Title: A Gilded Cage
Author: Tuxedo Elf
Rating: PG13/R for descriptions of torture
Summary: Freed from Angband but horribly mutilated, Rúmil finds himself alone in Tirion.
Beta: Eni
Notes: While Rúmil of Tirion himself belongs to Tolkien this particular version was created by Dawn Felagund for her story ‘Another Man’s Cage.’ His tragic past touched me and she kindly agreed to lend him to me so that I might get to know him better! He is very AU, as canon said Rúmil knew all the languages of birds and beasts and this one… well, if you’ve read AMC you know already and if you haven’t, you’ll see! (You don't *have* to have read AMC to understand this though.)

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No sound enters my world, or leaves it. Long has it been so, since Melkor held me in thrall, deep in the depths of Angband. There he visited torments on me so dreadful, so vile that I fear to think of them even now, lest my strength fail me in the recalling. Yet think of them I do and frequently so, for I find it impossible to cast them from my mind.

The scars and mutilations I bear are the price of defiance. My voice once echoed through those dark tunnels, bringing hope to others like me – unlucky Elves who had become ensnared by Melkor and were now paying the price for a moment of carelessness.

The dark, dank dungeons had become our unwilling home and for countless hours each day we laboured in the filth, hindered by the chains that bound us and the guards that beat us on a whim. Despair was almost a physical thing it was so strong, and more than one Elf gave up before my eyes, slipping into Mandos’ welcome embrace.

I knew, even before I started to sing, that my actions would come with a price. Yet I sang anyway, for I could not bear the weight of that terrible place on my spirit. Melkor despised my song and had me whipped, beaten and tortured. When that did not stop me he had his servants cut off my ears and dig their knives into the flesh beneath, destroying it completely and turning my world forever silent. I remember screaming at the pain, screams that became the last sound I ever heard.

Yet by then my song had become my strength and the strength of others and even though I could not hear it, my heart still lifted when I sang. In my heart, though, I knew Melkor would try to silence me again. Still, to know is not to lessen the pain and sometimes in my nightmares I still feel the cut of the cold blade as my tongue was sliced from my mouth and taste the bitter tang of my own blood.

Had I stopped then perhaps I would have spared myself further torment. However, my body was already scarred and mutilated beyond healing and I felt I had little left to lose. I had fought for so long that my spirit would not let me rest, nor did I want it to – and so my voice rose again in wordless melody. Let Melkor know that he would never break me, that torments of the body would never reach my spirit.

When I was dragged before him again and what would be for the last time I held my head high and met his gaze evenly. I cared not that I could not hear his words, nor that my heart was pounding in my chest as my fear grew, fear that I was determined not to show. I did not quail when they seized me, forced my mouth open and poured a vile liquid down my throat. But I could not stop my screams as it burned my voice away completely and in my mind I thought I heard the satisfied laughter of the Dark Lord as my last means of defying him left me.

From that day I could no longer give hope to my people and the Dark One’s work continued unhindered. All I could do now was to survive and to that end my battle was fought within myself – never letting despair take hold and holding on to the belief that this would not, could not, last forever.

It did not and after countless years the Valar at last answered our prayers, attacking the evil fortress and laying waste to it. Many Elves died in that assault but I do not grieve for them – they are free of their pain and will one day return to life. It is for those of us that survived that prayers were needed – we had a long way to go before we could heal and some of us never would.

Once I was fit to travel I was taken away and brought before the Valar. They offered me a place with them – a place of honour for all that I had tried to do. I accepted, thinking it best to be amongst those who could see my thoughts and so understand me, but when I arrived in Aman I realised that it could not be.

My disfigurement frightened many – unsurprising as our people are created flawless and are unaccustomed to anything else. I tried to be as unobtrusive as I could but it was impossible. My inability to speak and so to communicate drew too much attention, almost as much as my scarred and mutilated body.

Though deaf and mute I was not blind and could easily see the fear and revulsion on the faces of those I passed. Children threw pebbles at me and called me cruel names that I understood more and more as I learned to read lips. The adults were not always kind either and the words cut deep into my heart at the pain and upheaval I was causing. I knew what I was – a living memory of a time rather forgotten.

At last I could bear it no longer, for it was unfair to all. I rode into the woods and found a secluded spot where I could be alone. Over several days I transported the stone I would need to build a cottage to my chosen location. It would not be large, but it was enough for one Elf. Once I had what I required I gathered my few belongings and set to work. The building was easy enough - long years in Angband had taught me how to craft stone and my work went swiftly. Before long my new home was complete and it was with great relief that I shut myself away from the world I hurt.

From that day on I lived in solitude. There were rare occasions when I had to venture into the town for supplies but I made my visits swift and saw only those I could not avoid. Few visited me, for what was the point of visiting one with whom you could not have a conversation? Those who did visit did not stay long and for their sake I clothed myself in concealing garments and stayed in the shadows so that they would not have to look at me. It was never comfortable and a relief for both of us when the visit came to an end.

The only truly welcome company I had was that of the birds and beasts that lived in the woods – they did not fear me and I found joy in observing their lives. So much time did I spend with them that I began to understand their world and though I could not respond, the simple activities of their everyday lives provided me with a contentment my life had long been lacking and distracted me from my thoughts and memories.

Often my thoughts drift to the time before my capture, when I had wandered the shores of Cuiviénen with my wife, carefree and in love. I never found out what became of her. Not a day goes past when I do not pray that she escaped my fate and lives in peace either in the Hither Lands or in Valinor. Sometimes it grieves me that she did not seek me out, other times I am glad she does not see the pitiful creature I have become. Perhaps she deserves pity too, for she is eternally bound to one she might never find again and who could never treat her as she deserved if she did.

I have a small garden that I tend daily, but I often spend many hours just sitting in my cottage. It is in these times that my spirit screams for lack of activity and the years ahead seem unbearable before they have even arrived.

Today is one such day and I sit motionless in a wooden armchair, watching the birds as they busy themselves with nest building. It is spring and they are too taken with mating to have much time for one weary Elf. My gaze travels round the stone walls that are both my home and my prison, taking in every imperfection in the rock and noting the minute differences in the shade of each piece. At last my gaze comes to rest on my one indulgence, the only non-functional item I own. It is a painting of Cuiviénen, of the clear waters and green grasses and Elves, free and happy amongst them. It brings a smile to my face and I allow the world around me to fade as I lose myself in the picture.

It is as the pictures draw me in that a realisation strikes me. What I see is not water and grass, yet I know that is what it represents. Easy to tell that the slender figures are Elves and that the pale green lines are fresh grass. The pictures are representations of reality and we recognise them as such. My heart races in my chest as my stream of thought continues, taking a new turn. Could words also be represented by pictures? Could spoken words take on a visual form, so that speech itself would not always be needed? Pictures for words would, of course, have to be created but already I can see graceful characters dancing in my mind, pictures of words, names, places and more.

In that instant it feels as though my life has been returned to me, that I have a purpose again. This can work… words can be made visual and as such the mute can find a way to speak. A long task it may be, but I have the whole life of Arda should I need it. Still, I feel the urge to start as soon as I can and so I hesitate only long enough to gather the things I will need for the day-long journey into town.

I walk tirelessly – I need little rest and my desire to start work drives me further. Night does not deter me and by morning I have reached the borders of the town. For once I pay no heed to the glances that are cast my way – my mind is elsewhere and for the first time since the shadow took me, I feel truly alive.

My mind is already at work, thinking of how I will create these picture-words; how many symbols will I need? Then of course there is the question of how to teach others… perhaps the Valar will aid me in that.

Swiftly I find the shop where the artists buy their supplies and purchase several reams of parchment, along with ink and brushes. I am surprised when the shopkeeper smiles at me, unaware of how happy I look at that moment. Yet I smile back as I gather the bundle, already eager for the return journey. Still, I stop to gather a few other supplies first; it will save another trip later on.

Yet the lights have not even reached their peak before I am on my way back, my precious bundle held tightly as I make my way home. I stop for nothing and my battered body obeys the wish of my mind to keep going, despite the aches and pains caused by my neglect of my body’s needs over what has been nearly two days. Still it is of little consequence: when I am home my body can recover while my mind works.

When at last I see my cottage again my heart leaps and had I been able I would have shouted in joy. I doubt anyone could understand my excitement over this project but in time, if all went well, they would.

As soon as I am inside I pause only to see to my body’s most urgent needs before sitting down at the table and unrolling the first sheet of parchment. Where to start? There are pictures whirling round my head, but they need order, structure. Each sound will need a symbol to represent it and they must be simple enough so that words with long sounds will not be cumbersome. I need a point to start with, a point from which all the rest can grow.

Then I smile, for it is obvious where I should start. I dip the brush into the ink and lower it towards the parchment, graceful lines already coming to mind. I will start with my name.

THE END