Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion
Pairings: none
Characters: Maedhros, Fëanor (mentions Nerdanel, Maglor, Finwë, the Fëanorions and the Valar)
Warning: canon-compliant, character study, daddy issues, politics slinking in there a bit, hints of family dysfunction
Song: Leap of Faith
Words: 1,013
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strive (intransitive verb): to devote serious effort or energy: endeavor; to struggle in opposition: contend
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/strive
Being the oldest--the heir not only to a family but also to a kingdom--was far from easy. It was a position coveted and for which was yearned by younger siblings with a thirst that could not be quenched.
Maitimo would have traded it to them without a second thought.
Second in line to the throne be damned. His father's precious, most valued son--Maitimo laughed at the thought and threw it to the wind to be lost. He didn't need either of those things, those empty titles full of empty promises.
All those words meant was work. Back-breaking, insanity-inducing work that was never finished and never ceased, sharp eyes watching the back of his neck day-in and day-out waiting patiently for one little crack to slip through with acidic words that burned his heart, one little weakness to exploit in the name of hardening his fortitude, strengthening his body and sharpening his mind as one beat and shaped and remade a blade through flame and hammer in the dark forge until it gleamed like Telperion, until its edge and angle were deadly.
It meant pushing himself to the brink and beyond. It meant sleepless nights of studying and reading and gathering every scrap of useful knowledge available as ammunition against the rising tide of contention waiting at the breakfast table the next morning.
He put in every ounce of effort that could be spared, and Maitimo was the top of his class at the academy, crushing his classmates beneath the weight of his intelligence. In many cases, he outwitted his teachers and peers alike, battled with spears of knowledge and proverbs against his grandfather's most brilliant scholars and philosophers and defeated them all. A genius, they claimed, just like his father. Bright beyond his few years, an endless well stretching on into empty darkness, thirsting for more knowledge and teachings to fill it until it reached the golden light of Laurelin, insatiable and without rest.
Yet whenever tongues wagged of his prowess, Fëanáro's lips would merely purse tightly, eyes narrowing, and he would say nothing. No praise. No compliment. His eyes would rest upon his son, blank of all thought and emotion, and then he would turn away as if those impressive attributes meant nothing, not even worth acknowledging. It was castigation more potent than any yelled insults or hissed threats could ever hope to be.
No amount of hours spent slaving in the forge could produce a creation of glory that would please his father's eye. No amount of pouring over tomes and memorizing texts would impress his sire's racing mind. No amount of political weight or social reputation gathered through Maitimo's accompishments or endeavors, his own clawing and snarking and mingling, could satisfy Fëanáro's impossible expectations for his oldest son and heir, the representative of the Crown Prince's legacy, the royal flesh and blood and bone to the core of his being.
No amount of striving would ever make Maitimo good enough or strong enough or smart enough or inventive enough to fill his role as his father's shadow.
He was not Fëanáro's copy. And he never would be.
He was Nerdanel's thoughtful wisdom and her gentle features and her smooth tongue and her soothing voice and her endless patience. He was not his father's untouchable, insatiable fire or his naturally curious mind or his born-and-bred talent in leathers before a roaring forge fire with molten metal shaped at his every whim.
If he was not his father, there was no amount of accomplishments that could pile up to eclipse the mountain of Fëanáro's pride and arrogance.
And if Maitimo was bitter, who could possibly blame him? Why could Kanafinwë not have been firstborn, the son who took to all challenges like a fish took to water, never needing to stay up into the early hours of the morning to absorb all the teachings he could get his fingers upon, never needing to practice long and hard for hours and hours stacked upon each other to reach unattainable perfection?
Maitimo would have thrown it all away to be last. Sometimes, as he lay sleepless in his bed, staring at the ceiling, he would wish to wake up in the morning as the second-born, and with those thoughts he would fall asleep dreaming of his father's gaze resting incisively on someone else and his father's voice chastising someone else and his father's impossible expectations crushing someone else's spirit beneath their terrifying weight.
But in the morning, he was always the firstborn. And always, he would close his eyes and take a deep breath and push himself up out of bed, knowing what awaited him at the bottom of the stairs. It was selfish to wish his role upon one of his ignorant, blessed younger brothers.
Fate had given him this cursed hand, and by the Valar he was going to make the best of it! He would continue to sweat through long hours in the forge, continue to study himself into the ground to learn more, continue to stand as a shield between the disappointing reality and his younger siblings who looked to him as an example. Maitimo would not yield to his father's mocking stare and sneering smirk. One day, he would prove himself to be worthy of his place at his father's shoulder, of his duty as second in line to the throne, and no one was going to stop him.
Not even his father.
For all Maitimo's imagined faults, even Fëanáro could not deny his eldest son's sheer determination to succeed, to strive towards that perfection, tantalizingly dangled just beyond his fingertips, helpless to stop himself, to give up, to surrender. It was not in the first son's nature to allow himself the luxury of laying down arms and taking up the white flag.
And that was perhaps the greatest curse of sharing Fëanáro's hot blood. Never give up. Never give in. Never stop reaching. Not even if it killed you.
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Don't get me wrong, I'm not a Fëanor-hater, I just think he doesn't understand kids. I may have to write something from his POV about all this crap pretty soon, because I'm pretty sure he's only doing what he thinks is best for his family (with perhaps a tiny selfish little undertone in there, because we all know that he doesn't want to lose to Fingolfin, the rival for his father's affection). Besides, have you seen the inside of that guy's head? My head-canon version makes his internal monologue more than a little confusing and scary.
Anyway, some more Maedhros love(?). The song for this one is Leap of Faith by Future World Music, perhaps not applicable but an awesome song nonetheless (so you should totally go and listen to it). The beginning especially just leaves me speechless.
To be honest, though, this was in part inspired by a story I read a very long time ago about little Maedhros making his father a glass bird, but Fëanor didn't realize that as a father it's his job to croon and compliment and shower praise on his child (because that's what children need from their parents), so he completely tears the poor kid's work apart, and of course Maedhros destroys the gift he made because it's not good enough for his awesome craftsman father. Sad right? And can you imagine what kind of emotional mess that would turn an impressionable little kid into, what kind of message that sends? This is just my take on how Maedhros grows up feeling about having so much pressure put on him to be the perfect son of the Crown Prince of the Noldor.
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