Chapter Text
Matimo tries not to stare too long at the darkness.
It is a lingering, malicious presence, all watching, all knowing, and always in motion.
He looks down at Makalaurë instead, whose pale face is partially hidden beneath his dark, dark hair, pure black in this place, devouring him.
Maitimo strokes it back, and Makalaure whimpers, curling further into his chest.
“Is he awake?” Tyelko’s voice whispers from the opposite side of the room, a hesitant, weary breath that carries over whatever lies in the obscurity between them.
Maitimo keeps himself from looking over. It is too dark to see that far. “No,” he says, “just stirring a bit.” He wills his voice to stay light and unfazed, as if they aren’t in place, as if Makalaurë isn’t half-dead in his arms, and Grandfather's blood isn't spilt in dark red pools over the floor back home.
As if they aren’t all going to die here in the shadows and whispers of doom.
“Maitimo, it’s so dark,” one of the Ambarussa moans. His voice is so faint, so tiny under the burdensome darkness.
Maitimo stiffens, feeling those silent, inky forms slither past his neck and over his arms.
It shouldn't be spoken of. It knows, it hears all .
They must keep quiet.
He opens his mouth to say so, but the words cling against his tongue and won't come out.
“I’m so scared.”
“Shh, Pityo,” Moryo sooths, voice too gentle for a place like this. “We’ll be okay. Hold onto Telvo. Don’t let go of each other.”
“I wish they hadn’t hurt poor Káno.”
Maitimo closes his eyes, trying to forget the tune of Makalaurë's song, the one he had been singing to comfort them all, before the darkness lashed out, twisting song into screams and leaving dreadful silence after, a bloodied, startled stillness.
He clenches a fist by his side. It does nothing here, unseen under heavy, lurking shadow.
The enemies surrounding them cannot be fought by mere flesh and bone.
"Curse this place," Curufinwë growls through his teeth.
"This place is already cursed," Maitimo replies.
***
A cruel light oppresses the chamber, blindingly bright, a sudden, blaring assault to the senses.
Their eyes sting, their skin crawls.
And the monster enters, a beast of living stone and liquid fire, a terror beyond whatever they expected.
The cell erupts into a chaos of fear, laughter, and heat.
Maitimo shrinks back against the wall, pulling Makalaurë tight to his chest. He can only hope his brothers have done the same.
Flames lick at his cheek, black magic clings to his frame, a thousand invisible fingers all clawing at his body.
Someone screams, but Maitimo can't see beyond the Thing that stands fixed in the middle of the room.
Its great eyes survey the four walls and the occupants, and finally come to rest on Maitimo. It grins, foul black lips pulled back to show teeth of hot metal.
"Brave sons of Fëanáro Curufinwë," it says in a voice that grinds like rock against rock and crackles like a forest set aflame. "We welcome you."