Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion
Pairings: none
Characters: Maglor, Fëanor, Maedhros (mentions Celegorm, Caranthir, Vardamírë (Maglor's OFC wife), Maglor's children (see "Worst Day" if you're curious), Nerdanel, the Teleri, Nienna, Morgoth, Fingolfin, Finarfin and Fingon)
Warning: canon-compliant, AU pairing mentioned, OFC mentioned, canon character deaths, mass murder, stealing, betrayal, possible insanity
Song: Illusions
Words: 1,290
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correct (transitive verb): to make or set right: amend; counteract, neutralize; to alter or adjust so as to bring to some standard or required condition; to punish (as a child) with a view to reforming or improving; (noun): what is right or fits required condition or standard
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/correct
All his life, Makalaurë had been trained to conform to what was "right".
That meant to respect and obey his father and mother without question as a son was made to. It meant to bend over backwards and morph himself into the perfect genius child of whom his father could covet and be proud. It meant following all of the unspoken social and moral rules and values that lingered like phantoms beneath the outward pleasantry of the deceptively peaceful world of Valinor.
Makalaurë knew the rules.
Always be impeccably groomed--unwrinkled robes decorated with the appropriate level of finery and jewels, hair braided about an elegant but understated circlet (for the third in line to the throne), dirt and grass left outside and not smeared on the polished floor or staining expensive fabric. It simply would not do to be seen as a messy ruffian with no foundation.
Always be well-behaved--neither shout nor act upon any impulse of passion, never show weakness before the eyes of a stranger, always play the game of complimentary insults hissed beneath flowery praises. Welcome ladies with a kiss on the hand even if their voice grated upon your nerves like steel against stone, sparking deeply hidden revulsion in the back of your throat. Smile and pretend that nothing was wrong.
Always follow the unspoken rules--about whose company he could keep and when, about how he could speak to a scholar and how he could speak to a cousin and how he could speak to a woman, about which fork was always used to eat the first course of a meal and which came last. Never flout tradition before eagerly watching eyes waiting for a chink in the metaphorical royal armor of which to take advantage to wound or poison.
And Makalaurë obeyed these rules to a fault where Nelyafinwë broke their father's trust and Turkafinwë tossed propriety and duty to the wind and Morifinwë fumbled over the simplest dance of social interaction.
He also knew honor. Knew that to give his word was to swear on his life to see it through. He knew duty. Knew that as an heir to the throne he must keep a facade and must present a solid foundation and towering fortress wall against attack. He knew work. Knew that if he were to ever hold his head up high before his peers and his subjects, he would have to demonstrate his prodigal skills, prove himself beyond doubt or question.
And he knew right from wrong like he knew black from white. Opposites set in stone, easily unfurled and divined by logical reasoning and a closed heart. Follow the laws. Follow his father's rules. Follow his moral code.
Except the world was no longer black and white.
When his father's eyes bored into him with the searing touch of a furnace and the expectation of a prideful gaze upon his perfect child, Makalaurë wanted more than anything to say "no" as Turkafinwë could deny, to rebuke his family for their hasty Oath, for being fools--wanted to back and away and stay behind and hold his wife and sons in his embrace, safe from harm and sundering and the encroaching darkness of the Black Enemy leaking out over the world, leaving it unclean.
But was it not right for a son to follow his father and avenge his grandfather--reclaim what was rightfully theirs to own and to covet? Surely, Fëanáro was correct in his wisdom and knowledge? And how could Makalaurë say no, when it was the wrong decision?
And so he had held his sword aloft in the firelight until it shone in the dark like blood, and foreboding had come upon his heart, sickened with anxiety and unrest.
Unrest that came to fulfillment upon the docks and peers of Alqualondë. For it was there that his father had smiled such a vicious, heartless smile that it made Makalaurë shiver to gaze upon it, and he ordered them to take the ships by force "and damn the cowardly sea-elves who would abandon their allies in times of great need". Thus it was that they stole the beautifully made and luxuriously tended boats, the precious work molded of worshipful hands and reverent hearts. And there it was that they shed first blood of those who dared to stand in their way, who dared to throw their lives between the invaders and their home.
Makalaurë did not tell anyone that he had been sick over the side of the peer afterwards. Weaknesses as such were not allowed, especially not with the uncertainty of Arafinwë's hosts like a bitter tang of fear in the nose and the treacherous whispers of Nolofinwë's people a dark shroud reaching out its shadowy fingers to strangle them in the night.
But in his head, already the song of lament had begun, and if he prayed to anyone in his shame, it was to the Lady Nienna for strength and mercy. For certainly, he had done as he was supposed to do, and the tears of regret and the guilt he carried in his heart like slow-acting poison were his punishment, would purify the blackness from his veins and carry him forth in righteousness in this strange world of contradictions and lies and daggers waiting in the dark for a moment of inattention to strike.
No reassurance had ever come.
Suddenly, his reality was full of grays. Suddenly, there was no correct answer, because killing was wrong, but following his Oath and his father's words was right. And when they were ordered to rise in the night and take the ships to the other side of Belegaer, Makalaurë had never suspected that it was treachery they performed without second thought.
He had never expected for Nelyafinwë to ask eagerly "And whom shall the ships bear hither first? Findekáno the valiant?" and for his father to wickedly reply "None and none!" with cruel laughter in his throat and suffocating words of hatred upon his tongue.
Doubt was stoked his Makalaurë's breast, thick with tension and confusion and fear. To where had the man to whom he had always obeyed loyally and loved faithfully gone? Who was this stranger before him, he who would throw away the lives of his own people and kindred as if they meant nothing more than the spilled blood of the Teleri who reneged their bonds of friendship, who would break all rules of responsibility and righteousness? Was it not Fëanáro's duty to protect those sworn to his service with his life and his sacred blood in return as their king and servant?
As the second son stood on the cliffs overlooking the burning of the ships--the works of the hearts of the people of Alqualondë whose lives had been taken in cold-blooded murder through evil, filthy deeds--Makalaurë felt a chill take up residence in his chest.
Because gazing upon his father's fey, bright eyes and broad, sadistic smile, he knew not anymore what to think or how to act. He knew not what decision was right and which led to folly. He knew not what could be done or said to rectify the horrible betrayal of kin unto kin or how to quell the roiling turmoil that churned vengefully in his belly.
He knew not what path was the correct to follow, and which would lead to wretched sin. All he knew were blood-slickened hands and broken bonds of trust.
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Sorry for more character study. It's rather addicting. Actually, I almost wrote this in perfect contention with yesterday's character study, just to emphasize how different all the sons of Fëanor actually are. I hate it when they're all written exactly the same, like some sort of heartless demons. They're people, and people aren't evil just because their father tells them to be, especially not over a rock (as in "Reap" where it becomes clear that Celegorm couldn't care less about the Silmarilli at the end of the day). So yeah, I just want to give them more depth and not simplify their characters into two-dimensional antagonists.
But enough of my author-ranting. I've been listening to Illusions by Thomas Bergersen (the guy who composes for Two Steps From Hell) from his album Illusions (probably after the song). For some reason I absolutely love this song (and many others from the album; it's worth exploring if you have an hour or two to kill). Besides that, I just feel like it has depth and passion and pain all wrapped up in an eight-minute bundle of concentrated beauty. Forgive my waxing poetic over music. We musical dorks are like this.
I also found a gorgeous piece (somewhere between surreal abstract and still life) based off the Burning of the Ships. Forgive me, I know not what the name means (and am too lazy to look it up, so sue me), but nevertheless find it riveting: Feuer von Losgar by ~Lexi-333 on dA. Look at those colors! *sighs*
Finally, while rereading "Of the Flight of the Noldor", I realized that the Silmarillion makes a reference from the Bible, almost directly quoting very specific wording in Exodus during the scene with Mandos' prophecy. Am I not a complete nerd or what?
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