Get Up

Canon-compliant.  Somehow, I can't imagine Maedhros being all that pleased to be saved.  Let the self-hatred reign supreme over the land.  Quenya names used (Maedhros = Russandol, Nelyafinwë or Maitimo, Fingon = Findekáno (he is addressed as Káno once), Maglor = Kanafinwë (also addressed as Káno once), Fëanor = Fëanáro).  For the sake of the story (and because it's probably accurate) Maglor is still High King at the moment, as Maedhros is rather indisposed.  Very early First Age.  Some introspection.

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the characters and the plot.

Pairings: none

Characters: Fingon, Maedhros, Maglor (Fëanorions and Manwë mentioned)

Warning: canon-compliant, (non-explicit) mutilation, catatonia, depression, death-wish, mentions of possible murder, scarring, hints of other things if you squint

Song: Becoming a Legend

Words: 1,606
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
get up (intransitive verb): to arise from bed; to rise to one's feet; climb, ascend
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/get%20up

It was obvious that Russandol did not appreciate being rescued.

His cousin sat in bed, let the healers swarm and look over the gruesome scars carving up his pale flesh, let them poke and prod at his wrist for hours on end.  His eyes were listless and dulled, his shorn hair ragged and unkempt.  If someone entered the room, he did not even turn and acknowledge their presence.

It had been three months.

Russandol just stared at the wall day after day after day, as if none of reality were truly real, as if he were looking at something just beyond the boundaries of the earth and the sky, somewhere far away.

It was like he was dying, slowly fading away into a shadow of an elf.  Like he wanted to fade away.

"Please, cousin... Please..."

He shuddered at the very memory.

For Findekáno, it was like finding some else's soul in his best friend's body.  Where had his cousin gone, the lively, arrogant prince with the roguish smile, head held high and jaw set firm?

Much as he hated to say it, seeing his cousin this way was pathetic.  Swaddled in sheets, unmoving and unseeing, ignoring them all, and getting paler and thinner by the day.  Annoyed and worried, Findekáno bit his lip til it bled and stared through the doorway at the pair within.  Russandol was on the bed, and Kanafinwë was going about plumping up his pillows, straightening the sheets and fiddling with the curtains, all the while talking to his unresponsive brother as though Russandol might actually turn his head and talk back.

Did Russandol not see how much he was hurting his brothers?  Did he not see how much they all loved and missed him?  Did he not see that they believed in him, that he could recover from his incarceration and torture, could once again arise and become an elf worthy of high regard?

Day by day, Findekáno's faith dwindled.  And he absolutely could not allow it!

Something needed to be done.

---

Three days later, he entered his cousin's bedchambers.  As expected, Russandol did not even turn and look at him, but kept his gaze firmly attached to the white-washed wall opposite his bed.  He wondered not for the hundredth time if his cousin could even see or hear him.

"Russandol."

No response.  He hadn't really expected one.

"Since your cousin is not worthy of even a simple greeting, I shall continue on without," Findekáno growled, setting himself down in the chair at Russandol's bedside, the chair usually occupied by Kanafinwë. "I must say, cousin, you disappoint me greatly.  Even in my wildest dreams I never imagined you could be brought so low, or that you so easily gave up and abandoned your oaths and promises.  Abandoned your family."

Still nothing.  Snorting, he continued. "Do you even care?  Truly?  Do you not see Kanafinwë here every morning like clockwork?  He has been keeping this kingdom in straights since you were taken.  But you only ever see him smile.  You are not there when he stays up til the wee hours of the morning, til he drives himself into a pit of despair and weeps in the dark.  Do you not realize what you do to him?

"And your brothers have been unbearable.  They rant and rave and throw enough violent fits that I am certain all the glassware in the realm needs replacing twice over, but they really are just worried about you, and about Káno.  They all miss you terribly.  You must know that they look to you as father and caretaker as well as brother, that they want nothing more than to see you better.

"You must know that they love you."  Silence.  Then...

"Love me?"

Startled, Findekáno looked up to find Russandol staring straight at him, gray eyes dark with unnamable, unbearable pain. "Love me?  There is nothing left of me, Findekáno."

"Nothing left?" he repeated in disbelief, staring at his older cousin. "Nothing left, you say, as if losing one hand is equivalent to losing one's heart and soul!  What nonsense!"

"I cannot do much of anything," Russandol whispered. "I cannot use a bow or sword.  I cannot write messages.  I cannot even lace up my own boots or dress myself, Findekáno.  You should have killed me when you had the chan--"

"Say not such drivel!" Findekáno shouted, standing so abruptly that his chair flew back into the wall with a loud bang. "You think we do not value you beyond your ability to fight and lace your boots?  Do you truly think so lowly of us?  Of me?  Of them?  Do you really think that one missing limb and a few scars are enough to make us abandon and despise you?"

Those eyes met his, dead and strained, tired. "Just let me be, Findekáno."

But he couldn't.

"No."

"Findekáno, leave."

"No!"

"Káno--!"

"I said 'no'!"  Rage boiled in his belly and he could taste its metallic flavor in the back of his throat. "This is pathetic, Russandol!  The cousin I knew would never throw his life away so callously without even thinking about how his loss would affect the rest of us, his beloved family.  Moreover, he would want to live!  He would want to make a difference!"

"Maybe I am not as you remember me." He began to turn away, eyes shadowed by uneven locks of red hair. "Listen to me, Findekáno.  The Russandol you love is long dead."

Infuriated, beyond reasoning, Findekáno grasped his cousin by the front of his tunic and pulled, pulled until they were face-to-face, until that beloved visage was nose-to-nose with his, until he could see ever fleck of black and silver in those widened, shocked eyes. "No, you listen," he snarled. "So you were captured.  So you were tortured.  So you have only one hand and your body is covered in scars.  So what?  Is that all it takes to defeat Nelyafinwë Maitimo of the House of Fëanáro?

"You were captured and brought low.  I cannot even begin to imagine what you have gone through, but if you fade away now it will all have been for nothing!  I did not pull you off the side of that cliff with the blessing of Manwë in my ears for you to lie listlessly and die while those around you suffer!  Think of your brothers!  Think of me!

"Think of your people and get up off your scarred, prideful, princely arse and do something!  Become the greatest prince our line has ever seen!  Become so fearsome in battle that our enemies flee before you with their tails between their legs!"

Findekáno was left panting, his chest heaving and tears of passion pricking at the corners of his eyes.  All the while, Russandol just stared back at him with the oddest look on his face, something that bordered on hope but was too wary to allow even that small patch of wildflowers to bloom in the darkness and ash left from a ravaged soul.

"I don't know if I can do that, Findekáno," his cousin said oh, so softly.

Without thinking, Findekáno grasped his cousin's only hand in both of his own and squeezed hard, feeling the flesh beneath his own, feeling the hard bones and sinews. "I believe in you," he replied, looking straight into his cousin's eyes. "You can do this."

Nothing more was said, but he thought he saw a small smile, the first smile he had seen on his cousin's face since their days in the Undying Lands on the other side of the sea so many years ago.  His first glimpse of the Russandol he remembered.

And it was so beautiful.

---

The next day, when he came to visit, Kanafinwë was there.  He only moved close enough to see that the younger brother was holding the older in a gentle embrace, but a powerful one.  Russandol's arm stretched upwards, returning it tenderly, stroking the younger's trembling shoulders and back.

And if he saw a glistening trail on both their faces, well, Findekáno was hardly going to say anything.

---

Three days after, Russandol was out of bed.

---

Within the week he once more held a sword.

---

Within the year, Findekáno wondered if he would ever encounter a fiercer opponent or ally upon the field of battle.  The glow was back in Russandol's eyes with thrice the brilliance and determination.  No longer did he shy from touches.  No longer did he hide his handless wrist beneath the shroud of his cloak.  No longer was his face lowered in shame.  No longer was there a shadow of the man Findekáno once knew and loved, but instead the same spirit, changed and tempered like steel in the forge, and all the stronger for it.

Hair like fire and eyes like stars, head held high and his jaw set firm, Russandol was everything any warrior could ever hope to be.  Or any prince.

Coming to stand beside his cousin, Findekáno reached out to clasp a powerful shoulder and squeeze. "Russandol," he greeted softly.

"Findekáno," his cousin returned, voice low but strong.

Those eyes met his, gleaming sharply in the fading light despite the darkness lurking just beneath the surface, the loss of innocence.  Still, the face and form were no longer strained and pale, no longer fading away into nothingness.  A small smile quirked at the corners of those lips, familiar and breathtaking.

Nelyafinwë had thrown off his chains and ascended from the pits of hell.

And Findekáno believed.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Interpret it how you will, though I must say that I typically picture these two in a completely platonic relationship.  After all, it's okay for Fingon to love his cousin is a cousinly way without it implicating incest.  In any case, if you want it to be slash, let it be slash, and if not, then it doesn't have to be.

In any case, this is just another theory that I came up with after looking at =Gold-Seven's artwork on dA again.  Most of me is totally the scene sandwiched in there just because I felt like Maglor needed a little love.  Poor baby.  But really, beautiful picture.  Those new paints really turned out (I love the turquoise and teal in there, so rich).  And There will be blood, because I didn't make up Maedhros becoming one of the most epic warriors in the history of the world.  He really did become that kickass, and I'm willing to bet Fingon had something to do with it.  Thus the story.

Anyway, awesome music: Becoming a Legend by John Dreamer.  Fitting, isn't it?  And a lovely piece as well.