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Remembrance
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"The past beats inside me like a second heart."
—John Banville
Darkness.
The darkness of underground, twisting tunnels of black rock.
Burning heat.
The ever-present heat from Thangorodrim's three volcanoes, beneath and within which Angband was built, alongside the dry air filled with despair, decay and death. Distant screams of terror and pain from the slaves echoed from faraway places, amplifying and enhancing the subterranean isolation from the outside. An endless labyrinth for anyone who tried to escape.
Searing pain.
The crack of the ever-present whip and the lash against tortured flesh, which could no longer be felt the longer it went.
"That is enough."
Sauron, the lieutenant Maia of Angband, was displeased. Very displeased, especially as he currently had orders from Morgoth to force a new prisoner to tell everything of what he possibly could know about Gondolin, the hidden Elven Kingdom that was a thorn in the side of the Dark Lord. And yet this prisoner refused to reveal anything despite the pain.
Yet.
"Sir?" asked an orc soldier in slight confusion, still holding a bloody whip ready for a new lashing on the chained Elf's whipped back. Only a pair of ragged black leggings, half-stiff by old dried blood, was protecting the prisoner's modesty, not that anyone would have cared. Death came for all, naked or clothed, in this place, at the will and whim of the master now observing the Elf.
"He will be unable to tell me anything about the Hidden City if he dies from blood loss after our tender care," Sauron mused, forgetting the orc was there. Then he snapped his fingers. "Bring him down and toss him into a cell for some healing before a new interrogation. Get one of the slave healers to sew up the wounds on him."
Turning suddenly, his flame-coloured hair flying about his fair yet cruel features, Sauron left the torture chamber. It reeked of blood and burnt flesh, testaments to his determination to wring anything—anything—from his prisoner, who lay unconscious. Obeying his orders, and grunting in the Orcish tongue, two large orcs took down the Elf from where he hung, though none-to-gently.
"Ah…"
The prisoner moaned and gasped unconsciously in pain as his arms were grabbed, and dragged from the torture chamber down a long corridor, which also served as part of the dungeons for the slaves who dared to be disobedient or refused to be broken. It was a favorite place for Sauron when not on duty serving his Dark Master. After a short time of walking one of the orcs stopped and shoved open a door, metal clanging against rock.
"Get him in."
The unconscious prisoner was tossed carelessly on a thin bed of straw, and out of old security rules, a chain was locked around one of his ankles. It was unnecessary—in his weakened state the prisoner could hardly move, let alone escape. His black hair, greasy from sweat and fear, hung about in a curtain over his face hiding him from his tormentors.
"I wonder which one of the slave healers will come…" one of the orcs grunted as they locked the cell, bolt sliding home.
"I believe I know which one…" the other answered with a sneer.
The first orc laughed as they departed.
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With a gasp Maeglin awoke. Eyes wide he scanned the room briefly, terrified he was back in that prison. Then a soft, sweet-smelling breeze blew in from the window, and he fell back upon sheets stained with sweat, relieved. He was home in Gondolin, where he was safe from the Dark Lord, free but scarred.
From where he lay, he could see the room cloaked in a soft veneer of twilight, dark-blue against the white walls; there were no dark shapes to trouble him here, the furniture quietly illuminated. Trellised screens separating the outdoors from in shone with moonlight, a gentle reminder of freedom. Only his mind refused to let him go.
After lying there motionless for a few indecisive seconds he rose and left, jumping as bare feet touched the cool floor.
Sleep had fled from him as of late, ever since he was released from the healers' intensive care and allowed to move about on his own without drugs. The scars left in his back would never truly go away, a permanent crosshatching, until the day his fëa departed for the Halls. Phantom, residual pains from his months-long imprisonment had decreased with each passing day, but the nightmares remained.
Maeglin left his room and went in the garden. Here the breeze picked up and blew refreshingly upon his tired face, somehow easing his mind. The tinkling of the great Fountains in Gondolin's square came to his ears as from a great distance, despite the fact his section of the King's palace overlooked the square. Sitting down on the wall dividing the garden from open air, he looked out across to the great valley surrounding the city, and the protective Echoriad.
His nightmares varied in length and guise—but they all ended with the loathsome face of the Enemy's lieutenant watching him, glee etched across that beautiful face. The one before this most recent nightmare involved Sauron slowly walking the streets of a burning Gondolin, two flaming creatures flanking him, and laughing at a frozen dream-Maeglin as an army filled the city. At times he often wondered if it was the Dark Master reaching out to him, playing with his mind. At others he knew it was the pain of recovery.
But this one… this one was different.
He remembered a kind face looking over him—his mother Aredhel?, long dead at the hands of his father. This face was obscured by a dark cloak, with tendrils of scraggly hair escaping it. The hair changed colors. At times it was a dull red, like the Sun as she descended below the Western rise; at others it was dark, like his mother's; a few it was a pale gold, like Idril's.
The thought of Idril made his heart ache only slightly.
Ever since his return he had been sequestered with the healers day in, day out, and had not been able to see her. Or her father. In fact the healers warned death upon anyone who interrupted their work. It was then little surprise his former, forbidden passion for her had waned greatly—so great, in fact, there wasn't even a stirring of his loins, during the few moments of very intense longing. Before his capture anyway.
Now he couldn't muster up any kind of thought for her, except a detached sort of admiration. It was a little troubling, he thought; then shook his head, pain only a twinge. No, it wasn't troubling at all. Perhaps his imprisonment was, in a strange, cruel turn of Eru's hand, the very thing needed to cleanse his forbidden lust. Hard to think of a woman when you were fighting to keep your very sanity in the deepest pits of Angband.
Movement caught his eye, and he turned toward it.
Over across the palace, overlooking another part of Gondolin, was another garden balcony and attached room, slightly higher by many feet; but far enough away he could see it with no strain to his head. A slightly stooped figure had appeared, looking at the moon. No, he realized, it wasn't stooped at all, just couldn't straighten up properly despite the many tries by the healers. It cast aside its hood and a vision of dark hair caught his eyes, and recognition flashed.
This was the other reason why his strange longings for Idril had vanished almost completely, replaced by something akin to protective paternality. Something had came over him, even in Angband's despair, that forced him to find reason to live. He had come so close to breaking down. But then she had come, and even under her rags there was the promise of something beautiful, wasted in the darkness, that deserved life—even if at the cost of his own.
But who she was, her parentage and birth, that eluded him. Their few conversations in Angband had been very short, save that one night, but that was scant. And here in the Hidden City, where it was safe, nobody but the healers could even approach her.
Their first meeting he remembered with a grimace, even as he watched her lithe form bend over a plant, seemingly lost in its fragrance. That memory, in fact, proceeded his most recent nightmare…
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The first thing he felt as he slowly returned to consciousness was something wet on his face. That and the feeling of something that could only be a needle in his lacerated back. Fearing that it meant the start of another torture he panicked and made a frantic attempt to move away. Tried to, for Sauron had been unmerciful in his whipping, and it hurt too much to move. "Let go of me!" he cried.
"Be still, Outside-born!" a harsh voice answered him, its accent rough. Eyes wide, fearing it was another orc, Maeglin redoubled his efforts to get away from it, ignoring the agony of his reopening wounds. The creature attending to him forced itself down on him, trying hard to restrain him. "Be still!" it hissed. Maeglin ignored and only rocked himself harder. Finally giving up trying to squash him the healer pressed a painfully thin, claw-like hand against his neck and pressed down. The sharp pain penetrated to his fear-fogged mind and he involuntarily yelped.
"If you w—wish to live," the creature hissed again, hot breath close to his ear, "you will b—be still. Do you w—want the guards?"
He didn't comply.
Then stars exploded in his head, as his head roughly made contact with the ground. The force of the blow was enough to stun him enough for the irritated creature to restrain him. Or tried to. It was clearly very tiny, and thin, and he was able to shift it slightly. This was no orc or else he would have been knocked hard again. Or maybe it is a smaller goblin! his terrified mind imagined. Desperately he prayed it wasn't another torturer in the guise of a healer.
"L—Lay still! Or I w—w—will not be a—a—able to fix th—the wounds! And m—master S—Sauron will not b—b—be pleased i—if I have to use more water than necessary!" the creature whispered to him, force somehow diminishing the longer its speech went. It sounded almost pathetic.
A goblin with speech disorder? Yet Maeglin quickly had other things to worry about as he could only groan faintly in protest, being too weak to do anything besides hissing in pain as his wounds were sewn together. Painkillers seemed to be unheard of in Angband. Then again, the Dark Lord cared not a whit for his thralls.
"T—Try n—not to m—m—move too much or it will s—start bleeding a—again…" ordered the healer, and he obeyed this time. Satisfied the strange healer continued its work, bone needle darting in and out of his back, lacing up the bloody wounds. Maeglin felt rough cloth upon his back being tied on the worst of the wounds. Despite not being very sanitary these bandages were the best slaves had to use, and this one was no worse off than the others. He mentally groaned in disgust, for he remembered the clean, soft and fluffy bandages specifically woven together for the purpose. On top of that he also remembered how stark a difference there was between this dank dungeon and the clean, bright halls of Gondolin.
Ah, Gondolin! The Hidden City which had seemed so much like a prison now was the best of havens. Why had he been so stupid as to wander too far from the protective circle of the Echoriad? Even more damning was he had neglected to watch his surroundings, having grown compliant in safety. How could he have been so stupid as to walk in that blindingly obvious trap set by the orcs?!
The healer, oblivious to his mental ravings, continued its work. A twinge of pain lanced through is back and he groaned. "Damned goblin…" he gasped.
If he had expected any punishment to that whisper, it never came. Instead, his head was lifted up and was fed some kind of drink. It made him instantly drowsy, even through the fog of pain, and he fell asleep.
"Why cannot the Outside-born ever understand that, here in Angband, their former lives and status are worth nothing…?"
With a quiet sigh, the slave healer packed the items together in a small bag and requested the guards to open the cell door. As the healer passed by, one of the orcs started to make a commanding sign, which would be unthinkable outside Angband in all other circumstances, but another quickly stopped it as torchlight thrown off from the walls glinted on a copper collar. This collar, which the slave wore around its neck, was a sign that it was protected by Sauron's direct orders; and to molest one such marked was to earn a lingering death. This was a privilege few of those who wore the iron collar ever came close to.
Sensing danger from the orcs, possibly from their sudden movements, the cloaked slave revealed a small dagger in one skinny hand pointing down as a warning. It was well-known among the orcs that the slave healers were trained in gelding, both for male slaves who turned out to be causing too much trouble but still were too valuable in working to be put down, and orcs as punishment if Sauron or the Dark Lord ordered it.
"The O—Outside-born slave w—w—will need to be c—checked every d—day in order to have th—those wounds on his back hea—healed properly b—before master S—Sauron calls for a new h—hearing w—with him…" came the shaky order.
The orc captain of the guard here made a sketchy salute, unheard of for any slave but those marked by copper. The slave quickly bustled off, staying as far away from the soldiers as possible, and disappeared.
"You little whelp!" the orc captain sneered, stepping up to the orc who unthinkingly reached out to touch the slave. "You want your head on a pike?"
"No." The answer was raspy, but held fear.
"The Dark Lords—" The captain made a sign out of instinct "—would be most displeased if they hear you touched little Rûsa. Is that understood?"
"Yes," the other ground out.
Far away, unaware that she was the topic of conversation among the orcs, a pair of black, reflective eyes looked out from beneath a large hood, scanning the tunnel behind. Then she slipped into the passage that would take her to her quarters.
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Rûsa cast a glance over her shoulder, sensing someone or something watching her. Nothing met her eyes but the quiet shadows of her room behind her. No orcs leered at her from her room, nor Sauron watching with a calculated smile designed to throw fear into a thrall's heart. She exhaled, letting out a deep sigh, and let her body sink next to the wall. Old habits died hard.
When the slave had told her of Gondolin, the Hidden City, she had thought him mad, for there was no place safe from Morgoth. Rûsa shivered at the very thought of the Dark One. The slave had insisted, telling her he had come from there, captured by an orc patrol, and all because he hadn't been watching his surroundings. He had told her of how the walls shone with reflected light from the Yellow Light, of how the city sparkled in the unimaginable day, and countless other wonders her mind could only just grasp at. Her only experience with the Yellow Light, now called the Sun, was the rare few times she was summoned by the command of Morgoth, and taken to tend to some poor wretch in the heights of Thangorodrim. But then everything looked dull and blighted. Here, things were bright and…
And…
She couldn't find any word. If she knew, it escaped her.
Turning her attention back to the city, she examined it from the safe confines of the garden. It was as unlike Angband as the slaves were from Sauron. Bright, clean, open, and beautiful. Those were the only words she could describe it as, for her knowledge of all the wondrous things she saw was limited in the extreme. What she saw was brief, her sensitive eyes, used to near-total darkness for an unimaginable time, unable to look even at a nearby flower in the vase standing next to her healing bed.
The Gondolin healers, recognizing this, shrouded her room in black as she recovered, and made special noises to let her know they were not orcs. Soft snatches of song from outside helped calm her nerves. A lady with hair of living gold often came to her, ensuring herself that Rûsa was fed, and spoke to her of mysterious things that existed outside of her knowledge. When it came time to learn how to walk—Rûsa was horrified to learn that her stooped crawl was not how the Outside-born moved—the lady in gold hair was there with her, every step of the way. It was the same for learning how to adjust to living on her own, and the breaking of many prominent fears, before she was released. The lady with gold hair was patient and kind, understanding Rûsa's mistakes and trouble, and helped her overcome it.
Now, here she was, many months later (as the Outside-born reckoned time), sitting outside alone in a strange city that did not, quite yet, feel like home. It was a marvelous transition. But many submerged phobias remained, the most visible broken or tamed by the healers and the lady with gold hair. Those would take longer to deal with, they told her.
But how long? her mind cried. To that she had no answer.
For now, her old habits of being silent, watching and waiting before acting, would take precedence here. These people had done many things unthinkable in Angband, and Rûsa was not yet sure she could trust them. There always lurked in her mind a fear that this would turn out to be a dream, and that she had actually collapsed in some dungeon of Angband, overwhelmed by her work, dying as her spirit finally gave in. Was it a dream?
Of course it isn't, Rûsa dear, another voice answered.
She flinched rather than jumped, and quickly looked about. To jump in Angband meant at best a whipping. But here, no such danger presented itself. The author of that voice had come from her own mind, a memory.
That memory resolved into a face, a vision of white.
Rûsa visibly began to shake as recognition set in. This was the man who had told her of these strange things, of how freedom was possible. His name escaped her, but his face remained etched inside her mind as if with a brand. Slaves had no name save what the orcs called them, or clung to their old one out of desperation. Faces were easy to remember. Such as his.
The tales he told her ignited within a fire unlike any before. It was something she had never really felt before, surpassing even the times when she lay with a sickness unto death. Rûsa had to see this outside world, free of Morgoth's twisting, and be free. Nevermind that these were the tales of a desperate man who would eventually died, she would live to see it. To find this city of Elves who had escaped orc patrols and even Sauron's mystic sight, and escape.
And now here she was, and not quite sure of what to do anymore.
The lady with gold hair had told her nothing was expected of Rûsa; she was a sick woman who needed her rest, and as such was practically forbidden by the King to do anything but relax. Even her healing arts they had no need of, older and wiser healers already fulfilling that role. Still, she had to do something, or else she would go mad for fear of punishment.
If only she could see that strange slave again, wherever he was. With the things he told her there were words of comfort entwined, that she needed not to fear unreasonably. It was a strange notion, to say things like that in Angband, but he had meant every word of it; and had held true to his promise. Now all she wished was to see him again, to be protected from not orcs but this strange new world she was in.
He was, remarkably, the only person she trusted. Not even the lady with gold hair, despite her gentle friendliness and patience, had inspired such feelings in her.
They were to be feared.
But which fear were they? Those of Angband, or something completely new?
Rûsa had no answer as she looked out over the sleeping city. The Moon's brightness obscured the stars, the only light her eyes were comfortable with. Yet not as blinding as the Sun, nor overtly annoying if she did not look directly at it. Something much like her own situation here—neither good nor bad, only wariness. Across the buildings of white, the fountains of crystal, and towers of stone, lay the great walls of the Hidden City, deemed impregnable. Beyond them a vast circle of greenery, in which the nation of Gondolin thrived. Beyond that the circle of the Echoriad, its high peaks covered with a whiteness she had never seen before.
There was something about this place that, for all of its strangeness and alien nature, seemed to conspire to place her at ease. She didn't know what it was, and that was frightening.
But what she felt was peace.
Eventually she would come to know that.
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Deeper in the city, close to the palace of the King, Rog of the House of the Hammer of Wrath toiled away in one of his forges. Memory too clung to his thought, but of a different sort. It was more detached, for his long years had left little, if any as they healed, marks upon his soul. The ringing of the hammer upon anvil helped keep his focus steady.
Earlier that day the healers had requested he make a more permanent corset for the little not-quite-a-woman in their care. All of the others, temporary, had been ugly and hurt her. Something about them made the girl shrink away in fear, and constantly fidget when they were on, preventing the healing from going forward. He knew what to do, fashion a special one that would be permanent yet unobtrusive.
Each hammer stroke brought back distant recollection.
Cuiviénen, his distant childhood. Not many remembered he was old enough to have come from that dim time, when the Elves walked free under starlight. This was before the Enemy, as Morgoth was known. Then came the distant terrors of the night—the black rider of the North, the shadow-shapes of fear. Elves who wandered alone quickly disappeared, and sometimes whole groups were snatched. They began to cluster together for protection, knowing the rider couldn't come upon such a large host.
It was then the earliest beginnings of the Noble Houses of the Quendi were formed, families staying together. Their chieftains who were to become kings in Valinor began to fight back against the rider; they organized parties to go look. Rog remembered. He was old enough to go with those crude semblances of armed hosts—no more than Elves armed with fire-sharpened sticks and slings—to search for those lost.
A tear fell and sizzled as he recalled the party overrun once they were a distance in the dark forest. The rider stunned them, then whisked them off. He remembered awakening in a cold and black place. One by one he watched as his friends and family disappeared into the night. For how long he stayed there, he couldn't remember. Then the Salvation came. The entire prison shook as an earthquake ripped through it. Little did he know the host of the Valar had marched upon the Enemy. In the confusion he and those still surviving escaped, and fled.
Somehow they ended up back with the others, huddled as they watched the strange lights flashing and listened to the sounds echoing in the north. Then a noble light shining. A Vala, Oromë. The Great Journey, free of dark riders or shadow-shapes. Valinor.
The Years of Bliss came more distantly than his earliest recollections. The only thing that came to him before the Darkening was a mane of red, this he remembered. Then Exile, and now here.
Pulling the corset from the anvil, and inspecting its rough form—the brace to eventually straighten her back—he set it aside to cool after dipping it. He started work on the leather straps gathered beforehand for the brace. Rog wasn't a man for deep introspection. He had little reason to do so. Most Elves were. They refuse to remember the Exile's true meaning, believing in their hearts the Valar were too slow. The words spoken that night still rang true even now.
But now…
He wasn't sure.
Maeglin's return had brought something back to the surface. Perhaps the dangers of fighting the Dark Lord on their own. Or its foolishness.
Or maybe it was that helpless little girl cradled in the boy's arms.
He remembered the patrol running across them. The King had been worried by Maeglin's absence, and wondered if he was away at the mines. When it became clear the boy was nowhere to be found it was thought he had finally cracked and disobeyed, leaving for the Dwarves. Rog thought he knew what exactly had happened. He discreetly ordered some men to keep watch on the trails outside the Echoriad.
A few months later a bird on the wing told him they had seen someone approaching the outermost trails. Rog had dropped everything and took off. What he did not expect was how defeated and broken both looked. Maeglin still had a glint of his father's mad fire in his eyes, but he looked miserable. The girl he held in his arms, feet bleeding, legs obviously sore, was even worse. Seeing the collar about her neck had alarmed Rog, and he quickly relieved her of it—
—except that Maeglin took it as a sign of aggression and the girl screamed as they fought, forcing Rog and his men to subdue them both. Then, once the collar was broken and cast away, he brought them home.
Finishing his sewing he inspected the straps, then reached for the corset.
Yes, something definitely was not right. Maeglin wasn't that easily surprised, and for the Dark Lord to have taken him away meant troubling times.
Perhaps the Hidden City's days were numbered.
He intended to look into it, prepare for the worst. He would not allow Morgoth to destroy anything else. That poor girl was proof enough, awakening his ancient memories of Utumno. When the day was come he would talk to the King.
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A/N1 (from Rogercat): Being friends on Facebook, Order and Chaos - Qui Iudicant and I can have some rather interesting talk at times. This story, a different twist of my Warg Rider-AU, was inspired after that I made a random image of the main character of the opposite genders as they are in that AU. Hope that you will enjoy reading this.
A/N2 (from OAC - QI): Actually, it was an idle plot bunny I made on one of her images. I completely forget which one. Anyhow, this story will be crossposted, here on my Fanfiction-dot-net account and over on Rogercat's AO3 (Archive Of Our Own) account. This time, working with her will actually get my updates out a little faster. :P
Reviews are entirely welcome.