Shame

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Valthoron is too young to know the truth of his conception and birth, but not too young to be too observant for his own good.  All Sindarin names.  And no, all Noldor are not just hated because of the Kinslayings.  They came to Beleriand and started a war with Morgoth and dragged everyone into it, and then on top of that slaughtered their own kin, and thus they are heavily disliked, but the Kinslayers most of all.  And Valthoron's parentage isn't all that hard to uncover, as you shall see.  Connected up with "Cheat" and "Catatonic" and all other related pieces.  Takes place probably on the eastern side of Ered Luin in the First Age.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Silmarillion (but Valthoron is mine)

Pairings: background Amrod x Thranduil (non-con)

Characters: Valthoron (OMC), Thranduil (mentions Oropher and other Sindar/Nandor)

Warning: very AU but could follow canon, past non-con, slash, dysfunctional family, possible child-neglect/abuse, unhealthy mental states

Song: Utsusemi

Words: 1,530
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shame (noun): a painful emotion caused by consciousness of guilt, shortcoming, or impropriety; a condition of humiliating disgrace or disrepute: ignominy; something that brings censure or reproach
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/shame?show=0&t=1369952057

Early on, Valthoron learned that being different was not something of which to be proud.

It was an unspoken resentment which festered about him as a haze of discontent and unease, but he could sense it as surely as he could see the stars in the sky.  Could feel it in the sting of eyes between his shoulder blades and the slice of bladed words whispered behind raised hands.  He might be young and he might be foolish, but he wasn't blind and he wasn't stupid.

He could hear them speak.

Demon.  A creature of darkness and wickedness come to despoil their home.

Murderer.  Even though he had never harmed even the most helpless of woodland creatures.

Golodh.

But he didn't know what that last one meant.  He thought it might be a curse.  One worse than being called a servant of darkness or a cold-blooded killer.

He was the shadow child with the hair of flames.  A sign, they claimed, of his tainted spirit and blackened soul, so hot with rage and wrath that the hair that should have been silvered blond instead came out red as molten metal in a forge's bellows.  The other children wouldn't dare talk to him or play with him, and the adults just watched him walk past as a ghost through their forest, the underlying hardness in their gazes keeping him well out of reach.

Because they looked like they would strike him if he so much as dared part his lips to ask for directions.  Valthoron learned his way around quickly.  Alone.

But none of these words or looks could compare to the agony of being at home.

Looking into his grandfather's eyes and seeing the same wariness, the same veiled revulsion, was a thousand and tenfold times worse.  Oropher was never obvious about his displeasure, never glared so sharply or snarled so viciously as the strangers whose names were as phantoms in Valthoron's memory, but beneath layers and layers of protective, cautious cold in turquoise eyes, there existed that same spark--that glimmer of shadows that sent shudders down the young elf's spine, the glimmer of their eyes--that narrowed his dark eyelashes over blue and furrowed brows into a dark glance.

Oropher would not touch him except to pull his arm or scold with a rap to the knuckles.  He would not kiss Valthoron's brow, not like parents and grandparents kissed their own offspring's foreheads and temples.  He would not braid the wild mess of curly hair spilling over Valthoron's shoulders, would not even stroke his fingers through it, as though it were actually fire instead of silk.  As if his fingers might truly be blackened to a crisp of they dared get close enough to be burned.

But worse still were the times when he would see a spark of fear in his beloved ada's eyes.  When he would curl up at Thranduil's side and look up, and the eyes that held such affection and love would flash suddenly dark and wild and distant with memories of other places, when the hand hovering over his cheek or his hair would flinch away, would hesitate as if waiting for him to bite.

And Valthoron hated it.  Was ashamed of it.  Of himself.

He looked into the river, looked into his reflection, into the high cheekbones and slightly cleft chin and the vibrant curls and the brilliant blue eyes, and wondered what he had done that was so terrible.  Wondered what was wrong with him that his father could not even touch him, that his grandfather would not kiss him.

Wondered if it was the hair like fire waiting to strike in the darkness.

Wondered and lingered and despised it so much that one day, he stole a knife from the kitchen and hacked it off as he gazed on in the water.  Grabbed a handful of the soft curls and tugged a knife against his scalp, feeling the waves of hair come loose into his fist.  And he threw them in the river, watched the water put out their heated spark of wickedness, watched it carry away his shame.

Watched and watched and watched until only ragged clumps of the startling redness were left behind.  It was all shorn as short as he could reach without cutting open his skin.

And it wasn't enough, because he could still only see the red.

---

His father was first to see him.

There was a startled gasp and the sound of a plate breaking against the wooden floor as it was dropped from nerveless fingers.  The young elf looked up into the endless blue, wide and clear and bright with shock. "Valthoron, what happened?"

The hand that ran through the mess that had once been his mane of curls did not hesitate, and its touch was like water on a burn, washing away the near-constant ache.  If it had drawn away, the young elf thought he might have died on the spot from the wrenching pain crouching in his chest, waiting to strike down his quickly throbbing heart.

"I..."

"Did someone do this to you?" A soft hand cupped his cheek, lifting his face from where it had been downcast. "Tell me what happened, ion-nín!"

Shyly, he glanced upwards, almost wishing he still had a curtain of red hair behind which to hide from the concern glowing back at him.  He didn't want to make his ada upset, and Thranduil certainly did not seem as pleased as Valthoron would have hoped at the loss of so much of the redheaded monstrosity that made him wince in fright.

"I cut it off." Valthoron paused, eyes averted once again in utter shame. "It makes everyone unhappy, so I cut it off."

I make everyone unhappy.  But I can't just disappear.  I would, if it would not make you sad.

"Oh, little one... say not such things..."

"It's true," he insisted, and winced at the burn of tears behind his eyes, overflowing.  He could already feel the itch in his nose and the swelling around his eyes from the oncoming flood.  That glimmer of light certainly wasn't a minute crystal on his lashes. "It makes Daeradar angry.  And it makes you scared.  It makes everyone glare at me all the time and no one will talk to me or play with me. I hate it!"

I hate me.  And even cutting away all the red won't change me enough to make you happy.

And he was crying and pathetic and didn't dare look up at his father's face.  Because he was afraid of what he might see staring back.

At least until a gentle hand cupped the back of his neck and guided his cheek to a shoulder, to the heartbeat steadily pounding beneath his ear.  Croons rippled through him in soothing waves as familiar hands stroked his back and wrapped around him tight.

"I love all of you," his ada told him, chin settled in the nest of shorn red hair, breath stirring the uneven locks without fear of being scorched. "Every single part of you, even your beautiful hair."

"It's ugly and horrible--demon hair made of fire."

"It is thick and soft and made of the finest silk.  It is cool to the touch and so very bright, a candle to fight back the darkness." A kiss was pressed against his temple, and Valthoron felt the constriction around his chest loosening.  Until he could breathe.  Until he could sob. "It is different, but it is glorious and nothing of which to be ashamed, my sweet ion-nín."

But then why?  Why does everyone look at me so?  What is wrong with me?

He must have spoken aloud, because the arms around him pulled tighter, squeezed him closer until Valthoron felt surrounded by warmth and safety and the scent of forest and light.  The scent of his ada.  "Nothing," Thranduil whispered against his hair. "There is nothing wrong with you, my perfect little one." A kiss was pressed to his forehead, and he was rocked as a young child through the convulsive jerks of hitched breaths.

"And never let anyone tell you any different.  You are perfect just as you are, my Valthoron."

And his ada was still stroking tender fingers through the red, over and over until even the sobs died away and the tears ran dry.  Until he was spent and exhausted and limp in those arms.  But some of the weight, the terrible heaviness sitting on his shoulders, was lessened. And the frightening words sifting through the back of his mind quieted into inaudible whispers, driven back by the sweet lullaby in his ears.

If only his ada loved him, it would be enough.  If only Thranduil could look at him, red and all, and smile and laugh and kiss his cheeks, it would be enough.  If only the person he loved most in the world would be happy without fear and darkness, it would be enough.

Enough to quell the shame.  If only.
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Ah, sorry about the angst.  I can't help myself.  Anyway, I didn't want to make this all about daddy-issues (because that would be a Teldanno repeat), but at the same time I think being half-Noldor in a time like immediately following the Second Kinslaying and Nirnaeth Arnoediad would be tough, especially if you were the child of rape.  I can't imagine the Sindar were feeling too friendly toward any of the Noldor.  And, really, even Oropher and Thranduil are having problems--not because they don't love the kid, but because it's hard to forget how he came about and the trauma involved.

The song, of course, compounded upon the angst and made the ending not as happy as I had originally imagined it.  Oh, the power of the two saddest words in any language.  Anyway, listening to Utsusemi by Yasuharu Takanashi from Naruto Shippuuden OST II.  Every time I hear this song, I think about Itachi dying.  Itachi, why didst thou have to die? *sobs*

Sorry about that.  I have the same reaction to thinking about Gin Ichimaru from Bleach.  My favorite characters always die.  But in all honesty, that just gets me more attached than I was to begin with.  Exhibit 1: Quenta Silmarillion.  How many characters die in this one again?  Only, like, almost all of them. *cough*