Mellow Soulmate AU and Hobbit crossover. There's a reason no one goes down to the shore. Think of this as part of the same side-story as "Broken", where Thorin is negotiating with Maedhros. That's how their lives intersect. If this exteme AU bugs you, this story ain't for you.
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the characters.
Pairings: none
Characters: Thorin, Maglor, Maedhros (Fíli, Kíli, Thrór and Mahal (Aulë or The Maker) mentioned)
Warning: extreme AU, the stubbornness of dwarves, elves being elves, semi-explicit blood and violence, allusion to murder and mental illness, premonition
Song: Water Night
Words: 1,602
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experience (noun): practical knowledge, skill, or practice derived from direct observation of or participation in events or in a particular activity; something personally encountered, undergone or lived through
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/experience
"Believe me, Master Dwarf, the shores are better left undisturbed, un-experienced. None who venture there return unchanged."
No further explanation had been given for why the shores of Himring were to go untouched and not traversed. Curiosity and no small amount of suspicion, however, had led the dwarrow to go exactly where he had been instructed to avoid.
At first, he did not understand the words Lord Maedhros had spoken, for the shores seemed peaceful. The moon was at his full height, silver against the gentle waves foaming up upon the beach. Except for the breath and movement of the sea, there was not a sound to disturb the silence heavy in the air, augmented by the gleaming stars watching the world from above.
And then he heard it.
Deep and rolling across the land, across his flesh, was a voice. Were he to name it, Thorin would not call it an elven trill, but neither of any timbre he could recognize. It was smoother than a dwarven voice, rich and honeyed, but certainly not the voice of a man either. If he had to put a name to it, Thorin might have claimed it was the voice of Mahal shaking the earth to its foundations, vibrating down to its core, powerful enough to move mountains and spill oceans.
Certainly, as it rushed through and around him, embracing him in its soft syllables, it shook Thorin to his foundations. More ancient than all the land and the sky, so soft and yet carrying for what could have been miles in all direction, flowing over the land like the wind. How such a sound could belong to a mortal creature, the dwarrow could not imagine. He was not much of a man for beauty of the voice, but none could deny this voice its dues.
Helplessly, the dwarrow felt his eyes fluttering shut, and he did not see the dark-haired figure slowly walking up the beach, dark hair whipping away from his face as his bare feet left faint prints to be smeared by the gentle waves.
No, Thorin saw nothing of it. Melody consumed him, enveloped him in a reality tangible enough to breathe into his lungs and fill his spirit. Yet even as he did, the sorrow, the sheer regret of the lamentation rising over the world engulfed him, poured the woes of the voice into him and filled him up to overflowing, until he wanted to throw himself down and cover his ears, to weep, to make it cease but never let it end.
Upon the back of his eyelids, the colors began to morph and merge like a living thing, a vision writhing its way into his mind. A vision of terrified faces and contorted bodies and bloody hands. A vision of the downfall of arrogance and greed, a familiar glowing jewel that seared into flesh down to the bone. A vision of vanishing beloved faces and nothing left but dark emptiness. And if those faces were young and familiar, dark and golden together, he did not allow himself to further recognize them lest he lose himself in their empty, dead eyes.
Despair fell over the dwarrow, pulling him down into earth and shadows and chaining him there, apart from the world. Thorin could not remember his own name in that moment, or that the peaceful shore was just before his eyes should he choose to open them.
The melody wove into reality and burned it, twisting it into blood and death and pain beyond imagining. Loneliness beyond imagining.
Just when he thought it would shatter him completely, the sound ceased. Silence laid heavy over his body and soul, broken again only by the breath and movement of the sea upon the shore. Gasping, he came heavily from the trance, eyes snapping open and staring into the purest mithril.
"You should not have come here, Master Dwarf," the strange elf said to him in that voice. Just hearing it speak the Common Tongue made him shudder in remembrance and shameful terror. The flash of blood-streaked walls and empty, cold chambers in his mind's eye left him colder than the wind off the water ever could.
"Who... what... are you?" Thorin rasped, rooted to the spot, unable to move but too prideful to stand in horrified awe at the creature before him.
Dark hair tangled by the wind whipped around the tall figure whose face and form brought to mind the sharp angles of Lord Maedhros' dour face. Only the eyes were not cold and stern. They were open and filled, gleaming as if in tears, but no tears fell. Those eyes on him cut deeper than bone and laid him bare.
The strange elf inclined his head, staring down at the dwarrow. "What did you see, Master Dwarf?"
He wanted to tell the other that it was none of his damn business, but the words would not come. Instead... "Emptiness. Loneliness."
Humming, the stranger nodded and looked out over the sea. "You should take care not to let history repeat itself, Master Dwarf. The shadow of silent halls and empty gold lies upon your fëa. And a glowing stone." Thorin looked up sharply but said nothing. "Surely there are things you value more than lifeless trinkets."
Rage burst in his chest. How dare that elf? "You know nothing of it!" he snarled. This elf would dare defile the memory of his home and mock the glory of the treasures of the House of Durin! "Nothing of it!"
Unintimidated, the elf smiled the saddest smile Thorin had ever seen. "Oh, but I do, Master Dwarf," the voice said, and within it reverberated that otherworldliness, like something kindled of divine Flame. "When the choice is upon you, will you let your greed overshadow the true gifts The Maker has given unto you? Or will you embrace that which truly matters?"
Sputtering, Thorin absolutely refused to let himself be swayed. What on earth did the elf expect him to value above his home and the safety of his people? Above the Arkenstone? "Truly matters? Of course my home matters!"
"Your home," the elf murmured thoughtfully. "What would you give to have it back, Master Dwarf?"
"Anything," he growled. "I would give anything to have back what is rightfully mine, to return my people to their rightful home and glory!"
Something in those eyes was both pitying and mocking, and it infuriated the dwarrow. "Dangerous words, you speak, Master Dwarf." The elf shook his head and turned away. "I hope the cold light of the Heart of the Mountain and the golden glow of lifeless treasure please your soul. But you should know that they do nothing to quell loneliness or emptiness."
How the elf knew so much, how he seemed to see right through Thorin, it was disturbing. He was all too grateful to be out of the sight of those deep eyes, endless stars that glowed in the night. "You know nothing of it," he repeated hoarsely.
"Maybe not," the stranger whispered as he walked away, seemingly uninterested in carrying on their argument. "I do wonder, though," he said, pausing for just a moment, "if you know the meaning of the word anything."
"Of course I do," Thorin snarled. "There is nothing I possess that I value enough that I would not sacrifice it for my home and my people, my birthright!"
"So be it, then." The smile was back, sad and cold and somehow darker, as if something of devious fate lurked beneath the pale exterior. "I do believe your determination with win you your mountain back one day, Master Dwarf. Maybe then you will understand that such oaths should not be spoken lightly in the heat of passion."
And then he was gone like the wind, vanished into the darkness. Thorin could hear nothing but the sea and was in the company only of the blanket of the sky and her twinkling stars.
It was true. He would have given anything to have Erebor once more, and maybe not for such fantastical and admirable reasons as he would have others know. But nevertheless, he could not let it go. Erebor was as much a part of him as his arms and legs, and to be away from it was like cutting a chunk of his body away, leaving something vital missing.
Still as he stood rooted to the spot, a touch of premonition and the memory of haunting words rung in his mind, echoing into the darkness and emptiness that he feared with all his soul, the secret part of him that fed upon his obsession to madness, the part of him that was every bit as sick as Thrór had been. It welled before him like a great chasm, an abyss hungry and ready to devour him whole, take away everything that made up who he was and leave a greedy, diseased shell behind.
How naught but that voice could bring him to this...
Yes, the shores were meant to remain unexperienced for a reason. He did not think he could ever calm the vibrations that voice had left through his very being, nor could he wash away the feeling of dread that welled in his chest.
Touching something from beyond the edges of the world was an experience that left one raw and exposed. It was painful and dangerous. It changed you.
It haunted your dreams. And your nightmares.
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Allusions to future events. Don't you just love them?
Don't even know where this came from. It just had to be Thorin's POV though. It wouldn't be half as fun if it was someone who knew about Maglor already. In any case, I thought the parallels between The Hobbit and the story of the House of Fëanor are rather striking in some ways, though not exact mirrors event-wise.
The music for this is Water Night by Eric Whitacre, the virtual choir version in particular, though all versions are beautiful. I think the words are important, but I've played the orchestral version before and it's also quite gorgeous. Awesome composer, just saying.
Anyway, since I actually have studying to get back to today (curse chemistry tests!), I shall be on my way.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Run
Mellow Soulmate AU I suppose. Is it okay to forget? Is it okay to run away? Love for ambiguous summaries <3! Surprisingly, Sindarin name used (because Ambarussa refers to both twins and I don't think Amras would refer to himself as Telvo, because that would just be weird considering the context). Takes place early Third Age. Introspection, but some doing, too.
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns Amras. I own his return to across Belegaer to Middle-earth.
Pairings: none
Characters: Amras (vague mention of others)
Warning: extreme AU, surprisingly nothing else really explicit or morally subjective
Song: This is Our Land
Words: 717
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run (verb): to go faster than a walk; specifically: to go steadily by springing steps so that both feet leave the ground for an instant in each step; to flee, retreat, escape
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/run
When he finally saw the land, Amras felt a lump forming in the back of his throat. It choked out any words he might have spoken had another been at his side, but it did not halt the deep breath that filled his lungs to bursting, filled him to the brim with everything he had been missing so terribly for so long.
Home. This was home.
Stretching out before him forever and ever, rolling green plains dotted with boulders and sparse trees as far as his eyes could see. The smell of the earth and the grass filled his senses, overflowing and mixing with the heat of Arien's rays upon his flesh and the sweet, pure wind whipping against his face and tangling his hair.
Amras, dressed in naught but simple clothing and a cloak, with only a bow and a satchel to his name, had never been happier.
Breathless, his green eyes soaked in the unfamiliar landscape ravenously. It wasn't Beleriand, but it felt right where the evergreen plains of Valinor had felt so wrong.
Long years in winding halls blanketed in writhing tapestries left him feeling closed in, trapped and locked into the past, into the tragedy that haunted his family's footsteps, a ghost of their selfish greed and arrogance. Escaping the Halls of the Waiting had not changed that.
Everything about Valinor felt wrong. Too cold, detached, too perfect. Sharp glances followed him wherever he went, scornful and judging. The city was too large, to busy. The buildings were too white and the mountains too tall, their peaks never changing, caging in the time-frozen Undying Lands from the real world. The grass never yellowed and winter never came. The golden fields never withered and were never reborn as the spring came and thawed away the ice and snow. It was too tame, and the memories too bitter. And no one could forget, for the people of Valinor lived in the past. They had no future.
There, Amras could never be content.
But this was different.
The Fëanorion threw away all the bitterness that twisted his heart and soured his tongue, threw away the resentment and the fear, the broken hopes and dreams. If he was running away from his problems, from the past, from his family or from all of them at once, who was there to know--to care--but he himself?
With a whoop of delight, he threw out his arms and let the wind embrace his body, nearly lifting him off his feet. And then he ran.
Ran across the empty space, his feet stumbling over unfamiliar rocks as he laughed, carrying him on eagle's wings through the air at the height of their leap so he felt as though he might never touch solid earth again. Faster and faster, until everything about him seemed but a blur, a mixture of pure sensation and ecstasy, empty of all thought and regret, but filled with so much promise that it nearly burst inside him.
Heart pounding in his ears. Feet barely touching the earth as he fled across the land, silent in movement and breath, but screaming out in spirit.
If he never stopped moving, Amras thought he would be content. If his feet carried him wherever he might go for the rest of his endless, long years, then he would find no bitterness in the traversing. If he never looked upon another face, never heard another word, never laid eyes upon another droplet of civilization, he thought he could pretend that the past was but a shadowy haze of a dream.
Darting past the trees, leaves caught and tangled in his crimson curls. Dirt and dust settled into his clothing and boots. Had anyone seen him as he twisted and turned, pirouetting through the sky like a wild creature, they would have thought him quite insane. Maybe he was. Maybe he was completely out of his right mind. Maybe he wanted to be that way. Maybe that was the key to his freedom.
Connected to the land, his feet carried him forth, completely leaving the earth again.
And he forgot.
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Short but oh, so sweet.
Amras has a special place in my heart, most especially because he's my character in our dA family. Technically you could say I am him in a weird sort of way. And I've never felt that he would linger in the past. Besides, these are the kind of feelings I get when I listen to the song I chose for today: This is Our Land by Epic Score. Gorgeous piece. It makes me feel like I'm flying, and the tender end made me cry once (or twice...).
Oh, and I have art of Amras (besides my icon, LOL). Young archer by ~Righon on dA. His (or her?) gallery has pictures like this of many members of the family, and they're all beautiful. Nonetheless, this is sort of how I imagine Amras, which is why it clicked with me.
Anyway, hope you enjoyed. I tried not to get too philosophical. I had meditation class with a Sri Lankan monk today (it was awesome and very educational mind you) so I'm kind of loopy at the moment.And I need sleep.
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns Amras. I own his return to across Belegaer to Middle-earth.
Pairings: none
Characters: Amras (vague mention of others)
Warning: extreme AU, surprisingly nothing else really explicit or morally subjective
Song: This is Our Land
Words: 717
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
run (verb): to go faster than a walk; specifically: to go steadily by springing steps so that both feet leave the ground for an instant in each step; to flee, retreat, escape
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/run
When he finally saw the land, Amras felt a lump forming in the back of his throat. It choked out any words he might have spoken had another been at his side, but it did not halt the deep breath that filled his lungs to bursting, filled him to the brim with everything he had been missing so terribly for so long.
Home. This was home.
Stretching out before him forever and ever, rolling green plains dotted with boulders and sparse trees as far as his eyes could see. The smell of the earth and the grass filled his senses, overflowing and mixing with the heat of Arien's rays upon his flesh and the sweet, pure wind whipping against his face and tangling his hair.
Amras, dressed in naught but simple clothing and a cloak, with only a bow and a satchel to his name, had never been happier.
Breathless, his green eyes soaked in the unfamiliar landscape ravenously. It wasn't Beleriand, but it felt right where the evergreen plains of Valinor had felt so wrong.
Long years in winding halls blanketed in writhing tapestries left him feeling closed in, trapped and locked into the past, into the tragedy that haunted his family's footsteps, a ghost of their selfish greed and arrogance. Escaping the Halls of the Waiting had not changed that.
Everything about Valinor felt wrong. Too cold, detached, too perfect. Sharp glances followed him wherever he went, scornful and judging. The city was too large, to busy. The buildings were too white and the mountains too tall, their peaks never changing, caging in the time-frozen Undying Lands from the real world. The grass never yellowed and winter never came. The golden fields never withered and were never reborn as the spring came and thawed away the ice and snow. It was too tame, and the memories too bitter. And no one could forget, for the people of Valinor lived in the past. They had no future.
There, Amras could never be content.
But this was different.
The Fëanorion threw away all the bitterness that twisted his heart and soured his tongue, threw away the resentment and the fear, the broken hopes and dreams. If he was running away from his problems, from the past, from his family or from all of them at once, who was there to know--to care--but he himself?
With a whoop of delight, he threw out his arms and let the wind embrace his body, nearly lifting him off his feet. And then he ran.
Ran across the empty space, his feet stumbling over unfamiliar rocks as he laughed, carrying him on eagle's wings through the air at the height of their leap so he felt as though he might never touch solid earth again. Faster and faster, until everything about him seemed but a blur, a mixture of pure sensation and ecstasy, empty of all thought and regret, but filled with so much promise that it nearly burst inside him.
Heart pounding in his ears. Feet barely touching the earth as he fled across the land, silent in movement and breath, but screaming out in spirit.
If he never stopped moving, Amras thought he would be content. If his feet carried him wherever he might go for the rest of his endless, long years, then he would find no bitterness in the traversing. If he never looked upon another face, never heard another word, never laid eyes upon another droplet of civilization, he thought he could pretend that the past was but a shadowy haze of a dream.
Darting past the trees, leaves caught and tangled in his crimson curls. Dirt and dust settled into his clothing and boots. Had anyone seen him as he twisted and turned, pirouetting through the sky like a wild creature, they would have thought him quite insane. Maybe he was. Maybe he was completely out of his right mind. Maybe he wanted to be that way. Maybe that was the key to his freedom.
Connected to the land, his feet carried him forth, completely leaving the earth again.
And he forgot.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Short but oh, so sweet.
Amras has a special place in my heart, most especially because he's my character in our dA family. Technically you could say I am him in a weird sort of way. And I've never felt that he would linger in the past. Besides, these are the kind of feelings I get when I listen to the song I chose for today: This is Our Land by Epic Score. Gorgeous piece. It makes me feel like I'm flying, and the tender end made me cry once (or twice...).
Oh, and I have art of Amras (besides my icon, LOL). Young archer by ~Righon on dA. His (or her?) gallery has pictures like this of many members of the family, and they're all beautiful. Nonetheless, this is sort of how I imagine Amras, which is why it clicked with me.
Anyway, hope you enjoyed. I tried not to get too philosophical. I had meditation class with a Sri Lankan monk today (it was awesome and very educational mind you) so I'm kind of loopy at the moment.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Affront
Canon-compliant. Fingon is not as virtuous as we would like to believe. And Turgon is (potentially justifiably) an ass. Quenya names used for all characters (Fingon = Findekáno, Turgon = Turukáno, Maedhros = Maitimo/Nelyafinwë, Fëanor = Fëanáro, Fingolfin = Nolofinwë (I chose not to bother with the squiggle above the N because I'm lazy--not the first time I've done that LOL), Caranthir = Carnistir). Turno is a fan-made brother-name for Turgon used by my dA family and is not legit Quenya, and Káno is similar, though he shares this brother-name with Maglor. Takes place at the beginning of the First Age (literally). Mostly introspective.
Side note: I'm going to make almost all "c"s in Quenya words "k"s to represent sound. Just know that all "c"s that show up make "k" sounds and not "s" sounds.
Disclaimer: Plot and characters belong to Tolkien; the theory about Fingon's motivation is all mine
Pairings: none (at least highlighted)
Characters: Fingon, Turgon, Maglor, Caranthir, Fingolfin (mentions Maedhros, Morgoth, Fëanor and Elenwë)
Warning: (not AU for once), insulting, semi-graphic violence, name-calling, reference to death and possible torture
Song: Black Parade
Words: 1,390
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affront (transitive verb): to insult especially to the face by behavior or language; to cause offense to
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/affront
Sometimes, Findekáno swore that his brother lived to make his life difficult.
Bad enough that their people were homeless and living in tents. Bad enough that their uncle and king was dead. Bad enough that the heir apparent was kidnapped and being held for ransom.
And if all that wasn't enough, Turukáno still had to go and put his foot in his mouth!
Frustrated, Findekáno resisted the urge to destroy something, to rip the tent apart with his bare hands, or maybe go out and hack a few trees down with his sword. Anything to rid himself of the fury that bubbled and boiled over in his veins.
On the one hand, he could understand his brother actions. Turukáno was merely hiding his devastation beneath a facade of malice and scorn, but it nevertheless irked Findekáno that his brother's chosen victim was not even here to defend himself. It was one thing to curse the name of Fëanáro. It was quite another to bring insult to Maitimo.
---
"Why have you not gone after him?" Findekáno choked out. "He may still... still be alive..." And still be suffering...
Makalaurë stood before them, looking older in his eyes than any elf Findekáno had ever met. The silver gaze pierced him down to the bone, further even, with sorrow and steely resolve. Never had his cousin looked less like himself, less like the gentle soul that loved singing sonnets in the gardens, sweet and innocent and pure as his deep, carrying voice.
"It had been decided many a year ago that Nelyafinwë was a lost cause," Makalaurë told him. "We could not give in to the Dark Lord's demands, nor had we the manpower to mount a rescue attempt. Besides, in all likelihood he is long dead and Morgoth dangles nothing but empty promises before our eyes, hoping to lure us into a trap."
The words were cold and even, so unlike his cousin.
"But surely--"
"We will do nothing," Makalaurë interrupted. "That is final."
It was then that Turukáno spoke, and his words made Findekáno's teeth draw blood from his lips in an effort not to scream at his brother. "The only decision you have made that I agree with. We need not waste our remaining warriors rescuing a traitor."
There was a heartbeat of silence. Two. And then Turukáno found himself thrown halfway across the room, the side of his face already blooming a muscle-deep red.
"How dare you, scum?" Carnistir, like a dark avenger, towered over them, glorious in his fury. Eyes like emerald stars blazed with a light so akin to his father's that Findekáno shivered in a mixture of terror and awe. The fourth brother, once bashful if a bit blunt, now stepped forward like a predator approaching its prey, his hands twitching into taut fists, lust for blood in his eyes. "You may speak however you will about our father, but you will never utter my brother's name again!"
Please, Turukáno, be silent. Please, be silent...
But it was not to be.
"And why should I withhold my judgment from Nelyafinwë? He claims friendship with my family, yet he left us all to suffer and die crossing over Helcaraxë! He claimed his just desserts!"
"You filthy rat!" It took Makalaurë and Nolofinwë to hold back Carnistir from throttling the foolhardy elf. Findekáno just lowered his head in shame. No matter how much he resented the fact that Maitimo had not miraculously convinced Fëanáro to return with the ships, he knew he could not truly blame his cousin, whose first thoughts had been for him upon reaching the far shores if Makalaurë was to be believed. But his brother...
Turukáno had reason to be bitter, to hate.
In the end, Carnistir had to be forcibly removed from the room. When Turukáno rose, breathless but smug, half his face was beginning to darken into bruising.
"I will not take back my words," his brother proclaimed, voice steady, eyes bleeding with the purest scorn Findekáno had ever seen. "I hope he suffered!"
And then he stormed away in a huff, leaving the room quiet. Makalaurë's head was bowed, his eyes closed tightly and his fingers clutching at the edge of the table. The inner conflict seemed to twist and writhe within him for a few moments, struggling to break free and release the monster that Findekáno knew waited and watched just beneath the beautiful exterior. But it receded slowly, blanketed once again in despair.
"Let us continue," his cousin finally said, voice again even and cold.
---
Fëanárions never forgive, and they never forget.
Findekáno had to work hard to keep his younger brother out of harm's way for the next fortnight until all the violent tempers had cooled and returned to distant, icy facades.
But that was not the worst of it. Though he resented his uncle, Findekáno loved his cousins dearly, and Maitimo most of all. Shocked and horrified, he had confronted Turukáno afterwards, cornered his black-eyed brother in their shared tent.
"Did you mean it?"
At that, Turukáno took him in with an assessing eye, and he didn't look sorry in the least. Rather, his brother smiled. "Forgive me. I did not mean to affront our cousin's delicate sensibilities." The sadistic amusement stung like needles against Findekáno's heart. This journey had changed them all, and none of them for the better, it seemed.
"Turno," he choked out. "What you said... about Maitimo."
His brother paused. "I know you are fond of him, Káno, but he abandoned you. He deserved his fate, whether you wish to admit it or not!"
"Your hatred clouds your judgment," Findekáno insisted. "He would never have willingly left us to die. Could you really expect him to fight back against Uncle? Could you expect him to win against his own King? What would you have had him do, brother? The impossible?"
"I would have had him act out of loyalty rather than cowardice," his brother spat. "For that is all he was. A liar and a coward. May he rot in the deepest pits of Angband!"
It took all Findekáno's strength not to hurt his brother, all his strength to stay the hand that wanted so badly to paint black and blue across the pale, untouched cheek left unmarked by Carnistir's fury. And Turukáno knew it, could see it in his eyes, the animalistic urge to lash out, to harm, to soothe his own pain. And from it, his brother took pleasure.
"You see, Findekáno, now they know what it is like. They know the loss they have heaped upon us. They know our despair. This is justice. Accept it."
So angry he was, Findekáno could not bear even to speak.
But it seemed his little brother didn't care a whit. Instead, he looked towards the eldest and smirked, a look that felt slimy to Findekáno's gaze, as if some pale shade had replaced the pure soul of the brother he had known his whole life and was directing Turukáno's body like a puppet.
"You are affronted as well," Turukáno observed blandly. "You need not forgive me. I do not feel sorry in the least."
---
It was not the desire to unite their houses which drove him from his tent in the dark, only a bow on his back and a sword at his hip. It was not his friendship with Maitimo either.
It was his fury.
It was the lack of justice.
It was the need to prove to Turukáno that he was wrong, that this was not justice, that this was not fate, that there was still something good left in the world, and that his best friend was not a backstabbing liar and a coward.
Selfish though it was, Findekáno departed.
---
And selfishly, he smirked at his brother when he returned with Maitimo mostly intact. When Turukáno glared darkly at him, bade him silently with only a hard glance to abandon his post at his cousin's sickbed, Findekáno could only silently jeer in reply.
Turukáno would have been quite affronted himself had he ever realized that he was the catalyst that had returned Maitimo to their arms.
Fëanárions were not the only ones who never forgave and never forgot.
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This oneshot completely created itself. I had no idea we would be delving into Fingon's psyche today, but we did. I guess he's not as kind-hearted and justly motivated as we would like to believe. I believe that he is not a perfect person, and I don't think for a second that there was no outside motivator for him rescuing Maedhros.
This is just a theory. One of many I have written.
Written to Black Parade by Globus. I blame this song for how crazy this ficlet turned out. But it is an awesome song nevertheless. Usually, though, I think of it while writing Itachi fanfiction for Naruto.
There is also one picture that sort of inspired this, though it doesn't show Fingon's emotions in the correct light I think. Unspoken resentment by =Gold-Seven on dA, only in the case of this story it is not so unspoken. Well, it is at the correct parts anyway. Done in coffee, by the way. She has some pretty awesome coffee art. Word of warning, though. If you're going to attempt, you need something dark. Sugar-infested stuff doesn't stain at all. It's a lot of fun to mess around with, though, as is mascara.
Enough of my ranting.
Side note: I'm going to make almost all "c"s in Quenya words "k"s to represent sound. Just know that all "c"s that show up make "k" sounds and not "s" sounds.
Disclaimer: Plot and characters belong to Tolkien; the theory about Fingon's motivation is all mine
Pairings: none (at least highlighted)
Characters: Fingon, Turgon, Maglor, Caranthir, Fingolfin (mentions Maedhros, Morgoth, Fëanor and Elenwë)
Warning: (not AU for once), insulting, semi-graphic violence, name-calling, reference to death and possible torture
Song: Black Parade
Words: 1,390
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
affront (transitive verb): to insult especially to the face by behavior or language; to cause offense to
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/affront
Sometimes, Findekáno swore that his brother lived to make his life difficult.
Bad enough that their people were homeless and living in tents. Bad enough that their uncle and king was dead. Bad enough that the heir apparent was kidnapped and being held for ransom.
And if all that wasn't enough, Turukáno still had to go and put his foot in his mouth!
Frustrated, Findekáno resisted the urge to destroy something, to rip the tent apart with his bare hands, or maybe go out and hack a few trees down with his sword. Anything to rid himself of the fury that bubbled and boiled over in his veins.
On the one hand, he could understand his brother actions. Turukáno was merely hiding his devastation beneath a facade of malice and scorn, but it nevertheless irked Findekáno that his brother's chosen victim was not even here to defend himself. It was one thing to curse the name of Fëanáro. It was quite another to bring insult to Maitimo.
---
"Why have you not gone after him?" Findekáno choked out. "He may still... still be alive..." And still be suffering...
Makalaurë stood before them, looking older in his eyes than any elf Findekáno had ever met. The silver gaze pierced him down to the bone, further even, with sorrow and steely resolve. Never had his cousin looked less like himself, less like the gentle soul that loved singing sonnets in the gardens, sweet and innocent and pure as his deep, carrying voice.
"It had been decided many a year ago that Nelyafinwë was a lost cause," Makalaurë told him. "We could not give in to the Dark Lord's demands, nor had we the manpower to mount a rescue attempt. Besides, in all likelihood he is long dead and Morgoth dangles nothing but empty promises before our eyes, hoping to lure us into a trap."
The words were cold and even, so unlike his cousin.
"But surely--"
"We will do nothing," Makalaurë interrupted. "That is final."
It was then that Turukáno spoke, and his words made Findekáno's teeth draw blood from his lips in an effort not to scream at his brother. "The only decision you have made that I agree with. We need not waste our remaining warriors rescuing a traitor."
There was a heartbeat of silence. Two. And then Turukáno found himself thrown halfway across the room, the side of his face already blooming a muscle-deep red.
"How dare you, scum?" Carnistir, like a dark avenger, towered over them, glorious in his fury. Eyes like emerald stars blazed with a light so akin to his father's that Findekáno shivered in a mixture of terror and awe. The fourth brother, once bashful if a bit blunt, now stepped forward like a predator approaching its prey, his hands twitching into taut fists, lust for blood in his eyes. "You may speak however you will about our father, but you will never utter my brother's name again!"
Please, Turukáno, be silent. Please, be silent...
But it was not to be.
"And why should I withhold my judgment from Nelyafinwë? He claims friendship with my family, yet he left us all to suffer and die crossing over Helcaraxë! He claimed his just desserts!"
"You filthy rat!" It took Makalaurë and Nolofinwë to hold back Carnistir from throttling the foolhardy elf. Findekáno just lowered his head in shame. No matter how much he resented the fact that Maitimo had not miraculously convinced Fëanáro to return with the ships, he knew he could not truly blame his cousin, whose first thoughts had been for him upon reaching the far shores if Makalaurë was to be believed. But his brother...
Turukáno had reason to be bitter, to hate.
In the end, Carnistir had to be forcibly removed from the room. When Turukáno rose, breathless but smug, half his face was beginning to darken into bruising.
"I will not take back my words," his brother proclaimed, voice steady, eyes bleeding with the purest scorn Findekáno had ever seen. "I hope he suffered!"
And then he stormed away in a huff, leaving the room quiet. Makalaurë's head was bowed, his eyes closed tightly and his fingers clutching at the edge of the table. The inner conflict seemed to twist and writhe within him for a few moments, struggling to break free and release the monster that Findekáno knew waited and watched just beneath the beautiful exterior. But it receded slowly, blanketed once again in despair.
"Let us continue," his cousin finally said, voice again even and cold.
---
Fëanárions never forgive, and they never forget.
Findekáno had to work hard to keep his younger brother out of harm's way for the next fortnight until all the violent tempers had cooled and returned to distant, icy facades.
But that was not the worst of it. Though he resented his uncle, Findekáno loved his cousins dearly, and Maitimo most of all. Shocked and horrified, he had confronted Turukáno afterwards, cornered his black-eyed brother in their shared tent.
"Did you mean it?"
At that, Turukáno took him in with an assessing eye, and he didn't look sorry in the least. Rather, his brother smiled. "Forgive me. I did not mean to affront our cousin's delicate sensibilities." The sadistic amusement stung like needles against Findekáno's heart. This journey had changed them all, and none of them for the better, it seemed.
"Turno," he choked out. "What you said... about Maitimo."
His brother paused. "I know you are fond of him, Káno, but he abandoned you. He deserved his fate, whether you wish to admit it or not!"
"Your hatred clouds your judgment," Findekáno insisted. "He would never have willingly left us to die. Could you really expect him to fight back against Uncle? Could you expect him to win against his own King? What would you have had him do, brother? The impossible?"
"I would have had him act out of loyalty rather than cowardice," his brother spat. "For that is all he was. A liar and a coward. May he rot in the deepest pits of Angband!"
It took all Findekáno's strength not to hurt his brother, all his strength to stay the hand that wanted so badly to paint black and blue across the pale, untouched cheek left unmarked by Carnistir's fury. And Turukáno knew it, could see it in his eyes, the animalistic urge to lash out, to harm, to soothe his own pain. And from it, his brother took pleasure.
"You see, Findekáno, now they know what it is like. They know the loss they have heaped upon us. They know our despair. This is justice. Accept it."
So angry he was, Findekáno could not bear even to speak.
But it seemed his little brother didn't care a whit. Instead, he looked towards the eldest and smirked, a look that felt slimy to Findekáno's gaze, as if some pale shade had replaced the pure soul of the brother he had known his whole life and was directing Turukáno's body like a puppet.
"You are affronted as well," Turukáno observed blandly. "You need not forgive me. I do not feel sorry in the least."
---
It was not the desire to unite their houses which drove him from his tent in the dark, only a bow on his back and a sword at his hip. It was not his friendship with Maitimo either.
It was his fury.
It was the lack of justice.
It was the need to prove to Turukáno that he was wrong, that this was not justice, that this was not fate, that there was still something good left in the world, and that his best friend was not a backstabbing liar and a coward.
Selfish though it was, Findekáno departed.
---
And selfishly, he smirked at his brother when he returned with Maitimo mostly intact. When Turukáno glared darkly at him, bade him silently with only a hard glance to abandon his post at his cousin's sickbed, Findekáno could only silently jeer in reply.
Turukáno would have been quite affronted himself had he ever realized that he was the catalyst that had returned Maitimo to their arms.
Fëanárions were not the only ones who never forgave and never forgot.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This oneshot completely created itself. I had no idea we would be delving into Fingon's psyche today, but we did. I guess he's not as kind-hearted and justly motivated as we would like to believe. I believe that he is not a perfect person, and I don't think for a second that there was no outside motivator for him rescuing Maedhros.
This is just a theory. One of many I have written.
Written to Black Parade by Globus. I blame this song for how crazy this ficlet turned out. But it is an awesome song nevertheless. Usually, though, I think of it while writing Itachi fanfiction for Naruto.
There is also one picture that sort of inspired this, though it doesn't show Fingon's emotions in the correct light I think. Unspoken resentment by =Gold-Seven on dA, only in the case of this story it is not so unspoken. Well, it is at the correct parts anyway. Done in coffee, by the way. She has some pretty awesome coffee art. Word of warning, though. If you're going to attempt, you need something dark. Sugar-infested stuff doesn't stain at all. It's a lot of fun to mess around with, though, as is mascara.
Enough of my ranting.
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