Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion (but most of this story is actually mine)
Pairings: Maedhros x Istelindë
Characters: Maedhros, Istelindë (OFC) (mentions of random other elves, Morgoth, the Valar and Mandos in particular)
Warning: definitely AU, OFC, mentions of war, premeditated mass murder, torture, imprisonment (and therefore abduction), mutilation (beyond the obvious), thoughts of uxoricide
Song: Schindler's List Theme
Words: 1,277
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weapon (noun): something (as a club, knife, or gun) used to injure, defeat, or destroy; a means of contending against another
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/weapon
In the many centuries since his capture and torture in Angband, Nelyafinwë Fëanárion had amassed a terrifying and impressive reputation as a warrior of renown and skill, but also as a merchant of bloodthirsty murder and a thirst to avenge his fallen brethren.
It was not an altogether false reputation.
Few could match blades with him--one-handed though he might be--and come out unscathed. Fewer still could claim greater ferocity in battle, hotter fire in spirit and blacker hatred in the heart than had possessed the redheaded Fëanárion on the battlefield. Enemies fled before his advance with wild eyes and clumsy feet, fled before the fey light in his eyes, knowing that their doom awaited them should they come within the circle of his extended sword.
Many years, he had scrambled and crawled and slaved away, nearly killing himself in his quest to reach that unreachable end, to reclaim all that had been stripped from him during his imprisonment.
But now, across the sea, all of his hard work--all of the sweat and blood and tears spilled over irreversible fate and treacherous, burning agony--they were all useless and impotent. Aman was a land of peace and prosperity, where there were no enemies to be slain, no use for steel sharp enough to carve bone, no need to strike fear into the hearts of those standing across the muddy field of battle, because no such fields existed.
Peace. If this was peace, Maitimo hated it more than he ever had the hardships of Beleriand. More than he had hated the dreaded dungeons and torture chambers of Angband. More than he hated kneeling at the Black Enemy's feet and licking his filthy toes like a sniveling thrall.
For all the lack of wars and violence, he felt no safer. Swords here were not forged of ash and fire and iron. Spears were not carved and polished and balanced of heavy wood and metal. Shields were not studded in mithril and gems until they glistened with heraldry and vast shows strength.
They were forged of words. Words mixed with veiled bellicosity, bitterness and the tang of blood. Words set aflame with searing oil and rubbed over bare, tender skin. Words sharper and bolder than any blade Maitimo had ever seen and more painful and exhausting than any torture inflicted upon his flesh during his exile. Words that could pass unseen through flesh and blood and bone yet leave horrific, fatal scars underneath.
They were the weapon of choice, the danger that lurked in every corner and every room.
And he did not know how to combat them. For all his glory in battle and strength in arms, his tongue knew not how to parry a blow aimed straight for the soul, a cold wind sent to snuff out the fire of the spirit.
Were it just at his back that they whispered and snarled, he would not have cared. Maitimo had been named traitorous, murderous scum for many long centuries and his hide had quickly grown thick and callused. Because were they not true words? Were they not repeated in his own mind in the restless, sleepless hours between twilight and dawn?
But they talked at his wife's back as well.
She, who was his entire world. His starlight and moonlight. The only reason he had scrounged up the courage to plead his case as Námo's feet, to seek the refuge of Valinor outside the cold, lifeless Halls of the Waiting. Many a long year, he had wanted nothing more than to be in her arms, to have a little candle in the darkness to guide him away from the madness that swallowed up his world and melted it down into something unrecognizable and horrifying.
She, who had remained loyal in her love for him despite the terrible things he had done. She, who had waited for him knowing he might never return. She, who still stood at his side even though he could give her nothing but a traitor's name and an empty, silent house.
"Look at her, so proud of having that murderer on her arm..."
"She is probably after the throne, or the money. It is not as if he can offer much else."
"I heard that she is barren, but he stays at her side out of pity."
"Maybe they were cursed by the Valar to be childless."
"It would serve her right, staying faithful to a monster like that."
"How she can live with herself after sharing a bed with him is a mystery to me."
"How dare she show her face here? Wife of a Kinslayer."
She had done nothing to deserve it. Maitimo wanted to scream it at the round faces of those disgustingly ostentatious, egocentric courtiers, to grab those flowery, frilly women by their silken bodices and shake them until the petty little glass ornaments and jewels fell from their powdered hair. How dare they speak of her as such? What did they know of his beautiful Istelindë? How could they ignore her amazing strength and admirable honor, taint it with venomous rumors and lies filled with arsenic?
Though she never told him, Maitimo was not an idiot. Istelindë did not have the smile she once did. She was not the same woman he had left behind on the shores of Valinor all those many years ago. While he was on the battlefield, clawing and gasping and fighting for every last square inch of gore and death and mud between him and his enemy, she had been fighting her own war here, alone without any aid, without any allies, without anyone to even bandage her wounds.
Now, she was every bit as scarred and broken as he was. And it was his fault.
His fault for leaving her. His fault for coming back. His fault for keeping her tied to his sullied name and marred soul when she deserved so much better than anything he could ever hope to offer.
His fault, because even now he could not protect her. No amount of incisive glares could silence all the insidious voices slipping through cracks and beneath doors. No amount of heated words and threats of physical violence could shield her from intangible jabs and blows.
The surreptitious, cruel warriors of Valinor and their razor-sharp tongues dipped in poison were slowly turning his veins black.
And even as he lay in the darkness of night with Istelindë tucked safe and warm against his side, he knew desperation was bearing down on him with the force of a mountain's crushing weight. He knew that the darkest part of him--the part that would always be driven mad with grief and lust for vengeance--was steadily regaining consciousness, that the fey light was slowly returning to his eyes with each rising of Arien from the East.
With fear, he refused to contemplate what he might do if driven to that diabolical edge of sanity. He refused to contemplate what he might do to her if the war of invisible weapons pushed him too far.
Because he knew she would be better off without him. Would be better off forgetting him.
And it was a dangerous thought that would not secede from the shadows of his most secret, visceral mind. The images of a pinch of white powder dissolved into wine haunted him.
Istelindë would be better off if she never even knew he existed.
And that was not a gift beyond the reach of the blackest part of his tainted soul.
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This story was entirely born of yesterday's reference to uxoricide in "Justice". There are several lines in there which refer directly to the whole idea of "words as weapons" and it got stuck in my head, and thus was born this piece of angst. Hope you enjoy despite the OFC. I need to write her more often; she is sorely lacking in character developement.
I have an equally angsty piece of music to go along with this lovely story. Did I mention John Williams stole the primordial iPod? Well, he did, because Schindler's List Main Theme (from the movie by the same name) is one of the most beautiful and sad compositions I have ever listened to and seriously, music doesn't make me cry often but this song does. None of you know me, of course, but I literally don't cry to books or movies or anything, so it is a rare occurence.
And because I happen to like the coloring of this picture: Maedhros by ~ilxwing on dA.
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