The slam of the cell door in the lieutenant's wake was an implosion, a wound. It gutted him. It shook his innards spilling through his fingers and shocked the breath from his lungs, and all that he could do was stare, stare at the broken thing that lay on the stones before him.

Blood seeped across the floor, vivid, vital red on stony grey. It pooled upon fur, upon organs, upon shattered shards of bone. It bled into loss, into shock, into breathless, eviscerating grief.

A twitch juddered through the mouse's fragile little body, some lifeless reflex set muscles spasming in macabre animation, and helplessly he stared at it, beyond belief or thought or sanity he gaped at it. And how his stomach turned as he heard the scratch of its failing limbs, the tiny scrape of nails upon stone, he heard it feigning life and suddenly the air was too close, too sticky and clawing and claustrophobic, it hissed in his lungs as he stumbled forwards upon his knees. Without intent, without thought, as one stricken dumb he shuffled forwards, he neared the twitching, ruined thing and he only wanted to make it stop, to make it be still, to cease that horrible, horrible little noise and with it sever the shame that welled up inside of him.

This is all your fault; the thought ripped up from his stomach and it disembowelled him, it left him reeling, spinning, hurting; mania born of grief gripped him and beneath it something foul simmered, and as he reached out towards the mouse it was all that he could do to grapple it down. Red, his fingertips came away slaked in red as he picked up the body, all limp fur and soft, sloppy muscle below. In his cupped hand he held it; his secret, his solace, it was the only thing that he had left in the world and now it was gone, it was gone because of him, he cradled its mutilated little body and bitter tears dripped into the gore that pooled within his palm.

Because of you, because of you; a bubbling breath hitched up from his lungs and for a moment of faintness he swayed. The mouse lolled in his hand with his motion; slack muscle rolled over a crunching scaffold of bone, blood clotted between his fingers and such nausea turned in his stomach that with shaking fingers he laid it back to the stones, and with it he came undone. Hastily, clumsily he thrust it aside; a skein of sweat broke over his forehead as hard he breathed, as he trembled, as he grieved. This is all your fault.

No, he whimpered, it was more a bubbling croak of anguish than any actual word, no, no, no, guilt buckled in his heart and how much it hurt, it hurt so much more than rage or pain, it hurt because it was true; everything that they had said, stupid, stupid; everything, every failing in him dredged up into the light and how contemptuous was what it revealed. For how those awful things crawled in his blood, they wove through sinew and flesh and how he wished that he could be rid of them, that he could atone, that he could simply make it stop; murderer, something vile in him crooned, and as if to escape it he twisted upon his knees.

To his side he fell, his head thudded against the wall as carelessly he toppled, and the shock of it drove the breath from his lungs. For amid the impact and the pain there was something else, there was joy, there was righteousness; for one small second how good it made him feel, calm and hurting and blissful, such euphoria burst in him and how soon it twisted to craving. Against the wall he slumped, he thrust his head back and again it cracked into the stones, pain blossomed through his skull for a moment but behind it oh what rapture, what delirious deliverance; a manic, exultant grimace slashed across his lips and for a few moments then he sat still.

His skull ached but at least it was clean, with trembling hands he pressed into himself and as pain erupted beneath his fingers at least it was real, it was right, it was just. Again he dug into himself, his hair twisted tight about his fingers as he knotted them against his skull and how delicious it felt, how deserved; the mouse was gone and how many others were broken too, it was all his fault, it was all his fault, and how desperately he had to hurt for it. Something craven quivered deep within him and again he drilled his fingers against his skull, he held himself so hard that his knuckles whitened, that ghostly lights flashed before his eyes, and how he revelled in the pain that flourished beneath his hands. He needed it, he wanted it, it was the only way that he could atone, that he could make it better, he had to hurt so that he could be sorry, that was what the lieutenant had told him, he had to hurt, he had to hurt, and as hair ripped through half-healed fingertips it did hurt, but in his pain there was only sorrow.

Again and again he clutched at himself, he tore himself apart before the indifferent stones as grief gnawed him away. His hair knotted and frayed as he pulled at it, it came away in his hands and carelessly he let it; he begged for an oblivion that would not come, that would not be granted to him. For there was no respite in the Moringotto's halls, no kind place for redemption; there was only suffering, and upon its relentless tide he crumbled away.

He tried to bury the mouse, to mourn it with dignity, though when such lucidity of thought came to him he could not tell. The ceaseless light bled out through the room, and he could only tell the passing of time as the ache in his cramped limbs became unbearable, and at last he was forced to stir. Through swollen, red-rimmed eyes he looked at the broken thing lying naked upon the floor; it had been so gentle, so kind to him, and misery clotted afresh in his throat at the gore that dried upon the stones, at its tiny, stiff limbs.

It deserved better than such an ignoble grave, he thought, and upon sore, scuffed knees he shuffled over to it. The cleanest straw that he could find within his meagre bedding he offered to it, he wrapped it snugly within a bower of fibres and gently laid it aside in the far corner of his cell. He should say something, he felt, he should honour it, yet in silence he knelt above it as grief sewed him shut.

It was just a mouse; what could he possibly say to it? It was just a mouse. It was all that he had in the world.

How pathetic.

The thought tolled like a death-knell in his heart, and exhausted he drew himself away. Upon the mouldering hay he cast himself, he curled his knees up tight to his chest, he closed his eyes and wished to know no more of heartache.

The silence stretched on; it was enough to drive him mad. There was nothing left to break it save himself; the coarse hiss of his breath, the rasp of the hay upon stone and skin and tunic should he shift upon it, the brush of flesh upon flesh as nervously he rubbed his healing fingers upon his arm. The nails were re-growing where they were once torn from him, and anxiously he observed them; soft, delicate sheets of cartilage slowly grew over empty skin and wondrously he touched them, he touched with them, he felt the little thrill of revulsion as still his finger below was too pliant, too tender. In agitated little twitches sometimes he would rub at himself, on his arms, his thighs, hard and soft, hard and soft, sometimes he would scratch, and how he would marvel at the white lines left scraped across his skin and the feverish blush that came after. Over and over he would do it, a prickle of pain and then the shock of that pink, gaudy and organic and beautiful. It offered him mercy from the disquiet that crept into his heart, or he thought that it did, for again and again he would count the stones, one hundred and forty-three of them, and with meticulous compulsion he would stroke his fingers along his arm to the rhythm of his counting, and somehow it helped to calm him.

For sometimes his breath would quicken, his chest would squeeze and his heart pound within his ribs, he fretted and worried and rubbed at himself as anxiety swept through him, yet as abruptly as such emotion may come then so too would it fade, and its absence left him empty. And to fill that emptiness sometimes he was not so gentle: he would twist at his hair, he would knot it between his fingers and then rip it apart, peel it, split it; a grimace of such rapturous pain curled his lips as he pulled it clean from his scalp, and he cast its broken strands to the floor.

Guilt scooped him hollow, sorrow made him grow crooked; he was so, so alone, and in his loneliness he twisted himself.

It was better to be empty, he thought, or he thought that he thought; the chain at his throat slithered if he should move and how it startled him, hunger cramped in his belly and with it came only doubt. The orcs had not come to him, he thought, ever since it had happened they had not fed him, and now the skin grew taut in the hollows of his ribs. Thirst parched him, he only troubled himself to reach for his cup when its discomfort became all too great, to sip at the last greasy dregs of water left to stale long ago. Against the wall he would sit huddled, or laid out across the hay, or curled into a corner; in the fretful hours between haunted dreams he sat, and waited, and twisted at his hair until it split apart in his fingers, and even its destruction was not enough to sate the void that gaped open within him.

The rattle of the bolt within the door set his heart hammering, iron-shod boots tramped into his cell and grievously he shied away from them. Against the wall he shrunk, he curled himself up tight, and through the bony cage of his knees he peeked upwards and glimpsed the swarthy uruk jailor that stood surveying the cell and the two smaller orcs that flanked it. A growl of displeasure parted the uruk's lips pierced with metal and bone-shards as it looked upon him, and its squinted eyes rolled as it glanced over the stagnant hay that littered the floor. To the other orcs it motioned, and they strode forwards, and to Maedhros' alarm began to quickly clear the hay from the cell, grabbing it up in lank armfuls to pile up in the corridor outside.

They would take it, he thought suddenly, they would take the mouse from him, from its grave; horror wrenched at his heart and abruptly he unfolded himself, the chain at his throat rattled its discontent as he scrambled towards the corner of the cell where it lay buried.

"You!" the jailor bellowed, "Stay still!"

Although he flinched at the ferocity in its voice somehow he seized his prize, he snatched up the bundle of hay and held it close to his chest, and as quickly as his stiff limbs could manage he scuttled back against the wall as the orcs cleared the hay from about him. The jailor's eyes narrowed as he hunched there, as the orcs stripped the cell bare save for the clutch of hay in his hands, and how his heart tremored as he felt its weight within his fingers. They could not have it, they could not have it; he could feel the soft squash of muscle, the malleable bend of rotting bone, they could not have it, it was his, it was his; dark fervour unfurled in his veins as tighter still he gripped into it, as his lips peeled back into a snarl. They could not have it.

An orc swept the hay from beside his leg and hatefully he hissed at it, yet at even that tiny rebellion the jailor grunted, and menacingly it strode forward.

"Move," it growled at him; yellow-stained fangs stood blunt in an iron jaw, and balefully Maedhros glared at it. It was only as the uruk's hand flexed towards the cruel whip coiled at its belt that he heeded it, slowly and carefully he shuffled himself aside, the hay held tightly against his chest. Yet too slow he was, perhaps, or too cunning, or not cunning enough, for the jailor leered down at him, one meaty finger pointed, and it grunted, "That filth there, give it, now."

Panic flared in Maedhros' heart, tighter still he gripped to the hay, and in a low, shaking voice he said, "No."

At that the jailor snorted, and the two orcs peered at him, yet closer still the jailor pressed him, and meaner this time it growled, "Give it to me."

"No!" Maedhros spat; fear spurred to mania in his heart and ferociously he spat the word up into the jailor's face, tendons stood stark across the back of his hand as he clutched the hay into himself. Hard and fast and panting came his breath through gritted teeth as something feral gripped him, as fiercely, shrilly he said, "You can't have it!"

For a moment there was silence; a shocked, sadistic stillness. But then the jailor's face twisted, the two orcs barged forwards, their hands clamped down upon his shoulders and hauled him up, and whatever brittle calm there was left in him shattered.

Desperately he struggled as they held him, one hauled upon the chain at his throat with throttling force whilst the other's bulk engulfed him, biting fingers dug into his arms as he pulled against their grip, as he tried to shield himself, as he tried so hard to hold onto that precious bundle of hay. They couldn't have it, they couldn't take it from him; the collar jammed into his throat as harder still the orcs grappled him, yet with strength that he did not know he still possessed he bucked against them, his fingers shone white and bloodless with the pressure he was exerting as he clutched into the mouse. He could feel the nauseating roll of its bones in his grip but he would not let it go, he couldn't, he couldn't, they couldn't take it from him and "no," he panted, he shrieked as clawed fingers latched into his biceps with agonising strength, as they began to wrench his arms apart, "no, no, no -"

A brutal knee to his ribs sent the breath spinning from his lungs, he retched with the impact of it and in that crippling moment of weakness his grip loosened, and with iron force the orcs snatched at his hands. Yet with violence born of hysteria still he fought them, he struggled and kicked and spat, "no, no, no, please," he howled; he howled it to the merciless stones as the orcs' nails dug into his knuckles, and with a hoarse shriek a joint popped, and then a second; the orcs fingers drilled into his hands and clove cartilage asunder.

Pain slammed up his arm in paralysing waves, and it was only with a gut-wrenching crack of bone that at last his grip failed him, they tore his aching hands apart and whisked the tangled lump of hay away.

"Please," he whimpered, tears trickled down his cheeks as still he struggled, as near delirious with anguish he croaked, "Please, you can't..."

A vicious clout across the face clotted a sob in his lungs; he spluttered with the shock of it as grief thundered through his heart, as the orcs pressed him down onto his chest and snatched his hands up behind his back. It was futile, it was always futile, how many times would they have to break him for him to realise that it was futile to fight; he just wept his hatred out onto the stones as he felt loops of cord being bound about his wrists, as rope circled his elbows and pulled them painfully tight at the small of his back. Knots cinched into his skin and desolation crumbled through his heart.

The jailor's knee crushed down into his spine as it straddled him, as it pinned him there; the two smaller orcs quickly replenished the cell with a fresh batch of hay, and paused but a moment to scrub the stones free of that one damning scab of blood upon them.

The mouse was gone, it was wiped away, and with it something of himself was scoured away too; grief dragged at his bones as with a gasp of air wheezing back into his lungs the jailor arose.

A sneer distorted its foul face, and all too vindictively it said, "Leave 'im bound, boys!"

Its boot clipped hard into Maedhros' shoulder as carelessly it stepped clear of him, and the two orcs peered down at him in glee.

"Oi, Kufthur-shar," one hissed; spit bubbled upon needle-like teeth as it pointed down at his head. "His hair, look! It ain't right."

The jailor snarled in displeasure, and helplessly Maedhros was dragged up by one gargantuan hand as the uruk lifted him, before shoving him down hard against the wall. Into a sitting position he slumped, and already he could feel the ache of his bound arms begin to drag through his chest.

"Ach," the uruk spat, it peered closely at Maedhros' damaged hairline where he had twisted at it and scowled. "They do that sometimes, sick things. Pull it thin - it's stress, that's what I think. But what's to matter, eh? He ain't gonna be doing it anymore!"

Dark laughter rumbled through the cell as the orcs withdrew, and as the door slammed shut in their wake Maedhros crumpled down to his side amid the dusty hay. Already his arms and chest grew uncomfortable in their stricture, and hard he fought to stifle the sorrow that gouged through his heart. The mouse was gone, it was gone, truly now he was alone, and as the colossal malice of Angband glowered down upon him how wretched truly he was.

For how long he left him there, tied like that, he did not ever want to know. For with every passing breath his discomfort only grew; the dull, stretched ache sharpened to jagged blades of pain stabbed through his chest, and no matter how much he might squirm he could not shift the cramps that knotted through his shoulders, nor through his arms and back left helplessly constrained. Numb, swollen fingers twitched as for what seemed like the millionth time he tried to fight against the cord that held him; the rope scored open, weeping grazes into his wrists as again and again he pulled at them, as much as his failing strength would allow he writhed in their relentless grasp until pain exhausted him, and back into torpor he fell.

Twice the orcs came; his arms screamed with discomfort as they hauled him up to his knees, and how his back and chest trembled with the stress of it as they forced him to bend, to eat, to drink. He licked the gruel that they brought from the stones; they jeered at him, prodded him, hurt him, and like an obedient dog he obeyed his heartless masters, for he dared not challenge them now. He just abased himself like they wanted, it was so much easier this way, he was a good slave for them, good and empty, devoid of all emotion or reason. It was better, he told himself; his arms flushed purple with bruises as blood-flow constricted, his shoulders spasmed in agony of their bondage, and though it hurt, thought it was humiliating, still it was so much better than what else might be.

Hounded by pain they left him tied, grief glimmered still in his blood and in the silence of his cell there compulsion festered. Hot and clamouring, it wound about his heart, it whispered of salvation and towards it he drifted, as once he had before. Again and again he would flex his wrists, a grimace split across his lips as the ropes seared across raw flesh but still he rubbed against them, pain blossomed through him and how good it felt. It was organic, it was right, it was craving; he grated flesh away from bone until the ropes were wetted red, but never could he quite find the solace that he sought.

All of his desperate contortions, all of that pain, it was not enough, it was never enough; ever its climax eluded him, for it only left him bruised. It did not split the vein.

Feverish and bleeding the orcs found him, he shivered red into the sweat-dampened hay; his fingers throbbed purple and nerveless white in the ghastly light and he did not have the strength to protest as they lifted him, as they forced him to sit before them. He just lolled in their grip as they inspected the stained ropes at his wrists and the oozing sores beneath, he only spluttered as they forced a beaker of water down his throat, as they pulled back his lower lip to reveal gums worn pallid blue-grey, and at that they grew dismayed.

Over him they growled at each other in their unintelligible language, they bickered for what seemed like a dreary eternity before they discarded him once more, and to his misery abandoned him. But it was not for long, not this time, no; anxiety knitted in his stomach as far too soon the bolt slid within its lock, and from where he slumped across the hay he opened one weary eye to the trespasser. And with what icy stab of horror did he behold that familiar blond hair, that familiar smug sneer, that treacherous smile that never quite reached the lieutenant's eyes.

A whimper coiled out of his throat as the lieutenant strode to him, as the Maia leant down beside his contorted form, as cool hands brushed over the bloodied rope at his wrists. Too roughly those hands grasped him, though in truth they were gentle, too horrific were the memories of what else they had done; the mouse, his friend, it had squeaked in its terror as it swung from the lieutenant's fingers, and he was too scared to help it, too pathetic to do anything but watch, witness, crunch; desperately hard he fought to stifle the bile that came shuddering up his throat.

The lieutenant's hands left him, they came away smudged with gore, and as the Maia looked at them an expression of disdain curled his handsome features.

"Maitimo, Maitimo," the lieutenant glutted; his name so soft upon such vile lips was as a poison, and down to the bone it burned. "Do you grieve so much?"

A knot of pain clenched in his chest, loathing sewed his answer into his throat and how he longed for it to erupt, to explode, to immolate, yet it would not, it could not, fear stayed his heart and trembling he looked away. He pressed his face into the hay and only wished that the lieutenant would go, that he could be left alone once more in his solitude and just fade back into pain.

"No," the lieutenant said coldly. "You do not." In the colourless light, the blood upon the lieutenant's fingers was damning. "Your grief is selfish."

"No..." Maedhros murmured, it was less a word than a gulp of sorrow, but acridly it was received.

"I had thought us past such petty deceptions, such baseless acts," the Maia said, and bitter regret was in his voice. "I had such trust in you, Maitimo, trust that you might serve me faithfully as once you had promised. Is this to be the value of your word? I have vouched for you before my lord, I have spared you horrors of which you could not conceive, and this is how my generosity is repaid; with sordid treachery and guile. Ever I seek to uncover the best in you, and ever you prove to me a disappointment."

A long pause hung dead in the air between them, guilt turned in Maedhros' stomach and into the hay he pressed himself, and helplessly he croaked, "I'm s-sorry, my lord..."

"Get up!" the lieutenant snapped, puissance flashed through the cell and pain split through Maedhros' belly. It shocked the breath from his lungs, it left him gagging, and in painful, jerky movements he scrambled upwards, his knees slid through the hay as he levered himself into a dishevelled sitting position. His arms pulsed numb behind his back, the aftershock of pain throbbed through his stomach, and it took every shred of willpower that he had left to raise his head, to look upon the lieutenant who stood before him with a withering expression of disgust upon his face.

"Now tell me, Maitimo," the lieutenant sneered, "what means the apology of a liar to me?"

A breath hitched in Maedhros' throat and awkwardly he swallowed it down, his eyes slipped from the lieutenant's face as instinctively he bowed his head. "I didn't, my lord. Please, my lord, I... I didn't betray you, I didn't lie to you. I just..."

"You just... what?"

"I... I thought... It was just a mouse..."

Sour mirth curled the lieutenant's lip and terror seized in Maedhros' veins, malice glittered in the Maia's eyes and below it he quailed. For he knew that look, all too well he knew it and he dreaded it and the sight of it now turned his innards to water.

The lieutenant was about to inflict pain.

"Please, my lord," Maedhros croaked, with every ounce of passion he could summon he begged, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please... I... I didn't think..."

Dark puissance crackled in his ears, he could feel the itch of it as it laved across his skin, and he gulped, "Please, I... I can make it better. Please, my lord... I... I'll do whatever you want, please..."

A pregnant moment hung in the air, for coy seconds the lieutenant appraised his words, then slyly purred, "And what apology do you think that you could offer me?"

A deep, ugly flush slowly reddened across Maedhros' cheeks, it mottled down his neck as shame brimmed within him, and hard he gritted his teeth to stop his jaw from trembling. For what difference would it make, some despairing part of him thought, what possible difference could there be. He had done it before, the lieutenant had made him do it and the lieutenant had liked it, and it wasn't so bad, it wasn't so bad, it wasn't a violation, not really; it could not be an evil if he offered to do it. It could not be an evil, it could not be an evil, but if it was not evil then why did he feel so sick, why did he feel so awful, so stupid and helpless and hurting as haltingly he raised his head, as he breathed, "I could... I..."

Heat glowed from his cheeks, the words stuck into him with barbs of steel but at last he wrenched them forth, and slivers of gore trailed in their wake. "I could... please you, my lord, with... with my mouth, if you wanted... if... only if you wanted, my lord..."

A smile slowly curved over the lieutenant's face; it was exultant, it was vile, it was steeped in such victorious gluttony as his eyes widened in mock surprise.

"Oh, Maitimo," he purred. "You ask me so sweetly, precious thing. You beg for me like a lover. How cruel would I be to refuse you?"

Tears prickled behind his eyes as the lieutenant stepped towards him then, shame skewered through his heart and left him quivering. It was all that he could do not to sob as the lieutenant gently lifted him to his knees, as the lieutenant parted his trousers to reveal himself already stiffening, to take himself into his hand and coax himself to hardness.

It could not be an evil; he clung to the words as his arms throbbed in their stricture, as the lieutenant's fingers knotted through his hair, as he opened his mouth and closed his eyes and he only tried not to shudder as the lieutenant pushed slowly into his mouth. With slow, unfeeling motion he bobbed his head, he felt the weight of the lieutenant across his tongue and he reviled it, he hated it, in reluctant little motions he teased his way up the lieutenant's length and how disgusting it made him feel. It was so much better to be empty; they were just motions after all, just the slide of flesh upon flesh, they didn't have meaning and in them he could be numb, but suddenly the lieutenant's fingers clenched down upon his hair, and helplessly he spluttered as the lieutenant arched his head backwards.

"You begged for my indulgence willingly," the lieutenant warned, softly, cruelly. "Do not lose my favour."

Horror clenched in his stomach, desperate fervour glimmered in his blood and with whatever false, brittle desire that he could summon he nodded, and down once more he bent. And maybe it was not so awful to take the lieutenant down deeper, maybe it was not so horrible to swirl his tongue about his torturer's engorged head, to taste the fluid that gathered there, to tease across each turgid vein and stimulate each swollen ridge of flesh, and as a sigh of satisfaction emanated from the lieutenant above him nothing but relief rolled through him. Endure, endure; hard he fought to keep himself from gagging as the lieutenant pressed himself further down his throat, saliva bubbled upon his lips with the force of his motion as quickly, desperately he moved, his tongue laved up the lieutenant's underside in long, lingering strokes, and how such fawning joy pounded through him as his efforts swiftly took effect.

For tightly the lieutenant's fingers knotted into his hair as he groaned, and desperately Maedhros tried not to flinch away as he felt the hot, sticky spurt of seed cling across his tongue. He had to swallow, he remembered that, the lieutenant liked it when he swallowed, and as the Maia withdrew from him hard he gulped, and upon his knees there he swayed in his shame as the lieutenant arrayed himself back to decency.

"A most gratifying effort, Maitimo," the lieutenant purred, he smoothed down his robes and smugly said, "Perhaps now you understand where your uses truly lie."

Humiliation crumpled in his innards; a stupid little prince with no talents save for bedplay, the Moringotto had told him that once and how bitterly now it stung as he bowed his head before his abuser, as he croaked, "Yes, my lord."

A horrid grin of satisfaction twisted the lieutenant's lips, and for long seconds the Maia looked down upon him. Then with a swell of puissance suddenly the knots at his wrists were severed, and the ropes upon his elbows fell away, and for a moment he staggered, his arms fell limply to his sides and his chest seemed to unlock, he inhaled a whistling gasp of air into lungs worn thin with stress. Yet what cruel seconds later did the pain smash into him, the burst of it was as a sledgehammer rammed through his torso; screaming lines of fire lanced down his arms, they shook through flesh left purple with trauma and how too his chest ached, his back and ribs seized and upon his knees he sagged.

Silently the lieutenant beheld him, and without further word or glance the Maia departed, and alone within his cell he was left once more. To the ceaseless light the lieutenant left him, and to pain, and loneliness, and the salty taste of seed upon his tongue; another litany in the endless abyss of violence that ground him down, that consumed him, that chewed at him until there was nothing left but bones.

Thrice more the orcs came to him; thrice they clattered a plate of food and a beaker of water to the stones, and with such sycophantic gratitude he accepted them. With sore, stiff fingers he would eat, and still he ached from the trauma inflicted upon them. Forcibly he had reunited his knuckles with their sockets, the ghost of that hurt echoed within him still, but though his limbs were weak and lacerated he revelled in the luxury of their freedom. For what seemed like the first time in an age he slept as he wished, he fluffed the hay into a semblance of a mattress and in comfort curled himself upon it, and this time his dreams were not laced with pain.

It was with somewhat renewed vigour then that he was taken from his cell by a hulking uruk, and as he had many times before he trailed it upon the dreary route down towards the furnaces. Back to labour they set him, and everything was as it had been, grim and endless, once more he tended Angband's colossal furnaces, and sweat dripped from his brow as a blast of searing heat sent cinders flurrying through the air. About those ravenous mouths of flame he worked for many days; he would feed them great shovelfuls of coal, he would stoke their pressures high until they were glutted and bleeding with warmth. He would toil until the great bellow of a horn commanded the day's break, and it end, and once returned to his cell he would sink to the hay with exhaustion.

His labours were not pleasant; he did not enjoy them. All too eager were the overseers with their whips, and more than once he had yelped in pain as a flail had cloven down across his spine, he had scurried to his task with redoubled urgency as blood soaked into the sweat-stained tunic that clung to his back. At least they did not torment him as they used to, or at least, not so much; he closed his heart to their petty humiliations and bore them with little complaint. It was better to be numb, it was better to ignore them; ignore the vicious clamps once screwed down upon his nipples, ignore the salt rubbed into the bleeding, broken blisters across his hands, ignore the barbed wire wrapped tight about his throat.

It was not so bad, truly, their jeers and catcalls and snide remarks, they were not so bad, because in the roar of those furnaces, in the rushing blast of air vented from their bellies, sometimes there was peace. In the glow of embers raked from glowering coals there was beauty, in the shadows that moiled across the chamber's colossal walls there was wonder, and these fleeting moments he cherished. It was one small thing to cling to, lest utter desolation claim him.

Because sometimes the nights were not so gentle, sometimes his exhausted sleep was wakened, by groping hands and snarling tongues and insistent flesh he was put to labours of other sorts, and those he reviled the most.

The sores about his wrists began to close; ugly scabs sloughed away to reveal silvery-pink flesh below, and when upon a time it was deemed that he was truly fit then a strange uruk came to him. It unshackled him from the furnace before which he laboured and it led him away. Into a corral of ten or so other dejected slaves he was pressed, and at their proximity he grew nervous, he kept his head low and his arms cinched in tight as they were marched into unfamiliar tunnels. The stones about them deepened in hue; from slate greys to glossy blacks they changed, commingling with dark browns and shades of blue, and the air grew thicker in their lungs, drawn close with the scent of metal and loam about them.

Into rougher-hewn tunnels they were herded; the great gashes of industry scraped along their walls, and over a narrow bridge they were pressed, and the orcs behind kept a sharp, watchful pace lest they tarried. Nervously Maedhros peered out over the bridge's rickety balustrades; it jutted out over a sunken pit bottoming out some thirty metres below, and there unfurled an expanse of churning, steaming muds. Wide-eyed he watched as the dirt there boiled, as gouts of noxious vapour hissed and coiled and dissipated, as mud-bubbles rose and burst in startling flurries before spattering back down to their cesspit. With fascination he beheld such phenomena, and perhaps his pace slackened a little, for hard he clung to the bridge's railing as an orc's truncheon rapped down upon his shoulder from behind.

"Don't dawdle, slave," a deep voice snarled. "There's hungry things in the mud."

Dread unfurled in Maedhros' stomach, and hurriedly he continued on, and it seemed to him that once he gained the solid rock on the far side of the pit that something large slid through the bubbling mud below. The slightest stir of sinuous motion carved through the earth, something breached, something dived, and from it he turned away in fear.

Into places where scaffolding clustered upon the tunnel walls like scabrous cockroaches of leather and rusting metal the coffle of slaves was herded, and anxiously Maedhros walked among them. Further and further down torch-lit paths they were pushed; the stone grew damp and sticky underfoot as about them the humidity steadily rose, and soon he noticed the occasional glitter of silver amid the dark rock, the faint remnants of precious metals strung out beneath the earth. In fleeting streaks they darted along the tunnel's length, and onwards the slaves continued until the heat grew nearly unbearable; gasping and sweaty finally they were halted. Peering about the shoulders of the slave in front of him Maedhros glimpsed at last the wide, blunt end of the tunnel, a great expanse of rock that curved up almost twice his height and around twenty times his breadth before him.

A small, domed alcove was pocked into the rock a few metres adjacent to the tunnel's end, though whether natural or orc-made Maedhros could not tell, and here the slaves were brought. To the curved wall was hammered a quarrying survey, or so Maedhros thought it; the sprawl of mines was marked in thick black ink across the parchment, and as the coffle of slaves was dissembled Maedhros soon guessed their purpose here.

In a thick, stained tunic and battered pair of boots he was forced to dress, to the tunnel's end he was taken, and there he hovered as a heavy set of manacles was placed about his ankles, and the chain at his collar snapped loose. Along the tunnel's breadth the other slaves endured the same process, and to each was given a study spade or hammer or tool of industry. A heavy pick-axe was thrust into Maedhros' hands by a tall, simian-like orc, and though the thrill of rebellion glinted in his blood as he hefted up what could so easily become a weapon, quickly he stifled that impulse. For he had glimpsed the coiled whip upon the overseer's belt, a gigantic brute of an uruk it was too, and he had seen also the spiked cudgel that it wielded in its meaty hands; he had seen the look in the lieutenant's eyes the last time he had shown any sign of betrayal, and that of all things frightened him the most.

There would be no escape from this place, he knew it in his heart, and he extinguished that within himself that might wish it be otherwise.

"Dig!" the overseer bellowed, and swiftly he obeyed, he swung the axe hard into the rock before him and the impact of it was enough to rattle his teeth. Mercilessly hard the orcs pushed them; he sweated and strained and grunted as he levered rock loose from the heavy, crumbly slag that packed it tight, and in a greasy slick of wet earth he pulled them forth. More skill than brute force was required here, the orcs taught them that in shouts and stinging flicks of their whips; a wild blow against solid rock was enough to shatter a tool in hand, nay, it was better to search for a crevice, or to drill into the damp, volcanic loam that lay compact and yet malleable before them. Still their labour was exhausting: his back ached as he pried forth a great slab of rock from its clammy mooring, it felt like an unclean birth as with a squelch it tumbled forth, and hurriedly he staggered back to avoid being crushed as the rock slid to a halt before his feet.

Each scrape, each swing, each pull of his axe sapped him of strength, sweat poured down his back in the stifling air and when at last the orcs caused for a pause he sank down to the stones in fatigue. Moisture tracked translucent lines through the grime that coated his face, and how he grimaced with discomfort as the pick-axe left his hands glistening with blisters long since ripped raw across the pads of his palms. For a few shaky heartbeats he just tried to breathe, his head swum with the humidity as the blood-warm air stuck in his throat, and how grateful he was for the large cup of water that an orc pushed into his hands. A small measure of food he was given too: a cracked bowl of stodgy rice and thin, dried strips of meat, and thankfully he ate as the sustenance helped to fortify him. Yet all too soon the orcs forced him to his feet again, and though exhaustion dragged at him he laboured on as best as he could.

The slaves' progress was slow, the clinging earth resented their intrusion, and as the torches burned low in their brackets Maedhros could see the scant metre or so of fresh tunnel that they had excavated. Without emotion he looked upon it, he hefted the pick-axe to rake the newest pile of slickened rubble at his feet to a wheelbarrow bearer behind him, and it was only when at last the way was cleared that he was allowed to rest. How he dreaded the slow walk back to his cell; his calves and thighs ached as dehydration snatched at him, but as the orcs bickered amongst themselves and herded the slaves this way and that, he could sense no impetus to depart.

Indeed, nervously he stood as a long length of chain was snapped to his collar, as the orcs hammered a metal stake into the tunnel's edge and tethered the chain about it, and to that stake he was bound. Here he and the other slaves would stay, the overseer grunted at them; and anxiously Maedhros watched as the slaves were split apart into intervals of several metres, each staked to the ground and left there in the filth to lie. Uneasily he took to the stones beneath him; how rough and uneven and open they were, they were not like his cell, for here they offered no protection, and phantoms thrown of flickering shadows danced upon their faces. Tremors shuddered through the earth, they moaned like titanic beasts in torment and their every quake set his heart pounding, they set beads of sweat shifting like lice upon his skin, and ever rest eluded him. More than once he tugged upon his hair where it hung lank across his face, he twisted it and pulled at it as once he had done, he wrung from it what little comfort he could in this unfamiliar place, and it helped to steady him a little.

To the other captives he did not look often; as flotsam broken upon a desolate shore they hunched into themselves, separate and lonely, and from the few glances that he did steal they appeared to be sleeping. Yet somehow he was unsure of them; an orc prowled between them and as it stalked away he was sure that he could hear a strange tapping sound echo through the stones like bony fingertips upon rock, faint and yet rhythmical. Curiosity stirred in his heart but swiftly he grappled it down; he bore scars enough to show the price of failed rebellion, and success in this lair of utmost oppression was an impossibility. It showed in the crooked run of his fingers, in the ugly ridges of tissue that groped across his spine, it showed in the barrenness of his cell where once there was life: to disobey was to be broken once more, to rebel was to bleed, and he had precious little blood left to spill.

So from that path he turned, and perhaps he chose rightly, or perhaps by his action things might have been different, but the malice of Angband pressed into his heart, and he could not find the courage to stir against it. So passively he lay, and passively he tried to sleep, and around him those little taps sounded, yet he had closed himself to their secrets.

It was better to be empty, it was better to obey, and he did obey. For countless days he laboured in that infernal tunnel, in filth and squalor he swung his axe, he hefted rubble, he sweated and hurt and through the bowels of the malevolent earth they dug. With dogged stamina the orcs pushed him on, and when at the day's end they tethered him anew to his stake nearby he all but collapsed with exhaustion, and away into blank dreams he would drift. Yet what reprieve came from such toil was unwelcome, and fervently he wished it were not so: break after break he heard the slaves tapping to each other through the earth, and how their little insurrections disturbed him. It made him nervous, it set him on edge, and how cruelly did that discomfort come to pass as upon his awakening he noticed two empty tethers, two broken lengths of chain.

Of them the orcs said nothing, they only snapped at him to eat faster, to move, yet upon this waking he was led from the tunnel's end and not towards it, and dread clustered in his heart with his every footfall. To walk with such confining manacles upon his ankles was awkward yet somehow he managed, and through dark, echoing caverns he was led. Through places where machinery roared he was pulled, where sparks flew and alchemical solutions hissed and among them grotesqueries walked; creatures of corruption, things with jaws eroded down to glistening bone, things with abscesses weeping pus and reddened gore, things with bowed legs and aberrant limbs; gnashing, maloccluded teeth and eyes milky with cataracts. Horror trembled in his heart as he was pulled past them, and hurriedly he shuffled on, and eventually he was led into a large, airy chamber, and what he glimpsed there dismayed him all the same.

Beneath a gigantic chandelier dripping with melted candlewax a raised platform stood, and upon it two slaves were strung; their wrists were shackled cruciform to cruel wooden scaffolds such that their naked backs were left awfully exposed to the chamber, and before them an audience milled. Dread redoubled in Maedhros' stomach as he was pushed into a tight corral of slaves clustered at the base of the platform, with shouts and bludgeons the orcs commanded them to kneel in rows of ten or so, and as Maedhros sank reluctantly to his knees the leash at his collar was attached to a great length of chain that stretched the width of the corral.

Behind the assembled slaves a host of orcs were gathered, they leered and bickered and only as a gargantuan thug of an uruk strode upon the platform that a restless, hungry silence fell. Before the two captive slaves the uruk halted; gross, heaving muscles flexed as it turned, as it spat down at their feet, and to the expectant crush of orcs and slaves it roared, "Two snaga, two shokk-kral; they plotted to escape! They ran like cowards, they traitored, and how easily they were caught!"

A cheer of approval burst from the leering orcs, it crashed over the heads of the silent, kneeling slaves, and the uruk's foul fangs squashed into a grin. "Caught, eh! Now, see what punishment the lords take with traitors, with gurvutzlim, with refusers and waste! Watch!" Deeper then the uruk's voice became, and darker; it glared down upon the slaves and how Maedhros shuddered away from its gaze as it said, "Watch, and consider. Let this be a lesson to you to heed your masters, and a warning of what awaits if you would fail us!"

At the sight of the metal-strung whips unfurled in the ruddy light Maedhros' blood curdled in his veins. Two uruks scarce lesser than their foreman strode forward, those brutal things uncoiled in their hands, and the glint of the little shards of metal that were woven into their lengths sickened him to his stomach. And what awful, awful horror transfixed him as those whips reached out, he could only watch in dumb, appalled stupor as those evil things clove down as one, as they punched through air and flesh. The impact of them jolted him; the smack of cord and metal into skin, the howls as the captives buckled, as red exploded across their backs in two gaudy, crazed lines. Sweat broke over Maedhros' brow and hard he fought to still the tremble of his fingers as another nauseating crack split through the air, he clenched his hands into tight fists upon his thighs as the slaves' shrieks clove through his heart. Again and again the orcs struck them, with such sadistic glee in their eyes they flayed flesh from bone, they sliced through muscle, and the screams, the screams, the scrabble of shocked, slipping feet upon the platform and the screams, they shook him apart. Desperately Maedhros gritted his teeth, he bowed his head and closed his eyes but he could not block out those sounds, the wheel and wet, smacking thud of the whips, the breathy, guttural howls and the broken sobs between them, the half-formed pleas for mercy.

Blood splattered across the stage as on and on the punishment continued; Maedhros' knuckles stood taut and white through his skin and trembling there he knelt, nausea lurched in his stomach and it was all that he could do not to vomit as a solid, squelching smack resounded through the chamber, as a gurgling, hysterical whine choked through the air. His nails dug bloody crescent-moons into the palms of his hands as he bore witness to such repugnant abuse, the clamour of it ached within his chest as memories clawed through him, ghostly sensations stabbed through his spine, and yet for these unfortunates it would only be worse. There would be no salvation for these luckless slaves, the lieutenant would not intervene for them, there would be no respite in Styrrak's infirmary, no quiet place of healing, no; only weeping, discarded flesh, the isolated, agonising process of repair when all goodly nature sought to cease.

It was hideous, it was near unthinkable, yet deeper still hypocrisy slid; it sliced like a knife through his guts and left him spilling. For beneath his skin some darker emotion crawled, something feral, something awful, and how he wished that he could deny it, denounce it, claw it out of himself; the truth of it polluted him down to his bones. For he knelt, and he listened, and some tiny part of him revelled in it.

There were only sobs now; harsh, choking inhalations of breath, and how he was corroded, how corrupt he was. He knelt there like a good little slave and he watched, he witnessed, and he was only grateful that it was not him. It was not him that was punished, it was not him that was hurting, in those terse, instinctive moments that was all that mattered, and how that realisation destroyed him.

Cowed and hating he was led from the hall, away from dripping silence and gore, the red ruins of flesh. Amid a cluster of other ashen slaves he walked, and each was adrift, shaken, though bitter was his mind among them. He scratched at himself; he tasted like guilt, like iron.

Back to his labour the orcs set him, and metre by agonising metre the tunnel wormed on, until at last they unearthed that which they sought. For upon a time when Maedhros sank his pick-axe into the claggy mud he pulled it away to reveal something grey and light beyond it, and at it the orcs grew excited. For endless hours they cleared the way, mud and rubble slid aside to reveal a large seam of glossy, silvery rock, and swiftly the orcs called a halt as its foremost edge was fully exposed. Wearily Maedhros stood aside as the overseers strode forward, as they inspected the rock and talked quietly amongst themselves, and how his knees and back ached as the minutes drew on.

He sat himself down as heedless of either himself or the other slaves a few of the orcs departed, only to return with more of their number; surveyor's maps and quarrying ledgers were brought forth and pored over, and Maedhros shied away from the orcs' activity as something else stalked among them. For down the tunnel something came, it sloughed off mud as if in great layers of diseased flesh, it stank of raw, soaking earth, and Maedhros pressed himself back against the tunnel wall as its unearthly presence passed him by.

To the newly exposed rock that thing came, it pressed a lumpy, misshapen limb against it, and after a few taut moments it seemed to sigh; a noisome exhalation of rank air whistled through the tunnel, and at such a fey proclamation the orcs burst into whoops of glee. An exultant babble consumed them, and warily Maedhros watched as that earthen thing shuffled back up the tunnel, leaving nothing but the swarm of the orcs around this most exciting discovery. Quite what they had unearthed he never knew; it did not concern him save that after a long while an orc came to him, and blankly he watched as it unfastened the manacles that had long encircled his ankles.

The absence of their weight was strange, he felt almost unbalanced as the orc latched a chain to his collar and drew him away, and worry turned within his stomach as throughout the tunnel he glimpsed the group of slaves disbanded, as each waited at the hand of an orc and was doomed to some new fate. For now only anxiety nibbled at his heart as back through the labyrinthine maze of tunnels and chambers that sprawled beneath Angband's dark heart the orc led him; they spilled out into a colossal chamber and the space of it made him quail. It was so big, so empty, his footsteps echoed through its motionless air and the vastness of it unnerved him.

In the orc's shadow he stepped quickly, he hunkered down into himself and simply endured as onwards he was drawn, until at last the slate walls around him drew close once more, and a tinge of recognition clotted in his heart. For surely now he knew cobbled stones beneath him, he had seen the wooden doors studded into the walls so many hundreds of times, and as a door loomed open before him how aching familiar it was, he almost choked with the delight of it.

Into his own small cell the orc led him, and the stones enveloped him in their grey embrace. The hay was crisp upon the floor, the rune bled out its wan light as the uruk shackled him to the wall once more, as usual, as usual, it was his place, it was safe, the chain spilled at his feet as amid the hay he sat, and the rattle and slide of the bolt within the lock sent such relief spiralling through his heart that it sickened him. One hundred and forty-three, he counted the stones as he had always done and they were the same, so maybe he was the same, although he was not so sure of that. And ever that doubt chewed at him as he settled himself down amidst his hay and his solitude; his gaze flickered to the culvert pocked into the adjacent wall and a twinge of melancholy stung his heart. It was different, he thought, but it was the same; it was still empty, it was empty like him, and into maudlin mood he lapsed away.

Five times the orcs came and left, they delivered him food with grudging dispassion and all the greater grew the tedium of his existence. Over and over he counted the stones, he scrubbed the filth from his body with a clumped wad of hay, he picked at the ragged fringe of his tunic, he tugged at the chain and scratched his nails over his skin; he did a thousand other numbing little things to try to fill the yawning hours, but still it felt as if he would turn to rust.

Creaking and sore indeed were his limbs worn stiff with disuse when a strange orc entered his cell. In dark leathers it was dressed, its hair was bound behind its ears with strips of fluttering cloth, and how odd it smelt, like spices, he thought. The heady scent of cloves and cinnamon wafted from it as with a tiny spark of puissance at its neatly clipped fingernails it broke his chain near the wall, and bade him follow. Meekly he trailed it, yet curious was his mind as still those sharp spices caught in his nose, as the orc turned him down paths yet untrodden through Angband's halls.

A large, fat spider danced across a doorframe as he passed beneath it and hurriedly he stepped past it, and he raised his guard as the orc led him into more populated areas of the fortress. Servile orcs scurried to and fro about him, groups of chattering goblins loped with ape-like sinew past him, and as the grey slate walls about him slowly morphed to those of greater refinement, to neat brick or polished marble, distant sounds of industry drifted through their facades. With dawning curiosity he was pulled about, and warily he trailed the orc through a large set of doors carved into a rearing face of rock almost thrice his height, and into a massive hall they came.

Steam hissed in great billowing clouds from pots and pans left bubbling, pottery clattered and fires burned, the shock of it blurred in Maedhros' eyes, for the entire chamber seethed with activity. Their purpose was plain: into the fortress' vast kitchens he was led, and wide-eyed he stared at the immense ovens that belched forth from the hall's flank, at the huge cauldrons left simmering over open fire-pits, at the carcass of some monstrous beast left rotating upon a spit, its skin glistening as it was bathed in a glaze of honey and spice. Thick and sweet was the air and deeply Maedhros inhaled; the irresistible scent of fresh-baked bread melded with rich herbs, with roasting meat; so decadent was it that hunger growled in his stomach. Past stacks of plates and platters piled high above his head the orc led him, through great rows of servants kneading dough, chopping vegetables, slicing meat; he looked upon them all with interest but then disquiet grew in his heart.

For as he looked he noticed that not all were orcs, among their foul race were dotted those of his own kindred, though their likenesses were obscured. Strange, leather-looking contraptions were fitted over their faces, the glint of chains shone at their wrists and throats, and hurriedly Maedhros looked away as a tug at his collar pulled him onwards. Towards a vast oven laid into the furthest wall of the hall the orc led him, and both fear and wonder swirled in Maedhros' blood as he stared up at the creature that lazed above it. For draped upon a high mantle-piece a huge black cat lounged, it sat contentedly in the rising warmth from below, yet its green eyes were sharp and watchful, and it surveyed the room with majesty.

He had seen this creature before, he was sure of it: Tevildo, yes, that was its name, that was what the lieutenant had said, and the great cat had smelled him then so long ago and it had known him, his rage and his humiliation, and it knew him now, for as he drew nearer to it then its gaze turned to him. A pink, barbed tongue licked across fangs the length of his arm, and its tail curled in gluttonous contempt as the orc drew him to a halt before it.

"A new 'un for you, m'lord," the orc called upwards, and behind it Maedhros stood silent. "From the mines, 'e is. No more progress down there 'til the bosses sort out the metallurgy and the quotas and the mapping there like. So they said bring 'im here, make 'im work. Fresh meat!"

Down upon him the cat stared, its slit-like pupils narrowed as it beheld him, and suddenly a great hum filled the air. It rumbled through his ribcage, it was enough to make his skin crawl with the sheer percussion of it, and upon the mantle the creature flexed its paws. Claws like ivory daggers tapped upon the granite, and in a rich, laconic voice the cat replied, "Very good, Azrinn. Another little mouse to squeak with the rest. And what a delicious mouse too, hmm, so very dripping with flavour." The scorn in the cat's voice was unmistakable, and a ruddy flush spread up over Maedhros' cheeks as it purred, "Poor, poor Maitimo. Perhaps your taste was not so sweet after all."

Shame bloomed in his guts as softly Tevildo chuckled, as the orc before him smirked, and he kept his gaze fixed firmly to the floor as the cat continued, "See him outfitted, Azrinn, and be sure to muzzle him tight. Naughty mice are so often tempted to nibble the cheese. Then put him to work somewhere, though something simple, mind." Saliva glistened upon the cat's fangs as it grinned down at him. "Mairon tells me that this one is not too bright."

Gall flushed through Maedhros' stomach, and balefully he simmered as the orc before him bowed, and with a lazy blink Tevildo dismissed it, and to a store-room dotted into the side of the great chamber he was taken. From a stockpile tended by a gruff, squat goblin his captor gathered a fresh shirt and pair of trousers and commanded him to strip, and discarded his old clothes with a grimace of distaste. Once he was dressed it plucked up a strange leather contraption, and how he balked as the orc held it up to his face.

The thing was like a dog's muzzle sculpted to elven flesh: a flat metal plate jutted inwards from a wide leather curvature and instinctively Maedhros shook his head as the orc held it up, as he felt a tangle of straps splay out to envelop him. Swiftly though his protest was curtailed, for the goblin lashed out at him, a cudgel cracked across the back of his knees and set him staggering. To his knees then he fell, and in those breathless moments of shock the orcs moved quickly; the goblin held his head fast while the orc Azrinn lifted the contraption to his face.

All too invasive was the plate that fed into his mouth, it pressed down hard upon his tongue and kept it immobile, and as the thing's straps were cinched tight at the back of his head the wide leather mouth-guard of the bridle pulled flush against his lips. Under his chin a cutting strap ran, and hatefully he glared as this was fastened also, his lower jaw was slammed shut upon the tongue-plate, and he snorted in indignation as the goblin sealed shut the device with a small padlock left dangling at the base of his skull. Saliva frothed behind the mouth-guard as he fought against it, he wriggled and flexed his tongue beneath the plate that held it fast, and with cruel laughter his captors watched him struggle.

Soon though he settled, he could not slide his tongue from beneath its surface no matter how hard he might try, and down into his face the goblin sneered, "If you fuss next time, we'll spike the tongue-guard, eh! See how you like that!"

An angry, fearful flush coloured Maedhros' cheeks, yet sullenly then he stood as he was told, and allowed the goblin to scrub clean his bare hands and arms with a rough-bristled brush and pail of soapy water. It was better not to fight, he told himself, and though he still probed and pushed his tongue against the plate that trapped it, placidly enough he followed the orc where it led. To a giant, gently simmering vat of gruel amid a cluster of cook-fires the orc tethered him, and into his hands it pressed a large wooden spoon, and commanded him to stir.

"Don't let it scald," the orc growled as it turned to leave. "Be a beating in it if you do."

Resentfully Maedhros glared at its retreating back, but devoid of choice he obeyed, and for what seemed a slow eternity he stirred the bland, sour-smelling slop around the cauldron. It was dull work, and soon his attention began to wander, and though he still poked and mixed the gruel before him, furtively he watched the kitchen in its activities.

There was less pain here than in other places it seemed, and for that he was glad; the orcs were more apt to cuff or pinch a lagging slave than to flay them, and there was warmth here, and noise, and familiar things, things that he understood; bread was pulled in steaming batches of loaves from the ovens' gaping mouths, dark wooden barrels were rolled up a ramp opening into some subterranean cellar, great haunches of meat were skewered to roast over open flames or were filleted for their finer cuts, and their bones cast to stock-pots left stewing over smouldering coals. Over it all the great feline presided, Tevildo indeed was a prince amongst his realm, but from the cat Maedhros' gaze slipped as nearby an oven was slotted open, and from it a huge tray of roasted mushrooms was pulled, and how his heart lurched at the smell of them.

That sweet, earthy scent, how long had he known it for; Finno had loved roasted mushrooms, he remembered, and melancholy stabbed through his heart at the thought of it. Finno, his brothers, his father, his family; they scarcely seemed real anymore. Just swirling memories, just ghosts of a past that he could not remember, caurë, caurë, doom laid upon him, and hard he swallowed down around the muzzle to stifle the emotion that sewed his throat closed. He simply stirred and stirred and shrunk away; doom stepped in his shadow as after hours of labour an orc came to him, it returned him back to his cell and removed his muzzle, and the silence that he found amid those blank stone walls had all the comfort of a grave.

It was not so bad, he thought, though the days trudged wearily onwards, truly his time in the kitchens was not so bad. It was lesser work than the mines: the tending of cookpots or the scrubbing of pans was far gentler than the swing of axes, and in that respite he thrived. Still the humiliation of the muzzle was to be endured; every day that foul thing was buckled onto his face, every day he tended such plentiful, decadent fare and was given only cast-off scraps or a bland slop of porridge to sate the hunger that growled in his belly. It was not pleasant, but it could have been worse, he knew this all too well and so meekly he worked under Tevildo's watchful gaze, and he tried his best at whatever task was given to him.

A tall pile of crockery was stacked into his arms by a belligerent orc, and carefully now he traced his way through the bustling kitchen to the store-rooms, to discard his burden and return for yet more. Thrice now he had made his shuffling way, and how his heart pounded within his chest if his stride was too eager, if the plates should wobble; he steadied himself with savage discipline before continuing safely on. Yet fatigue dragged at him now, and hard he fought to still the tremble in his arms as he inched around a gang of chattering orcs. And perhaps his care was his undoing, perhaps he lingered too long, for with a snort of laughter an orc stepped backwards, it knocked into his elbow with jarring force, and for one hideous moment the pile of plates teetered, and his blood splintered in his veins as he felt his arm give way.

The crash of breaking crockery was damning, inescapable; how awful it was as hundreds of alarmed, gleeful faces suddenly turned to him. All the kitchen paused in its fury, all the air stood still upon the baited breath of hundreds as Tevildo's great eyes locked upon him, and the venom in them was shrivelling. Aghast he could but tremble as the cat rose to its feet, the muzzle locked about his face muffled his squeak of terror as in one fluid pounce the cat surged forward, as it landed amid the shattered pottery that surrounded him like some obscene halo, and black hatred glinted in its eyes.

"My, my," the cat purred; the force of its exhalation trembled through his ribs and transfixed with horror he stood as it licked its furry lips, as its long whiskers twitched. "What a clumsy mouse indeed."

Through the swathe of broken shards it stalked, it circled him, ceramic crunched under its paws and how desperately he wanted to run, to flee, to hide himself away. Yet fear unmanned him, it strangled adrenaline from his muscles and he could do naught but yelp as suddenly the cat lunged forward, as its teeth closed about his collar at the nape of his neck and he was flicked upwards. Instinct spurred him to lift his arms, to jam his fingers between the collar and his windpipe to preserve even a scrap of breath as like a deviant kitten carried by its scruff Tevildo swung him upwards and away; in several great, agonising leaps they traversed the kitchen until in a spacious corner the cat settled, it opened its mouth and sent him spinning to the stones below.

With a bone-jarring crunch he landed, fear spiked through his heart and on shaking hands and knees he scrambled backwards, and how he howled with terror as he felt teeth close upon his ankle, as Tevildo lifted him up once more. Clean into the air the cat flipped him up, it was as if he weighed no more than a shrew, and how he squeaked as one mighty paw caught him in a tremendous blow across the face.

The force of it left him reeling; blood poured from his nose as he crumpled down to the floor and there he could only gasp; too hard was that blow, too hard, it jammed the tongue-guard towards the back of his throat and desperately he scrabbled to loosen it. He spluttered and gagged and tore at himself until somehow he wrenched it forwards, and for a few coughing breaths he lay there motionless.

"What use have I for foolish mice?" the cat mused; beneath it he struggled to rise and with one lazy flick of its paw it batted him aside, it sent him skidding across the floor to crumple into the wall. "String them up, I say! String them up! Let them hang! Then we'll see how they squeak, oh, how deliciously. That will teach them how to scurry!"

A muffled cry caught in his throat as suddenly the tramp of booted feet surrounded him, he kicked and struggled as iron claws clamped down upon his arms, yet to little avail, as with bruising force his wrists were seized and bound together at the small of his back. A length of rope was snatched through his collar at the nape of his neck and secured somewhere above him, and desperately he bucked as he felt it tauten, as in great hauls he was slowly dragged upwards. His hands fought within their bonds as instinct screamed at him to bring them to his neck, to free his throat, to breathe, yet helplessly bound he was as the orcs hauled him higher, as tighter and tighter the collar bit into him, as it strangled the breath from his lungs. Thin, frantic snorts of breath emanated from behind the muzzle as snared by their makeshift noose the orcs left him to dangle, his toes only just remained planted upon the floor and desperately he struggled to balance, to take the strain from his neck, to draw new breath; tears stung in his eyes and blood smeared across his tongue and with what violence did the air come smashing out of his lungs as Tevildo's paw crunched into his stomach.

The air screeched out of his chest, his toes slipped from the floor and truly then he hung; his neck howled in agony as for a few short seconds it bore his weight fully, he spluttered and shook and jigged like a beached fish upon a line until somehow he found the floor once more. For a moment the air trickled back into his lungs, until the blow of a whip sliced across his ribs, and oh how he crumpled. Blood snorted from his nose, it dripped to the floor beneath him as helplessly he spun, he struggled and floundered until his neck felt that it might break, his lungs seared within his chest as again and again they struck him, he hovered there on the screaming edge of suffocation and they did not relent.

Bones groaned within his neck and through the anguish that engulfed him how he wished that they would do more, he wished that they would just be severed, just come apart. It would be so much easier, it would hurt so much less; he kicked and scrabbled and keened out his misery until with a great heave the orcs released him, and to the floor he tumbled.

A shock of air flooded into his lungs, blood flecked down his shirt as he panted, as he sobbed, and grievously he shied as the orcs neared him once more, as they cut the bonds at his wrists. With shaking fingers he held himself, he pressed into the traumatised, purpling flesh about his throat as if somehow that could soothe him, and he just wished that he could disappear as over him Tevildo purred, as the great cat stalked away and left him curled there in his agony.

Senseless, senseless; the aching limp back to his cell was a bleary age; a smirking orc hooked a short leash to his collar and drew him forth, and every tug of the metal band against his flesh sent delirious waves of pain pulsing through him. Beneath the straps of his muzzle he could feel his cheek swell, he could feel blood crust over his lips, dizzy and sick he stumbled on and it was all too much when at last he slumped down amid his hay, when the orc refastened his collar to the chain upon the wall. It was too late when he finally roused himself; still the muzzle clasped about his face and he only thought to protest as the door slammed shut before him, and into numb desolation he sank back.

The straps cut into his cheeks left heavy with bruising, drying blood itched upon his skin, and for how long he lay there motionless he knew not. It was only too soon, far, far too soon when the door swung open once more, when a fearsome uruk snatched him up, it pulled him to his feet and heedless of his squawk of protest hauled him from the cell. Every touch of the collar against the tender flesh of his neck was an abomination, he panted and bleated and mewled with the pain of it as into another cell the uruk pulled him, and at what awaited him there his heart plummeted to the stones.

For upon one elegant heel the lieutenant turned to meet him; blond hair fell loose over the handsome shoulders of formal robes dusted crimson and black, a hand decadently laden with rings rested upon a high stone table laid into the centre of the room, and at the look in the lieutenant's eyes Maedhros blanched. No; no, no, no, it couldn't be him, it couldn't be him; giddy, clamouring panic flared in Maedhros' veins at the lieutenant's haughty stare, and he swayed where he stood as a sudden wave of faintness swept through him.

A whine of utmost dismay flickered in his throat as bloodied and dishevelled the Maia regarded him standing there, and a mingled look of shock and disgust slowly moiled over the lieutenant's face.

"Oh, for..." the Maia's speech trailed off into an exasperated sigh, he shook his head in annoyance before gesturing towards a metal grille set into the floor at the rear of the chamber, and the chains that dangled from the ceiling above it. "Put him there," the lieutenant snapped, and dutifully the uruk nodded. "Strip him, get him cleaned up. And get that thing off his face. I will return shortly; there will be some extra effort required here, so it seems."

Dread trickled through Maedhros' stomach at such a pronouncement, and he stumbled aside as the lieutenant stalked past him and off into the corridors beyond. Swiftly then he was pulled forward, and reluctantly he stood over the grille as the uruk fastened his hands into the manacles above. The metal was cool beneath his toes, it set him on edge, and how he flinched as the uruk strode behind him and in one great heave ripped his shirt in two; it split down his spine and was cast aside, and roughly the uruk pulled his trousers down his legs. Discomfort tinged the tips of his ears pink as naked and awkward he was left so crudely exposed, and he did not have nearly enough time to brace himself before a great deluge of water came tipping down upon him. It sluiced in lukewarm streams from his hair, it splattered in grimy rivulets down his back, and the uruk began to clean him roughly with a sour-smelling soap and rag.

What feeble, wriggling protest he made as its hands swept too hard over the injured flesh of his stomach was quenched with a growl; his teeth gritted hard about the tongue-guard as it swiped down over his groin, as it groped between his thighs, as it scrubbed the tender, bruise-mottled skin of his ribs. It was as the second downpour of water was tipped upon him that the lieutenant returned with a large wooden box his hands, and warily Maedhros eyed it as it was placed upon the table. At the back of his head the uruk fumbled, and with a groan of discomfort the muzzle was pulled free of his face; reddened saliva scraped his mouth raw, and with difficulty he swallowed it down.

The lieutenant's eyes rolled as he spied the dark, livid bruises that clouded over Maedhros' cheek and eye-socket, the blood that scabbed at the base of his nose, and to the uruk the lieutenant commanded, "Bring him here."

The Maia turned to grasp something concealed within the box, and worry squirmed in Maedhros' veins as naked and dripping he was released from his bonds and forced to sit upon the table, his legs hanging over its edge. Like a cornered animal he hunched into himself, his hands knitted together over his groin to conceal himself, and as the lieutenant looked back to him what a horrid, insidious smile curved over his lips. The lieutenant's eyebrow quirked in mirth and there were no words, there was no need for words; shame sliced through Maedhros' innards and left him gutted, and miserably still he sat as the lieutenant lifted a wetted cloth to his face, and with surprising gentleness wiped at the blood beneath his nose.

The cloth stained red as the lieutenant slowly cleaned him, all trace of blood was carefully removed from his skin, and thoughtfully then the Maia eyed the gaudy, trauma-speckled bruise upon his cheek. From the box then was drawn a strange tin, a shimmer of flesh-toned powder puffed into the air as the lieutenant unscrewed its lid, and at it Maedhros stared.

"My lord," he began softly, uncertainly, "what - "

"Be silent," the lieutenant said, and though his tone was light Maedhros knew better than to continue. So timidly he sat as with a fresh, airy sponge the lieutenant dusted the powder over his cheek and eye; it settled upon skin, it painted over bruises, it swept evil away in porcelain deception, and it was only as the lieutenant reached for a pot of viscous, red ochre and smeared it over his lips that truly Maedhros realised what the Maia was doing. And what horror fluttered in his stomach as the lieutenant painted him, the clay upon his lips was sticky and how cheap it felt, how dirty, how perverse; he winced as the lieutenant dragged a comb through his tangled hair, as he smudged an artful finishing of ochre upon his cheeks.

Like giving colour to a corpse, he thought it, and with growing trepidation he stood as the lieutenant dressed him in a plain, neat tunic and trousers.

How innocent he must look, he thought bitterly, like a doll, like a good little slave, yet through the humiliation that scorched in his veins it was only as the lieutenant grasped a short leather leash that truly he protested. He drew himself away as the Maia reached for his collar; pain crackled through his throat with even that small shift upon his skin, and plaintively he croaked, "Please, my lord... my... my throat, please..."

With pursed lips the lieutenant inspected him, cold eyes skated the heavy, florid bruises that ringed his neck beneath the collar's band, and then the Maia sighed.

"Very well," he said slowly. "If you wish it be so, then now is your chance to prove your obedience to me. This once, and by my mercy alone, you may walk at my side unchained."

"Thank you, my lord," Maedhros replied eagerly, too eagerly; the sound of it was piteous in his ears.

From him the lieutenant turned, he wrapped the leather leash about his wrist, and dark was his tone as he said, "Run from me, and you will never walk again."

Fearfully Maedhros recalled those slaves in the mines; the wet smack of the whip into flesh and the screams, those paralysing, gouging, awful screams; he remembered that foul brace bolted into his thigh where the Moringotto had shattered it, that white, searing snap of agony; he thought of what worse the lieutenant might do, and gravely he replied, "Yes, my lord."

"Come, then," the Maia said impatiently, and started towards the door, and hurriedly Maedhros shuffled to his side.

Through Angband's vast halls they walked, ever winding up throughout the fortress, and closely Maedhros followed the lieutenant where he led. It almost felt natural, he thought sadly, it almost felt right; because sometimes the lieutenant could be kind to him, sometimes, if he was good enough, if he made the lieutenant happy, and urgently he clung to that nebulous thread of favour. Tight and cautious were his steps as they trailed through the high-vaulted corridors of Angband's upper levels; he shrank into the lieutenant's side as the ways about him became more populous, more cluttered with life as deeper into the fortress' heart they plunged.

And soon enough they turned into a grand corridor that Maedhros felt was familiar; trepidation crept through his heart and perhaps he slowed a little, perhaps he tripped, for viciously the lieutenant glared at him, and swiftly he scrambled to right himself and continue on. Yet ever that disquiet worried at him, and when at last a huge, ornate set of doors swung into view then truly he balked.

A blaring fanfare sounded upon hideous, twisted trumpets, the brand upon his chest flared with pain and at the lieutenant's side he staggered, with pallid cheeks and wide, staring eyes he looked upon the doors to Angband's throne.

He couldn't go there, horror clawed in his veins, he couldn't go there again, not now, not ever; terror stole the strength from his legs but then how fluidly the lieutenant turned to him, and soft was his voice, and how desperately Maedhros clung to it.

"Will you come with me gently?" the lieutenant asked, all sweet and dusky and understanding, and with a wry smile he offered his right hand for Maedhros to take. And what abhorrence glowed in Maedhros' heart as for a moment he stood, and wished that he could go back to his cell, back to the mines, the kitchens, back to anywhere but here, but he couldn't, he couldn't, he could only go on.

Endure, endure: hard he swallowed down the lump in his throat, and with quaking fingers he took the lieutenant's hand.

"Good," the Maia smiled, their palms pressed lightly together and how tender it was, how awful, almost as lovers hand in hand they stood, and the lieutenant said, "Take heart, Maitimo. Comport yourself well, for you are in noble company tonight. This eve you will stay by my side, and I would not have you stray far."

Both dread and relief turned in Maedhros' stomach at those words, and wearily he nodded, and as the lieutenant strode towards the opening doors helplessly he trailed along at his side. It was all that he could do not to cringe as he passed that infernal doorway; the sight of Angband's jagged throne set him reeling, the brand pulsed upon his chest in deadening waves of pain and it took all of his concentration simply to match the lieutenant's pace as onwards into the hall he was marched.

At the base of the imperial dais a great dining table was set, it groaned under steaming platters laden with food and wine and ale laid before many orcish guests, and fear churned in Maedhros' stomach as he beheld the fiend that sat at the table's head. For there the Moringotto loomed, resplendent in robes of deepest midnight and crowned in iron and glittering thievery he talked amongst the assembled guests, and bile rose in Maedhros' throat as the memories of all of the Moringotto's cruelties crushed through him.

Flames leapt bright and hungry from torches bracketed to the hall's grand pillars, candles illumined the table in a viscous, bloody light, and as he and the lieutenant drew near the Moringotto lifted up a jewelled goblet in greeting, and the orcish guests arose from their seats.

"Welcome, Mairon, my most noble lieutenant," the Moringotto said, and rich was his voice, dark and elegant and evil, and shrunken into the lieutenant's side Maedhros withered beneath it. The orcs made gestures of obeisance towards the lieutenant according to their custom; one clad in swathes of rawhide and fur touched its fist to its bent forehead, one attired in a cowl-like drapery of dun-coloured cloth made a complex gesture with its fingers in the air before it; many such obtuse greetings were made in deep respect about the table, and gallantly the lieutenant nodded in return. "Come, come," the Moringotto continued, "all be seated. The hour runs late, and we have much left to discuss ere time whittles us away."

Forward the lieutenant started, and reluctantly Maedhros followed; the Maia's fingers gripped tight about his own and forcibly pulled him onwards, and as they circled the table to the empty chair upon the Moringotto's right hand, a pale orc further down the table called, "What is this creature that you have brought, Mairon-khur?"

A murmur of interest rippled through the guests, drinks were lifted and heads turned, and how horrible were the orcs' motley eyes upon him, the Moringotto's gaze was full of slow, contemplative gluttony, and how they all seemed to dissect him.

Yet worse still was the smile that crossed the lieutenant's lips, as propelling Maedhros forward into the full view of all assembled he said, "Honoured guests, friends from farthest lands and worthy kin of old, I have the pleasure of introducing to you one of our most prized possessions. The rumour of the upstart elf, Fëanáro son of Finwë, I am sure that you have heard, though his arrogance be not come to plague your distant, prosperous lands."

At this pronouncement many of the orcs drew themselves tall in their seats, they craned their necks to look upon Maedhros with such hunger in their eyes, and how awfully exposed he felt before them as the Moringotto smirked, and the lieutenant continued, "From Valinórë across the sea Fëanáro came in wrath, he dared to challenge the might of Angband and of our venerable lord, and in squalor and ruin he perished. Yet whelps he fathered before he came to these lands, vain followers of their father, and to prevent war of their own declaration they in their arrogance sought to sue: for the relinquishment of the Silmarilli, and the death of all who held them were their demands. Nay, they were fools indeed, and nay was the answer of Angband, and from the wreck of their treaty we salvaged one amusing whelp indeed."

"Friends, guests, I present to you what was once the heir-apparent to the Noldorin throne, Nelyafinwë son of Fëanáro, and long now has it been our pleasure to host him within these halls."

Mutters of intrigue broke about the table, and how sick was the Moringotto's grin at his side; the light of the Silmarils washed over him and it itched like disease upon his skin. The lieutenant's hand clutched about his own and his grip was blistering, and what dreadful shame coloured his cheeks red as the orcs peered at him, as one croaked, "A delicate thing, ain't he."

"So placid," another mused; a she-orc clad in stiff, leather plates of maroon hue. "I'd've thought there'd be more fire in his belly! More fight! Ghash-ruknarr!"

"Nay, nay, Jinthrul" the Moringotto chuckled, and his eyes glimmered with foul mirth as he sipped from his goblet. "A spark of fire existed there once perhaps, but now most thoroughly extinguished. He is quite tame, would you not agree, Mairon?"

"Oh yes, my lord," the lieutenant purred, and such was the gluttony in his voice, that horrid, gloating, knowing pride that Maedhros' ears burned pink. "Very tame indeed."

"Tame, eh?" a rotund orc boomed from near the end of the table; a gnarled leg of game was clutched in its greasy fingers as it said, "What are you feeding him then? Too skinny!"

Dark laughter resounded about the table, and a sallow-skinned uruk grinned, "Ah, Lun-moruth, you are too always soft on them! He gets what he is due, I'm sure. The poor wretch is simply shy in such mighty company!"

"Does he smile?" a sharp-voiced she-orc snapped; with large, avian-like eyes she peered at him with fierce intensity, and into the bundle of shredded, rough-sewn rags that shrouded her she settled herself. "Or does he just have that constant look of dejection on his face?"

"Looks like a slapped arse!" the rotund orc bellowed; and how the hilarity that circled the table then festered in his blood, it hollowed out his veins, and loathing frothed in his stomach as beside him even the lieutenant sniggered.

"Oh, Lun, you wound me," the Maia smiled, and suddenly his fingers closed hard over Maedhros' own. "Go on, Maitimo, show them all your pretty smile now."

Shame stalled in his heart but painfully tight the lieutenant's fingers dug into his hand, and he forced a fleeting, tight smile across his lips. Before him the orcs cooed, they guffawed and drank and chuckled in their seats, and with what cruelty they revelled in his ignominy.

"Very good," the lieutenant purred, and with the orcs mirth well sated he forsook Maedhros' hand to slide into his seat, and gestured then to the floor upon his left. "Come, kneel here."

Balefully Maedhros obeyed; he held himself stiffly as he sank down to his knees, but swiftly it seemed that he was forgotten as above him the lords and their guests talked of other lofty things. Often their language eluded him: they spoke in a strange, corrupt mode of most ancient Quenya, and soon he tired of trying to discern meaning from their words. He would not understand them anyway, he thought bitterly; he just waited below like a good, obedient slave, and though his stomach growled with hunger and his thighs cramped and the brand ached upon his chest he simply knelt there, demure and passive.

The lieutenant had granted him safety, he grasped at the thought, the lieutenant had told him that he would stay, that he would be close, so he must be good, he must; so concentrated was he upon his thoughts that the lieutenant's motion at his side startled him. His hands trembled as suddenly a small plate was pushed into them, and for a moment he simply stared at it.

A few thin slivers of chicken lay there, and beside them three small, fat tomatoes rolled; the lieutenant nudged him on the shoulder in such generous permission, and with selfish wonder he ate what he was given. The chicken was rich, spiced and delicate, yet it was the tomatoes that enthralled him; how tangy they were, how firm and ripe and juicy and fresh, how long had it been since he had eaten something fresh; he savoured every morsel of their bright, slippery flesh as they ran over his tongue. Such perverse gratitude glowed in his heart then, and almost blissfully he knelt as above him his lords feasted on, and into reverie he slipped.

It was the lieutenant's hand upon his head that jolted him from bleary dreams. The candles burned low in their vaulted brackets upon the table as still the lords and their guests spoke amongst themselves, his knees and calves had long since numbed beneath him as they pressed into the remorseless marble, and softly the lieutenant reached for him and pulled him close. Idly, possessively the lieutenant's fingers ruffled through his hair as still amongst the guests the Maia chatted and laughed, he petted him as one might treat a mischievous dog smuggled beneath the dinner table, and how Maedhros cringed beneath such casual degradation.

Close to his thigh the lieutenant pulled him, and what squirming unease turned in Maedhros' stomach as the Maia forced his head down, forced him to rest his cheek upon his lord's thigh whilst still that hand toyed with him. It was sensual, it was nauseating; revulsion choked in his blood as for what seemed like an age the lieutenant held him there, as those invasive, humiliating little touches stung at him, until at last the lords' conversation dwindled and motions were slowly made to retire.

Stiff and drained he stirred as the lieutenant relinquished him, and as the Moringotto and his guests arose from the table and began to drift away down the hall he ducked his head low beneath their fierce gaze. Yet what dark anxiety flared in his stomach as the lieutenant bade him rise also, and to a knot of six large, fearsome orcs still milling about the table he was led and before them made to stand.

Hungrily they eyed him, too wide were their smiles, too greedy; foreboding blossomed in his veins and the lieutenant haunted his steps as from them he shrank, only to be dragged back to them by the wrist.

"You will accompany our guests tonight, Maitimo," the lieutenant said softly; his fingers left reddened marks ringing Maedhros' wrist. "You will go with them, and you will obey them in whatever they command of you. You will make them happy."

The threat in the lieutenant's tone was light, but all the more cutting for it, and how Maedhros buckled to hear those words. Helpless, hurting panic closed up his throat; he couldn't go with the, he couldn't, the lieutenant had promised him, it could not be true, and plaintively he spluttered, "But... but, my lord, you said... you said that I could stay with you..."

For a long, admonishing moment the lieutenant looked at him, all the air within that vast, malevolent hall seemed to hold its breath in mockery. There was such cruel pity in the lieutenant's eyes as he smiled, as he said, "I lied."

Horror smashed through Maedhros' guts as the lieutenant snapped a leash to his collar, betrayal stole the strength from his limbs and he could only choke as the leash was passed to a tall, thick-set orc louring nearby, who pulled it tight with a sneer.

"Be good, Maitimo," the lieutenant said sweetly, and for the hatred that roared through his heart then there is no name in the kindly tongues of the West.

He could scarcely breathe for the pain that throbbed through his injured neck as the orcs pulled him away, feebly he stumbled in their wake as up through the fortress they led him, through cold corridors and empty, heartless halls. And with his every step how horror blossomed anew in his heart; the orcs threw open the grand doors to a suite of chambers set high within the fortress' towers, and how he ached to know what would befall him there. Because he knew, of course he knew, with every footstep laid in pain he walked to his unravelling and he was utterly powerless to stop it, and that was cruelty too great to bear.

Only a tiny squeak of dismay trilled in his throat as he was pushed towards a wide stone workbench laid stark and ugly in the middle of a sparse chamber, and the sound of the door swung shut behind him was as a toll of death within his blood.

"Lay there," an uruk grunted at him, it gestured to the benchtop and a horrid, moist leer split its slug-like lips. "On your back."

Utter horror surged in his blood; blank refusal staggered him, and desperately, wildly, hopelessly he looked to the uruk, he looked to all of their loutish gang and he breathed, "Please... please, don't -"

The slap across his face sent him spinning, it rattled his teeth within their sockets and set him crumpling backwards. The edge of the bench jammed into his spine, into his ribs, he spluttered there in shock until an orc hauled upon the leash at his throat, it sent him crashing down to his knees and there he gasped, and all the orcish company stared down at him with glee.

"Get up," the thick-lipped uruk snarled; fervour wrenched in his veins and he did, he did, he scrambled up to his feet and how he flinched as the uruk ripped his shirt clean from him; fabric tore over his spine and how awful it made him feel, the orcs' meaty fingers groped at his waistband and yanked his trousers down, and it was all that he could do to gulp back the tears that clotted in his lungs. At the orc's nod two others seized him by the shoulders, with jarring force they lifted him and slammed him down upon the benchtop; panic screeched in his veins and desperately he struggled as they grasped for his wrists, as they forced them into thick restraints and pulled his arms up above his head, he writhed and tore and keened in his misery as with such brutal strength they pinned him down, and the thick-lipped uruk sneered down at him.

"Spread your legs," it said; he howled as a cloth gag was forced behind his teeth, he flipped and bucked in the orcs' grip and he couldn't do it, he couldn't, it was wrong, it was obscene, and oh what paralysing sob of terror choked up from his lungs as the uruk stepped between his flailing legs and wrenched his thighs apart. Helpless, helpless, still though he struggled as left so awfully exposed the uruk leered down at him, saliva wetted its lips as it brought its fingers to its mouth, and at the lewdness of its expression he closed his eyes.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt so much, maybe the lieutenant had told them to be gentle, maybe he would just wither away beneath them, frantically he thought the words, he clung to them like a prayer, but even as he thought them he knew that they were lies. For in one hideous, jerking motion two thick fingers twisted into him, and a groan of pain punched out past the gag.

"Oooh, so warm!" the uruk exclaimed, the orcish company jeered in their mirth, and humiliation thundered through Maedhros' heart as those fingers groped inside of him, as they slid back, as push by awful, calculating, violating push they opened him up. Without care they split into him; a keen of pain hummed in his throat as too roughly the uruk thrust a third finger into him, such aching pressure radiated out through his hips that desperately he writhed to dislodge it. His thigh strained and trembled under the uruk's hand still holding his legs apart and then one of the orcs hit him, it struck him so hard across the face that his vision blurred, a miserable gurgle bubbled in his throat and then he lay still.

It was only a matter of time, of horrible, humiliating touches; the loop of cord about the backs of his knees that hooked him open and bound him there, the aching, insistent pull of fingers up inside of him, the shame that dredged up from his stomach with every laugh, every comment, every foul thing that came crawling over their lips; it was only a matter of time before the uruk withdrew its sticky fingers from him, before it spread him wider and in one gut-wrenching spasm of pain it sheathed itself to the hilt within him. His fingers scrabbled in their bonds, his back arched helplessly as that boiling, excruciating pressure slammed up through him; a breathless groan of utmost degradation spilled from his lungs as far, far too hard the uruk wrenched out of him, and as it slammed itself back in pain exploded through his guts.

Again and again it fucked into him; its fingers dug bruises into his thighs with the force of its grip, each thrust of its length up inside of him felt like it would split flesh from bone, like it would rupture organs; time after agonising time it rammed into him, and its company cheered it on, their words spat down upon him like hail as they laughed, jeered, hissed, roared; with a great shout of pleasure the uruk ground into him, and how he burned with the ignominy of it as he felt the hot spurt of seed deep up inside of him.

"Not bad, luthgrinn," the uruk panted to its company; pleasure dripped from its yellowed fangs as over Maedhros it loomed for a few moments, until then it withdrew, and a sigh of relief flitted through Maedhros' teeth. But short-lived and cold was his respite; pain hammered through his innards as from a groping scuffle another orc emerged. He had scarcely drawn new breath into his lungs before it stepped between his opened legs, before again there was violation, there was fresh, blossoming pain, there was his hissing intake of breath as with a long, sinuous thrust the orc tore him open, and such unbearable pressure throbbed through his abdomen that he could only choke with the force of it.

"Ach, Afdralz, you've ruined 'im," the orc growled, and rougher still it thrust into him; one hand gripped into his thigh while the other stroked too hard up his flaccid length, the brand upon his chest seared with pain and something within him seemed to wrench as that pain undid him, as degradation eroded him, something in him fluttered loose and how it longed to drift away. "Why'd we let you go first, eh? He ain't feeling no more!"

A blow cracked across his face, the taste of metal slicked over his tongue and saliva frothed pink behind the gag as he grimaced, as the orc smashed into his guts and involuntarily he clenched down upon it, in and out of him the orc slid and how horrible it felt; each hideous stretch of muscle, each gasping split of abused skin, each abrupt jolt of repulsive, unwanted pleasure as the orc's length slid over that sensitive clutch of nerves inside of him. Harder, harder, harder the orc slammed into him, it fucked him without care for feeling or pleasure and how hideously grateful he was when at last he felt it spend itself inside of him, when at last it withdrew from him.

Lewd and weeping and open the company left him splayed, shudders racked through his chest as for a while they simply savoured him; rough hands groped over his nipples, clawed fingers teased and scraped up his length left lolling across his belly and how fervently he hated it, he squeaked and bleated behind the gag in what small protest he could muster as they tormented him, mocked him, as muscles torn open and left unable to close drooled violence and seed to the floor below. And what horrible breath hitched in his throat as yet another orc stepped between his legs, it felt like a hammer swung deep into his guts as far, far too viciously it entered him; he groaned and sobbed with the hurt of it as too roughly it pushed into tender flesh, as too hard it grabbed him by the hips, as remorselessly it drilled its length into his bowels. He twisted and plead in guttural little intakes of breath as nerves scraped raw shrieked out their discomfort, again and again and again the orc slammed into him, pain ripped up from his stomach and suddenly something inside of him seemed to shatter.

It was almost like peace; rocking, bloated peace; it was almost like the oblivion that he craved, almost, almost. For somehow he could and he could not feel; nerves shrieked numb, muscle split dumb and drooling and he was present and he was absent, left naked and reeling amid the atrocity that engulfed him. He was and he was not; abused, abuser, victim, perpetrator, innocent, murderer; pain thudded through his guts and he was everything and he was nothing, he was everything nothing something that they said that he was; they took and they took and they took until there was nothing left of himself, there was nothing left but himself, only frightened images of what they wanted him to be and he became them, he became them; an orc rutted into him in gruelling gasps of anguish and at the end of everything he abandoned himself to their fury. Slave, whore, empty, weak; he was, he was, he howled it through fëa and bone, he bled it into Angband's insatiable stones; weakly, whorishly he moaned as yet another orc gorged itself with his body, empty was his heart as he spread his legs, he was nothing but a slave, he knew it and he mourned it and angry, hurting tears trickled down his cheeks as still he could not be empty enough.

"Maybe we should pierce him, eh," a voice chuckled, "get a pretty ring through his cock, make him hard, hard for us, always." Flesh parted bleeding, glistening flesh and they were talking about him, he thought, motion rocked nausea through his stomach or he thought that he thought, or maybe he dreamed it, hands gripped into thighs left sticky with fluid as something fucked into him, "would you like that, slave?" Pain spiralled up through his belly and helplessly he gasped, they were talking about him, and he should care, he should care, it was so hard to care, "oh, I think that 'e would," it was so much easier to drift away, to pretend, to fade, to crawl, pain rippled through his hips, red dripped from him open and ruined and drop by drop by shameful drop it fell, it pooled, it scabbed. "What a filthy little whore," fingers slid into him and numbly he lay, silently he sobbed and in splintered, sticky time he just wished that it would be over, he just wished that he could end. "That's disgusting" a voice sneered, "I'm not gonna fuck that, he's bleeding too much" and yet how the air came smashing out of his lungs as another orc thrust into him, pain erupted through his stomach once more and tremors quaked through exhausted muscle and weak, they sneered, weak, weak weak weak he was so fucking weak, he closed his eyes as his body was opened, gutted; he closed his eyes in sorrow and just begged for it to end.

Faint, limp, he stirred in reeking, squelching agony, the room blurred before him as hours minutes days later or before or some hateful time in this timeless place his bonds were cut, and lifelessly he crumpled to the floor. Fluid slicked between his thighs, breath shuddered into his lungs and how he loathed it, he scarcely had the strength to whimper in his squalor as chains engulfed his wrists, as to the table he was tethered and left there to decay. The hours swum, pain corroded, he seeped his shame to the merciless stones and there was nothing but rot in his heart, rancour in his blood; he slumped against the bench as pain radiated up from his belly, he shivered and shivered and shivered as bleary, aching shock numbed him, and on its bitter tides he was washed away.

To his cell at last some loathsome orc took him, he could scarcely bear his own weight upon his hips as it forced him to limp in its wake, with each excruciating step blood dripped to the stones behind him and how weak he was, how stupid, how empty; how he wished that he could just expire, to just flow away into nothingness, into peace. With every drop of himself left splayed across Angband's stones, every piece of him stolen and abused and wiped away how he craved it, he plead for it, but as the stones of his cell enveloped him once more into their embrace how cruel they were in their silence.

They would not let him end, they would not let him go; again and again he pushed at them, with mania shaped of pain he slammed his hands against them until his flesh swelled with trauma, until it felt like bones might break, he hurt and he hurt and they would not let him go, the chain and the stones anchored him in a world of solitude and of silence, and with all of his heart he wished to know it no more.

For what was time but a bloated, foetid thing; it scraped him thin and listlessly he endured it. For in the gruelling days that fell before him what games they would play; games with bodies, games with knives, running games, chasing games, hunting games, and he was always the prey, always the prize, the thing to be won and conquered and broken, it was always him, always, always, always. Every touch was an endurance, every whip-mark cloven into his skin an atrocity, every aching push of flesh into yielding, broken flesh a disgrace; they gouged all dignity from him in gratuitous, ugly violence until there was nothing left but pain.

No longer would he struggle if they came to him, if they set him to labour or to sport, no longer would he fight if they touched him, bruised him, split him apart; it would all be in vain, it would just make it worse, so emptily he carried on, a hollow, drifting thing amid all of Angband's hate.

There was nothing but exhaustion in his limbs as upon a time an armoured uruk collected him from his cell, up through the fortress it led him and numbly he wandered in its wake. It was as trudging through some vague, ephemeral haunting; a great scabbed weal groped down his inner thigh and with his every dull footstep it splintered, it cracked to reveal raw flesh below, but mute to its hurt he limped slowly onwards. For the louring walls of Angband held little emotion for him now, there was only their endless watchful malevolence, and he knew them, down to the bone he knew them, and as one accustomed to their oppression he walked blankly, resigned to their malice.

Within their evil cradling they nursed him, they coddled him, and as a caterpillar swaddled by a corrupt chrysalis they metamorphosed him into something else; murderer, usurper, kinslayer, slave; he was everything that they said that he was, more than anything else on this earth he knew that now, he knew what he was, and for it he suffered. Maudlin thoughts clouded his mind as onwards he was led, the brand upon his chest throbbed in tiny, familiar spasms of pain, but he shrugged its discomfort away. What was it to him now mutilated with scars, scored with ugly, raised wheals of nerveless flesh that only etched him with what he was; worthless, helpless, nothing, you are nothing, they clove him apart and they stitched him together and below their grip he crumbled away.

Yet paralysing was the ache within his chest as still the brand pulsed upon it, and as he was pulled into a wide, richly-furnished workroom he staggered as a blinding flash of pain seared through him. With the manic focus of a drunkard he stared into the room, the uruk once leading him gently now dragged him forwards by the arm as his sight fixed upon the two creatures in Angband who yet wielded terror, and before them he sunk to his knees in fear.

For cold and restless was the lieutenant as he stood beside his master, his face was grave and his shoulders stiff, and as the Moringotto turned to the flickering fireplace set into the rear of the room the flames burned low amongst the coals, they hunkered down as the lord's wrath passed over them. Heedless was Maedhros of the terse words that passed between lieutenant and lord then, he cared not for their meaning as such abject terror quaked through him, and upon his knees he swayed in gaping, insensate dismay as before him his captors spoke.

"Great hosts march upon distant shores," the Moringotto mused, and dark were his eyes as he stared into the shrivelling flames. "The Helcaraxë groans with the weight of them; you should be deaf not to hear it. The tramp of their feet splinters ice, and the news of their passing howls with fell voice upon the wind."

"But know you their numbers, my lord," the lieutenant asked softly, urgently. "Glean you their purpose in such travel?"

"To that my sight is clouded, by the treachery of Doom." Ponderously then the Moringotto sighed, and menace thickened in the static air as to Maedhros then he turned. "Yet here kneels he who Doom defies."

"There is nothing left of him, my lord," the lieutenant sighed, and exasperation curled the edge of his lips. "Look not to him for answers."

The Moringotto's gaze upon Maedhros' bowed shoulders was unbearable; the Silmarils blazed down upon him and how they drenched him in his sins, they blistered upon his skin as there he trembled, and a look of such revulsion curled the Moringotto's features that the uruk who held him captive hastily retreated towards the door.

"You, wretch," the Moringotto breathed; and in his voice there was terror; power and tyranny and rage, such deep, unfathomable rage that before it Maedhros quailed. "What plans have your brothers laid? What vengeance is this that they have wrought, what do they plot with your filthy kindred abroad?"

"My... my kindred..." Maedhros gasped; the words lurched over his lips and how foreign they sounded, how alien, he could scarcely breathe for the pain that radiated through his chest, that seemed to throttle the air from his lungs. But the lord must be mistaken, he thought in his horror, he must be mistaken, he didn't have any kindred, he didn't have anyone, they had taken them all away, and -

"What foul plans have you hatched?" the Moringotto demanded; his eyes burned like wrathful coals and from them Maedhros flinched. "What means this treachery?"

"T-treachery...?" Helpless tears prickled in his eyes; pain seethed through his chest and he didn't know what the lords wanted, he didn't know what had happened, he didn't know; his mouth opened in some half-formed protestation of innocence but somehow even that effort proved a struggle. The words snared with barbs into his throat and there they hooked, wide-eyed and mute he stared at the Moringotto, and he could not find it in himself to reply.

Agony erupted in his stomach like an axe cloven through his innards and with it he convulsed; a wild, scraping breath whooped out of his lungs and desperately he clung to himself, his fingers pressed white into his stomach as bile shuddered up his throat, as something in him suddenly unlocked and piteously he wailed, "I don't know!"

Black disdain marred the Moringotto's features, the Silmarils glimmered down upon him and in their sacred, condemning light he sobbed; harsh, racking breaths scraped into his lungs as he gasped, "I don't... I don't know, my lord... I... I t-told you already..."

Desperately, wildly he looked to the lieutenant, he looked to the sole being in Angband who had ever once shown him clemency and how he begged for a reprieve once more, one small scrap of favour to yet ease this hurt. But grim was the lieutenant's face as he stood beside his lord, and at it Maedhros' blood ran cold.

"I d-don't know..." he sobbed, hysterically he spluttered, "I t-told you everything, I - "

The impact of the Moringotto's boot slammed into his ribs shook the words from his lips; in a great hissing cough he crumpled, he fell, he slammed down upon the stones and there he lay, and above him the lords' eyes were pitiless.

"Get this miserable cur out of my sight," the Moringotto snarled; boiling puissance hurled through the air and at it the lieutenant's eyes flared wide, though with what fey emotion Maedhros did not have the heart to fathom. "Take him, and put him somewhere that I will never have to see his wretched face again."

With that fatal pronouncement left ringing about the walls the Moringotto stormed from the room, and grievously Maedhros shied away from the lord's passage. He simply huddled into himself as for a moment the lieutenant stood, as solemn eyes regarded him, before the Maia strode forwards and took up a firm hold upon the leash that dangled from is collar. With a sharp tug the lieutenant drew him upwards and pulled him towards the door, and mutely Maedhros followed in his wake. The aftershocks of pain thrummed through him in numbing little waves, and hurriedly he limped in the lieutenant's shadow as onwards and up through the fortress they strode, into strange, unfamiliar corridors full of shadows and leering, macabre statues.

The wound between his thighs puckered and itched with his stride as he struggled to keep pace with the lieutenant, but how swiftly his efforts exhausted him; shock and stress flowed like lead in his veins and as they marched a relentless pace up through the fortress truly then he began to lag. Yet haughty was the lieutenant's bearing, stiff and terse was his pace beyond anything that Maedhros had known before, and at that he grew afraid. For at a barred door set into a high turret of the fortress the lieutenant halted him; puissance crackled through the air and at the Maia's sharp word of power the lock fell away, and as the door swung open upon its hinges Maedhros froze in terror.

For beyond it lay space; air and sky and looming mountains towered up above him and how they frightened him, they were so huge, they were wrong, they reeled open in their endless width and he could but gulp in fear as the lieutenant tugged him through the doorway.

A buffet of icy wind tore at him, the howl of it sliced through his thin tunic, it felt like blades pushed beneath his skin, and he gasped with the shock of it. Frost prickled across his face and hard he shuddered as his bare feet trod upon freezing rock; everything was so big, so bitter, so open, he felt so horribly exposed and as the lieutenant dragged him forwards how desperately he wished to go back, to go back to his cell and simply hide himself away, away from that empty, howling space and the cold that seeped through his bones.

For though his long captivity within Angband's walls had dulled him he was not yet senseless, he was not yet senile; this excursion was new, it was different and it was terrifying, and in his quivering footsteps doom stepped heavy as on into the raging wind the lieutenant pulled him. How his heart beat in his chest as by narrow, crumbling stairways they ascended into the mountains; he slipped and stumbled over frost-slick rocks yet readily the lieutenant held him up, with pressure placed upon his collar and a steadying hand grasped about his arm the lieutenant lifted him when he should falter, and unease squirmed in his belly to feel the biting tightness of his grip.

Yet as they walked on the cold numbed him, it ate him away, his teeth chattered so hard it felt that they might break as the chill gnawed at his flesh, it dampened what terror fired his blood and it made him docile, it deadened his thoughts and it made him stupid.

Across the lip of a treacherous ravine they edged and dumbly he stared down into its abyss, a sheer drop of hundreds of metres scraping down the mountainside and away into the air. Jump, some crazed compulsion within him urged, jump, jump, end, and yet he could not; near catatonic with the cold he reeled towards that empty lurch of air, he gaped at it, he craved it, but as the lieutenant yanked hard upon his collar obediently he staggered away.

Numb and exhausted he strayed where he was led, his head swum as onwards the lieutenant forced him, his eyes blurred with frost and tears as the wind carved through him, and helplessly he shivered when at last the lieutenant pulled him out onto a small promontory of rock jutting out from the mountain's cruel slope.

With glazed, unfocused eyes he slumped back against the stark cliff-side; his lips trembled with a bluish tinge as suddenly the lieutenant unclipped the leash from his collar and tucked it away amid his robes. And how he flinched with the shock of it as with a great surge of puissance the collar at his neck fell away; metal sheared and its weight was lifted from him, and all that he could do was tremble with fatigue as for a long moment the lieutenant looked down upon him.

What emotion played in those capricious eyes he could not discern, he did not ever want to discern as hard up against the wall the lieutenant pushed him, the Maia's boots crunched upon the shale as fingers like steel clamped about his right wrist, and effortlessly the lieutenant lifted his arm up above his head. It was only as something snapped shut about his wrist that he mustered himself from chilblained inertia; freezing iron bit into his flesh and it hurt so much to raise his head, his fingers shook numb as he flexed them within this new bond, as in slow, aching confusion he blinked.

It could not be real, he thought, the words rolled like congealing blood through his mind, thick and honeyed and poisonous. It could not be real, it could not be real, and yet it was; hard stones scraped into the ridged flesh of his back, bitter cold leached into his bones and no matter how he might twist he could not free his wrist, he jerked and scratched and keened like some pitiful animal caught in a hunter's snare until exhausted he fell limp. It could not be real, it was just a trick, surely; some horrible game played out at his expense and how they would laugh at him, how their mirth would flay him alive and how much he would deserve it, he nodded and smiled and performed just like the good, obedient slave that he was, and it was only a game, it was only a game, but at the sober expression that clouded the lieutenant's face his heart crumbled to ash within his chest.

The wind howled in the gulf between them. It seemed like fathoms; his breath billowed in frantic little gasps before him, it scattered amid the hate in the mountains, the hate in the stones, the hate in cells and chains and whips and blood, and the grave expression in the lieutenant's eyes clove him in two.

It was different this time, it was different, it wasn't a game and how viscerally he knew it; tears tracked silently down his tears as against the shale he cowered, his arm crooked awkwardly above his head and he shivered so hard that he ached with the force of it.

It took so much strength to lift his face, to gather his breath, to stop his chin from crinkling as hoarsely, helplessly he croaked, "Please, my lord..."

A wince crossed the lieutenant's face, only for a moment, just for one small moment he looked as though he were about to speak; his shoulders rose in the anticipation of movement, but then he stood still. Snow eddied about his boots, it ruffled through his hair, and so kind was his voice when at last it came, so soft, so bitterly cruel as he said, "No."

And in that final, gutting moment all that Maedhros could do was weep as away from him the lieutenant walked. He crumpled back against the remorseless shale as grief settled like a leaden weight in his stomach; his breath burned in his throat as helplessly he sobbed, cold numbed the strength from his limbs as frantically, hopelessly he tugged against the band of iron that grasped him, he twisted within it until down to the bone he bore bruises, and oh what a shriek tore from his lungs as the promontory beneath him collapsed.

Agony seared through his arm and shoulder; something tore, something popped, in a scrabble of rock and shocked, shaking limbs how weakly he sought to right himself; a hideous lurch of the fall and then a stop, a scream, and pain. Pain burned beneath the band caught tight about his wrist as below it he hung with the full weight of his body, and the force of the wind slammed his back into the cliff-side. Desperately he fought to breathe, air burst in hysterical little pants through his lungs, tears clotted in his throat as the shock of that impact stunned him, and like a broken, crippled thing it left him there spinning out above oblivion.

To suffer, to suffer; pain coursed through him and he could but close his eyes to meet it. Exhaustion and stress stole what tiny strength was left in his blood and dashed it against the mountainside to die. Silent tears blistered on his cheeks; harsh, struggling breaths clove through his lungs, and as far above him the churning clouds parted to reveal the glimmering stars beyond they illumined him only in hate.

The hate in the stones, the hate in his body; the abuses of flesh and the cruelty of wills, the arrogance of words and the abhorrence of deeds, agony gouged burning and bright through wetted eyes as he closed his heart to the world. All of these things, all of the things that he had done, all of the things that were done to him; they took and they took and they spewed out ruin in their wake, they mangled him until there was nothing left that he knew of himself, and as he hung in misery amid that abyssal gulf of air, this evil he hated the most.

All of these things, all of these ugly things, he had endured them and he was become them, and below them there was nothing but grief.

It's been a long, hard road, but here we are at the end. And if you've made it this far, then I just want to say thank you for your efforts and all of your support along the way - whether by comment or kudos or conversation, this fic would not have been written without you, so thank you very much. And I sincerely hope that you have enjoyed all of the effort that I have poured out into this story. It was challenging to write - it deals with horrible themes and the darkest depths of nature, but somehow also it was worthwhile to write it, for me at least. It was an exploration of those dark things, a dissection of their tragedy, and it was a story that didn't have to have a happy ending. Somehow, that was quite liberating to write.

Anyway, I digress. For you, dear reader, I only hope that you have found something in this story that might resonate with you, or that brought you enough compulsion to keep on reading even when the times got tough. If you wish to dive further into my various thoughts and stories about Maedhros then I would suggest you have a glance at my older fic, Open Wounds, which deals with Maedhros' recovery after his rescue from the Thangorodrim. It was written a few years prior to An Evil Cradling, but my headcanons have changed little since then, and you may find that the narrative threads hold strong even through the time between them!

And otherwise, if you have questions, comments, concerns, or just incoherent yelling about this fic then please please get in touch! My main lair of evil is at ask, where I will be delighted to hear from you :)

So for now I fear that it is farewell. I don't really have any writing plans immediately (suggestions are always welcome!) but though I say goodbye for now it shall not be the end of me.

Yours sincerely, theeventualwinner