absolutely nothing while their innocent and blissfully ignorant Moriquendi kin were being enthralled by their damned Brother!

Who could have so merciless a heart?

Maitimo released a shuddering breath. Just no. There had to be something he was missing. There just had to be.

He startled at a pebble striking his forehead.

"Belain nin alio, Lachend, what! Why you look at me like that?"

Maitimo stared at Múlamudas in mild surprise, glancing down at his feet to see that it was indeed a pebble that had assaulted him. Múlamudas was glaring at him, but while irritation was positively radiating off his tense frame, there was fear in his eyes. He had brought his knees up to his chest and pushed himself back along the wall to the carrier, which was now tilting over precariously and would likely spill its contents if Múlamudas pushed against it one more time.

He gave Múlamudas a reassuring shake of his head, or what he thought was a reassuring shake of his head. "Nothing."

Múlamudas hardly looked convinced and did not relent in his glare, though he did shuffle out of the half-ball he had curled into, guardedly stretching his legs out again and tugging on that ridiculous loose thread. Maitimo turned his back to him, starting back down the tunnel as he wondered with a sense of alarm just how much more time he could afford to waste to return to the smithy before the horn blew. Probably not a lot.

There was a noise behind him, something that sounded like a huff or scoff. But when he spun back around to glare at Múlamudas, he was not expecting the Moriquendë's face to be bitter. "What?"

"Nothing," he mumbled as he averted his eyes to his lap, though they returned to Maitimo quickly enough.

Maitimo almost snapped at him. But it only took a fleeting observation of Múlamudas' expression before he understood, and any words he had intended to say died in his throat as a sudden wave of pity for the Elf briefly washed over him. Along with that incessant Moriquendi stare they all shared for him, Múlamudas seemed incapable of resisting whatever craving he had to run his eyes over Maitimo's body, which he was now doing again. Maitimo watched as the Elf trailed his gaze back and forth across his chest and arms, down his legs and to his feet especially. His scrutiny did not carry that perverted gleam that the Orc-speaker's had, but rather longing. An intense longing. It was not that difficult to guess just what that envious look on his face was all about that Múlamudas was trying and failing to hide. And Maitimo had no idea how to respond to it without aggravating Múlamudas again.

He turned around again and kept walking, using the wall as a brace.

"Is your hair real?"

Maitimo stumbled to a halt, looking over his shoulder with no little disbelief. He twisted his jaw, staring. "Yes?"

"Oh. Fine, then."

Maitimo blinked. He opened his mouth to speak but abruptly shut it, whipping around to finally hobble off and this time, not stopping. He did not have the time for this.

The tunnel seemed longer this time around, particularly when he entered the plunging darkness again. But he listened for the distinct sounds of the smithy – Low Smithy, apparently – and was relieved with every moment he did not hear the signature noises that came with smelters and bloom. And the horn had yet to blow, so that–

Maitimo faltered. He glowered at the empty air.

Great. Great! He now really wanted to bang his head against a wall. Just great! He had wanted to ask Múlamudas just why Moriquendi were even in this Angamando to begin with! What in all of Arda had happened in the first place to see them here! With a short nod of resolve and no little exasperation, he spun on his foot and headed back. But he stopped before completing two lumbering steps, hesitating. And then deflating. Because curse it all, he could not go back now. It was foolhardy enough to chance sneaking into the tunnel when he did, let alone chance going back when the horn was sure to blow at any time now, and he still had no desire to know what would come if caught being where he was not supposed to be, not when the Orc-speaker could evidently be summoned out of thin air. It was probably just as well, though, because right now, he did not want to see Múlamudas again.

But when he finally made it to the opening of the crevice, he was not expecting a group of Moriquendi to be huddled around the tunnel's entrance.

They all looked up at him from where they sat, all silent and gazes expectant, but Maitimo was flabbergasted. Had they been waiting for him? Considering that his two smelter partners were among the group of ten (at minimum), it seemed likely. Though he supposed he should be grateful. Their being gathered at the mouth of the tunnel made it easier for him to slink down and join their little group without any of the Orcs being the wiser, which was precisely what he did.

He was still adjusting himself into a more comfortable position when third-Elf leaned forward from where he sat cross-legged, shooting Maitimo a questioning look. "Agarfannenodh an Múlamudas?"

Maitimo glanced at him with a quick glare of exasperation but nodded in the end. He heard Múlamudas' name. He figured that was enough to answer to.

And it was apparently enough for third-Elf because he inclined back, seeming satisfied. One of the other Elves leaned over and wordlessly took the sack of ore from his hand, twisting around to toss it towards the double-shafted carrier, skin and all. Maitimo opened his mouth to somehow convey his gratitude, but all the Elves were looking at him again. Though whether because staring was a favored pastime of theirs or because they waited for him to speak, he had no idea. Maitimo grew still, eyes moving between each of them.

By Aulë, just what was it with these Moriquendi?

Aulë á alyanyë: "Aulë, help me"
ló quanda melehtë Valaiva: "by all the Valar's might"