Compromise

Canon compliant.  Does anyone else think that the deal Amroth makes with Nimrodel seems a little unfair?  Because I do.  All Sindarin names here.  Not much to say, except that this is the second time I've written this pairing and I'm coming to realize that Amroth is a rather self-sacrificing idiot when it comes to thee woman he loves.  Connected to "Dismiss".  By the way, it's not canon that Celeborn is the cousin of Amroth by blood, but I haven't yet decided if it's a literal address or merely like a "sworn-brother" sort of address.  Or maybe it's just a Sindar thing.  Takes place in Lothlórien in the Third Age.

READ THIS NOTE: If I don't update between now and Friday, it's because I may or may not have internet in the middle-of-nowhere town that I'm staying at.  I swear I'm still writing.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Unfinished Tales or anything else by Tolkien

Pairings: Amroth x Nimrodel

Characters: Amroth, Nimrodel (mentions the Valar and the Sindar)

Warning: canon-compliant, cliché-ish?, sappy-ish?, one spouse taking advantage of another?, politics and war

Song: Love Story

Words: 1,560
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compromise (noun): settlement of differences by arbitration or by consent reached by mutual concessions; something intermediate between or blending qualities of two different things
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/compromise

She loved him.  Truly, she did.  More than she had ever loved anyone.  And she did not enjoy seeing him in such agony--with his glorious blue eyes that looked upon her with such tender adoration suddenly dark with pain, shadowed beneath furrowed brows.  He looked as though she had pronounced his execution rather than...

"I cannot marry you."

And she couldn't. 

His hands embraced hers, squeezing with reassuring, tantalizing warmth and safety.  Ever would she feel protected within the circle of his arms, but no deceptive veil could shield the truth from her eyes, and no amount of affection would make her blind to reality.

"I love you," he whispered against her lips.  His brow pressed against hers, his loose hair falling about them as a curtain, a false defense. "I know not what else to say or do to prove myself and my devotion to you.  Or... or is it that you do not feel the same way, Lady Nimrodel?"

"I love you in return, my prince," she replied softly, her voice low, hardly more than a breath. "Never doubt my love for you, my light in the darkness."

But he was the king.  The king of a realm that she had once loved, which was being corrupted from all sides by evil and by war.  Brought low with taint and shadow.  By his people.  To become the queen of these golden eaves and evergreen trees would be little more than a lie, a slow-acting poison that would drag her down into gray death and destruction.  As queen, she would have maintain a united front with her spouse--would have to agree with her spouse. And to agree with her spouse, she would have to let go of all the ideals and all the dreams that had ever defined her person.

She would have to become another woman.  And Nimrodel could not throw away everything important to her--all the pieces of ideology and belief that, put together, created her--for the sake of a man.  Not even Amroth, whom she loved with all her soul despite their disagreements and differences.

She could not subject herself to the inevitable hatred and suffering that found follow if she allowed herself to be immersed in the life of a caged queen.

If there was one undeniable fact, it was that she could not coexist with these strangers from the west.  And, no matter how much she loved Amroth, she needed to leave this place, to go east and find somewhere untouched by the growing darkness and strife that seemed to overtake the world wherever "civilized" folk roamed.

"Then... then why?  What can I do...?" Hoarse and desperate, he held her against him, his arms bands of warmth over her back and his fingers sending shivers down her spine as they stroked through her hair. "What can I do to make you agree to stay with me?"

How very much she wished that she could reply "nothing" and not feel her conscience shedding beneath the claws of guilt.

Why did he have to be so heart-rending?  Why did he have to be so honest?

Why did he have to love so much and so deeply?

It should have been easy to throw this relationship away, to turn her back on his devotion, because she had been prepared from the very start for their failure.  He was a sinda and a prince, a self-absorbed, conceited, "civilized" man who scoffed down his nose at her people.

Except... except he didn't scoff.  And he wasn't the conceited nobleman she imagined when she pictured the high courts of the Sindar flaunting their "wealth" and "intelligence" over the peoples of the forest.  He was everything she had ever contemplated in a mate.

And she wanted to stay with him.  But not at the cost of herself and all she else loved.

"There is nothing you can say or do." And she hated the darkness that seeped into his eyes with her harsh words, hated the way he drew back as if she had slapped him with all her scorn and hatred. "I cannot marry the King of Lothlórien."

She hated how expressive his wonderfully gorgeous, handsome face could be, how that little crease formed between his brows and his teeth nibbled at his lower lip.  How clearly and utterly destroyed he looked as he stood before her, eyes downcast and glowing with tears that he would never allow to fall.

Why were the Valar testing her in this way?

"But if I were not the king, would you marry me then?"

Shocked, she looked up into his eyes, those determined and bright orbs filled with sudden hopeful flame.

"I would... I would never think to ask you to surrender your birthright for me." Could she really expect him to throw away all that he loved and cared about, all he had worked for, just because of the woman he loved--especially when she could not do the same? "I would never think to ask you to give up what you believe in and what you worked hard to achieve in order to make me happy, Amroth."

"But I would." His breath was hot over her cheek, his eyelashes a flutter against her skin. "If I abdicated, I could live with you by the river.  Just the two of us.  No politics.  No power struggles."

And how she longed to say yes.  But this offer would change nothing.

"I cannot... Amroth, I cannot stay here.  Please, make this no more painful than it needs to be.  We were not... we were not meant for one another..."

"We were meant for one another." Their bodies pressed together, his hard muscle to her soft curves, and they fit together so perfectly, as one creature entwined. "I will give up the throne.  My cousin Celeborn and his lady wife can have ruler-ship of Lothlórien.  I never asked to become king, and I never wanted to become king.  If you ask me, I will give up everything... Just stay..."

And Nimrodel hated herself for the idea that writhed its way into the back of her mind at his unthinking words of utter devotion.  At the word everything.  Hated that her heart was so selfish and greedy as to take advantage of his willingness to sacrifice.

But it was the only compromise her mind would accept, though her heart longed to be generous.

"Come away with me," she whispered, reaching up to frame his sun-kissed face in her palms, to trace her thumbs over the rise of his cheekbones and to rake her fingers through his silken hair. "Come away with me--to somewhere peaceful where there is no war and no violence--and then I will marry you, my prince."

"Away with you?" And the hope--no longer a mere ember, but a blazing fire--in those words stung her like a toxic dart.  Because she knew she didn't deserve this man.  She hated his ideals, his morals and his people, and still he loved her enough to give up everything he knew so that she would be happy.  Would that she could pay him back in full for his love, but Nimrodel did not think she ever could give him a gift as precious as that which he had offered her when he spoke...

"I will, if that is what it takes to make you happy." His hands came away from her, but only to remove the band of his House and place it instead upon her slender finger. "I will abdicate, and we can go wherever you wish, just please...

"Please, marry me?"

Traitorous tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.  Gulping heavily, she tried to rid herself of the throbbing lump in the back of her throat, the one that left her voice wobbly and caught with horrible joy and shame. "Yes," she gasped. "If you keep your word, yes, I shall marry you.  My prince."

And he laughed in such pure relief that her heart sank. "I will not be a prince." His smile could have lit Anor a thousand times over.

"You will always be my prince," she replied, wrapping her arms about his neck and clinging tightly.  For she was a greedy creature, and she never wished to allow him to leave.  The epiphany of her own selfish love left her trembling and sobbing even as his devotion touched her to her very core and shook apart the foundations of her prejudice. 

And if her face was hidden from his sight--her escaping tears from his pure joy--it was for the better.  She would not allow herself to spoil this wondrous moment for this indescribably perfect man.

Because, for all her mind called it a compromise, she knew the true manner of this transaction, of this forbidden love affair between two individuals living in opposite spheres of reality.  And she knew that he was doing more than conceding a little to her whims and demands.

He was sacrificing.

And she could not sacrifice in return.  She could only take and take.

And hope that one day she could find a way to pay back this immeasurable debt.  To give.
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Okay, so again, the second time I've ever written this pairing.  This is all Nimrodel characterization, if I'm completely honest.  I re-examined their story and I thought it seemed a little unfair.  She doesn't like Sindar and she doesn't like this and she doesn't like that, but she has absolutely no problem asking him to give up everything for her.  He's only the king, but she can't make a sacrifice and put up with his people for him--no, he's expected to give up everything he's worked for to make her happy.

Sorry that I bash on the chicks a lot.  I guess it's just that, as a female myself, it's easier for me to "villainify" a female character.  Then again, I bash Fëanor all the time so it can't all be about gender.  Or perhaps it's just about who I sympathize with more on any given day.  Anyway, don't get me wrong, I like the pairing.  We'll have to see if I like them enough to give them both a happy ending, though.

Written to Love Story, a love theme supposedly composed originally by Beethoven.  Of course, the song in the video was not originally written (as in the exact score wasn't written) by Beethoven (because you can hear the soft-rock undertone and drums were not part of a piano-violin duet even during the late Classical period), but it is nonetheless gorgeous and sexy and passionate.  Thus, I used it for the "emotional upheaval" points to go with this piece.  You should listen to it.  Because it's awesome :3.

Cut

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Curufin is not motivated by self-interest.  And he does everything for a reason--a reason that is rarely pure malicious intent.  Quenya names used (Curufin = Curufinwë, Celegorm = Turkafinwë, Finrod = Artafindë, Orodreth = Artaresto, Celebrimbor = Telperinquar and Fëanor = Fëanáro).  This piece is related to all the Nargothrond drama--so "Dust", "Whispered" and "Hidden"--as well as all the Celegorm x Lúthien stories, particularly "Collide" and "Obvious".  What it really boils down to is the fact that I hate cookie-cutter villains, and thus everyone who does something "bad" in any story must do it for a good reason other than pure sadism.  Let's face it, conscienceless people are not a dime a dozen, so they can't all be psychopaths.  Takes place in Nargothrond in the First Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: Celegorm x Lúthien (one-sided), Beren x Lúthien

Characters: Curufin, Celegorm, Finrod (mentions Lúthien, Beren, Orodreth, Celebrimbor and Fëanor)

Warning: not really canon compliant but follows canon, premarital sex implied, extramarital sex implied, dysfunctional family, murder, back-stabbing, language

Song: Prelude to Ruin

Words: 1,272
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cut (verb): to penetrate with or as if with an edged instrument; to hurt the feelings of; to strike sharply with a cutting effect
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/cut

There were few things Curufinwë would hesitate to do if it meant keeping safe his family.

And he considered Turkafinwë family, perhaps more so than any of his other brothers.  It may have been by chance that they fled south together amidst the ruin of Beleriand--by the whims of fate that their final destinations had become so closely entwined that they could no longer be separated--but he could, at the very least, honestly claim that he would never leave his older brother's side willingly whilst he still drew breath.  And no force in all of Arda would be able to pull him away.

He didn't think anyone would understand the connection they shared.  Would understand the centuries-younger brother standing guard over his older sibling with unceasing vigilance.

But none of them knew Turkafinwë.  Not the way Curufinwë knew.

They saw something uncontrollable and frightening and filled with shadow.  They looked into those silver eyes and saw the reflection of a monstrous phantom, a nightmare created to simplify complicated truths and complex webs of lies and rumors.  They looked at his brother and saw the return of Fëanáro in all his insane, terrifying glory.

That image couldn't have been farther from the reality of his older brother.

They didn't see the love-struck, hopeful man left shattered in the wake of betrayal, used by that Sindarin whore and thrown aside like trash.  They didn't see the distant, wistful longing in despairing eyes as he waited for her even knowing she would never return.  They didn't see rows and rows of cuts bleeding out--both tangible and untouchable--carved into vulnerable flesh and soul.

They didn't see the soft underbelly of Turkafinwë, the broken child crying in the corner, missing the vast green fields so beloved to his heart.  They didn't hear the vivid memories coming back to haunt in the night, leaving the older brother shuddering and sweating in the dark.

They didn't come home to find blood everywhere and blank, flat eyes staring at the walls, thoughtless and numb to the outside world.  In the morning, Turkafinwë never remembered harming himself, never remembered crying or wailing.

But Curufinwë did.

And he would do anything and everything to help.  The hurts on the outside, he could bandage and heal.  The others...

Well, they were more complicated to bandage.  And he didn't think it was possible for the festering wounds to heal fully, not when the poison flooded through darkened, sickened veins could not be withdrawn.

He was called Curufinwë the Crafty for a reason, though.  Ingenuity ran through his blood.

And he found other ways of keeping Turkafinwë balanced on the edge of madness and coherence.  Found ways of stitching up open lacerations and soothing deep bruises.  And he didn't care how many others were hurt in the process, because nothing mattered more than keeping hold of the last tenuous strands of his brother's hope and sanity.

Because, while others worried about his brother exploding into a murderous rampage and killing innocent bystanders, Curufinwë worried about coming back to their chambers one day to find his brother with slit wrists.

Much better than he whispered little black lies into his brother's ears and sent the problem-infested man off to uproot some stuck-up noblewoman's reputation and expose her for the prostitute she was.  Better that he slandered the king's favorite councilors in his brother's hearing and left Turkafinwë's sadistic tendencies to spread those words to every available ear within two hundred leagues of Nargothrond.

Better that he took his brother out into the wilds every two weeks and let him slaughter animals and enemies alike to his heart's content until there were no more bodies to bleed and no more innards to spill.  If ending lives and dancing around in oceans of blood made Turkafinwë smile and laugh instead of scream and rave, Curufinwë would line up hundreds of leagues of sacrifices to be cut down beneath his brother's blade the same way his brother had been cut down beneath the selfish lusts and desires of the object of his fascination and infatuation.

And if he had to go behind his brother's back, he would do that, too. 

He lied.  He coerced.  He had even threatened Artafindë for the sake of his brother, tried to break his cousin's unbreakable honor if it meant that there would be no foolish quest to solidify the love of that horrid Sindarin princess and her sleazy human toy.  That there would be no chance of consummation of the relationship tearing his brother's mind apart.  That there would be not even a miniscule chance of a Silmaril being uncovered from the iron crown.

And he would make the king into his next sacrifice if Artafindë dared to stand in his way.

Anything to staunch the bleeding cuts rent through the man that had once been his brother.  Anything to keep the remaining sanity from spilling out like sand between his fingers.

Looking into the blue gem-eyes of the king, he knew that Artafindë understood, even though the king did not agree--did not want to forswear his own oath in favor of his former friend and current lover.  Not only did the king understand that Curufinwë would do anything to keep safe those who he held close to his heart, but the king knew that by stepping in the way of Turkafinwë's reckless and destruction love, he risked his reputation, kingship and mortal life.

Knew that Curufinwë would remove the obstacle he presented in the path if he made himself into the enemy, if he helped Beren further destroy the little hope left that kept Turkafinwë from completely losing himself in the flames and shadows.

No one could be allowed to harm that which he held dear.  And if all those around him viewed him as a two-faced, backstabbing traitor, he could not have cared less.  Artaresto could continue to hiss slimy insults at his back and spy on his "secret" liaisons with the king, calling him a whore and a murderer.  Telperinquar could continue to look the other way as his father ripped apart the king's bonds of loyalty with his subjects, could continue rejecting his family members with blatant disgust.  And Turkafinwë could continue to remain oblivious to the stark manipulation rampantly weaving in and out of his life--oblivious to the fact that his own brother was the puppet-master forcing Nargothrond's political atmosphere to dance to a new tune. 

Curufinwë did not care what anyone thought.  For they could not hate his shadowy image of malice and betrayal half as much as he would hate himself if he laid back and did nothing as his brother slipped away as water through cracked glass.  If he became the one man he despised with toxic passion.  If he became his father.

And if there was one way in which he could never compare himself to ruthless, impassive Fëanáro, it was in that his family came before anything and anyone else--above oaths, promises and revenge.  And that was his pride and salvation.

He would never stand down and never give in.  He would be as an iron and adamant shield.  No one would shatter the fragile glass heart hiding beneath a shield of wrathful wildfire and icy amusement.  Not whilst he still drew breath.  Not whilst he still had the power to staunch the blood-flow and stitch shut the gaping wounds.

Not whilst he still had the strength to protect.  And to heal.
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More Nargothrond and Beren and Lúthien-related character development and drama.  I'm finally starting to piece together more of Curufin's character.  Most of his brothers are getting along in the character-development department, but he was a hard one to figure out.  I mean, I didn't want him to be exactly like Fëanor.  Everyone writes him like that and it drives me crazy.  He's not a psycho, and I think it's weird that he sticks so close to Celegorm all the time, and now I'm starting to figure out why.  I mean, in my head-canon.  It pleases me.

The song for this piece is Prelude to Ruin by Takeharu Ishimoto from the Crisis Core OST.  Pure solo piano awesomeness!  I love the dissonance and the variance in rhythm and melodic ideas.  It has this beautiful atmosphere that just makes me shiver, and it greatly pleased me.  Besides, I thought the title rather ironically fit into the prompt and the premise, yeah?  Poor Celegorm and Curufin.  We all know this isn't going to end well.

Sorry for lack of plot and dialogue.  Monologues are fascinating insights into the mind, even though they can sometimes be a little boring.  Well, not to me.  I just hope I didn't bore you too much.  And have a good day. :3

Prowl

Canon compliant.  Morgoth is looking for maiar to seduce to his side.  And he's found something special.  Morgoth is referred to throughout as Melkor and Sauron is referred to as Mairon (because he has not yet been seduced to the "dark side").  This is the first time I've ever written Morgoth's POV actually, so it's interesting.  He actually does not think about the same sorts of things as Sauron; their motivations are different, even if their methods are annoyingly similar.  Except that Sauron tends to be a little less arrogant and a little more stealthy (in a weird sort of way).  Anyway, takes place in/around Almaren in the Years of the Lamps.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: none

Characters: Morgoth, Sauron, unnamed maiar (mentions Eru and the Valar)

Warning: canon compliant, implied seduction to the dark side, touches on ideologically sensitive material (sort of), mentions sadism and corruption (innate evil in everything sort of stuff)

Song: Controlling the Iron Beast

Words: 1,530
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prowl (verb): to move about or wander stealthily in or as if in search of prey; to roam over in a predatory manner
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/prowl

For the longest time, his brethren remained blind.

Sightless to all that did not please their gazes, within and without, they became vulnerable.  Easy prey.  Settled into their green little paradise with their perfectly shaped and cut land masses and deep oceans, nesting beneath resplendent brilliance without care or heed to the darkness growing beyond the light of their pitiful Lamps.

Melkor looked down upon their island of symmetrical beauty and scoffed.

They called it perfection.

It was anything but.

For everywhere he looked, there was shadow.  They--those conceited, self-righteous dogs of Ilúvatar--could not pierce through any darkness with their sight, nor could they lift the veil of light they had cast over the flaws in their plans and designs.  For, though they sought to hide it from themselves, there was no denying Melkor's influence in all that they wrought.

In the creeping, acidic swamps breeding flesh-eating insects and vermin and the dark, twisted creatures clawing their way through the pits of filth beyond sight of naked eyes.  In the sickness of all things green and plentiful that slowly spread its way down through their golden fields of barley and their seedling forests now bitter with rotting fruits.  In the dread that sent chills down unwary spines and left the faint of heart peering nervously over their quivering shoulders into those lands outside the protection of their blinding creations.

They were more foolish still, though, for they saw neither the physical imperfections tainting their supposed purity (And whose purity was it, truly, when it was the work of mindless slaves scrounging at their master's feet?), nor the black stain of their own hearts entwined with the melody of his theme.

But Melkor saw.

All those creeping little secrets and thoughts twining through the heads of these supposedly holy, untouchable beings.  He prowled through those tangled webs, scenting out the truth beneath façades and lies and treachery.  Perhaps he was unwelcome amongst them--for they took His side in the days before corporeality--but they could not hide their true selves from his gaze.  Melkor might be disowned and cast aside, but he was still the most powerful of the Ainur.

And all malice lingered within his domain.  Calling to him.  Fruits ripening so that he might harvest them, steal them away from his maker's armies and bring them into his shadows.  Under his command.

Envy and jealousy.  Green and burning on the flesh as corrosive acid.  Glowing eyes following the forms of others, narrowed with foul emotion.  Coveting the talents of others that they themselves did not possess.  Coveting the mates of others whose love they had not earned.  Coveting the trinkets of others which they could neither duplicate nor take for their own.

"Look at them.  Better than thee.  More intelligent than thee.  More desirable than thee.  More talented than thee.  And what did they do to earn their prize?  Naught more than thou didst--"

Greed, also, drew him to its voracious glory.  Those who sought more riches and things of beauty because gems and gold and sexual appetites held them captivated.  Those who would feast until they sickened and drink until they passed out in the grass, awakening only to desire more, more, more.  Those who would not settle to be told that they should cease and be content with what they possessed, because the animal within had already become lusty and insatiable.

"If only thou wouldst do this little thing for me... I have what thou dost need and desire.  Just say the word..."

Fear, too, he likened to some sweet, delicious delicacy surpassing almost any other form of shadow.  So easy to manipulate and control--those who feared could be coerced and convinced.  They could be made to doubt even the most steadfast bonds of loyalty and friendship.  They could be driven to desperation without effort, if only the correct motivation was dangled before their eyes.

"She does not want thee.  I heard that she said thou wert undesirable.  I heard that she would prefer another.  I heard..."

 And then there was hatred.  A little slight here.  A little comment there.  A slip of the tongue.  A meaningless insult taken to heart.  And its seeds were planted and growing in the back of the mind, a poisonous tree that branched outwards and consumed everything--thoughts, feelings and lives.  All one needed to do was whisper of vengeance and wrath, and a soul filled with the putrid fire and ash of hatred would crawl on hands and knees if only to taste the rich, heady wine of the tantalizing gift he offered on a silver platter.

"Thou canst do whatever thou dost wish under my reign.  I would not hold thee back, because is it not thy right to take from them what they took from thee?"

Followers came to him, some with eagerness and wickedness that he had foreseen in their actions and read as written tongue in their hearts.  Some reluctantly under duress, fearing for their lives or fearing the rejection of others.  Some to satisfy their own desires, to become more or better or stronger beneath his tutelage and touch.

But they were thralls.  Pawns to serve Melkor as the weak-willed Valar served Him.

It was a special brand of hidden shadow he searched for in the beloved and glorious realm of Almaren beneath the Valar's watchful gaze.  Hunting from just beyond the touch of searing gold and silver.  Spying through the eyes of his servants.  Sifting through the chaotic tangle of thoughts weaving in and out of reality.

Until, at last, he found it.

More than those other things.  There was already talent.  There was already confidence.  There were no solid bonds of loyalty through devotion.  No fear could be unearthed within that heart of iron.  No emotional attachments to taint the perfection lying before his eyes.  This was a diamond in the rough waiting for his hand to pluck it from this dull land lacking inspiration, waiting to be shaped and polished and cut it into something amazing, surpassing all other servants and thralls.  This was something utterly unique--a discovery beyond imagining and beyond value.  Priceless.

For such perfection could not be created.  They had to be discovered.

Not hatred, but a detached desire to crush the spirits of others.  The sadistic delight in the suffering and punishment of innocents and criminals alike.  The pure and untested talent and genius turning the clogs of mind-boggling machinery behind innocent fire-opal eyes and sultry golden curls.  A face of absolute wonder and beauty hiding something even more breathtaking.

But it was more even than that.

There was determination to succeed at any cost, and a will to dominate that would crush anyone and anything that got in his way, stifled only by hegemony--by the indoctrinated morals and principles force-fed to all simpering divine underlings. 

Hegemony all too easily shattered.  And beneath the wreckage of broken lies and false ideology would be--

Mairon.  Beautiful Mairon.  His lovely diamond.  His unwary prey.  Restless in supposed contentment.  Eyes straying from his work to daydream about something greater.  No fear to manipulate.  No greed to bribe.  No envy to prod.  No hatred to stoke.  Only a spirit akin in brotherhood to his own, awaiting wisdom and guidance to free it from the golden cage of laxity and boredom in which the Valar kept it entrapped.

So much potential stared back at him.  And he knew from that moment on that he had found what he had been searching for.  A right hand.  A kindred soul.  A black diamond unearthed from the sea of unworthy pebbles.

A spirit hidden away in the peaceful perfection of Almaren, emerald green meadows and golden fields burning in the lamplight, pretending to be another selfless, compassionate and kind-hearted servant of the One.  Masquerading before the sightless eyes of the Valar, who did not want to see taint encroach upon their Spring.  Who did not want to see the blight in each of their traitorous hearts.

But Melkor, for all his knowledge, had not foresight.

And Melkor did not look into Mairon's eyes twined in vivid scarlet and veins of molten gold and see the terrible harbinger of betrayal.  A reflection that should have urged him to turn the young maia to wilting ashes rather than destructive flames.  That should have warned of the uncontrollable wildfire raging without halt or obstruction through the cage of his insidious whispers and blackened fingers.

A kindred soul too like to the master's.  Too fierce.  Too hot.  Too determined.

Too selfish and treacherous.  A spirit that would serve no power but that which he could call his own.

And Melkor's hunt was too successful, for the prey would become the predator, and eyes created of the earth's blood would prowl through his mind in search of faults to which he was blind.  In search of weaknesses to be exploited and traitorous whispers of greed and envy to manipulate.  In search of opportunities that could not be allowed to slink past.
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I've been ignoring most of the Powers of Arda.  I mean, I've done a lot on Mandos and a lot on Sauron, two of the more prominent ainur in Tolkien's works, but Morgoth plays a huge role (as the primordial villain), and I haven't really examined his POV at all.  I mean, he's got the whole "world domination" thing going on, but he isn't like Sauron.  They are similar, but Morgoth's backstory tells a different tale than Sauron's (being the origin of sin/evil in my head-canon, interpret how thou shalt), and thus I don't imagine Morgoth being all "I want to control everyone for power!" but more like "I want to show that bastard that I am as awesome as he is!"

In any case, this is the start of a new project.  And the irony throughout makes me snigger.  Greed.  Envy.  Fear.  Hatred.  Isn't he such a hypocrite? (Sorry, black humor.  If you don't find it hilarious, it's okay.)

The song I wrote this to was Controlling the Iron Beast from the Crisis Core OST (by Takeharu Ishimoto).  Most of the songs I like and listen to on the OST are orchestral and/or solo piano/violin, but this is one of the more heavy metal type songs on the soundtrack that I fell in love with.  LOL, my mom listened to it and was like "they call this music", but it just had energy (and a melody, might I add) that pleased me greatly.  And a bit of that predatory tint in the background that added to my mood during the composition of this piece (pretend that doesn't sound like a musician speaking instead of an author).

I am happy with this for a first attempt at characterization.  I hope you enjoyed as well.

Forward

Mellow Soulmate AU.  The Halls of the Waiting offer no comfort for the dead.  Quenya names used (Caranthir = Carnistir, Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Maglor = Kanafinwë, Celegorm = Turkafinwë, Curufin = Curufinwë, Amrod = Pityafinwë, Amras = Telufinwë).  Basically, this is part of the AU involving "Transparent" and "Addicted" running through "Ballad" and "Edge".  I haven't written about Caranthir in the Second Kinslaying (I will get to it eventually), but I have hinted at his motives at least twice in my stories.  Takes place in the Halls of the Waiting probably in the late Second Age.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Silmarillion

Pairings: Caranthir x Haleth

Characters: Caranthir, Mandos (mentions Fëanor, Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Curufin, Amrod, Amras and Haleth (of course))

Warning: non-canon relationships, canon-compliant (technically), canon character death, elf-mortal relationship, unrequited love, probable assisted suicide, death, war, mass murder, the works.

Song: Chou

Words: 1,199
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forward (adverb): to or toward what is ahead or in front
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/forward

Death was supposed to bring peace.

That was what Carnistir had expected when he closed his eyes and waited for it to end.  There had been horrible pain, but afterwards he had floated on a cloud of pure relief--the greatest relief that he had ever felt, because it was all over.  The killing and death were done.  The waiting and suffering were done.  He would be taken to the Halls of the Waiting, and he would forget.

Forget about his brothers and their insanity and their personal tragedies.  Forget about his only love and that she was beyond his reach for eternity.  Forget about how many men and women had painted his hands with their blood and branded his mind with their dying cries and horrified faces.

All he had wanted was to forget.

But the Halls of the Waiting had not offered him that catharsis.

Days and days of wandering, one sunrise blending into the next.  He could feel neither heat on his flesh nor cold seeping into his bones.  No physical pain from the open wound gaping on his chest.  No soft sensations on bare flesh.  Curtains did not flutter at the brush of his fingers.  The pads of long digits could not feel the touch of tapestry threads against their calluses.

Nothing but what he remembered in his thoughts and dreams.

The torn and aching wound settled in the cavity of his chest to match the hole carved between his ribs.  It had been there for longer than he could bear.  The wound of his other half throwing away his love and devotion.  For centuries, throbbing and burning more violently with each passing day, never dulling, dragging on and on, until all he wanted was to lie down and make it all end.

And he had.

He had hoped--had prayed--that the gray walls would dull the emotional pain, too.  But it seemed that the lack of stimulus, the days and days of wandering around looking at moving images of the past woven into the records of time, had done nothing more than acerbate his suffering.  There was no forgetfulness.  Only clarity--horrible, agonizing clarity.

Every day, he walked past their story.  The Kinslayings staring him back in the face, streaked in blood, twined with the designs of his grandmother's sorrowful, delicate fingers.  The battles riddled with defeat and hopelessness, dragging on until there was no choice but to retreat and flee.

But more so than that, there were the stories that no one knew.

Stories of Nelyafinwë’s torture, mutilation and insanity dragging him down into the abyss.  Of Kanafinwë’s broken, despairing spirit in the wake of war and death.  Of forbidden and unrequited love strangling Turkafinwë until even bonds of friendship and loyalty were shattered in its wake.  Of lonely Curufinwë struggling to hold his crumbling family together.  Of Pityafinwë’s mind breaking apart under the weight of self-loathing and fear.  Even of Telufinwë’s untimely death—of his untimely murder to prevent his inevitable defection.

But it was still his own story that paralyzed the middle child.  That left him standing still in the twilight, staring into swirling, ever-changing colors, and wondering if he could have done things differently.  If he could have changed something.  If he could have been what his Haleth needed or if they were doomed to failure and sundering from the very start.

Wondering at the cruelty of the Powers of the world, to allow their lives to intersect only for them to be torn apart.  Or, perhaps, if that collision had been his punishment for sins on the docks of Alqualondë.  If, perhaps, Haleth's rejection was just the result of a spiteful or righteous cosmic deity compounding upon the suffering of a House of fools and murderers.

Perhaps, there had been nothing he could have done.

But in the end, he knew that all he had done was for nothing.  That nothing could change the past written in these tapestries.  That Haleth was never coming back.  And he was going to be alone.  Forever.

And there were two options.

"Thou canst stay here.  I cannot make thee leave."

Either he would stay here and watch painted pictures revolving in their depiction of history again and again for the rest of eternity, remembering his mistakes and failures, reliving the days of watching his love from the shade of the forest in her waning days of gray, thinking of all the people he had murdered and all the suffering still building to breaking point in his chest, or...

"But there is another course of action thou couldst take, child."

Or he could arise from his ashes and move forward.

"It is thy choice."

Sitting around, wallowing in his pain wasn't going to fix anything.  He wouldn't heal.  He wouldn't forget.  And he would be even more alone than alone, with only the comfort of memories to accompany his traversing.

Eventually, there would be nothing left at all, but an empty shell consumed by need for relief.

In the end, there really had only ever been one option.  Gulping, Carnistir stared up at his most beloved and hated tapestry.  His tapestry.  And hers.  With her face woven eternally into its strands in all its lined, aged glory.  The last image--the last remnant--he had proving her existence.  That she had even been made flesh and blood, wasn't a mirage that his mind had conjured to soothe his restless, lonely spirit in days of darkness.

The feelings had never dulled, and the certainty never faded, but he was afraid he would forget her face.  When he had passed, it had been nothing but a fuzzy afterimage of a dream dripping down the walls of his mind to inevitable destruction.

She was never coming back.

But he couldn't let her go.

He could only keep going.  Keep walking.  Keep dreaming and hoping and praying.  The first time, he had given up, and look where that had taken him.  No catharsis rested in death and eternal imprisonment in the Halls.  There would be no rest no matter which path he took.  No soothing or numbing the pain of separation.  No salve that could heal the torn edges of the metaphorical hole blowing wide open his heart.

It was going to be hard.  And it was going to be painful.

"I have made my choice, my lord."

But he couldn't remain stationary.  Vital movement was his only chance at...

"I am so pleased, child."

At another chance.  Even without her.  Even alone.

He had to keep moving forward. 

And at that thought, a helpless smirk curved his lips, bittersweet and curled in loathing.  Maybe there was more of his father's blood running through his veins than he had ever suspected.  Because he couldn't just lie down here and die from the inside out.  Couldn't fade into the background and burn out.  The pure Noldorin stubbornness and will to survive would not allow him to give up a second time.

Would not allow him to turn back and spend the rest of his days regretting.  The past was over, and it was time for the future.
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Okay, I'm not entirely sure where this piece went.  I had an idea for it, but then it got completely out of control.  It's really annoying sometimes how these pieces do stuff like that.  Anyway, I'm trying to piece together Caranthir's state of mind in parts during different time periods.  I mean, I think it's pretty obvious where his mind was when he was a child, but I'm trying to figure out where he was when he died and afterwards.  Why must you be so confusing, Caranthir?  Ne~

The song is Chou by Tsukiko Amano, from Fatal Frame (I can't remember which--but I think the first one).  I've never actually played the game.  Anyway, I absolutely love this song, and I think its varied and ambiguous meanings could easily apply to any number of characters, including Caranthir.  I even found a video with the English translation for your convenience since not all of us out there are obsessively interested in Japanese like me.  And the lyrics are so wonderful (I even referenced them in the story once).  So listen.  Even though it's J-Pop.

And now, my sister is badgering me (has been all afternoon) to finish this story so that she can force me into spending hours boiling myself red in the hot tub.  I swear, if she does this to me tomorrow, I may have to hurt her.  Okay, not seriously, but still--

Heavy

Alternate canon-compliant.  Amrod knows what happened to his brother.  But he will never tell.  Quenya names used (Fëanor = Fëanáro, Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Amrod = Pityafinwë, Amras = Telufinwë or Telvo).  This is the companion piece to "Remorseful".  It was a spontaneous creation based off the last section of "Remorseful" in which Fëanor is aware that Amrod at least suspects the truth, and so I decided that his point of view would be interesting to attempt.  And it turned out much different than I had planned.  Takes place shortly after the burning at Losgar. 

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion.

Pairings: none

Characters: Amrod, Fëanor, Amras, Maedhros (mentions Fingolfin, Nerdanel, the other Finwions or Eru)

Warning: somewhat canon compliant, canon character death, intentional filicide (suspected), self-hatred, dysfunctional family issues

Song: Anthem of Our Dying Day

Words: 1,287
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heavy (adjective): having great weight; hard to bear: grievous, afflictive; of weighty import: serious
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/heavy

He wondered if anyone else could see the guilt in those eyes, or if they were all willfully blind.

Brilliant silver, fey and filled with triumph as they looked down over the devastation spread throughout the smoky water below.  As the darkness had fallen the night before, lanterns extinguished as sleep spread its blanket over their camp, the swans had settled themselves calmly on the still ocean waters, their necks startling white fading to gray against the starless blackness of the sky.  But now there was nothing left.

Charred remains floating innocently across the surface, as though they did not mark death and destruction.  Long since, the flames had gone out and the panic caused by the agonized screams had died down into eerie silence.  Pityafinwë could remember all the yelling and stumbling in the blackness, the running and the attempts at first to put out the fires that ate away swan feathers voraciously.

And he could remember hands pulling his away.  Voices silencing the chaos.  Telling them to cease their useless efforts.

"The ships are burning on the orders of the High King."

"Someone is dying out there?"  Nelyafinwë, ever the stalwart and righteous, wanting to save the person whose cries had long since cut short.  If only he had been successful.

"It is far too late, my prince.  Please, let the ships burn."

But it was not to be.

"It was a tragedy, an accident.  Had I known that Telufinwë had re-boarded one of the ships, I would never have ordered them burned." Their High King stood before them, his face solemn and his voice filled with magnetic gravitas. "I believe he may have gotten cold feet--may have wanted to... to return back to his mother."

Their father did not know his youngest son.  Not at all.  But Pityafinwë did.

And yes, Telvo had been frightened.  Who wouldn't have been?  They had left behind everything they had ever known, had turned their backs on the Valar and sworn an Oath of eternal vengeance.  And then they had become murderers in the cold blood.  But more so than that, their father had betrayed his family, and Telvo had been disgusted with the actions of their father, the man who they had trusted with their very lives.

"Who does that--to their own brother?" Telvo gasped out. "I wouldn't do that to my worst enemy, let alone to my own half-brother.  And for what?  Petty revenge over an argument for a crown that doesn't even exist anymore?"

In their tent, his younger twin had wept, had worked himself up into such a rage and terror that he had been sobbing and pulling his soft curls, scratching his scalp until his fingers came away slick with blood.  And Pityafinwë had not known what to do to calm the violent frenzy of emotion.  He hadn't known what to say to make his brother breathe and think.  Because he had the same doubts and suspicions, felt the same horror.  Yet his first murder had not traumatized him the way it had his little brother.

And Telufinwë just hadn't been able to pull himself together.

"Please, please just lie down.  Have some wine.  Sleep for a while.  Please, little brother," he begged, wrapping his arms about the hiccupping, shaking form. "Forget all about what father has done.  Please, do not do anything foolish."

"But how?  How can I just let this lie?  How can I respect a king who has done something so heinous to his own family?  To Uncle Nolofinwë?  To our cousins?  To us?"

Watery green eyes looked upwards, and Pityafinwë would never forget the fury and the determination staring back at him.  At the moment, he had known that he couldn't convince Telvo to change his mind, to drop the blame and forget the crimes.

"He has made murderers of us all, brother.  Taken us away from our homes and our families.  Our brothers from their wives.  Our nephews from their mothers.  And now he has sentenced men who followed him with unthinking loyalty and devotion to death over a trivial spat!"

And hadn't he? 

Telufinwë had been something special, a wild creature full of spontaneity and passion without a droplet of fear in his heart.  Truly their father's son.  A man of his own words and opinions, who would not lay back and say nothing at such a slight.

Pityafinwë knew he should have tried harder to make himself heard.  Because then maybe... maybe Telvo wouldn't have...

But, fool that he had been, Pityafinwë had heard his brother creep out in the darkness without a word.  And he had done nothing.

Now, his brother was dead.  And he knew who was guilty.  Could feel the weight of his foolish lack of action resting on one shoulder and the weight of the truth of his brother's murder on the other.  Father and son--both were to blame, and both knew it.

"Ai Ilúvatar!" Nelyafinwë's voice trembled with sincere horror and disbelief at the loss of a child he had rocked to sleep at night, a child he had kissed and hugged and loved more than their father ever had done. "Please, Atar... Atto, tell me it's not... not true..."

Distraught, their oldest brother went forth with wet cheeks and widespread arms, searching for comfort that none of them could offer.  And in the pit of his belly, hatred burned for their sire as Fëanáro let the eldest sob against his shoulder.  But those eyes did not change.  Not a bit.  Not a shimmer of tears.  Not a glimmer of remorse.  And for all the disgust Pityafinwë might have felt for himself, it couldn't have compared to what he felt for this man lying to his brothers about the death of his own son.

Yet, in the end, it seemed Pityafinwë was more his father's son than not as well.  Because--though his lips parted to snarl out the truth in all its wicked, heinous glory and watch his father's self-righteous façade of an upset, overwrought father dissolve--no words would depart.  No confession of his own stupidity, and no admittance of knowledge of their father's undeniable guilt.  For Fëanáro had known that his youngest son was aboard one of those ships--he would never had set them afire without warning his followers otherwise.

It seemed that their uncle had been the first victim.  Their brother was the second.

And Pityafinwë couldn't help but wonder who would be next.

The knowledge rested heavy upon his shoulders as he watched his older brother mourn.  His sightless eyes did not see the pitying faces cast in his direction and his deafened ears did not hear the consolatory comments of shared grief.

They saw only his younger brother's turned back and heard his wild, shouted words between caught gasps.  A phantom he couldn't touch no matter how he reached and grasped.  A ghost whose ears would never hear his words or pleas no matter how loud he screamed.

And he never told anyone.  Not when his father had died.  Not after Nelyafinwë was abducted and held at ransom.  And certainly not in the dark days that followed.

He would carry the backbreaking weight of that knowledge to his grave.  Further, even.  And he couldn't help but wonder if his father--his king--felt that weight at all.  If any guilt or self-hatred dragged down the ruthless, nonchalant Fëanáro Curufinwë.  Or if the flat reflection of arrogant satisfaction he had seen that day in those starlit eyes really was the truth lying beneath the infamous genius's impenetrable outer shell.

But he would never get a chance to ask.
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I don't have much time to talk tonight, so here is the (roughly edited) story.  I've been exploring Amrod's personality much more as of late, and he's forming his own personality slowly, which pleases me.  It drives me batshit crazy up the wall when the twins are both some stereotypical, generically manufactured pair of troublemakers.  Because all identical twins are not mischievous troublemakers, especially not after going through what these brats went through (I hate it when this happens to the Elrondions as well).

Thus, this came about.  To the song Anthem of Our Dying Day by Story of the Year.  Firstly, their music video caught my attention.  But beside that, I just liked the song and the atmosphere, and so I used it even though the lyrics are not all that relevant.  Although, I suppose some of the poetic turns of phrase are somewhat applicable.

Now, I'm off.  I've got people waiting on me.

Dismiss

Canon-compliant.  Prince Amroth's first meeting with the infamous Lady Nimrodel.  Our dear prince has much work to do if he wants this lady's heart.  All Sindarin or Silvan names.  I absolutely love this pairing, but I absolutely do not believe that Nimrodel thought, in any way shape or form, that Amroth was anything but a sniveling, spoiled Sindarin pipsqueak when his father first became king.  Someone who dislikes all things from beyond the borders of her forest would not give exception based on handsomeness alone.  Thus, their romance gets off to a rocky start.  Takes place in Lothlórien shortly after Amdír becomes king in the Second Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Unfinished Tales or any of Tolkien's works.  However, he never specifies the delicacies of elven cultures, thus Sindarin culture and Silvan culture are creations of my head-canon.

Pairings: Amroth x Nimrodel (currently one-sided)

Characters: Amroth, Nimrodel, random other elves (mentions Amdír)

Warning: canon-compliant, possible cliché, love at first sight?, soul-mates, unrequited love, politics and court intrigue

Song: Sky Blue Eyes

Words: 1,270
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dismiss (verb): to permit or cause to leave; to reject serious consideration of
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/dismiss

She was standing in the corner--as far away from the twirling, dancing figures and mingling elven diplomats as physically possible--as though interaction with strange folk might pass to her some horrid, foreign disease involving violent rashes and inevitable fatality.  But even half-hidden by the thick curtain of shadow, her beauty shimmered beneath the distant white lantern's tentative reach.  Eye-catching moonlight refracting into his gaze and blinding him to all else in the room.

The other ladies simply could not compare, for beside her they were dulled, scratched stones to a flawless diamond.  Even with two such dull stones twittering on each of his arms, the entirety of his attention was drawn towards her.  After all, what interest to him were these fawning female leeches, interested only in his position as prince and his nonexistent search for a wife to rule as the next queen?

"Who is the woman hiding back there in the corner?" he asked one of them, not even deigning to look towards the nameless, faceless chit as he spoke.

Dark eyes flashed and narrowed with almost tangible displeasure.  The girl wasn't even subtle about her dislike for the more beautiful woman, jealousy burning toxic green around her pupils. "Lady Nimrodel," she replied, her voice pitched low in disdain. "She lives by herself near the river.  Because she does not approve of--well--your father's regime.  Or you.  Or your people.  Or anyone who does approve of your position and power in our beloved home."

"Does not approve?" Most of the people of Lothlórien were friendly and all too eager to take up his father, Amdír, as their king, if only so that his marchwardens served as their guardians from the dispersed forces of darkness scattered across the scarred eastern lands.  Though they were of different cultures and different lifestyles, the protection offered by the western-dwelling Sindar was a temptation too great to reject in favor of their own fragmented, chaotic tribal organization.

But Amroth supposed that not all of the Silvan elves could have been open and accepting of stranger usurping their territory and their rule.  If he were in their place, even he would have had reservations.

Though... perhaps not to that extent...

Mind racing, he followed her with his eyes.  Perhaps if he spoke to her...

"If you would excuse me, ladies..."

"She will not speak with you." It was rude and set Amroth on edge, his teeth clamping harshly in a half-bared scowl.  He did not know if it was the woman's dislike of Nimrodel that caused her to behave in such an unladylike manner, or if she was just wrapping up the truth in a very unflattering package, but still it did not endear her to him.  Certainly, it said little for her "civilization".  The prince sent her a cool smile and disconnected their arms.

"I think I shall take my chances," he told her, voice soft but layered in iron.  Bowing stiffly, he held the incline of his torso just short of "respectful" and on the blatant side of "you are beneath my acknowledgement and respect" before setting off in the direction of the angel that had captured him with such ease.

The angel who looked up with disdainful eyes of the most vibrant, gloriously clear blue that Amroth had ever beheld.  No expanse of the sky could compare.

"My lady," he purred, bowing low with an innately graceful flourish that usually had the women of Thingol's court swooning in the direction of his welcoming embrace, almost begging to slip their arms into the crook of his elbow and spend a night drinking and flirting in the hopes of luring home a nobleman husband. "Would you do me the honor of a dance?"

The woman before him was about as far from swooning as a woman could get.  Not even a batted eyelash for his troubles.  And it had his heart pumping wildly in the cage of his ribs.  A nonplused glance in his direction was about all he received. "If I must, Prince Amroth."

She laid her hand upon his arm the way an elf lays hand upon a poisonous serpent poised to strike.

"Of course, you would already know my name, my lady."

"Your reputation precedes you, my prince."

And the venom was just dripping from her fangs.  He was most certainly not playing the poisonous serpent in this charade.  Had it not been for her remarkably civilized, aloof behavior, he might have worried that she would leap forth and bite for the sheer amount of hatred oozing from her gorgeous eyes and the cant of her full, tender lips.  The dimples barely hidden by the downturned corners of her lips did nothing to slow his racing heart.

"Might I enquire as to your name, my lady?" He swung her around and placed his hand upon the curve of her perfect waist.  Against his fingers, her silvered hair slid liquid and soft, tickling and caressing until shivers broke across his skin.  Her hand rested upon his tense shoulder, and then they began to move.

For an uncivilized wood-elf, she was a remarkably capable dancer, her posture impeccable and her feet flowing without thought into position, as though she had been waltzing through the high courts of royalty for eons.  They twirled for a few moments in silence.

"I am Nimrodel, but I am quite certain you already knew that, my prince." Her ice-cold gaze settled upon the women he had been escorting before, the women who were now watching him spin the frigid wallflower herself across the floor with a mixture of pure envy and contempt.  Clearly the insidious hatred between the females was mutual.

"Nonetheless, it is a pleasure to make you acquaintance, Lady Nimrodel." He offered her his most charming smile and squeezed the hand still grasped gently between his fingers.

"A pleasure, indeed," she replied.  With a voice like the Helcaraxë.

They paused, bodies poised in perfect harmony, staring straight into one another's faces.  And all he could think was that she was an angel with eyes that put the skies to shame, something delicate to be revered and cherished.  But despite her deceptive fragility, she was no helpless, wilting flower.

Bowing, he kissed her hand.  And never once did he glance away.  For she outshone every woman in the room.  And he, the Prince of Lothlórien, knew that she was the One.

Especially when her hand jerked free of his grasp as though he had stung rather than kissed her smooth skin.  Discreetly, she wiped her tiny, delicate knuckles on the fluttering white skirts of her simple silk gown. "If that is all you came for, my prince, I do believe I shall return to my corner in peace.  You may show yourself back to your... ladies."

She turned her back.  And against his will, Amroth smiled as she walked away, head held high with pride and scorn.

She had completely dismissed him.  Him.  A nobleman's son.  A king's son.

And even when he returned to the frittering, flippant ladies awaiting their prized positions as his trophy escorts, the entire evening was absorbed by her brilliance.  If asked to recall the next day what he had done at the gathering the night before, he would have said that he gazed at an ainu in the flesh and fell under her spell.  And if asked to recall with how many women he danced in the twilight, he would have said one.

For his eyes never left her haughty form.  Not even once.
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I will honestly say that I love this pairing, and I entirely blame Fiondil's Elf Academy and all its substituents, particularly the one in which Amroth returns and he and Nimrodel totally get together and it's absolutely adorable and-- Okay, okay, enough of that, eh?  *cough*  Moving on... So, they established their love-hate relationship.  Poor boy has no idea what he's getting into, but I have a feeling that their love story will be interesting to write.  I'm actually rather excited to see where this odd arc is going to go.

The song I wrote this to is perhaps a touch too moody for this piece, but I chose it anyway simply because of its name: Sky Blue Eyes from the Crisis Core OST (can you tell what I've been listening to lately LOL?), which is mostly credited to Takeharu Ishimoto.  This song is also gorgeous (I said that about yesterday's, too.  Forgive the violinist for having a particular fetish for violin music.) and you should listen to it.  Even my mother likes it, and you have no idea how picky and critical she is of music.  I swear, sometimes she lives to drive me crazy.  Half the stuff I use for my prompts would make her tear her hair out.

But that is beside the point.

As my internet connection is currently extremely crappy, I may come back and attach a link to the artwork that inspired Nimrodel, but if you want to hunt it down yourself, look for Nimrodel in ~liga-marta's gallery on dA.

Remorseful

Alternate canon-compliant.  The truth of the accidental filicide.  Quenya names used (Fëanor = Fëanáro, Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Maglor = Kanafinwë, Celegorm = Turkafinwë, Amrod = Pityafinwë, Amras = Telufinwë, Fingolfin = Nolofinwë).  This is the alternate canon (the one that does not appear in the Silmarillion) in which Amras dies at Losgar.  Now, I believe that Fëanor can be a cold-hearted bastard, but I don't believe he's so cold-hearted that he wouldn't care at all.  However, that doesn't mean he will sully his infamous reputation.  Takes place at Losgar in the Years of the Trees (after the Darkening of Valinor and the exile, obviously).

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: none

Characters: Fëanor, Amras, Amrod (mentions Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Nerdanel, Fingolfin and the Valar)

Warning: canon-compliant, canon character death, filicide, treachery, implied mass murder, mildly psychotic behavior

Song: Melody of Resolution

Words: 1,821
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remorseful (adjective): motivated or marked by a gnawing distress arising from a sense of guilt for past
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/remorse?show=0&t=1371999050

He would have expected actions such as this from Kanafinwë or Nelyafinwë—perhaps even from Turkafinwë—but never would he have predicted this sight before his gaze.

Little Telufinwë with wide, infuriated jadeite eyes.

So like to his mother, with the same fiery hair and the same blazing cheeks.  Never had Fëanáro seen any one of his son’s look more like to her, in fact, for he could see her stubbornness burning brightly beneath this child’s boyish façade.  Potential, pure and untapped.  Wisdom, yet to be tempered with experience.

But also compassion and righteousness, neither of which lacked cultivation.

Oh yes, he had expected argument, but he had not been prepared for this field of battle.  For the ghost of Nerdanel to come down upon his head like a vision from the past.  Or for his youngest child to have inherited such admirable daring as to question his orders when even Turkafinwë had not rebelled or dissented.

“Why, Atar?” the little one hissed between clenched teeth. “They are our cousins.  Our allies.  To leave them behind over some petty feud that no longer matters is sheer madness!” 

The boy did not know of what he spoke.

“It is not out of choice that I have done my brother this disservice.  I—”

“I do not believe you!”

And to cut him off—even Nerdanel never dared.

“Be quiet and know your place,” he snarled, brows furrowing downwards into a frightening expression, one which he saw reflected in those beautiful eyes.  Eyes filled with horrified fury.  And with underlying fear. “Return to your tent at once and sleep, child.  We will not speak of this again.  Do you understand?” 

“Do I understand?” Panting breaths huffed between parted lips. “No, I do not understand.  You told us you were going to tell Uncle Nolofinwë and our cousins.  You told us not to worry.  You lied to us.  And now we sit on these far shores same and secure, and our family and friends upon the other banks waiting to die by starvation or by the elements!”

Fëanáro could not help but find the childish argument somehow both endearing and treacherous.  Too much pity churned through this boy, a naivety that made the seasoned, ruthless politician deep within the prince cringe.

And he remembered his wife’s words before departing. “They are boys, husband.  Just boys—just children.  They know not what you are undertaking, do not understand.  But they will, and when they do…”

“Are you not remorseful at all for what you have done?  To your brother?  To your nephews?”

“They will fear you.  And they will hate you.”

“I did what had to be done.  Traitors and liabilities cannot be allowed to flourish.”

There was a pause, and their gazes held, red-rimmed verdant to wild starlight, and Fëanáro could see it, the resentment bubbling hot and thick under the surface.  He had created this child, turned him into a murderer and a warrior too young, before the mind had grown to match the mature, wiry body. 

Telufinwë would not be able to understand.  Could not be made to.  Perhaps none of them could.

“What kind of monster are you?” the little one whispered, voice but a breath in the dark, filled with fright and disgust. “What kind of a man feels no guilt for slaughtering his own people—and his own kin?”

And Fëanáro hated that it stung sharply in his chest.  Hated that a handful of words could ignite a throbbing ache that painfully resembled the very remorse the boy accused him of lacking.

The prince knew he was not much of a father—too busy with creation, too politically involved and too focused on career and endeavors—but despite all of that he did love his children.  And he knew that they must have loved him back, for they would crawl through mud and filth pleading and begging if it would win them his affection and approval, not knowing that they already had exactly that for which they yearned.

He did not know how to show them, or how to tell them.  That he loved them all.

And Telufinwë—his last son, so tiny with darkened bronze hair and a mischievous heart—hated him.  Over a single dark decision in a long list of difficult decisions that would come as they settled upon these shores, as they marched into war with the enemy.

Over a decision he would have made the same given the chance to face its two wrong answers once more.

It was not that decision he regretted.  All he regretted was that it had come to this.

He loved Telufinwë.  Truly, he did.

But as he watched the boy spin around and run from his tent, he knew the child was going to do something foolish and drastic.  Something that Fëanáro absolutely could not allow—treason.  And it did not take him long to ascertain the reality of his suspicions.  To face the next frightening, difficult choice in a long list of difficult choices that rested on the High King’s mind and conscience as he strove to keep his people alive and his revenge within sight.

Truly, Telufinwë had no idea.  He was just a boy.  A boy who was frightened of his father and yearned for his mother.  A chick that had left the nest too soon and taken to the hostile skies without preparation and forethought.

And such chicks were the first to fall prey to circling predators with sharp eyes and insatiable hunger.

---

There was no hesitation in his voice when he ordered the ships burned in their makeshift harbor.

And he hoped that the pitch of his deep, rolling tones had not wavered tremulously, and that the look in his eyes remained bright and hard as steel to match the vicious, incisive smile cutting its way across his handsome face.  If not, at least they might have been shadowed by the thick, loose hair blowing in silken waves over white skin.

And he watched, walking out to stand above the harbor, looking down upon the graceful white ships that had ferried his family and followers across Belegaer.  It truly was a shame that they were to be destroyed--at least, that's what he would have said had anyone bothered to ask.  In reality, he was not seeing those arched necks, white against black, but seeing something far in the distance.  Someone, with her disappointed, beloved eyes and suffocating sadness as her fingers slipped through his grasp.  As she watched her youngest sons walk away.

Fëanáro gulped.

After this, there would be no going back.  But at least Telufinwë would no longer need to suffer the destruction of his innocence and his ideals.  Bad enough that his idealistic image of his proud father had been sullied beyond recognition or salvation.

The first sparks were startling--blinding enough to seep through his fluttering eyelids.  Red streaks haloed in gold flashing in a display of grotesque artwork.  As they spread over white feathers, eating away that beauty molded by loving hands, his mind drew an image of blood.  Of the pools of sticky, drying liquid that soaked into his boots as he slaughtered the craftsmen who had poured their hearts and souls into these ships.

Now, the last of their soul's work was dying as they had died--beneath his hand.

And then the screams began.  Fëanáro was eternally grateful that, as he stood upon the rocky shore and watched the devastation spreading, he was as alone as a soul could be, surrounded by a curtain of blackness.  For he did not think he could have stood the shame had his sons seen him waver so pathetically, seen his knees weaken and his hands tremble.

Had anyone been watching in that moment, they would have seen his body shudder as shrieks broke the night and the campsite came to life in shock and panic below.  They would have seen how his head bowed, how his eyes locked on the toes of his boots and his bangs blocked out all sight of the glowing death in the night.  They might even have seen how he held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to block out the light.

But it could not be extinguished.  And he daren't cover his ears.

His sons, watching him shake in distress, would have known that he was tormented.  That he felt pain at the sound and sight, jerking him helplessly almost to his knees.

Many things he had done for which he would never feel sorry.  Held a blade to his back-stabbing half-brother's throat.  Created the Silmarilli and flaunted their glory in Aman before jealous eyes.  Turned his back on the Valar and the cowards who could not bear to remove themselves from under falsely divine thumbs.  Even what he had done to Nolofinwë and his nephews and nieces did not inspire the form of guilt that watching the fires below incited.

Because he regretted taking his youngest sons away from their home and their mother--regretted ignoring his wife's wisdom in that matter when she had never been wrong before.  Because he regretted that there was no way to correct this error--to protect his sons--and no way to turn back now that the world was ablaze.  He could only move forward.

In the distance, the wailing sound of his son burning to death cut off, and Fëanáro felt his throat close in the horror of it.

He was remorseful.  But difficult decisions had to be made.

Foolish Telufinwë had put himself between Fëanáro and his sworn vengeance.  And that was unacceptable.

Now, the situation had been rectified.  But at a terribly high cost.

And Fëanáro would not ask forgiveness.  And he did not desire it.  He hid himself away in the dark, and no one was there to see him weep.  Let them believe he was heartless.  Let them believe he was remorseless.  The truth need never be unveiled.

---

There was a knowing look in Pityafinwë's eyes--eyes that shocked him with the ghost of their twins.  Hatred, fear and dread swirled, staring up at him, and Fëanáro felt himself sickened to the core by the knowledge that it had been no accident that took away the youngest of their family.  He was lying to them.

And the redheaded child knew.

Accusation burned brighter than even had the ships in the purest night.

But Pityafinwë never spoke.  He never questioned.  He never accused.  Unlike his twin, he was less his mother's son and more his father's.  Subtle, silent and cold.  Watching.  Torturing.  Blaming.

"I know you murdered him," hateful eyes spoke. "And you do not feel remorseful in the least--monster."

Let none of them ever realize how wrong they were.

Let them think he was remorseless.
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Poor Fëanor, I neglect you so.  I know I haven't touched much on Fëanor as a parent and not as a commander or a lover.  And I stick to my head-canon in which he is a rather sucky parent who really has no idea how to bond with his children whilst, at the same time, balancing his life as the Crown Prince and as a prized and extremely talented artisan.  It's not that he doesn't care about his children, but he's stuck between two "people" who are not compatible, especially in a situation like this.

He has no trouble choosing his place as High King and commander out for revenge over his half-brother, because they never got along or even liked one another in the first place.  Choosing his revenge over his children, however, I imagine is a decision that is a bit more difficult.

Tolkien decided how that ended.

The song I wrote this to was Melody of Resolution from the Crisis Core OST (by Takeharu Ishimoto).  This song, as many others in the 2-disc soundtrack, is absolutely gorgeous and has so much character.  It's got the pain and the beauty and the grace and it just gives me shivers like nothing else.  Thus, I used it today.

Cheers.