Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion
Pairings: none
Characters: Maedhros, Fingon, Maglor (mentions Fëanor, Fëanorions in general, Arien and Morgoth)
Warning: canon-compliant, canon character death, obvious mutilation, references to mass murder, torture, imprisonment and trauma in general, suicidal thoughts, sarcasm
Song: Shot in the Dark
Words: 1,912
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try (verb): to make an attempt at
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/try
again (adverb): another time: once more: anew
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/again
If there was one thing that the younger Maitimo had inherited from his sire, it was sheer stubbornness. No son of Fëanáro could bear to back down from a challenge, could stand the humiliation and shame that accompanied failure. It was a trait that had burned hot and fierce in Maitimo's father, and in his own breast, and again in most of his brother's temperamental spirits. It was a trait that had once filled the prince from the top of his head to the tips of his toes like a bubbling, golden wine that went straight to the head--a rush of arrogance, confidence and sheer pigheadedness.
It was a roaring fire that blazed in the night and warmed those at its borders, a fire that had long-fuelled his every endeavor and fulfilled his every wish.
It was nothing more than charred wood blanketed in chilly rain, smoking futilely in the night, when he was taken from the cliffs of Thangorodrim. The fire that Maitimo had inherited from his father had all but burned out, only tiny, bright little embers keeping him from completely fading into oblivion.
Embers like Findekáno and Kanafinwë. They were at his side from his lowest, darkest hours of screaming for death in the throes of fever and infection until the dawn finally broke over the rotting blackness that had consumed his reality.
But even a few white-hot sparks were not enough to relight an inferno.
Helplessly, Maitimo stared down at his own boots and wondered why Findekáno had not just allowed him to die in peace. It would have been more merciful and less obligating.
In his left hand--his only hand, he reminded himself snidely--he awkwardly clutched at the hilt of an unfamiliarly familiar broadsword, heavy and lumbering in the care of his weak arm. Even lifting the damn thing felt as though it would pop his shoulder joint completely free of its socket, and he knew better than anyone how painful that would be. He had only hung from his dislocated right shoulder for two decades or so--the bitter sarcasm of this thought curled upwards in his gut nauseatingly.
Still, he continued, stepping forward and swinging the sword in a long, wide arch despite the trembling ache settling bone-deep into his limbs. The blade screamed through the cold air, flashing blindingly bright in the afternoon sunlight, but it did not even come close to striking the perfectly still target not five feet in front of the prince's face.
What a joke.
He had been at this all day. Practicing. Building up his meager strength. But after months (let alone today's few measly hours), nothing seemed to have changed. The old grace that blossomed with his promising skills as a budding warrior did not return to his ruined and scar-mapped body. His footwork was off-beat and his swings over-extended, dangerously open to counterattack should he actually face an enemy made of flesh and blood eager to rend his meat from his bones, unlike the crudely made straw creatures his brother and cousin had fashioned for him. The painted orc-face--one of Findekáno's masterpieces, if he wasn't mistaken--stared back at him mockingly.
What a joke indeed.
"Findekáno, this is useless. Look at me. Look at me!"
"I am looking at you, Russandol. You're alive, and it is only useless if you make it so."
Something vicious in his gut, at the very center of his baser instincts, tangled and twisted itself into a ball of resentment. Sneering, he swung the blade around again, pleased to see that its edge--sharp enough to cut flesh as butter as bone as wood--struck true and detached the head of the hideous straw-monster from its malformed lower half.
Carrying through the swing, Maitimo allowed himself to spin with the momentum of his strike, almost feeling the flowing ease that he had once experienced with a blade as an extension of his natural arm.
And then the heel of his right boot landed on the loosened laces of his left, and the redheaded prince found himself short a sword and in new possession of a face-full of gritty dirt and sharp rocks. Panting, he pressed his bleeding cheek down to the earth, and then released a world-weary sigh, feeling all the fight drain right out of his sprawled limbs as humiliation beat his fanatic stubbornness into a swift and futile retreat.
"This is beyond useless," he muttered, unwilling to summon the energy to even lift his head. "Why do I even bother?"
Because it certainly wasn't for himself. He'd given up living for living's sake a very long time ago, deep in the filthy, depraved pits of torture and unspeakable evil that made up the core of the dread fortress of Angband. The unspeakable things he'd seen--the agonizing torments he had experienced--while under the gracious hospitality of the Black Enemy had drained all will to survive out of the once lively and confident creature he had been as a youth in his grandfather's court, before the Darkening and before the Oath and before the Curse. If Findekáno had not managed to light that tiny, miraculous spark of treacherous hope all those months ago, Maitimo was certain he would still be in that bed in the healing halls, wasting away into a shadow of his former glory.
Even so, that miracle wasn't enough. Day-by-day, the little energy created by the tiny combustion reaction in his heart was sucked up, used to hold back his descent into madness, used to maintain strict control of his tremulous emotions wavering and scratching and clawing just underneath the surface. The dearest, blackest wish of his heart still lingered toxically in the back of his mind, polluting his thoughts. How he longed for this nightmare to end, longed to wake up and find himself home, far away from these accursed shores.
But this was his reality.
And Maitimo felt a failure. Like a broken toy. He could not even tie his own boots or swing his own sword, let alone help his cousins and brothers.
He could not make up for all the hurt his mistakes had caused--not Alqualondë or Losgar or what had come after--and that perhaps wounded him more deeply than any shot of mortification and despair ever could. Not only had he failed them once, but he was going to fail them again, after Findekáno had saved him, after Kanafinwë sat as his bedside and wept and fretted and prayed for his recovery, after his brothers had stuck by his leadership and followed him even now possibly to their gruesome and untimely deaths.
Maitimo was going to fail them all.
Thinking of the disappointment that would darken Findekáno's hearty blue eyes made his heart throb and drop to the pit of his belly. Thinking of Kanafinwë and the stricken look that would overcome his beautiful face was like being stabbed with a jagged, poisoned blade.
He did not want to fail them. He did not want to see the disappointment or helplessness on their beloved faces, not again.
"So get up off your scarred, prideful, princely arse and do something!" Findekáno's voice shouted from somewhere in the shadowy forest of his consciousness, darting between the blockage of tangled, dizzying thoughts and regrets. "And you say relearning swordplay is useless! At least it was better than sitting in the dirt, waiting to die alone like a homeless brigand."
How like his dear cousin, his beloved best friend. The sardonic humor and the cackling laughter that followed brought to mind a broadly grinning face and rosy, drunken cheeks. He had never imagined that the voice of his conscience would be composed of his cousin's inebriated rambling.
But still, could he really do this? Did he have even the tiniest hope of succeeding?
"There is always hope," Findekáno and his wretchedly optimistic personality provided. "You are just too blind to see it."
Glimmering silver eyes darted to the sword lying two feet away. His left hand crawled over the grass, fingers trailing just shy of touching the hilt, the burn of ice cold metal corporeal even from a few inches' distance. Yet there was a diffident pause. Could he force himself to take up that sword? Could he really become what Findekáno envisioned, a proud and powerful prince leading his people out of the thunder and downpour that had been his father's charming dictatorship?
He could not even swing a sword straight.
"And how do you know what you can and cannot do unless you try?" He could imagine his cousin with arms crossed, an irate frown on pouting lips as he gave his "Russandol" a castigating look.
Maitimo sighed deeply, fingers clenching into tight fists. His missing hand throbbed, screaming at him to flex his wrist--that wrist which was no longer attached to his body--and spread apart the five graceful digits to ease their tension, never mind that no amount of concentration could bring to life the nerves of his long-gone fingertips.
I have tried. Another deep breath. And out. There was stinging behind his eyes. I have tried so hard and failed at every turn. Failed as a king and as a son and as a brother. Failed as a friend.
"Then try again until you get it right."
Get up and try again.
And suddenly that tiny, miraculous flame was not so tiny anymore. It seared white-hot through his bones, flowing through his veins with the flammable brilliant of a wildfire, leaving his body fidgeting and shaking with the sudden need to move. His fists unfurled, and his remaining fingertips landed softly on cold metal, inscribed with words of honor and valor and decorated with breathtaking craftsmanship. This sword had been his father's; his own had been long lost in battle.
"Be a better brother. A better prince. A better friend. You can do this, Russandol."
Hissing, he heaved his upper body upwards, grasping at the weapon and dragging it from its resting place, gleaming in the afternoon rays of Arien. He needed to try again, and if not for his own wellbeing than for his Findekáno's happiness and his Kanafinwë's relief and the protection of the younger brothers he had taken under his wing and raised as if they were his own brood of unruly brats. They needed him to try again. And again and again.
As many times as it took to succeed.
He would do that for them. From now until all hope had failed his heart and all love left his brittle world. He had to, or risk losing all that was important to his broken soul.
Stumbling onto his shaking knees like a newborn colt, Maitimo managed to get his feet beneath his body's weight, supporting as his spine uncurled in his attempt to return to his lofty upright position. Elevated and glowing with newfound energy, he took a broad step forward--
And promptly fell on his face a second time. Now he could honestly say he knew the taste of dirt.
It was then that he looked down past his splayed body at his boots and frowned in utter exasperation at the sight of the frayed leather--
And the undone laces.
At least his hope was rekindled and his fire burned anew.
Now, if only he could figure out how one went about tying boot-laces one-handed...
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Honestly, if there's one thing I absolutely must respect Maedhros for, it's surviving with only one hand. I would die if I lost a hand (okay, not literally, but you know what I mean). Granted, I live in a very technology-savy world and enjoy being able to write, but I could learn to type one-handed if I had to. Mostly, I think I would miss playing piano. For musicians as neurotic as me, music is like an important intangible limb that we need to function in everyday life.
I wrote Maedhros' little inner battle to the song Shot in the Dark by Within Temptation. Honestly, it reminds me of Fëanor and has ever since I first heard it, but I think it nicely represents some of what Maedhros inherited from his old man--a little too much spirit and a little too much crazy.
The first Fingon flashback was inspired by 'It's no use...' by =Gold-Seven on dA. I reworded the passage a bit, but this is where the idea came from. If it weren't for this picture, I probably would have spent half the night banging my head on a wall trying to think of something to write about. Between botched bromination labs and sleep deprivation, I've been going a little 'round the bend.
And here is the catalyst that led to my poor humor over the boots: I do not need your help by *meadow-rue on dA. Proof that I am a bit of a sadist. I find this terribly funny. And I don't understand why he has a bow
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